“Looks like we’re alone!” he said, gesturing with his hand toward the empty room. “Now’s a great time to get what’s bothering you off your chest.”
Branwen followed his movement, then stopped tapping the knife on the desk’s wooden surface. She pouted. “What’s wrong with my chest?”
What? Hasryan struggled with her retort—was she really that literal? Branwen seemed dead serious, almost offended. “That’s not—” A grin split her face, and he stopped his spluttering. “Sure. Mock my offer to smooth out whatever has you fidgeting.”
“Couldn’t help it.” She dropped the knife, then heaved herself onto the desk and sat with her legs dangling. “You made it sound so gracious. I don’t need invitations to speak my mind.”
“You looked like you did.”
“I didn’t.”
He regretted saying anything. Hasryan huffed and crossed his arms. Let her stew next time! Hasryan used to have no patience, but between the long days locked in a cell and those alone in Camilla’s quarters, he had practised waiting in silence a lot. Branwen hadn’t, it seemed, because she piped up right away.
“I was just wondering how to properly apologize,” she said. “I never meant to blame you for Varden’s torture. If anything, it’s my fault. I should have found a way to save him sooner. I promised him.”
“You’re going to now.” Late wasn’t always better than never, but for tortured friends? Definitely. Hasryan cracked a smirk and gestured to himself. “Plus, you’re bringing the best of the best with you!”
“Arathiel?” she suggested with a grin. “Yeah, I can’t wait to meet him!”
They stared at each other, Hasryan searching for a quick and witty reply. He’d grown rusty over the last weeks. His long conversations with Camilla never ended in verbal sparring matches, and Sora always reverted to business after one dry counterattack.
“You got me there,” he said. “I’m really looking forward to it, too.”
“What’s he like?”
The way she asked sounded like she expected Hasryan to answer “dreamy,” then tell her all about him. He chuckled and shook his head. What was Arathiel like? Secretive, but Hasryan doubted that was in his nature. He recognized the habit born out of bad experiences. Arathiel’s lasting impression had nothing to do with lies and cover-ups.
“Soft, I’d say.” He frowned, unsure how to explain, or how that simple word encompassed Arathiel so well. “He only talks when he needs to, only makes himself known as necessary. But he’s always there, smiling. That was how our card games went. He played in almost complete silence, yet not a serious or competitive one. Casual silence, the kind from people who prefer paying attention to others over drawing it to themselves. Then he’d put his cards down and rake in all the damn tokens.” Hasryan grinned at the memories. Cal’s legendary luck often took a mysterious backseat when new players sat at the table, unless the halfling meant to clean them of their money. Arathiel’s calm, unapologetic but nonchalant manner of winning embodied how he went about everything. “Arathiel is a warm blanket: simple, reliable, soft. He’s the friend you kind of forget, but when it really matters, he’s there. Leaping off bridges to save your neck from the noose, even though you expected nothing of him.”
His gaze had wandered the room as he explained, and Hasryan found Branwen staring at him, eyebrows raised. He ran a hand through his hair. She smiled. “He sounds amazing.”
Voices drifted down the corridor before Hasryan could agree, chief among them Lord Dathirii’s, rising in a loud and clear laugh. After the exhaustion and stress he’d exhibited earlier, the joyful sound was a refreshing surprise. The small voice that answered instead petrified him.
“I didn’t mean to say it like that!” Cal exclaimed. “I can behave myself, I swear. I’m the most well-behaved halfling in the city! Or Lower City at least. Or the Shelter’s neighbourhood, for sure!”
Hasryan stared at the door, frozen, thrilled and terrified. All of a sudden, he remembered Diel and Jaeger had mentioned Arathiel bringing a friend. He’d never stopped to consider who, had forgotten immediately. Yet here was Cal, in the Dathirii Tower, about to step inside the office. Cal, the friend who hadn’t even turned up at the prison headquarters, who hadn’t deemed him worthy of that risk.
“For someone so well-behaved, you certainly speak at a needlessly loud volume, sir.” Amusement tinted Jaeger’s tone. The doorknob shook as Jaeger grabbed it.
“Sir Cal.”
The reply drew another laugh from Lord Dathirii, and this time, Arathiel’s deeper voice joined in. Hasryan clung to the latter, certain Arathiel would defend him if they fought. The door opened, Diel entered first, and Hasryan gritted his teeth.
Cal stopped short when his gaze fell upon Hasryan. The following second stretched into a painful eternity, his heart threatening to burst, his hands shaking. Cal cried his name, delight and surprise transforming the sound into a high-pitched squeal. Relief flooded over Hasryan as his friend sprinted past Lord Dathirii and threw himself into his legs. Cal hung there for a short but incredible moment, then stepped back. He had his big grin on, exactly the same as when he won an umpteenth game of cards. Hasryan crouched to return the embrace, his throat raw.
“Hey,” he whispered, light-headed, half-convinced this wasn’t real.
“Hey yourself! I’m so glad you’re safe.” Cal squeezed Hasryan’s arm. “I didn’t know you’d be on this mission with us!”
“I … I didn’t either.” Hasryan ran a hand through his hair and straightened up. “I thought you were angry at me. Or something.”
“What?” Cal set his hands on his thighs and pinched his lips in an expression meant to be serious, but which had always seemed rather amusing to Hasryan. “Why would I be?”
Larryn had implied Cal couldn’t even be bothered to show up at the prisons. His unbridled anger at Cal’s absence that night had led Hasryan to think their halfling friend had abandoned him. He should have guessed Larryn would be pissed no matter Cal’s reasons. “Never mind. I listen to Larryn too much.”
This time, all traces of amusement vanished from Cal’s round face. Sadness replaced it, only to be washed away by something altogether new to Hasryan: anger. Cal’s nose scrunched up, his hands curled into tiny fists, and he stomped once with a strange growl.
“I can’t believe it! What did he even say? I wanted to be there!” He stifled a cry of rage and threw his arms up. “That no good … unthinking ball of rage! I can deal with punching me, but telling you I—”
“What? Larryn did what?”
Hasryan’s loud exclamation interrupted the low conversation happening between Diel, Branwen, and Arathiel. They turned in Hasryan’s and Cal’s direction, and a heavy silence followed. Hasryan stepped back, paying closer attention to his friend’s appearance this time. Under the usual mismatch of clothes, Cal had lost some weight, and his cheek held the yellowed traces of a bruise. Cal cleared his throat, brushing the old wound.
“It’s nothing, really! We already talked it over. Kind of.”
From the sound of it, they hadn’t gotten anywhere with that talk. Hasryan set his hand on Cal’s shoulders. “It’s not ‘nothing,’ Cal. Friends don’t hit each other, and Larryn’s no exception. He has no excuses.”
Why would he even punch Cal over this? Larryn had turned his back on him too, leaving Hasryan in his cell on an impulse. In the end, Arathiel had saved him, not either of them.
“He’s very worried about you, too,” Cal added. “We all were. We’ve always been. I would have come, but you wouldn’t believe what happened to me!”
Cal’s normal enthusiasm crept back into his voice at last, but Hasryan didn’t pay close attention. He still reeled at the idea that Larryn also cared, that despite his desertion in the prisons, his best friend didn’t hate him. Had they both been frightened for him all this time? His hand went to Cal’s shoulder, both for moral and physical support. Hasryan’s legs had turned to soft wool, and his chest threatened to burst. Brune h
ad thrown him away, treated him as nothing more than a tool, but his friends never meant to. He smiled, fighting to keep his voice steady as Cal’s words finally reached him.
“I’m sure it was something very improbable, Cal.”
“I know what!” Branwen’s large grin reeked of confidence, and Cal turned to her with raised eyebrows, a strange light shining in his gaze. The low anger from earlier vanished, but Hasryan guessed it had only been buried. For all that Hasryan loved Larryn, he couldn’t forget what he’d heard today. No one touched Cal. Not Drake, and not Larryn either. Hasryan might long for nights sharing a drink in silence on the Shelter’s rooftop, but he’d have a few, well-deserved harsh words for his friend first. For now, however, Hasryan let his own foul mood slide. Branwen’s declaration had brought a well-known mischievous expression to Cal’s face, and he didn’t want to miss the challenge that would inevitably follow.
“Wanna bet?” Cal asked, like clockwork.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Hasryan told Branwen.
“Bad idea,” Arathiel added, and he met Hasryan’s gaze with a smile. Everyone quickly learned not to bet against Cal.
“Sure, I’ll take this wager.” Branwen set her hands on her hips, straightening up. “And yes, I am aware of Cal’s faith.”
Curiosity gained on Hasryan. What could she know to muster this kind of confidence? He’d never seen Cal lose a bet, even against horrible odds. His friend had even drunk a man four times his size under the table once, despite his inability to take any alcohol without sleeping.
“Deal.” Cal withdrew his holy symbol, a half-melted silver coin that somehow remained perfectly balanced despite the damage done to it, and he extended it to Branwen, palm facing up. She placed her own hand on top of it, covering the burnt black side, and repeated, “Deal.” Lord Dathirii muttered a few words about planning a rescue, but his smile belied any seriousness. He wanted to know as much as anyone else in this room.
Branwen stepped back, then recited in a solemn tone, “A Myrian teenager fell nearby, no older than eighteen. He had short blonde hair, was tall and gangly the way only teenagers can be, and his memories had just been wiped out to some extent. He’s called Nevian Ollu.”
Cal clapped his hands with a happy squeal. “Amazing! He wouldn’t even tell me his last name. How did you learn that?”
“Must I reveal all my secrets?” she asked with a wink. “It’s my job to know what happens in this city.”
“Or you have a well-informed cousin,” Arathiel suggested.
Branwen laughed. “They have quite eloquently described the Shelter, its kind halfling, and the teenage grump they happily heal, yes, but I was there when he fell. I flung a dagger in Avenazar’s shoulder, and Nevian threw himself off the bridge.”
“Does everyone know he’s at the Shelter?” Cal asked, his eyes widening a little. “Nevian thinks it’s such a secret.”
“He’s a bit of a fool, then,” Branwen said.
“Neither Vellien nor you bothered to tell me,” Diel said, and Branwen’s smile faltered at the remark. “Don’t worry. These last few days were hectic, and I trust you to handle matters well. Now that your bet is settled, however, I suggest you start planning. Kellian should arrive soon enough, but time is flying. I have to prepare for the Golden Table meeting with Garith. Jaeger will be at the door all afternoon, keeping any indiscreet ears away.”
They all nodded, and Lord Dathirii’s gaze passed over each of them in turn.
“Branwen, be careful with your back. I’m no fool, and I know it hasn’t healed completely yet. Sir Cal, it has been a pleasure, and you have my deepest thanks for joining this mission. Arathiel …” He shook his head, then met Arathiel’s gaze. It felt like suddenly they’d stepped into another room, just the two of them. “I’m sorry for the circumstances under which we first spoke again. I’ll do my utmost to free you, but I fear my influence in this city is waning.”
Arathiel smiled. “I created my predicament to save Hasryan. I’ll rest easier knowing he can count on you.”
Hasryan flushed, fighting not to shrink in on himself as every eye shifted toward him. He stared at Arathiel, words of gratitude stuck in his throat. Lord Dathirii spared him the need, stepping forward to put a hand on his shoulder. “He can.” He turned to Hasryan. “You won’t have to leave forever, even if it’s safer for now. We’ll help you escape, and one day we’ll go after your old boss, too. Sometimes corruption comes from within, and I’ve ignored the Crescent Moon for too long.”
Good thing he’d done so until now, Hasryan told himself, or they’d have wound up enemies. Deep inside, Hasryan doubted Lord Dathirii would ever get around to it. Nobles promised a lot but rarely followed through. Larryn’s existence proved at least one Dathirii broke them without remorse, yet Camilla hadn’t abandoned Hasryan. He wondered on which side Lord Dathirii would fall, but such thoughts ought to stay silent.
“Help Camilla first,” he said. “Brune is more dangerous than you realize.”
Branwen snorted at his warning. “Stop, you’re encouraging him.”
Diel’s eyebrows arched, but he didn’t deny it, instead sharing a knowing look with his niece. “Aunt Camilla first, I promise. We have enough on our plates for now. Stay safe if you can, everyone, and come back with High Priest Varden.” Lord Dathirii stepped back and inhaled deeply. Tension returned to his shoulders, and new lines of worry grew around his eyes, as if in a single breath, he’d discarded one topic and continued to the next. “Wish me luck.”
Hasryan said nothing as he moved for the door, but Branwen piped up with a small “Good luck, Uncle!”
“Wait!” Cal called, then ran up to the elven lord. He offered his symbol once more, and Diel touched it with a surprised smile. “Stride without fear and trust the future, for within every moment is threaded the fabric of luck, and Ren rewards the kind, the daring, and the ugly.” The coin caught the light, holding it briefly as Cal intoned the words in an amused, sing-song voice.
“And which one of these am I?” Diel asked with a laugh.
“Only Xe knows!” Cal winked, and added, “Maybe all three.”
“Thank you, Sir Cal,” Lord Dathirii said as the light vanished. With a final farewell, he left the office. They heard him exchange a few words with Jaeger—some that sounded like instructions, others like reassurance. Hasryan ran a hand through his hair, uncomfortable in the brief silence that followed.
“Planning,” he said. “I imagine we go in as night falls. Do we have a map? Ideas of a route to take?” He turned to Branwen, who pointed at the desk. They all gathered around it without another word about the Golden Table or what might happen in Isandor today. They had a mission to complete, and until they’d brought Varden safely back into the city, nothing else mattered.
Cal and Arathiel shared Nevian’s precise description of the guards’ routes, down to the minute. It seemed he’d sneaked in and out of the enclave on a regular basis over the two last years and, unlike Cal, the apprentice left nothing to chance. They started tracing likely paths to the prison, Hasryan slipping in the occasional joke about the compromising positions he often surprised people in as he sneaked around. None of it seemed real. He stood at a table, planning a delicate operation, and no one questioned whether he could be trusted, not even Branwen. Kellian would, he knew, and a small voice warned Hasryan to watch for the next betrayal, to stay wary of such good fortune, but he silenced it. Perhaps it wouldn’t come—perhaps that part of his life had ended with Brune’s treachery. At last.
Lord Diel Dathirii strode into the Golden Table’s hall, head high and shoulders squared. Garith trailed a step behind him, clad in the cleanest, most decorated outfit of his wardrobe, all forest green and golden threads. Rectangular optics hid the bags under his eyes, and the fatigue he’d exhibited as they prepared in his rooms had vanished. Garith had the same determined look as his uncle, his usual smirk replaced by a grim line. They both knew they were going into battle—one of words and numbers, perhaps, but bat
tle nonetheless.
The council’s chamber was located in the bottom half of the Middle City—a high point in Isandor, in its beginning. Several nobles already filled the room, and despite the hundreds of meetings Diel had attended, he was always surprised by how diminished everyone seemed in the Golden Table’s hall. The massive table at the centre, made of dark onyx and flecked with gold, dwarfed the gathered nobles. A thick golden foot supported it, carved in the likeness of Isandor’s early spires.
Above the table, the ceiling rose into a great arch, most of it painted with a complex fresco. Diel traced the familiar figures of the first family lords, his youthful father among them. Prollys, patron of trades and money, watched over them as they settled. The first towers emerged under the amused gaze of Kaisa, the Stage Mistress and an embodiment of Alloran culture. She would love the spectacular competition of the ever-higher spires. Isandor’s history continued through the ordeal of the Neimen Plague, past their rare military victory over eastern Nal-Gresh, and up to the first luminescent gardens at the top. A little room remained, and Diel wondered if their centuries-old independence would end with the depiction of a foreign enclave settling nearby, overtaking their trades and political institutions.
No chairs surrounded the table, which stood just under four feet tall, stopping on average at people’s chests. “Seats” was a metaphor. The founding members of the Golden Table had decided they preferred to stand when yelling at each other.
Diel smiled at the thought and cast his gaze around the gathered nobles as they moved toward their assigned places. How many of them had never travelled farther down in their city than the Golden Table? Lord Allastam wouldn’t bother: a large, clean ramp allowed Upper City residents to exit without ever truly entering the dirtiest parts of town. He was speaking in low tones with Lord Lorn, the head of Isandor’s most powerful House—another noble who knew little of the city’s bottom third. Although perhaps this one did. Tall and thin, Lord Lorn had a pointed chin, piercing eyes, and a much more hands-on approach than Lord Allastam. He negotiated deals and hired mercenaries himself rather than through an intermediary, and he might have needed the Crescent Moon at some point over the last decade.
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