“You’ll have to wait outside while we decide, I’m afraid.”
Diel nodded and motioned for Garith to go before him. They left without a word, very aware they might never attend another council meeting. Garith glanced around the antechamber, then slumped against a wall.
“What do you think?” He stared ahead, not a trace of hope in his voice. “I lost us both seats, didn’t I?”
“You handled yourself perfectly in there. I’m proud of you.”
Garith laughed, pushed his glasses back up, and turned toward Diel. “What I hear is that yes, they’re gone, but it’s not my fault?”
“Precisely.” Garith didn’t seem to believe him, so Diel walked to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You did what you could, and making gold appear is not one of these things. I provoked them. In a good mood, they might have left us a seat, but I shoved their lack of ethics right in their face. My words cost us the second spot, not your maths.”
“Uncle … do we even need them? The seats, the titles? Do we want to be with the rest of these people?”
Diel wished he had an easy answer. The prospect of losing the family’s nobility status constricted his insides and nauseated him. He shouldn’t care—being Lord Dathirii shouldn’t matter—but they had been nobles since Isandor’s foundation. Perhaps Hellion had been right to call him the downfall of his family. All because he’d followed his heart, and what had seemed like the only moral path.
“We do, Garith. It’s not about being with them; it’s about having the power to protect ourselves and change things. For Isandor’s sake.”
Even working against the flow, he had accomplished a lot for the Middle and Lower City through the years, counteracting laws that would further separate nobles from the rest as well as protecting local traders and manufacturers. That was over, at least for now, but his inability to impact legislation didn’t worry Diel the most. Their status brought a massive advantage: it was ill-advised to attack a noble in Isandor. The strong solidarity with Lord Allastam after his loss, even ten years later, demonstrated how Isandor’s nobility cooperated with and protected each other, especially against an outsider like Hasryan—or like the Myrians. House Dathirii might come into frequent conflict with others, but they remained nobles. Without a title, however, the entire Dathirii household became naked targets.
How long would it take before Master Avenazar used this chance?
The doors opened once more. Diel and Garith scrambled to their feet as Lord William stepped out, a solemn expression etched on his face. It amazed Diel how similar to Jaeger he looked when he dropped the aloof smile. They were of a similar build, both pale with dark hair. Lord William cut his short, however, and his traits were rounder, less sharp. Their postures were worlds apart, too. Jaeger always stood straight, respectful. Lord William slumped back, as if he preferred to be slightly removed and study those around him. Diel stepped forward.
“The debate didn’t last.”
It could only mean one thing. He met Lord William’s dark gaze, and the council’s president nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Diel’s ears buzzed, as if filled with a thousand bees. The floor under his feet didn’t seem solid anymore, and for a moment, he felt far removed from the antechamber. Garith’s hand touched his back, exactly as Diel had done to him at the start of the Golden Table meeting. The cool fingers grounded Diel.
“We’ll go in and hear it from them,” he said.
“Of course. Before you do, however, please know I will always welcome Jaeger, yourself, or any member of your great family in my humble manor.”
Lord William’s grand mansion had nothing modest about it, unless compared to the most eccentric spires of Isandor, but Diel kept his comments to himself. This offer fell on attentive ears. With or without a title, Lord Dathirii would need to shore up his finances until his confrontation with the Myrians was over. He hated the thought of borrowing money, yet did he have a choice? There were worse nobles than Lord William to be indebted to.
“Thank you, milord. I believe it’s time for me to hear my sentence.” Not bothering to hide his bitter irony, he turned toward his nephew. “Ready to dive in again, Garith?”
“Of course! What’s a little demotion to us, Uncle?”
Garith grinned, and though the smile didn’t reach his eyes, his return to a relaxed confidence reassured Diel. He was right. They were only losing a title. It would make everything more complicated and dangerous, but in the end, it was nothing but prestige and influence. As long as he had his family by his side, Diel Dathirii didn’t care for the ‘Lord’ in front of his name.
The creak of his prison door woke Varden with a start. His heart jumped into his throat, and he scrambled for the corner of the tiny cell, hands scraping against the uneven stone beneath him. He curled up there, trembling, keeping his eyes away from the newcomer. He didn’t want to look there, knew too well who he would find.
Who, though? Terror clawed at his heart as he struggled for a name. He could not allow himself to forget. Avenazar. Master Avenazar of the Myrian Enclave. He had to remember that. Arms tightening around his knees, Varden reached into his mind for his personal litany—his shield against the ravage in his memories. He was High Priest Varden Daramond. He was Isbari, and respected by his community. He loved men. He loved to draw. He had tried to save Branwen and to protect Nevian. And he was proud of these things. As long as he let none of them go—as long as he remembered who he was—he had won. Avenazar would not erase him.
“You grow more pathetic with every day.”
The snide voice buzzed in his ears. Varden cocked his head and tried to make himself tinier, to vanish into the wall. He had learned not to retort, to just let Avenazar talk and endure. Anything else launched the wizard into the most horrible flights of destructive magic. The best he could do was wait for the torture to start, then wait for it to go away. Although … they’d brought several minuscule meals since the last visit. Perhaps it had been a while? Varden tried to count, to get a measure of time, but the days blurred into one another. Once, he knew, he had been able to instinctively feel sunset. Iced shackles had blocked that away, stealing Keroth from him.
“I don’t understand what Jilssan sees in you.” Avenazar’s boots scuffed on the floor as he approached. He set his toe against Varden’s leg and pushed it. “She thinks it’s a shame I’m letting you rot away. Poor girl. It only took a little romance to destroy her pragmatism.”
Varden’s fingers dug into his shins. Jilssan’s admission of interest had disturbed him, but the idea that it had pulverized her cunning manipulative skills held its own kind of ridicule. If she’d implied to Avenazar that she had more than a passing fancy for him, then she must have wanted something. But what? Varden tried to gather his scattered thoughts. Avenazar often mocked him, yet he was clearly aiming for a longer conversation today. What had changed? Did it relate to Jilssan? Hard to say what. Hard to do anything at all. But the wizard’s cruel enthusiasm had morphed; of that, Varden was certain. He lifted his hand and risked a glance at the thin face. Avenazar’s skin had always been drawn tight against his skull. The cell’s dim light gave it an even deadlier appearance.
“She does have a point,” Avenazar said. “We could do much better with you.”
Varden’s throat tightened. What had Jilssan told him to elicit such a response? She’d visited him once after Avenazar had stopped burning the days in his back, to tell him she’d done what she could. She had wanted him to know whom he had to thank for the small break. Apparently, she had kept trying. Varden would rather not hear the result, but as always, he had little choice in the matter.
“Free me?” Varden followed his suggestion with a derisive snort.
Avenazar’s ugly cackle filled his ears. It bounced on the stone walls, sending a horrible shiver up Varden’s spine. How often had the sound announced sudden pain? His breath quickened, and he recoiled, preparing himself for the discharge of energy. The Myrian wizard bent and patted his tan
gle of curly hair.
“Fascinating, how your sense of humour lingers. I’ve always wondered what goes into people’s personalities. How much do their memories build them? What remains once you begin to erase these? And how much control could I have over the void left?” Avenazar’s casual tone terrified Varden. The wizard’s hypotheses typically became pretexts to inflict further pain upon him. Varden prayed this time would be the exception—he already struggled to keep himself together without Avenazar stripping away layers of memories for fun. Avenazar crouched next to Varden, his voice falling to a whisper. “Aren’t you curious?” he asked. “Don’t you want to know how much of yourself you can save?”
A choked sob escaped Varden’s lips. All along, he’d expected this to happen, yet the knowledge crashed into his chest and laid there, an immense weight pressing down. Avenazar could wipe entire memories away, had perfected his technique on Nevian for two years. Why would he stop there? Why wouldn’t he transform Varden’s mind in a playground and push the limits of his power?
“Please, no.”
Another cackle. No use in pleading, not with him. Avenazar grabbed the iced shackles and straightened himself, pulling Varden up in the process. Shards dug into the priest’s scorched skin, drawing a pained cry from him as he stood. The cold constricted his wrists and his head spun violently. Varden fell back to his knees, his woolly legs unable to support his weight.
“Varden …” Disappointment dripped into Avenazar’s tone. “Don’t make me drag you there. You won’t like it.”
As if he’d enjoy what was bound to happen. He stared at his hands, palms flat on the ground. His arms shook, his stomach shifted around in an unpredictable manner, and his head felt miles away. If only he could close his eyes and return to his miserable sleep. But Avenazar loomed over him, his enthusiasm barely contained at the idea of his future experiments.
“Why now?” Avenazar had left him alone for so long. Something had changed, it must have. Varden lifted his chin, scraping together the energy and courage to look straight at Avenazar. “Can’t I at least know what to expect?”
Avenazar grinned at him. “I guess I could tell you … if you stand.”
Of course. Trying new spells was only half the fun Avenazar drew from this. Always, he’d played these games of dominance with Varden. Most of the time, he’d sent the priest running after Nevian, revealing only that the apprentice needed healing yet never indicating where to find him. Avenazar needed control, and he needed to remind everyone who was in charge.
With a deep breath, Varden straightened his back, slid one knee underneath his body, and pushed himself up. His delicate balance threatened to collapse at any moment, the world spinning under him. He kept rising, one hand on the wall, until he was standing at full height, wobbly but determined not to stumble. His gaze fell down on Avenazar, and Varden waited for the wizard to bend his neck backward, even a little. Enough that Avenazar would notice.
“Tell me,” Varden said, removing his hand from the wall. It sounded like an order—a dangerous gamble, considering who he was addressing. But why would he grovel? Varden squared his shoulders despite his exhaustion. He would hold onto his pride until he could no longer remember why he should love himself. Avenazar’s games only fanned his resilience, and he would willingly risk the wizard’s anger if it meant resisting servitude. With a barking laugh, Avenazar snapped his fingers under Varden’s nose.
“I’ll enjoy crushing that out of you.”
He started down the corridor, forcing Varden to follow. So much for the promised explanation. As always, defiance brought delays and struggles. Varden gritted his teeth, every step an exercise of willpower. His bare feet scraped against the ground, but he endured, unable to lift them higher. He just had to keep walking despite his nausea, despite his muscles screaming and his paralyzing terror. He could walk. He had to.
“Tell me,” Varden repeated.
“We had news from Myria. Great news! You are no longer a High Priest. Your traitorous actions and disreputable activities were deemed unacceptable. Many agreed it was well past time you returned to your rightful place in society.” Avenazar reached into his pocket and removed a folded paper. The official wax seal glinted in the torches’ dim light, and Varden didn’t need to be shown the letter. Every Isbari knew what these were.
“Slave.”
“Glad to see you agree!”
“I don’t,” he whispered.
Varden had always feared this day would come, but nothing could have prepared him for it. He stopped, leaning against the wall. He felt stripped and small and crushed, dismayed and desperate. Yet revolt, anger, and determination simmered under those, threatening to take over. Isbari never stayed free in Myria, not when they raised their voices or tried to make their lives better. Sooner or later, someone would have found a reason to tear his freedom away. And although the smear clung to his heart, Varden reminded himself they’d blamed him for actions he was proud of. A meagre consolation, but one nonetheless.
“You should be glad,” Avenazar continued, leading him up the prisons’ stairs, and Varden pushed himself to follow. Fresh air reached him, renewing his awareness. His gait gained certainty and his mind cleared as he listened to Avenazar drone on. “Jilssan convinced me to change the nature of our quality time together. Nevian’s death created a void in my daily life, one which you could easily fill. Replacing one slave with another is the logical step, especially considering I’ll have a new guest tonight.”
“Nevian wasn’t a slave.” Easier to discuss someone else’s fate than his own, even someone dead. Avenazar’s vivid descriptions of the fate he had inflicted on Nevian sprang to Varden’s mind, and he buried them. Nevian had pushed Varden away at every occasion, shattering any chance they’d had to bond over their two years in the enclave together, but Varden had grown fond of the teen’s subtle, stubborn defiance. It took a special kind of courage to stand up to Avenazar every day, knowing what he could do.
“Not quite,” Avenazar agreed. “I allowed Nevian a measure of freedom, and what did he do with it? Sell our information to the Crescent Moon and betray his homeland!” Avenazar scoffed. “You won’t have that opportunity. I have devised an innovative spell. It requires a tremendous amount of power, but if all goes well, you won’t remember enough of yourself to even consider rebellion.”
Cold horror numbed Varden’s mind as Avenazar’s earlier jibe echoed in it. How much would he be able to save, if anything? Would his efforts to keep himself together turn out all for nothing? Avenazar meant to erase him exactly as he’d wiped out Nevian’s memories. But Varden wouldn’t even be granted the mercy of death. He would continue living—moving according to Avenazar’s wishes, perhaps unaware of what he’d lost.
“You devised it?”
Varden wasn’t certain how the words had made it past his lips. His feet shuffled onward on their own, bringing him closer to his fate with every step, as if Avenazar had already transformed him into a mindless slave.
Avenazar turned to grin at Varden. “Indeed, and you’re the perfect test subject. No one will care, and your peculiar connection with Keroth will help me achieve success.”
Varden froze, reeling from the possible meanings of Avenazar’s implied threat. Keroth would never allow it, his mind countered, yet where had the Firelord been since the Long Night’s Watch? Varden prayed to Them whenever he could muster the strength, certain his god would not abandon him, but this inexorable path toward servitude instilled doubt in him. “No one will care,” Avenazar had said. He had brutally murdered Varden’s few allies in Isandor, leaving him alone and stranded. And now the wizard threatened to use even Keroth against him.
Avenazar grabbed the bridge of ice between Varden’s wrists and pulled, and the sharp pain in his forearm grounded him. He couldn’t despair now. Varden had little fight left, but he would continue to pray and resist with all of his exhausted willpower.
He was High Priest Varden Daramond. He was Isbari, and respected by his c
ommunity. He loved men. He loved to draw. He had tried to save Branwen and to protect Nevian.
He was proud of these things, and he would fight to the end for them.
Lady Camilla Dathirii wielded silence the way Kellian used swords: with deadly precision. Most of her silences were pauses in the conversation, space for her interlocutors to consider their words and thoughts. They were benevolent offerings of time, soft and sweet and undemanding. You could either take them for self-reflection, or you could move on.
Her current silence, however, was meant to force introspection on Kellian. She strode out of the Dathirii Tower at a good pace, ignoring Kellian’s firm hand on her arm, and when he asked her again why she would hide an assassin, she refused to answer. She shot him a single glance, imposing her silence, and he obeyed.
Never in her lifetime had one Dathirii arrested another. House conflicts remained internal: one did not expose their siblings to outsiders, especially without first talking with Lord Dathirii. If Kellian had foregone any discussion about her arrest, it meant he knew he’d be rebuked. Even if he didn’t admit it to himself, he’d understood from the start this was wrong. His arrest might prove that she’d acted on her own and that House Dathirii did not condone her choices—a logical political decision—yet it went against everything their family stood for.
And as they progressed in silence, Camilla watched Kellian’s frown deepen. He tried to maintain a neutral expression, but she had learned to read him and other Dathirii decades ago. His jaw stiffened, the corners of his mouth dropped, and his stare forward had unfocused. He was looking inward, and perhaps he didn’t enjoy what he saw. Good. Kellian’s grief had spanned ninety years and left deep scars, but it did not excuse his knee-jerk reaction to dark elves. She wanted him to think hard on his behaviour, like a child she’d sent to stand in the corner of an empty room. She wished she could say she expected Kellian to change his mind, but that would mean disregarding his natural stubbornness.
City of Betrayal Page 22
