City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  “He still killed these people,” Kellian said in a low voice. “Sora wouldn’t make murders up, you know that.”

  “Miss Sharpe might get a lot more help if she was trying to link these assassinations to Hasryan’s employer instead of him. It’s unlike her to go for the middle man, especially one without an ounce of cruelty.”

  Dizziness crept into Hasryan’s head, and he couldn’t feel the ground underneath him anymore. Did Camilla realize she talked about him as if they knew each other intimately? That she might as well admit complicity? She had to stop. At this rate, they would arrest her, and the best she could do was to stay quiet. He wished he’d provided advice on dealing with guards, should it come to that, but he had never believed she would stand up for him. They’d already put Arathiel in a cell, and he was a noble, too. What would stop them from doing the same to Camilla?

  Kellian scoffed. “If you’re so convinced he’s worthy of help, you should tell Diel. He loves rescuing poor misunderstood souls hated by the entire city, even if it means losing everything we have.”

  “You’re starting to sound like your brother.”

  Camilla said it as an insult, and judging from Kellian’s sharp intake of breath, it was a deep blow. Hasryan almost felt bad for Kellian. Almost.

  “I’m not Hellion.”

  “Then stop mocking Diel for seeing beings worthy of consideration where everyone sees pawns.” Her voice lashed out even harder than before, and Hasryan took note never to anger Camilla. Every word sounded like a slap. “He would help him, but I will not force such a meeting upon Hasryan. I promised to keep him hidden, and I will not betray his trust. The rest is up to him.”

  “This is ridiculous. Don’t do this.” Kellian’s voice hovered between exasperation and despair, almost a plea. “You know I can’t let this go.”

  Hasryan forced himself to peek again. Camilla smiled, though the mirth didn’t reach her eyes. She lifted her wrists a little, as if offering them. Kellian had his hands on a pair of handcuffs, and suddenly Hasryan didn’t want her to do it either. He tried to imagine Camilla in a dank cell, sitting with her back straight even on the ground, her lilac dress stained with shit and mud. His stomach sank.

  “Do it, Kellian. Bring me to prison, if you must. I’m not afraid of what I did.”

  “You’re family.” Guilt dripped from his weak protest, and when Camilla said nothing, he gripped her arm firmly. “I’m sorry.”

  Camilla shut her eyes. “Don’t be. Tell me you think this is right, and I won’t be disappointed in you.”

  He didn’t. Lord Kellian Dathirii walked his aunt out with a huff. Hasryan watched the door close behind them, his throat raw, his breath shaky. He couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. She would be accused of aiding in his escape and withholding information, at the very least. Lord Allastam would use this against them and destroy them. Hasryan hoped Sora wouldn’t put her in a cell. She was an old lady. Bad things happened in prisons when guards weren’t looking. Or even when they were. It wasn’t safe for her.

  He had to help somehow. This wasn’t fair. She hadn’t committed any of his crimes. They were his actions, his responsibility. But if he stepped up, they would hang him. Hasryan rubbed his face, trying to fight the rising panic. Trust should go both ways. Nothing had felt worse than his friends abandoning him, and he refused to allow Camilla to bear the brunt of these consequences. She hadn’t betrayed him, and he wouldn’t let her down.

  What would she want him to do? His mind went to Lord Dathirii. How often had she urged Hasryan to talk with him? She had done so just now, in front of Kellian, knowing full well he was listening. She clearly trusted her nephew’s heart. If he was already helping Arathiel … Hasryan pushed himself off the wall. He would need to sneak through the Dathirii Tower to the highest level. He hoped she was right about this Diel, otherwise he would ruin all the sacrifices made by Arathiel and Camilla.

  He had to try, though. Sooner or later, they would return to search her rooms. Hasryan had to be far away by then, and he needed someone to help Camilla. It was time to make good use of his freedom.

  Hasryan thanked Larryn’s frequent stealing expeditions into the Dathirii Tower for his insider knowledge of the layout. How often had they sat together, two friends with a bottle of strong ale, drinking as Larryn explained how easily he navigated the tree-like tower and snatched precious ornaments from right under the elves’ noses? As Hasryan emerged from Camilla’s quarters and stalked down a corridor, he realized how many details he’d memorized from Larryn’s favourite thieving grounds.

  His friend would enter through one of the nobles’ private rooms. Someone in Camilla’s family always left his window open, even when the nights grew cold. With the numerous handholds provided by the tree bark on the outside walls, Larryn could easily climb up to it, or escape through the same exit. The hardest part was avoiding household staff, but the servants worked in pairs and typically chatted together, giving advance notice of their arrival. Only one posed a problem, Larryn warned: a dark-haired elf who frequently stood by the door on the uppermost floor, perhaps protecting Lord Dathirii’s quarters and the family’s most valuable possessions. Hasryan suspected that elf to be Jaeger, Diel’s steward and lover. Camilla often spoke of him, of his dedication and kindness, and of how he kept unwanted visitors away, especially when Diel already had an audience.

  Hasryan’s feeble wish he wouldn’t find the steward in his way vanished when he reached the top of the last staircase in the Dathirii Tower. He hovered at the edge, staring at the tall elf standing in front of Lord Dathirii’s office, his back straight and proud. Climbing this far had demanded every ounce of discretion and good reflexes he had. Servants did roam these halls in too-large quantities, and if it hadn’t been for Larryn’s advance warning, Hasryan might not have paid enough attention to dodge them all. The chase had slowed his progress to a stressful crawl, however, and by the time Hasryan reached Jaeger, he was exhausted and certain Camilla had already arrived at the Sapphire Guard’s headquarters.

  At least Jaeger’s presence at the door meant Hasryan should find Diel inside. The way Camilla told it, these two never left one another. Work during the day, play during the night. But how to sneak in unnoticed?

  No, that was the wrong question. Hasryan chided himself for reasoning like an assassin again. Lord Dathirii wasn’t a target to reach unseen, but a potential ally. Did that mean Hasryan could trust the steward? Would Jaeger even let him utter a single word before calling for the guards? He’d have to risk it. His most sensible alternative involved climbing the façade in bright daylight, when anyone could spot him.

  Hasryan would rather bet on one elf, especially one tied to Lord Dathirii. He stared at Jaeger, his throat tightening at the enormous leap of faith he needed to make. Hasryan hated to rely on strangers, to trust them with his well-being. If he didn’t, however, Camilla would pay the price. With a final, deep, steeling breath, Hasryan stepped out and strode down the corridor.

  Jaeger’s gaze trailed him as he approached, and heat rushed to Hasryan’s cheeks. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around and flee, to choose a different path. Hasryan didn’t deal with problems head on. “Head on” always led to majestic failures. But Camilla depended on him. She had wanted him to do this, and he owed it to her. At worst, he told himself, he would have another misadventure to share in their common prison cell.

  Hasryan stopped in front of Jaeger, raised his chin and met the dark blue eyes. He quaked under their scrutiny, aware that he’d tied his future to Jaeger’s judgment. Hasryan cleared his throat and declared in a self-important tone, “I need to talk with Lord Dathirii. Now.”

  Jaeger’s eyebrows twitched, and he remained unimpressed. At least he didn’t panic, but Hasryan had hoped for a bigger impact.

  “May I ask what about?”

  “Your guard leader, Kellian. He just arrested Camilla. I need to—”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  The steward’s composur
e vanished, horror and confusion flashing across his expression. He quickly forced his professional mask back on, but a new tension tightened his shoulders, and Hasryan knew he’d caught his attention now. “He arrested her,” he repeated. “Please let me in. We need to help her.”

  Hasryan’s fears seeped into his voice toward the end, and as Jaeger studied him in stoic silence, he tried to read the steward’s body language, desperate for a clue. The elf stayed stiff, hands clasped behind his back, eyebrows knitted. Should Hasryan run, or insist again? He couldn’t tell. Jaeger’s earlier flash of emotion had vanished, and nothing else showed. Hasryan noted never to play cards with him, and the absurdity of his thought alleviated his stress. Until Jaeger’s next question.

  “May I have the pleasure of your name?”

  Hasryan half-stumbled back at the request and almost blurted out “Larryn” again. But surely Jaeger had guessed already. Hasryan had managed to reach the top of the tower unaccompanied, and Isandor counted few of dark elven descent who would need an audience with Lord Dathirii. Why ask, then? Was this a test, a confirmation? It didn’t matter. Hasryan couldn’t hide, not anymore.

  “I’m Hasryan. The assassin. You know that already.” A solid lump formed in his throat. Here he stood, in front of Lord Dathirii’s office, voicing his name and occupation to a lord who had every reason to send him back to the noose, and relying only on an old lady’s word that he wouldn’t. How had this happened? When had his elementary prudence vanished? This was how people like him died—trusting the wrong folks, those who couldn’t understand. He lowered his head, his voice falling to a whisper. “She said I could trust her nephew. I don’t want her to pay for my crimes.”

  Jaeger touched his shoulder with the tip of his fingers, causing Hasryan to look up again. He was … smiling? Hasryan’s heart leaped as the steward reached for the doorknob behind him. “Lord Dathirii is not alone and won’t be for several hours. Lady Branwen Dathirii, his niece, is with him.”

  Hasryan hesitated. Wasn’t Branwen their spymaster? At this rate, every member of the elven family would know about him.

  “Accept my humble advice, and trust her,” Jaeger added. “She will follow Lord Dathirii’s decision and keep what secrets he asks. Furthermore, they are waiting for your friends to arrive.”

  “My …” Hasryan’s voice trailed off. In his panic, he’d forgotten that Arathiel left the Sapphire Guard’s headquarters today! Excitement swelled Hasryan’s heart at the chance to speak with him again, even if he brought bad news concerning Camilla. All he needed was to face two Dathirii elves first—to put his fate in the very hands Larryn hated so much. His friend’s countless warnings echoed in Hasryan’s mind, but he shoved them away. Larryn’s gripe was personal. If Camilla trusted Lord Dathirii, then so would Hasryan. She had never let him down. “Thank you, sir.”

  Jaeger opened the door. Hasryan’s head buzzed as he walked past the steward, his feet light, his stomach churning. On the other side of the room, two elves bent over a map around a desk. Golden hair spilled down Lord Dathirii’s shoulders, tied back to keep it from his face. He wore the finest doublet Hasryan had seen in ages, deep green and embroidered with gold, with slashed sleeves that hid the elf’s thinness. A fur-lined cloak nearly as warm hung on the chair behind him, and between the two of them, Hasryan suspected Lord Dathirii could have bought the entire Shelter. By contrast, Branwen’s practical shirt, trousers, and short-slit skirt made her stand out in the tastefully furnished room. She looked as if she didn’t belong, and Hasryan was grateful not to be alone.

  “Lord Dathirii,” Jaeger’s voice announced behind him, a hint of amusement underlying its formal tone. “Sir Hasryan Fel’ethier has urgent news for you. I believe you should hear it.”

  Diel Dathirii straightened, his intense green eyes flying to the newcomer. Hasryan wished he could melt into the floor and disappear, or find a shadow to hide in once more. Put a wall at his back. Anything not to stand in the middle of the sunlit office. Thoughtful, Lord Dathirii turned to his steward.

  “Thank you, Jaeger.” His smooth voice betrayed nothing of his intentions, but he smiled before he continued. “Please instruct our guards to have Arathiel and the others wait for you in the lobby. I fear if they climb up here, Miss Sharpe might attempt to walk into the office.”

  Jaeger agreed, then left and closed the door behind him. Heavy silence followed the soft click, and Hasryan looked everywhere but at Lord Dathirii and his niece. A second desk occupied the room’s left wall, with the neatest arrangement Hasryan had ever witnessed: regular stacks of parchments, ink bottle and quill on one side, and half-melted candles on the other. Light flooded it from the opposite direction, where a large window offered an incredible vista of the surrounding city. A handful of spires reached above the Dathirii Tower, but most of Isandor lay below, its network of bridges falling into shadows toward the bottom. An ivy-like plant covered the rest of the wall, as if crawling out of the window and into the office. Hasryan wondered if it was another one of those magical plants, and if the strings of spherical golden flowers gave a soft light at night.

  “So, are you going to spill the beans or just look around in a daze?”

  Branwen’s question startled Hasryan, and he realized they had both been staring at him, waiting. She leaned on the first desk, her palms flat over a letter opener—ready to pick it up in case of need. The hole in the bottom of Hasryan’s stomach spread wide, but he forced himself to look at the two elves. He had to convince them to help.

  “I’m here on Camilla’s behalf. She was arrested by your captain this morning.”

  “Kellian?” Branwen scoffed. “That doesn’t make any sense. I brought him to Vellien’s quarters, and he’s supposed to return here.”

  “Well, he’s not around, is he?” Hasryan asked, his voice tightening.

  Branwen pinched her lips. “Fair enough. Why would he do such a thing, though? It’s unlike him.”

  Was it? Camilla had seemed disappointed, but not surprised. If anything, she had implied Kellian’s behaviour had its roots in their past, and in other dark elves’ actions. “You think I’d risk showing up here just to tell lies? Camilla … hid me since the execution. He must have figured it out and—”

  “I believe you.” Diel set his palms flat on his desk and heaved a sigh. Branwen spun toward him, but any protest died on her lips when she took in his slumped shoulders and the renewed weight on his back. In a low voice, he added, “It just never stops these days.”

  “She said I could trust you.” Hasryan had always hated pleading. He hadn’t thought about what he would tell Lord Dathirii, once he got there, and now he had no idea what to add. “She’s too nice to pay for me. I couldn’t let that happen. Please, anything I can do to help, even if it’s …”

  He didn’t finish. If he returned to the headquarters and surrendered, they would execute him, and the city would cheer again. Considering it nauseated him.

  “Turning yourself in won’t do any good.” Once he’d killed that thought, Lord Dathirii fell silent. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sometimes letting out small hums or long sighs. Every passing second eroded Hasryan’s patience. What was he supposed to do? Wait? He didn’t want to stay behind and fret and hide. He’d had enough. Except he didn’t have any other solution. He couldn’t break Camilla out of prison—not only was he likely to fail, but where would she go after? She was a lady, not a fugitive. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged at his pants, trying to relieve some of his stress.

  When he glanced at Branwen, he noticed she was rubbing the fabric of her skirt in a manner not unlike his own fidgeting. He’d heard a lot about the Dathirii’s spymaster, but he’d never met her. She was even shorter than he’d imagined, with thick arms and large breasts. Her pale brown hair and eyes had surprised him—he’d started to think every Dathirii was golden-haired with blue or green eyes. It must help her go unnoticed, chat up rivals, and drag precious information out of them. Apart from the ears—and Isandor had its
share of non-noble elves—she didn’t have the typical Dathirii look. She half-smiled at him when she caught him staring, and Hasryan’s throat dried, heralding the kind of desire he knew would get nowhere. He had tried, but it inevitably led to a vulnerability and risk he couldn’t afford. Sometimes Hasryan wondered if he shared Cal’s aromanticism, but most of the time he brushed the question away—examining would involve more introspection than he cared for.

  “This needs to stay quiet until the Golden Table is over,” Diel said at last. “Camilla will understand the delay. I’ll have to convince Miss Sharpe to do the same and to treat her well.”

  Hasryan’s chest tightened. How long did the Golden Table meetings go on? He didn’t like the idea of Camilla in prison, even for a few hours. Then again, neither did Lord Dathirii. Hasryan had promised himself to trust the elf’s lead. “Sora’s decent. Stubborn, but decent.” He smirked. “I’d say hi, but I don’t think she’d appreciate the humour.”

  Both Dathirii did, at least, because his small quip drew a chuckle from the House’s leader and a sharp laugh from his niece. Lord Dathirii gave two final taps on the desk, as if steeling his resolve, then captured Hasryan’s gaze. “You can do little more for Camilla at the moment, but you have my most sincere thanks for coming to me. I understand the risk involved for you, and it means the world that you would take it. Do you need our help escaping the city?”

  Escaping … The thought left a bitter taste on his tongue. He had chosen to stay and trust Camilla, to cling to the shreds of home he still had in Isandor. With Lord Dathirii’s aid, he could start over elsewhere, yet the prospect only brought weariness, and no relief. Once again, Hasryan ran a slow hand through his thick white hair. “It’s a nice offer, and the safest thing I could do, but …”

  “You don’t want to.”

  “No, I don’t.” His meeting with Esmera had clarified that much, at least. Isandor was his home, and he meant to fight for his place in it. Yet the city rejected him, and so did almost every friend within. Only Arathiel and Camilla had stayed by his side. His presence had brought them nothing but problems. “I should, right? I should leave.”