“Is that why you agreed to this?” Hasryan pointed towards the enclave with a sharp gesture. The road provided little cover between its walls and the city, and as a result it stood out against the night sky. “Does it even matter who you’re saving, or are we just a list of worthwhile feats to accomplish before something kills you?”
It was wrong. Wrong for Hasryan, wrong for Arathiel, wrong for everyone involved. Hasryan hated the thought.
Arathiel stopped in his tracks, shifting away, his calm composure vanishing. His mouth opened and closed a few times as he struggled for an answer. Hasryan crossed his arms. He could wait forever if he had to, but he refused to let this slide.
“It’s not that simple,” Arathiel said at length—admitting in the same breath that this was a part of it. “I felt like a ghost. I floated above everyone, watching this future-yet-present Isandor evolve, never interacting with it in a meaningful way. The card games and the tea with Camilla grounded me, but I needed more. I couldn’t stay on the sidelines forever. Whenever I catch myself thinking I shouldn’t exist, I try to remember that I do, in my own way, and that’s enough—that I matter by virtue of existing. You … you turned my mental reminders into a concrete feeling. You understood without questioning or pushing my boundaries. I could just be, no explanations required. You’re not anyone, Hasryan. No one in the Shelter wanted you to die, and neither did I.”
“And Varden?”
Hasryan stammered the words to keep Arathiel talking while he recovered from his answer. The implicit trust troubled him more than he cared to admit, yet he understood what Arathiel meant. They had always had a silent contract not to make the other feel out of place, to accept one another without demanding explanations. They could share anything, but nothing would be asked. How long had Hasryan wished for a relationship like this? With Larryn, they joked about trading secrets; with Arathiel they waited for them to emerge.
“If Diel says he’s worth the risk, I believe it. And you’re right, it does feel good to help others. The Well disrupted how I perceive the world and interact with it. I always thought of it as a curse, but perhaps I can turn it around. The impact on my life doesn’t have to stay negative.”
“Just don’t get killed. This Well or whatever, it gave the borrowed time to you, not others. You deserve it more than most, and you’re not alive just to pass it on. What’s the point of saving me if you can’t enjoy it?” His awkward jest fell flat. Arathiel stared ahead, his gaze distant. Hasryan regretted prattling on—as if he had any right to give lessons. He should thank Arathiel instead. His friend had to think he was both insolent and selfish. “Sorry. It’s none of my business what you do with your life. I’ll shut up and worry about my own first.”
“Please don’t.” Arathiel’s hand landed on his shoulder, a little too heavily, and he squeezed hard. His soft voice held no derision. Hasryan turned around only to find Arathiel grinning at him. “You really should speak up more often. I wasn’t aware you filled the wise one’s role in your infamous Halfies Trio.”
Hasryan laughed, and his unease vanished. “There’s no ‘wise one’ in the Halfies Trio. That’s why we’re always in trouble.” He cast a glance at Cal, far ahead, then added, “You know, since you’re technically half-alive, you should consider joining.”
“Ah.” Envy and regret filled Arathiel’s voice. “I don’t think Larryn would approve.”
Hasryan made a show of rolling his eyes. Cal’s half-healed bruise stood fresh in his mind, and he couldn’t give Larryn’s opinion a lot of weight. “Larryn needs a solid encounter or ten with my miraculous wisdom. Don’t worry about him.”
“Then I would love to!” Arathiel clapped his hands, the warmth in his smile going straight to Hasryan’s heart. No more Halfies Trio. Larryn would have to swallow his pride and deal with his issues because from now on, they would be a Halfies Quartet. One more way to ground Arathiel solidly into this new present.
Cal’s bright laughter travelled down the path, and they both turned at the sound of it. Arathiel’s smile widened even more. “We ought to catch up with the rest of tonight’s team. They’re both becoming so excited, their voices will warn the Myrians of our approach.”
Hasryan snickered, then sped up. Arathiel had a very good point. It was high time they got off the road and started treating this rescue mission with the professionalism it deserved.
Jaeger hadn’t been alone in a long time. He didn’t count standing at the door—you never knew who could walk up, or when Diel would push it open and insist Jaeger shouldn’t waste precious hours watching the entrance. As if he would truly lose a single minute! Even when he couldn’t write official letters, sift through numbers with Diel, or plan their next political move, Jaeger worked. He reviewed events in his mind and unravelled webs of intrigue, using the silence as an opportunity to ground himself once more in Isandor’s ever-shifting alliances.
Today he had spent a lot of time—entirely too much of it, in truth—pondering the possible outcomes and consequences of the Golden Table. When Branwen left with her team, the grim future and his constant vigilance had wearied him to the bone. For once, he had acted as a guard dog, watching over the office’s door and the secret within. One he had chosen to allow after nothing but a short exchange with Hasryan.
The decision weighed heavily on him. Jaeger made frequent snap verdicts in his life, judging people and their intentions in a few seconds, either reaching behind himself to open the door or firmly but politely refusing entrance to the petitioner. Yet despite the serious consequences linked to supporting Hasryan, this decision had been one of the easiest to take. Camilla trusted Hasryan, who obviously reciprocated that trust enough to risk his fragile freedom for her sake. Diel’s aunt was the first Dathirii Jaeger had been formally introduced to, and he had grown to love her and rely on her judgment. He didn’t regret his decision, even though it worried him.
With everyone gone, Jaeger abandoned his post at the door. He stretched his legs and back, heaving a sigh of relief, then considered his options. Finding a secure escape route for Hasryan would become one of their most pressing concerns. They might manage to dodge one inspection from the Sapphire Guard, but how long could House Dathirii hide him when they stood at the centre of the city’s attention? Jaeger couldn’t predict the outcome of the Golden Table, and he’d done everything he could for Branwen’s rescue mission. It seemed a good idea to turn his thoughts toward devising secret pathways for Hasryan to take, at least until more urgent news arrived. For a moment, he considered retreating to his quarters, where others were less likely to disturb him, but messengers would inevitably wind up in Diel’s office in case of an emergency, so he opted for his desk there.
Jaeger had barely settled into his chair when the doors burst open and Yultes hurried through, panting, cheeks red from exertion. The elf hadn’t removed his winter coat, and heavy bullets of sweat ran down his temples. Before Jaeger could comment on the intrusion, their eyes met, and the fear he read in Yultes’ gaze pushed him to let it slide.
“What’s going on?” Jaeger asked instead.
Yultes raised a hand to hold Jaeger off. He needed several long seconds to catch his breath, and even then, he seemed uncertain what to say. Yultes was insufferable, arrogant, and manipulative, but rarely at a loss for words. What could this mean?
“Fetch Kellian immediately, then exit the Tower. Disappear.”
“Lord Kellian left for the Sapphire Guard’s headquarters this morning and has not returned since.” His tone turned dry and sharp. Why had he ever expected Yultes to explain himself? “I do not take orders from you, Lord Yultes.”
Yultes’ violent swear caught Jaeger by surprise. When had he ever used such coarse language? “This is bad. They must have stopped him,” Yultes said, then he grabbed Jaeger’s arm. “We don’t have time for bickering. Are there any guards here?”
“A few. Most are scattered across the city, defending our merchant allies.”
Yultes rubbed his forehead
with two fingers, and long minutes of silence trickled by, his lips moving without words. Jaeger stared at the mute panic, unsettled. Yultes often raised his voice, but always in pretentious indignation, never fear. Yet the unnerving sight only worsened when the other elf’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
“We’re doomed. I can’t think of a solution.”
With as much patience as he could muster while addressing Yultes, who despite his breakdown made a point of keeping him in the dark, Jaeger replied, “I might, if you deigned to tell me what is going on.”
His remark snapped Yultes back to their situation, and he ran a hand through straw-coloured hair. “Eighty soldiers are waiting at the Allastam Tower, ready for an assault, and upon spotting me they saluted and asked for my orders. Jaeger, they called me Lord Dathirii. They wanted control of a tower before the Golden Table ended, and I’ve no doubts that they are coming here.”
Jaeger’s foot slid backward as if Yultes had shoved him. Isandor’s noble Houses didn’t attack each other in such a direct fashion. They conducted fights through trade deals and “expendable” mercenaries, otherwise they would have killed each other long ago. But had Lord Allastam ever played by the rules? He’d pushed several members of House Freitz to their deaths and instigated the first bloody feud in over a century. Not to mention that if House Dathirii lost its titles at the council, they would become fair game.
“We can’t allow it,” Jaeger said. “This is our home.”
“Can you stop it?”
Jaeger’s mind scrambled for a solution. Anything. He couldn’t let the tower fall! The Dathirii had lived here for as long as Isandor had existed. They’d been nobles before Jaeger was even born, and their name and deeds shone throughout the city’s history. There had to be a way out of it, even without Kellian—and where was their guard captain? For once, Yultes was right. Jaeger hated to admit it, both to himself and to Yultes, but he couldn’t do anything against so many soldiers. He looked around, at the beautiful wall of golden flowers and vines, and his heart shrivelled as he shook his head.
“Who’s in the tower?” Yultes asked. “Garith is at the council and Kellian has disappeared, but who else among those from whom Diel takes advice?”
“Only me.” Jaeger straightened. Yultes hadn’t meant him, only the actual Dathirii elves—Diel’s blood relations, not the lowborn steward. “The Dathirii present in the tower are friends of Hellion or liaisons to other Houses, which leaves me. But I assume you referred to his noble close guard.”
“I didn’t.” Yultes smirked, drawing obvious satisfaction at contradicting him despite the situation. “You were my first concern, and I ran to the office hoping I’d find you.” Jaeger stared at him, more stunned by the concept Yultes cared for his safety than by news of the imminent assault. His surprise must have shown, because Yultes scoffed. “Just because I could do your job better doesn’t mean I want you to die. Diel loves every inch of you, but you have no titles to use as a shield, and never did. Which means that to whoever is coming? You’re a prime target. You matter—to Diel, to them, to all of us. Let’s run.”
Yultes grabbed Jaeger’s forearm, pulling him along, and they reached the first staircase before the steward shook off his daze. He smiled a little despite the situation. “You matter.” Jaeger didn’t need Yultes to tell him that, nor did he care that so many nobles thought otherwise. The day would come when Yultes would again imply Jaeger was a superfluous distraction to Diel, however, and then Jaeger would have a glorious reminder for him.
As heartwarming as the prospect of future gloating was, Jaeger didn’t need to be pulled along like a child. He withdrew his arm, and although Yultes’ current behaviour confused Jaeger, he rolled with it, flying down one staircase after another in Yultes’ wake. Dread crawled up his spine as they neared the exit, with second doubts close on its heels. He didn’t want to flee. How would he warn Diel about this? What could they do if they ran and hid? But Yultes had a point: he was a target—leverage, even—and Diel would want him safe.
The echoes of surprised screams and metal armour reached them as they neared the front doors. The smattering of house guards present shouted orders, and weapons screeched as they met. Yultes and Jaeger skidded to a stop. The steward’s stomach twisted. The sounds of battle crushed his silent, secret hope that Yultes had overreacted. Jaeger spun on his heels without waiting. There were other exits and they needed to get out.
“We’ll use the servants’ way.”
Yultes stiffened, then followed without a word. Jaeger pushed open a narrow door resembling a cupboard and led them to a long flight of stairs at the centre of the tree-like tower. The household staff used it to move from one floor to another without getting in the nobles’ way, but Jaeger avoided it when he wasn’t in a hurry.
A single pair of footsteps echoed, heading up as they hurried down, and Jaeger slowed, tense. Had soldiers found the passage already? Surely they couldn’t know the tower that well. Then a young ginger-haired boy came around the corner, hands clasped around a tray, huffing. Jaeger recognized the kitchen boy right away, and relief turned his knees into cotton. He pressed one palm against the wall for support.
“Fernandillion, stop.” A vague irritation passed on his face. He preferred to be called “Fern,” but such a level of familiarity unsettled Jaeger. “Whoever this meal is for will have to wait. Hostile soldiers have entered the tower. Warn everyone you can find to stand down and make themselves invisible. Hide in the stairs or leave the building if you must, but stay as safe as possible. We’re heading for the kitchens. I’ll tell them the same.”
Horror passed over Fernandillion’s visage, then resolve. He nodded, and with a simple “yes, sir,” he was off, dumping the tray on a step and tearing up the stairs. Yultes had to flatten himself against the wall to give him room, and once the boy had disappeared around the next bend, he turned to Jaeger.
“I can’t go to the kitchens,” he said.
Jaeger huffed. Did Yultes think they had time for his self-importance? “I don’t care what kind of misplaced pride and reluctance to mix with commoners you have, Lord Yultes. That’s our way out.”
Yultes followed him as he started down the stairs, arguing from a few steps behind. “You misunderstand. It’s the kitchens. They won’t take kindly to my presence.”
“And I’m certain their hatred is deserved. It’s our best exit route, and we are not changing plans because you mistreated House Dathirii’s staff in the past.” They reached the right level, and Jaeger pushed open the door and checked around the corridors. He could neither see nor hear soldiers. Good. “I’ll protect you from their righteous fury, as a courtesy for your admittance of my worth.”
Jaeger pressed on, unashamed of his sarcasm and glad for the choked sound Yultes emitted. Whatever happened next, he would treasure this moment. His long strides led him to the kitchens, and he entered through the revolving door without hesitation. Yultes followed with a resigned sigh. A myriad of smells assaulted them, along with the clanking of pots and pans and orders yelled by cooks to their helpers. Dinner wasn’t far away, making the area even noisier than the soldiers at the gate.
“Nicole!”
Jaeger called the kitchen’s head, scanning the bustling room for her. Yultes retracted against him, his shoulders hunched, thin lips pressed into a wistful line. What a strange expression from someone who thought the kitchens would lead to his death. Not a mystery for which Jaeger had time, nor one he really cared to solve. He focused on the organized chaos around, calling Nicole again. Servants started to notice them, and all activity slowed down. They whispered to one another, pointing, until Nicole’s deep voice boomed across the kitchen.
“What do you mean, Lord Yultes dared to step in here?”
“I warned you,” Yultes said from behind Jaeger.
Jaeger gritted his teeth. “I wish I could stand by and watch.”
Nicole emerged from two rows of counters, wooden ladle in hand. Long blond hair fell upon her full bust,
and she set thick hands on her wide hips. Nicole was large in every sense of the term, and she was one of the most beautiful women Jaeger had met. Anger flushed her skin and stole her usual welcoming smile, however. Jaeger stepped forward and spread his arms before she attacked Yultes.
“Nicole, there are soldiers coming. We need to escape.”
“Let them take him.” She pointed the ladle at Yultes, who cringed and made himself as small as he could—not a sight Jaeger had ever thought he’d witness. “He knew better than to step in here.”
What was going on? When Yultes had spoken of the staff “not taking kindly” to his presence, Jaeger hadn’t expected anything special. Most of their employees disliked Hellion, Yultes, and others enough to glare if they entered spaces usually meant for staff. Nicole’s anger spoke of something a lot deeper, however, and Yultes’ uncharacteristic terror exposed both his guilt and regrets. Whatever it was would wait. They needed to escape, find Diel, and warn him. Household politics were meaningless in comparison.
“I forced him.” They stared at each other. Jaeger had never needed to impose his will on Nicole before. They got along well, and he allowed her full control of the kitchens, offering advice only when she asked. Yultes shouldn’t be worth this breach in their dynamic, but they lacked the time for subtlety. Jaeger grabbed Yultes’ wrist and started around Nicole, dragging the stiff noble behind him. “If soldiers enter, stand down. Don’t fight, don’t disobey. They’re taking over, Nicole.”
She glared one last time at Yultes, silently warning him his turn would come. When she refocused her attention on Jaeger, however, the anger drained away. She inhaled deeply and squeezed Jaeger’s shoulder. “Understood. Stay safe, Jaeger. We’ll be waiting for your return.”
City of Betrayal Page 25
