City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  Lady Mia Allastam bent over an iris, one hand on her cane and the other lifting the petals. She had tied her long blond hair into an intricate coiffure and taken pains—literal, in her case—to wear a flowing, open-back dress and a light white scarf across her shoulders. Mia’s affliction often kept her in bed or exhausted her too much for long conversations, but she seemed in high spirits today.

  Yultes called out to her, hoping his presence wouldn’t ruin a good day for her. She lifted her head, and her smiled widened when she spotted him. As always, Mia proved herself the most agreeable company in House Allastam, and he hurried closer. He wondered if she even knew of the wedge between their families—her father and brother tended to keep her in the dark—but they’d barely exchanged pleasantries before she cleared that question away.

  “I’m sorry for Father’s aggressive attacks,” she said before gesturing for him to sit on a nearby bench. “None of this will bring my mother back. Your family will be missed from Isandor’s politics.”

  “We’re not gone yet.”

  Mia’s blue eyes settled on him, her silence all the confirmation he needed. She didn’t believe Lord Dathirii would come out on top of the Golden Table meeting. Yultes wanted to argue further, both by pointing out it wouldn’t stop Diel from fighting, and by repeating Hellion’s reassurances that House Dathirii did not depend on his stepbrother. He’d had these debates with himself and others too often, however, and Mia hadn’t meant it as a challenge. Yultes would rather turn his mind to less stressful topics. He sat down, shoulders slumped, and she joined him with a sigh of relief, placing the cane beside her.

  They spent the afternoon discussing unrelated events. Mia asked about news from the Dathirii family, while Yultes insisted on seeing more of the flowers she crafted as a hobby. It distracted him from everything else. No Myrians, no long rants from Hellion on Diel’s inadequacy, no worries concerning the information Brune would next demand from him, and not even any thoughts of Larryn. His son hadn’t tried to contact him since his requests about Hasryan. Too angry, probably. Perhaps it was better that way. Yultes only ever seemed to make their relationship worse.

  The artificial light atop the garden eventually began to dim, however, and Yultes took his leave, bidding her farewell. Mia was tiring—slower to answer and more easily distracted—but she nevertheless thanked him for the afternoon. Her graciousness would never cease to amaze him, considering the rest of her family. He offered to help her back to her quarters, at which point she laughed. “I will manage fine, milord, and there are plenty of servants on my way there should I turn out wrong.”

  In truth, her refusal relieved him. He didn’t want to be in the Allastam Tower when the Golden Table truly ended. He’d rather learn the bad news from his family than from a smug Lord Allastam. Yultes tried to cling to the future satisfaction of pointing out to Diel he’d been right about angering Allastam, but his heart wasn’t in it. He had fought too hard to prove his worth and validate his acceptance into House Dathirii, and the looming loss of his title left only a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Yultes headed toward the closest exit, near the base of the Allastam Tower, where another large courtyard occupied two whole levels. Vines climbed up the flight of stairs spiralling around the area, clinging to the railing and outer walls. They kept clear of the ground, as it often served for training soldiers. Anyone could watch from the steps or one of the several balconies they led to.

  A significant group of guards occupied the space today, and Yultes frowned as he grew nearer. The troops stood in formation—two rectangles of forty warriors each—and it didn’t look like an exercise. They were at ease, chatting with one another, the murmur of conversations echoing in the large area. A strange unease crept up Yultes’ spine. He buttoned his winter coat, hurrying down the steps, questions bouncing through his mind. Why had Lord Allastam gathered soldiers? Had they finally found Hasryan? Perhaps he ought to stay out of it, but Yultes’ curiosity pushed him into investigating and he approached.

  The moment their captain spotted him, he yelled an order and the entire squad saluted. Yultes’ breath caught at the powerful synchronicity of the group. He studied the soldiers’ serious expressions, hiding his confusion behind his genuine awe before turning to the captain.

  “Good evening, Lord Dathirii!” the Allastam officer called. The title jolted him. He was Lord Yultes Dathirii—the title of Lord Dathirii, without first name, was reserved for the Head of the House, who embodied the rest of the family. An instinct held him back from correcting the officer, a deep-seated wrongness about this situation. Better to let the soldier talk while he found his footing, so to speak. “We’re ready for the assault and await your orders.”

  The assault. What was this even about? Yultes’ mind rushed for a plausible explanation. Had the officer mistaken him for Diel? But why would he ever speak of an assault? Surely, his cousin hadn’t managed to convince the Golden Table to attack the Myrian enclave! He and Garith had headed to the meeting uncertain if they would even keep their seats of power. And either way, the Golden Table should not be over yet.

  “The assault, yes.” Yultes felt like his tongue was swollen and clumsy, yet his tone remained surprisingly smooth. He smiled at the Allastam captain, who still obviously awaited orders. From whom, though? Who was this “Lord Dathirii,” if not Diel or himself? Yultes hated how confused and lost this left him, but he kept a calm mask. Better to appear in control. House Allastam could no longer be considered an ally despite his pleasant afternoon with Mia, and Yultes preferred to show no weaknesses. “I’m afraid I am not quite ready, however. There is a last thing I must take care of.”

  What exactly, he had no idea. He’d come up with a lie, given himself time to understand what was going on. After all, he’d managed to hide Larryn’s birth from even the closest members of the Dathirii family, and he met with Brune without anyone wising up to it. Duplicity had become second nature as the years passed.

  “Very well, milord.” The captain pinched his lips. “Please do keep in mind that it would be best to have their tower under our control before the Golden Table is over.”

  “Of course.” Yultes infused a measure of annoyance into his tone, as if he couldn’t believe the soldier would question him. His insides, on the other hand, tightened painfully, as if a claw squeezed them hard. Their tower? The Golden Table? Yultes forced a sharp farewell, turned on his heel, and hurried out of the Allastam Tower.

  The cold hit him in full force, but it didn’t ease his panic. Allastam soldiers were waiting for a Dathirii to lead them into a tower assault. Deep down, Yultes knew there could be only one target: his home. But why would this officer so casually tell a Dathirii about an assault on their tower? Why, if not that he had expected Yultes to lead it? He didn’t understand how it all tied together, only how violent these men’s instructions could be. Lord Allastam wouldn’t stop at ripping their titles away. He meant to wipe them out from Isandor’s scene once and for all. Yultes broke into a run, desperate to reach the Dathirii Tower in time, yet uncertain he could do anything to stop the onslaught.

  They waited for Kellian all afternoon. At first, Hasryan didn’t notice the time passing. Hard to count the minutes with Arathiel and Cal by his side and an infiltration plan to build. Hard to count, in short, when you finally felt a measure of peacefulness, when for a precious moment of your life, trust and good friends pushed away a constant fear of betrayal. The light in the office shifted to gold as the sun lowered in the sky, but the captain still hadn’t shown up. Hasryan didn’t complain—the less time they spent together, the better—yet as Branwen checked in with Jaeger for news increasingly often, he started to worry too. The light outside grew dim, and she huffed once more before striding to the entrance. She swung the door open, giving Jaeger no chance to stop her if someone was in sight. The steward turned, startled.

  “We’ll leave without him, Jaeger,” she declared. “Please let my uncle know I did not expect him to forget his promise in less
than a day.”

  Jaeger frowned. “Branwen, this is unlike him. I do not think …” He didn’t finish. Branwen cast her gaze to the ground, and their joint fear didn’t escape Hasryan. “I’ll pass your message along.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be on our way, then. Varden’s waited long enough.”

  “Kellian will be fine,” Arathiel said, providing a reassurance she obviously needed. “He was an excellent fighter a century ago, and I suspect he only became better with time.”

  “Can’t blame him if he’s too busy shoving Camilla behind bars to discover I’m still in his precious tower.”

  Hasryan smirked, and the glare he expected from Branwen never came.

  Instead, she snorted and put determined hands on her hips. “Too bad for him. He’ll miss out on our epic team. You have anything warm to wear, Mister Assassin, or are you pulling a leather jacket duo with Arathiel? Because I have a huge wardrobe if you need it.”

  Hasryan stuttered for an instant, then remembered the winter coat Camilla had found for him when they’d visited Esmera. A bad colour for sneaking, wine red, but Hasryan worried about what might lie in Branwen’s closet, so he mentioned it as fast as he could. Her eyes widened in recognition. “That’s Garith’s! Wonderful, I bet it looks stellar on you.”

  It did, and as the group prepared to leave, Branwen didn’t allow him to forget. Hasryan hurriedly threw a cloak over it, both to conceal the glaring colour and stem the flow of compliments. They picked their way down the bridges and stairs, Hasryan often splitting from the others to scout ahead or avoid passing by citizens. Isandor’s residents deserted the city on cold days like this one, yet Hasryan needed to backtrack in a hurry more than once to remain unseen.

  Their collective mood relaxed as they reached the lower outskirts of Isandor. The enclave’s wall rose in the distance, a good half-hour away. Hasryan merged once more with the group, and Branwen greeted him with a cheerful, “Handsome Red is back in tow!” He protested, flustered and ill at ease. In any other circumstances, insults followed his arrivals, not compliments. Yet Branwen wouldn’t let go, and neither Arathiel nor Cal seemed of a mind to help. They laughed along with her, poking fun at how they’d never expected to see Hasryan in a dandy’s clothes. Hasryan chuckled along, but their good mood grated on his nerves. He couldn’t quite explain why, yet he needed everyone to stop and find something else to talk about—to fade into the background once more.

  “Isn’t Cal the one we normally pick on?” he asked, his tone sharper than intended. “Please give your local assassin a break.”

  Cal replied with a mock shove, his usual grin unshaken. “We missed you, and who knows how long this will last? I thought … I really thought I’d lost you. That you’d either get caught or vanish, you know? So I want to enjoy this as much as I can!”

  Hasryan managed a brief smile. “It’s a precious, unexpected chance, I agree. I just … Let’s find a better way to spend it? I have too much on my mind to stay a good sport about friendly mockery.”

  This time, Cal looked up and answered with a quiet “oh.” He reached for Hasryan’s arm and squeezed it in apology. A surge of guilt climbed into Hasryan’s throat, and he almost told him not to feel bad, that it was okay, and maybe they should go on after all. What if Cal became angry at him? What if he didn’t want a friend who couldn’t take a joke? Hasryan stopped himself and stuffed his desire to apologize deep down. If Cal hadn’t dumped him over assassinations, a little rebuttal wouldn’t break their relationship. He had to quit worrying and trust his friends not to vanish. Easier said than done, though.

  At the lull in the conversation, Branwen spun around to face them. “For the record, I wasn’t mocking. You look great. Way better than Garith.”

  Hasryan choked, instantly glad his ebony-black skin hid his flush. Cal brought a hand over to his mouth to cover his laughter, and a strange mix of irritation, shame, and pleasure filled Hasryan. He met Branwen’s gaze, expecting playfulness, but she seemed dead serious. He swallowed hard and ran fingers through his thick hair, at a loss for words.

  “The lady’s right, you know,” Arathiel said. “The sooner you accept it, the faster we’ll move on.”

  “All right, all right!” He lifted his head in surrender. “As long as we do move on. Thanks. I guess.”

  “Thanks indeed,” Branwen agreed. “I have the best fashion sense in all of Isandor. When I pay someone a compliment, I mean it.”

  “Now that sounds like a self-awarded title—or are there cute design contests between noble houses in which you crush all your poor human opponents?”

  “I wish!” Branwen glanced back at the city with dreamy eyes, oblivious to his mocking tone. What a waste of gold that would be! Even worse than the eccentric alchemical gardens decorating the high towers in a pointless show of power. But Branwen had clearly never heard one of Larryn’s rants on Isandor’s ill-spent wealth because she continued in a wistful tone, “It’s a shame that my classiest creations stay almost unused. Isandor never gathers for balls except at Lord William’s annual reception. It’s all trade with them! They should take a lesson or two from the kingdom of Mehr. It’d be more fun, and it’d make spying easier!”

  Hasryan had witnessed the lavish evening Lord William set out every year once, hidden in the shadows of a balcony. The food and riches had dazzled him, and as the night passed and alcohol flowed between the guests, his anger and envy had vanished. It wasn’t fair, this bountifulness, this careless waste. Brune had sent him to witness, to burn into his mind that no matter the influence gained by the Crescent Moon, they could never become a part of this, nor should they desire it. The lesson stayed with him as he listened to Branwen ramble.

  He wanted to interrupt, to pop her bubble and point out what her extravagance meant to those kept out of wealth, but Cal jumped into the conversation. He asked her about the kind of modifications she made to her outfits, what she loved, how much time she put in it … How did he even come up with all these questions? Branwen adored them, and she answered everything with unbridled enthusiasm. She reminded him of how Larryn sounded when he created a new recipe and was anticipating his patrons’ reactions.

  Intent on Branwen’s detailed discussion of her craft, Hasryan barely noticed when they fully left the cover of Isandor’s spires. At one point he looked up, and there were no more bridges above his head, no towers or vegetation obscuring even the corners of his sight. The sun had set, and stars dotted the night sky, impossibly cold and distant. He scolded himself for being so distracted—staying focused with so many allies around was proving more difficult than expected. He had always worked alone before, and after days in a cell or isolated with Camilla, he longed for more conversation. Hasryan stopped and turned around, letting the rest of the group continue. He’d only left the vicinity of the spires once since first arriving in Isandor, a decade ago. Only a few bio-luminescent plants had lit the Upper City at the time, and now they strengthened the contrast between the glowing rich area and the almost-complete darkness surrounding Larryn’s home.

  “I think I prefer the city at night,” Arathiel said, and Hasryan jumped despite the softness of his tone. He hadn’t noticed that his friend hadn’t continued toward the enclave with Branwen and Cal. How typical of Arathiel to notice Hasryan had stopped—always attentive and silent until he found reason to speak up.

  Hasryan agreed with the sentiment. At night, he could hide and stalk through the city without wondering when next someone would spot him, and whether it would mean a glare, an insult, or pointed refusal to acknowledge his existence. Perhaps that applied to Arathiel to some extent, too, but Hasryan felt there was more behind this. “Why?”

  “It looks a lot more like what I remember,” Arathiel said. “Shadows eat the colours away, and the shades of grey seem normal. In daylight, I know I’m left with a washed-out version of the city.”

  “So you can’t see colours either.”

  “I can, to some extent. I’m not sure how to explain it. Everythin
g is less intense, toned down. Like watercolour diluted too much and a splash of grey on top.” Arathiel shrugged in dismissal, yet longing laced his voice. “I’m used to it now, but my arrival here was brutal.”

  They turned away from the city and started down the path. Hasryan walked alongside Arathiel, unsure how to help. He’d never thought of a single place as home, although the Shelter had always come close. It was a safe space, one filled with friends, lively music, and the permission to be himself. His reluctance to leave Isandor stemmed from that hard-gained comfort more than from any love of the towers looming above Larryn’s unsteady shack. He tried to imagine how it would feel to return there, only to find all of it changed and everyone he had trusted dead, but he couldn’t. Hasryan cleared his throat and kicked a small rock.

  “Well, hey, at least I was here to welcome you.”

  His jest drew a laugh out of Arathiel, but he immediately reverted to seriousness. “You were. Somehow, at the bottom of Isandor, I found a tiny haven with someone who understood me. Not all changes are for the worse. Don’t make it sound like your presence didn’t matter.”

  Hasryan’s throat tightened, and his fingers slid through his thick hair once more, the familiar gesture grounding him. “Do I understand you?” he asked. “I don’t know … I never expected you to free me. Outsiders don’t stick their necks out for each other. They skulk back into the shadows, glad they’re not the target for once. Why did you save me? We just played cards, no? Why would you risk so much?”

  “‘So much?’” Arathiel scoffed and fell silent. Hasryan waited, hoping Arathiel would elaborate. He needed to know, and they might never get another chance to talk. “You deserved someone to do the right thing for you, and I had access to means beyond Larryn’s and Cal’s reach. Besides, what is there to risk?” He gestured to himself and continued with a calm so absolute it froze Hasryan’s blood. “I’m a body held together by magic, and I should have died more than a century ago. Who knows how long it will hold? This new life … it’s borrowed time. I’d rather give it to someone else—do something important while it lasts.”