He smiled. Plenty of other Houses would gladly offer these people jobs should they desert House Dathirii, but Jaeger doubted many would leave. Diel paid better wages, punished any abuse, and had asked Jaeger to accommodate their employees as much as possible. House Dathirii’s staff knew they wouldn’t find better elsewhere, and most would risk staying for a time. He hated leaving his peers behind. They would be fine, though, and he might not.
Jaeger thanked her, and Nicole repeated her orders as he pulled Yultes between the large fires in the wall and the cutting board counters, towards the exit. Several servants nodded at Jaeger, and the small acknowledgments of his passage twisted his heart. He would miss them, and the tower. Despite the urge to escape before soldiers found them, Jaeger almost stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t believe he was abandoning the Dathirii Tower like this.
The two elves arrived at the door as the cooks slowly started working again. Nicole’s commands turned into adjustments to the dinner plans instead of safety advice—something about diminishing quantities in light of the Dathirii nobles who wouldn’t return to eat. At least many of them were already out of reach. Jaeger grabbed the doorknob, eager to leave.
Burning heat seared his palm, and the door’s handle burst into hot pieces. Jaeger snatched his hand back with a pained cry, stumbling away. Yultes caught him before he fell, and as smoke and soldiers rushed into the kitchen, they drew closer. Booted steps at the other end of the room warned him of the futility of turning back. Yultes and Jaeger froze, their breath short and their faces pale. They were trapped, and they both knew it.
Jaeger cleared his throat. His hand throbbed and fear spun his mind in wide circles. “Yultes?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for trying.”
Soldiers grabbed their arms and wrists, pulling them apart and searching for weapons. House Allastam’s crest shone on their outfits, and Jaeger fought to quell his rising panic. The kitchens had gone silent, and Jaeger closed his eyes, steadying himself for the hardships to come. Yultes might not be the best companion, but at least he wasn’t alone.
Ropes chafed at Yultes’ wrists, a painful reminder of the surreal situation they’d landed in. He was sitting on Jaeger’s bed, captured in their own tower and waiting on guards to lead them to this new Lord Dathirii. Yultes dreaded the encounter, and every passing minute frayed his nerves further.
At first, he’d basked in the surprising mess of Jaeger’s quarters, and the amusement overrode some of his worries. Jaeger did everything in a clean and orderly fashion. His desk in Diel’s office stayed in perfect condition, piled neatly with papers and devoid of the slightest stain of ink. The same went for Jaeger’s notes and letters—written in precise and fluid script, with complete headers. Nothing like the clothes strewn on the ground here or thrown across a chair, or the collapsed pile of tomes on the floor near the bookshelf, as if vomited by it. Every object seemed flung on the closest surface available with one single exception: Jaeger’s wardrobe. It was a haven of order in an otherwise chaotic room. Jaeger had classified every outfit within by colour, and Yultes spied tags on the rare green and red ones. A quick glance revealed he preferred tones of grey, dark blue, beige, and black—shades he’d have no problems distinguishing. Yultes had thrown the steward a long look as they sat on his bed littered with scrolls and clothes, but Jaeger only shrugged. Too worried for shame.
Neither of them had uttered a word since their botched escape, and in truth, Yultes didn’t know what to say. He’d reviewed the events leading to this and failed to convince himself House Allastam had forged an alliance with the Myrian enclave. How could that explain the arrival of a new Lord Dathirii? Someone inside had done this, seeking to replace Diel. Someone relentless in his criticism, yet who had assured Yultes he shouldn’t worry about House Dathirii’s future.
Hellion.
Yultes juggled with his contradictory feelings as guards retrieved them from Jaeger’s quarters and escorted them to Lord Dathirii’s quarters. Why had Hellion never told him about this? How long ago had he contacted Lord Allastam behind his back? And why would he risk this now, when House Dathirii had so much on its plate? But he must have a plan. These soldiers had executed the takeover with terrifying efficiency, and Hellion always built precise strategies. Yet even knowing House Dathirii would fare better under his mantle, the assault left a bitter taste in his mouth. His heart hammered with the memory of his wild sprint with Jaeger, of fear and urgency coursing through his veins. When he laid eyes on Hellion, sitting on Diel’s desk with legs crossed and a victorious smile, Yultes’ teeth clenched in anger.
Jaeger stiffened next to Yultes, choking down a sound of protest. He raised his chin in defiance and met Hellion’s gaze without hesitation. Yultes wanted to grab his sleeve and tell him not to be a fool, to do like he’d advised the other servants: bow his head, stay discreet, and weather the storm. Yet Yultes knew it was pointless. Whatever Hellion’s plans, Jaeger wouldn’t remain safe. A soft hatred irradiated from Jaeger’s tight jaw and burning glare, and he was stubborn and daring enough to unleash it on Hellion.
“Why did you do this?” Yultes asked.
He spoke first, hoping it might stop Jaeger, hoping the answer would squash down his conflicting feelings. Hellion had been his best friend for over a century. He had supported Yultes when his brother had left, or when Jaeger had stolen his place as Diel’s main adviser. Hellion had taught him to trust his instincts and believe in his worth when everyone else shunned him. He had taught him the art of negotiation, making Yultes quick-witted and good with numbers. He had helped him prove he deserved his Dathirii title, even if he’d gained it through his brother’s marriage. But this … Yultes wished it had never happened.
“Surely you’ve pieced it together by now, Yultes.” Hellion linked his fingers and levelled a judgmental stare at him. “I must say, what a disappointment to find you fleeing with the likes of Jaeger! I expected better. Perhaps you can prove I wasn’t wrong about you. Why did I do this? You already know the answer to your own questions. What did I teach you about leaders?”
Despite his anger, Yultes’ mind scurried for the right answer. They’d discussed these things so often! Hellion enjoyed testing him, bouncing ideologies off him and correcting Yultes when he slipped and uttered nonsense. The proper words spilled out of his mouth as if he’d said them a hundred times before. “A great leader knows when to compromise, when to lie, and when sacrifices are needed. He knows which allies matter and which must be discarded. Willingness to manipulate isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength.”
Jaeger’s clear scoff made Yultes flinch. The steward’s mouth twitched in disgust before he schooled his expression back into the mask he always greeted Yultes with. Jaeger usually concealed his dislike out of professionalism and respect for Diel. Did he keep the charade up by reflex or to hide the rest of his feelings? A cold fear had to simmer under there, locked away from Hellion’s sight. Yultes turned back to his old friend, who ran a nonchalant hand through his vibrant hair.
“Has Diel ever compromised over his precious morality? Has he ever accepted a sacrifice or discarded a dangerous ally?”
Yultes closed his eyes, nauseated. Why did he have to answer these? “No, but …”
“There is no but,” Hellion interrupted. He slid down the desk and approached. “Not if you’re with me.”
Rough hands grabbed Yultes’ wrists and a soldier cut through the ropes tying him. He stumbled forward in his surprise but quickly caught himself. Hellion smiled, and with a firm grip on Yultes’ shoulder, he pulled him toward Jaeger’s desk. Yultes’ throat dried, and he complied, lightheaded.
“I’m in a forgiving mood, and we’ve been partners for so long … I can overlook this escape attempt.” Hellion set his palm on the steward’s desk. A light smile danced on his lips—the kind he had whenever he reached the pinnacle of a well-crafted argument—and Yultes knew exactly what would follow. How often had he dreamed of it? Always, he’d wanted the offer to co
me from Diel, but Hellion’s words were still music to his ears. “I need a good steward, Yultes. Someone I can trust. You’ve waited more than a century for this opportunity. Take it! Help me become the Lord Dathirii this family deserves.”
Yultes stared at the desk. He ran a shaky hand over it, thinking of how much he could do, how great he would be in this role. Hellion was right. He’d always wanted this, only to have it stolen by Jaeger. Yultes’ gaze settled on the perfect stacks of scrolls and on a note with Jaeger’s clean handwriting. From there, it moved to the steward, flanked by two buff guards, his dark blue eyes digging holes in him. Less than an hour ago, they’d tried to escape together. “You matter,” Yultes had told him, and he believed it. Where would Diel be without his steward? His stepbrother made a horrendous leader, and Yultes resented him for choosing another right-hand, but he also liked Diel. And although he would never admit it out loud, especially in front of Hellion, Yultes loved Diel’s doomed ideology. He wished life worked that way instead of the dark reality they faced every day.
“What of Jaeger?” he asked, fingers still trailing the desk’s smooth wood.
“His safety rests entirely upon his personal conduct and Diel’s compliance once he returns.”
Which meant they would hurt him as often as necessary until both elves stopped resisting. Blood drained from Yultes’ face, and he croaked his answer. “Release him, and I’ll take his place.”
A flash of anger passed through Hellion’s gaze. “Release him? Are you negotiating your position?”
The dangerous inflection he put on “negotiating” sent a shudder down Yultes’ spine. He’d learned long ago to detect the warnings in Hellion’s otherwise pleasant tone, and he wanted nothing more than to retreat and apologize a thousand times over. “I am,” he said, confidence creeping into his voice. “You need a competent steward, don’t you? No one else in this family has what it takes. I’ll do it, but only if you let Jaeger leave. He is superfluous now.”
“Oh, Yultes. Your sentimentality will destroy you one day.” Hellion patted his left cheek, and both burned from the humiliating touch. “Strong leaders know when to make sacrifices, remember? It’s like you know the words but forget their meaning! Perhaps that proves such concepts cannot truly be understood by commoners.”
Yultes recoiled from the implication, mortified. He’d pushed too far and failed the test, and Hellion had brushed away decades of hard work with a single reminder: Yultes should never have received his title, nor should he presume to demand more from Hellion. He should be grateful to even be offered this position. What had gotten into him? But before he could apologize, Jaeger’s calm voice broke the silence.
“If anything, Hellion, you’re proof a title is meaningless, and that ornaments often hide the ugliest beings.”
Hellion spun around, his smile sweet and sick. He motioned at the guards behind Jaeger, and they kicked the backs of his knees, sending him sprawling headfirst to the ground. Jaeger stifled a grunt and struggled to his knees. Hellion reached him in two long strides, then crouched and grabbed his chin. Bile crawled up Yultes’ throat, but he remained frozen, unable to look away.
“I’m afraid you’re going nowhere, and your lifelong love isn’t here to protect you anymore. We have a welcome party waiting for my dear cousin.” Hellion’s voice was a whisper, just loud enough for both Jaeger’s and Yultes’ ears. “I believe in discipline for disobedient servants. Since you have a knack for proper etiquette, however, I’ll give you this one chance. Call me by the right title, and I’ll let you off without the beating you deserve.”
Their gazes locked, and Yultes’ stomach sank. The three elves in this room had known each other long enough to predict the outcome of such a challenge. Jaeger did not beg, and he did not lie. He either said nothing or unleashed his stubborn tongue. From the slight smile at the corner of his lips, he had chosen the latter.
“I am not your servant. I am the real Lord Dathirii’s steward, and your dangerous game won’t change that. Claiming to be Head of the House with borrowed soldiers will not make it so.” Jaeger scoffed, making Yultes flinch. “Go ahead. I’ll take your beating, then I’ll sit back and enjoy watching your pathetic plan unravel around you. House Dathirii will never be yours. It has too much heart to sink so low.”
Hellion hit him first, the slap echoing in an otherwise silent room. The rings on his fingers split Jaeger’s lip. The steward licked the blood, unable to clean it with his hands tied. When Hellion motioned for the two guards to continue, Yultes squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, wishing he could block all sounds too. He should be grateful for his new position, he told himself, and he should accept the necessity of this. Diel’s leadership had led them nowhere except into failure. This change would benefit House Dathirii, in the long run. Yet every hit, every groan from Jaeger, every thump of fists and feet gripped Yultes’ insides, squeezing until nausea dizzied him.
He hated Hellion for creating the situation, but he hated himself even more for letting it happen.
Since the Long Night’s Watch and Varden’s capture, Branwen had conceived countless daring rescues after the winter solstice, but she’d never imagined today’s strange team. Kellian’s absence weighed on her mind, worry and betrayal unsettling her. Branwen dreaded learning what had kept him away and struggled to stop her conjectures and focus on the mission at hand. Arathiel’s swordsmanship and unusual skills reassured her, and with Hasryan among them, they might not need to fight. These two weren’t the cruel criminals Lord Allastam painted them to be. Even Hasryan’s roughness had been offset by how awkward he’d become when she’d teased him about Garith’s coat. Hard to see the cold assassin between his stuttering scramble for safer ground and the way he always ran a hand through his hair, hiding discomfort behind a smirk. He was guarded but cute, which had flared Branwen’s curiosity. She needed to investigate.
The strangest member of their “elite” team had to be Cal, however. It made sense to bring Hasryan and Arathiel, but the over-excited halfling who’d shown incredible interest in her sewing skills? She hadn’t known what to think. Having Ren’s favour on their side might save their skins, though, and she feared Varden would need a solid dose of healing. Every little helped, Branwen told herself, but she only discovered how useful Cal could be when they reached the enclave’s wall.
They’d chosen to climb here because according to Varden’s map, a large tree on the other side would ease their way down. They could see the tips of its branches against the night sky, confirming the information, and although the climb from this side might pose a problem, they only needed one person to reach the top and throw a rope to the others. Branwen turned to Hasryan. “Think you can manage it?”
“I know I can.” He scoffed at the wall as if the very question amused him, then looked at his short friend. “Cal, care to make sure our initial plan isn’t fraught with unforeseen dangers?”
“Yes, sir!” Cal straightened like a soldier taking orders from his captain and set one hand on the wall. “Okay, Ren, here we are. You infiltrated the Conqueror’s fortress and emptied his pantries, sneaking in and out on your own several times. Surely you can help us with our nice little enclave?”
Branwen frowned. Who addressed demigods this way? Cal’s prayer sounded like a chat with old friends, not a formal petition to a being of luck so incredible Xe had become revered throughout the world. Vellien never spoke of the Elven Shepherd without some level of fascination, and Varden mentioned Keroth with a mix of gratitude and prudence. Perhaps it was because Ren had no organized church. Xir priests just seemed to appear here and there, each with their own interpretation of what their faith meant. Maybe Cal considered he had a friend in his deity, not a patron to serve.
A flicker of light crawled above his hand, and he frowned. Without a word, Cal clucked his tongue and walked away, fingers trailing the stone. Every now and then, he mumbled something or tapped the wall with a small ‘here?’ Then he moved on again. Hasryan followed without hesitat
ion. Branwen glanced toward Arathiel, and his obvious doubts relieved her. At least she wasn’t alone in questioning this! Yet after a short pause, Arathiel fell behind Hasryan. Branwen cast a longing look at their chosen climb spot and started after them too.
The group stayed close to the wall and its shadows as they travelled around, sometimes halting their progress as a soldier passed above, his torchlight almost reaching them. Each time, they held their breath, and each time, Branwen would have sworn they were about to be caught. Yet the guards always moved on, unaware of the intruders at their feet. When Cal finally stopped and turned to the group with a grin, Branwen’s stomach unwound with relief.
“Here?” she asked.
The wall had no special structure, nothing that justified this spot over the one by the tree. In fact, they would enter the enclave farther away from the prisons. No obvious reasons explained Cal’s choice—nothing but Ren’s counsel must have guided him.
“Yep,” he said. “This is where we should climb.”
Hasryan thanked him, withdrew the rope from his bag, and heaved himself up without questions. He scaled the wall fast at first, but his progress slowed as handholds became rarer. On the far left, the bobbing glow of a guard’s torch approached.
“Why here?” Branwen asked.
Hasryan stopped to look down the few feet he’d climbed, and the dim moon shed light on his wide smirk. “What’s wrong? You win one wager, and now you’re a non-believer?”
“Luck requires faith,” Cal said. “Trust me. Trust Ren.”
None of their words helped the fear needling at her heart, but Branwen held her peace. She watched Hasryan’s muscled limbs move from one handhold to another, Garith’s coat tight against his body whenever he stretched his arms. Every now and then, his foot scraped against the wall, but he otherwise produced no sounds—no grunts, no huffs. She brushed the stones, trying to judge the difficulty of the climb, and her breath caught as she discovered how smooth the surface was. How could he move so fast with so little to hang onto? Practice, no doubt—a city of towers and bridges offered plenty of training opportunities. How often had he hiked sheer façades, sneaking through windows and balconies to assassinate someone?
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