“Cal, the guard’s getting nearer,” Arathiel whispered.
Hasryan had almost reached the top and would hang there in plain sight for the soldier to spot. He stopped and glanced down, waiting for instructions. It wasn’t too high a drop if he needed to let go—not enough to wound him unless he fell wrong. Cal frowned, then shook his head.
“Keep going. You’ll be fine.”
“What?” Branwen mouthed the word more than she said it. There was no way he’d be fine. Torchlight would wash over him, they would ring the alarm, and then they’d have an entire enclave to fight to get to Varden.
“Just watch,” Cal whispered back, his tone as urgent as her exclamation.
Branwen obeyed. She watched every second of the guard’s advance, her fingers pinching and rubbing the fabric of her sleeves, her heart hammering against her chest. This was dangerous nonsense, and she shouldn’t have agreed to it. Why would they risk their mission on a lucky strike? They needed to succeed. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she had to leave Varden behind. Hasryan’s hands reached for the top of the wall. The light’s radius almost touched him. Branwen closed her eyes, unable to stare any longer.
“Hey, Martin!” A woman’s voice rang through the night from far away, off to their left. “Did I show you my boy’s new carving? They sent it all the way from Myria to keep me company.”
The man near Hasryan—Martin—stopped. They could hear him grumble something under his breath, but he turned around. “Coming! But you better not make me late on my schedule with more of your family stories.”
“Look who’s talking! You’ll be blabbering about that little girl you left at home before you even get here. What’s one or two minutes anyway?”
“Don’t let that kind of talk reach Master Avenazar,” Martin warned. “I heard the last time a guard displeased him, he reassigned them to the deepest hole in the Myrian Empire and told them they were lucky to leave with all their limbs intact.”
“Gotta wonder what’s even more isolated than this shitshow of a city. I swear, the mountain range between Myria and Isandor makes it feel like two continents away.”
They continued chatting, their voices booming in the otherwise silent night. Branwen exhaled and wiped her sweaty forehead as Hasryan pulled himself over the edge and tied the rope. Cal grinned at her, the proud little jerk, and she couldn’t help but smile back. Hard to hold it against him if this turned out to be their best option. Soon enough, the hemp rope dropped at their feet, and Hasryan leaned over the wall.
“Cal, you genius, there’s an actual cart of hay on the other side. Let Branwen up first. She can jump down and extinguish the torch next to it.”
Branwen stretched, pulled her winter gloves on firmly, and grabbed the rope. She climbed as fast as she could, but even with help, she felt like a slug compared to Hasryan. Cal started up before she reached the top to avoid wasting time. Martin the guard might return at any moment, and everyone needed to be down in the courtyard by then. Hasryan held his hand out as she arrived and pulled her up onto the parapet. Below them was a wooden cart filled with hay.
“Might hit a bit rough on your ass, but you should manage.”
“My ass has seen worse, I can promise you that.” She flashed a grin at him, and he choked down his laugh. Branwen leaned over the side to gauge the distance and prepare herself for the shock. “I jump, then I scramble out and snuff the torch.”
“Exactly.”
He removed his hand from her arm, and only then did she realize how long it had stayed. Well, only seconds, but warm and pleasing seconds. Branwen hoped this mission wouldn’t mark the last she saw of Hasryan because she had no time to deal with her quickly-building attraction. She sprang down to the hay cart, gritting her teeth as pain shot through her back, and hurried to the torch while the rest of the group climbed up. How strange to stand inside the Myrian enclave once more. Nothing seemed to have changed except for the silence from the temple. Their chant during the Long Night’s Watch had followed her long past the walls, which made the silent night feel even more threatening. The ceremony had caused Varden so much anxiety. She hated the thought of Avenazar ruining it for him—that, and everything else.
Branwen fumed as the rest of her rescue team dropped from the wall, joining her in the obscurity. Hasryan jumped last, somehow landing without much noise. He slunk out, rubbed both hands through his thick hair to get the straws out, then glanced around the compound. His gaze darted from one shadowy area to another as if tracing a route in his mind.
“Branwen, you tell me if I head in the wrong direction,” he said, “and Cal, you warn me if Ren sets off your alarms. Arathiel, think you can keep an eye out on our backs?”
“I can try, but I doubt I’m the best lookout.”
“Oh, right.” Hasryan puzzled over this for a moment, then shrugged. “It’s okay. Do your best. Knock out anyone coming too close, if you can.”
Then he was off, slinking through the compound and signalling for them to reduce the noise level. Every little bit carried in the chill air. The man embarrassed at a few compliments had given way to a professional infiltrator, and Branwen’s confidence built up. She would have to thank Aunt Camilla for helping him and Diel for offering him this mission. Hasryan, too, obviously. Branwen’s expertise lay with disguises and bluffs more than snooping around, and, while she could’ve handled herself, she was glad he was there. Varden deserved the best he could get, and as she watched Hasryan advance, she knew they had found it.
✵
They had quite a few close calls on their way to the prison, and Branwen’s heart was hammering against her chest long before they made their way down the stairs leading to the Myrian cells. More than once, Hasryan had backtracked in a hurry to avoid being spotted, and at one time, Cal had sprinted ahead to grab his coat and pull him to the ground, holding a finger to his lips. Seconds later, the window right above their heads had opened with a resounding creak. Voices drifted out, haughty and sneering. They had been joking about “House Dathirii’s pathetic floundering,” which had made everyone turn to Branwen. The relative darkness might have hidden her blush, but they all saw her rude gesture toward the window.
They would show them. It had taken ten horrible days, but Uncle Diel hadn’t let her down about Varden. He would find a way to ruin the Myrian enclave.
She put these concerns out of her mind as they crawled away from the window. Her role tonight was to save Varden from his private torture sessions. She could worry about the rest later, once he was safe. Her stomach tightened whenever she thought of his pain, and she couldn’t wait to see him, to see the smile on his tired face as they unlocked his cell and freed him. She’d be there to nurse him back to health, to tour him around their tower, to introduce him to Garith’s ridiculous humour and Camilla’s delightful tea. All Branwen wanted was to show him the world outside of Myria’s oppressive yoke, and as they grew nearer to the prisons, she took the stairs two by two, ignoring Hasryan’s hurried whisper to be careful.
No guards waited for them at the bottom, and Branwen ran down the small corridor, her boots echoing against the stone floor. She checked each cell one by one, ignoring the rising level of noise. They were here, finally, just a few steps away! She noticed a door ahead, half-open, and she sprinted to it. Hasryan followed close on her heels, and Arathiel stayed at the bottom of the stairs while Cal kept watch above.
An horrible stench wafted out of the cell as she approached it. Branwen let out a disgusted exclamation and brought her scarf over her mouth, scrunching her nose. The mix of sweat, piss, and dampness made her retch, and she froze while she fought the nausea.
“That’ll be his, all right,” Hasryan said, walking past her and into the cell like the place smelled of fresh daisies. “There’s no mistaking the sweet scent of occupied prisons. Empty, though.”
“No!” Branwen flung the door wide open, throwing her bitter rage into it. She stared at the empty room, her body blocking most of the torchl
ight, and searched every corner visible in the flickering light. As if Hasryan could be wrong. “He has to be here! Where else?”
Maybe in another cell. The Myrians could have more than one prisoner! Wouldn’t Varden have heard her, though? He could be unconscious, she told herself. Knocked out by the torture. They ought to check all of them. She whirled around, but before she could step out, Hasryan grabbed her wrist and shushed her. The faint torchlight made his red eyes seem to glow.
“Branwen, you know he was here as well as I do. Don’t panic.” His voice stayed low and calm.
She shook off his grip and struggled to whisper back. “We can’t be sure. Once we’ve examined all of them, we can think of something else. But he’s not … he’s not gone. He can’t be.”
“I’m not saying they killed him,” Hasryan said. “Did he mark down where they torture people? We should check there unless it’s close enough that we’d hear him scream.”
Her stomach clenched at the thought, but she fought through her nausea and reviewed what they knew of the enclave’s layout. “Nothing specific—Avenazar uses magic, anyway. Didn’t Nevian say he enjoyed irony? He might—”
Clatter from the stairs interrupted her, and Branwen cringed at the loud noise. Arathiel had tried to sprint up, almost stumbling in his hurry. Branwen and Hasryan exchanged an alarmed glance before dashing after him. The prison’s corridor was an isolated dead-end, but they could be heard upstairs. Cal’s voice echoed down to them as they reached the bottom, but he was speaking to someone else.
“Hey, Isra, hey!”
“Cal, what are you—”
“It’s okay, Ara. She’s a friend of Nevian’s.”
Isra? A friend? Branwen swore under her breath and scrambled up. Varden had shared enough tales about the snobby teenager for Branwen to know she cared about little but herself. How had Cal gotten another version in his head?
“What are you doing here?” Panic laced Isra’s voice. When Branwen emerged from the stairs, her eyes widened in recognition, and she stepped back. “You’re the Dathirii he—what’s going on?”
Torches lit the deserted corridor, casting an orange glow on Isra’s blonde head. Arathiel shifted toward the exit, blocking Isra’s way out, fingers wrapped around his sword’s hilt. Good reflex, even if he seemed reluctant to use it. Branwen circled around the other end, boxing Isra in. Cal looked at their group nervously.
“Why is everyone on edge?” he asked. “Isra can help us stay clear of the guards with her eagle form!”
He turned to her, and her perfect pink lips parted in a stunned ‘o.’ Branwen snorted. “She won’t. You can’t rely on this racist little princess to get Varden out. She probably thinks he deserves it.”
“No!” Isra withdrew until her back touched the wall. “I didn’t mean it. When I told Avenazar, I never thought—”
“Oh, because it’s your fault?” Anger rose, a hot tide climbing from her stomach and into her throat, threatening to turn into tears. Ten days. Varden had stayed in Avenazar’s clutches for ten days, enduring relentless torture, and this pretentious brat had triggered it? She strode forward with clenched fists, ready to unleash her worry, anger and bitter helplessness.
Black fingers clamped on her arm and squeezed it. “We don’t have time for this, and we’re making too much noise.” Hasryan’s soft voice held no reproach, only a firm demand to calm down. “Varden isn’t below, but she might know where to find him. No doubt she’ll tell us, if she’s so full of regrets, and then she’ll understand our only safe option is to leave her unconscious and gagged in a cell.”
“What?” Isra asked.
“No!” Cal hurried to Isra’s side, raising a protective arm high. “You can’t do that. Isra won’t alert anyone.”
Hasryan ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping. “Cal, you’re the most trusting person I know, but that’s not always a good thing. Just because Isra is Nevian’s friend doesn’t mean she’s Varden’s. It doesn’t mean she’s ours at all. We can’t take any chances.”
They stared at each other, a contest of silent pleading. Branwen expected Cal to look elsewhere at any time, but he held on, chin raised in defiance. Seconds passed—long, painful seconds during which another Myrian could walk in on them—and Branwen struggled not to step past the halfling and knock Isra out herself. Every moment lost was one in which Varden suffered more.
Arathiel cleared his throat before either gave up. “As dangerous as she can be, I don’t have it in me to hit a teenager.”
“I do,” Hasryan said. “Age doesn’t mean shit. I was eight when I killed the first time.”
Eight? How could that happen? Branwen wanted both to hug him and to step back, so instead, she stayed rooted to her spot. Isra grew paler, and the group’s collective surprise must not have reassured her. Even Cal’s eyes widened, but he renewed his determination and strode forward.
“Please … We have to try.”
“I’ll help!” Isra exclaimed, her voice a squeak. “We don’t—I mean, no Isbari deserves this. I don’t enjoy this, but what was I supposed to do?” Her question received only a glare from Branwen, and she swallowed hard. “Master Avenazar is planning an awful spell. He wants to create the ideal slave, someone without enough personality to resist. And today he asked acolytes to keep the brazier in Keroth’s temple higher than ever. I think he means to try it there, and I doubt the results will be reversible.”
“That’s where, then,” Branwen concluded. Nevian had been spot on with his comment about cruel irony. “He’s not in his cell because Avenazar is doing this … this thing to him.”
A mindless slave. The worst thing one could do to Varden. He’d fought so hard against this, for himself and for his people. She wanted to rush out without any care for silence, guards, or danger—to just burst into the temple and demand that Avenazar put an end to this. He would mock her.
“Let’s move,” she said, stalking off without waiting for their approval. They needed to get there fast. “Isra can trail. I don’t care.”
Avenazar could laugh all he wanted, but she refused to leave the enclave without Varden, even if it meant facing the powerful wizard. Her determination smothered the smallest inkling of fear in her, and as she left the prisons’ building, Hasryan grabbed her arm and stopped her from striding through lit paths with a quick scolding. She forced herself to slow down. They couldn’t afford to be spotted, and she had been careless. Most Myrians might stay inside to avoid the cold, but what if one looked out a window? Heard her angry stomping? One step at a time, she reminded herself.
Then, with her mismatched elite rescue team—now including Isra—behind her, Branwen headed toward Keroth’s temple to put an end to Varden’s torture.
Larryn set his three-foot-tall mirror on the floor and sat next to it, across from Nevian. The young wizard had required something to stare into for his spells, and since there was no way Larryn would waste money on a looking glass, he’d slipped inside a rich-ass house and grabbed the first one he could find. He could sell it after. The intricate floral motif carved into its frame would fetch him a good price, and he could put that gold into a welcome back feast for Hasryan. One with tons of cheese for Cal. The Shelter’s atmosphere had changed without them—even the lively music had slowed, as if the players knew part of the place’s soul had disappeared. He had done this, lashing out at those around him—at Cal more than anyone else—and pushing away those who had helped him. Larryn promised himself he would fix this mess. The first step was to find Hasryan, the second to apologize properly to Cal.
Nevian fidgeted with his notes, rereading the words to his spell over and over. His fingers kept folding the corner of the page, and his foot tapped against the ground. He didn’t look ready, despite his earlier assurance.
“Can you do this or not?” he asked.
“I can, I can!” Nevian’s firm tone would have had more credibility if he hadn’t been wringing his hands.
“You can take another day,”
Larryn offered. He hadn’t expected Nevian to figure his spell out so fast, but the surprise had delighted him. He should have known better.
“No.” Nevian met Larryn’s gaze and stopped his restless movements. “I’m ready. Working on this spell brought back memories. I used to sneak out of the Myrian enclave to meet with Isandor’s most powerful wizard. I traded information for lessons, and she’s a master in divinations. I can do this.”
“Maybe I should have asked her.”
“You can’t afford her.”
Larryn rolled his eyes. Of course not. He knew that better than Nevian ever could, but jokes tended to fly straight over this kid’s head. “Then let’s hope your spell is worth more than what I paid you.”
Nevian snorted, but the hint of a smile curled the corner of his lips. “We’ll see.” He scanned his notes one last time, inhaled deeply, and set the papers aside. “Put your hands on the edges of the mirror and think about your friend. Imagine him as clearly as you can, but try not to latch onto a past event. Just him, with as little else around as you can. Focus on his name and his person.”
Larryn frowned. Nevian sounded like a fortuneteller. Then again, these spells were their specialty, weren’t they? They just made a spectacle out of it, in true Allorian fashion. Besides, Nevian had none of that over-dramatic flair. He had no show to give and instructed Larryn with the tone he’d use to recite a grocery list, then stared at him, as if daring him to comment. With a sigh, Larryn closed his eyes.
City of Betrayal Page 27
