“Don’t do that,” Nevian said. “How are you going to see what comes up in the mirror?”
A dozen sharp replies warred at the tip of Larryn’s tongue, and he swallowed all of them. Not the time, and he was trying to be nicer to people who deserved it. In little steps. Nevian might be infuriating, but he was young and wanted to help. And he was right, too.
“Okay. I’ll stare at the mirror.”
“Wise choice,” he declared, and launched into his spell. Nevian’s voice deepened as he pronounced arcane words, enunciating each of them in a deliberate process. Like a beginner. Which he was, now that Larryn thought about it. Larryn buried his rising doubts again. If Nevian couldn’t do it, who else? This had to work.
Larryn focused on Hasryan, conjuring up the image of the ever-smirking dark elf, then supplying details: the way Hasryan’s thick white hair swept backward because he was always running a hand through it, the smaller elven ears and broader shoulders that marked his human blood, the squint in his eyes when he laughed. It had been too long since he’d heard that sound—not since they’d mocked Drake at the Skyward Tavern. What a glorious evening—topped by that majestic head-butt Hasryan had given Drake! The mirror’s surface clouded before Larryn’s eyes, then cleared to show the Middle City tavern where his friend had been arrested.
“I said no events,” Nevian’s voice broke in. “Don’t make this harder.”
Larryn grumbled something but refocused his attention on Hasryan himself. His thoughts strayed immediately, so instead of maintaining a single image, he tried to vary how he imagined his friend. Sure, the smirking Hasryan who’d just delivered a quip came to mind first, but Larryn had witnessed many different moods. He’d seen him sulk after a rough encounter with some bigoted fool, he’d seen him drunk and sprawled over a table, he’d seen him hurt and keeping it all inside. The only facet Larryn had never seen was the cold-blooded killer. That remained hard to imagine.
Nevian’s arcane words became more forceful, and smoke swirled in the mirror again. When the apprentice let out a groan, Larryn risked a quick glance at him. Sweat rolled down his forehead.
“Focus!” Nevian snapped. “Something’s … wrong.”
Larryn buried his urge to retort and poured his offended energy into remembering Hasryan. After another small grunt from Nevian, the picture cleared again.
Hasryan stood inside a room so dark the details around him blurred. His friend didn’t look too horribly off—no wounds, no scars, no unnatural thinness. Heck, he wore a winter coat worth more than the combined value of every shirt Larryn had ever owned! The tension in his shoulders betrayed his peaceful appearance, however, and he seemed to be arguing in low tones. The image shifted, drew back. Larryn caught sight of a prison cell door and swore. It was open, but between the exit and Hasryan stood an elf.
Not just any elf, either.
Larryn had long ago learned to identify the Dathirii guard captain and their spymaster. Yultes’ protection kept city guards away, but if either of them discovered he’d stolen from their towers for years, they could make him vanish without a word of protest from his so-called father. It would have been reckless not to know Kellian and Branwen Dathirii on sight. Their presence at the Shelter could spell doom for him.
Now one of them was watching Hasryan. In a cell.
Nevian drew a sharp breath, choking on an exclamation. He reiterated his arcane words in a forceful tone, but the image clouded once more, then turned pitch black. His voice trailed off, and the mirror lost all traces of magic.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “None of this happened as it should have.”
Nevian rambled on about the shifts in his spell—something about a wall at first, easy sailing, and then a force pushing him out. Larryn didn’t pay attention. His fingers clenched hard on his knees as he inhaled deeply, wrestling with the anger coiling inside. Of course the Dathirii had Hasryan. Who else? They’d played so nice with Arathiel, helping him after he saved Hasryan, getting him on their good side until they’d snatched the assassin out of sight. Was that their plan to regain the Allastams’ favour? Spare one noble, and sell them Hasryan in secret; retain the gloss of their benevolent reputation and solidify an important alliance. And they’d sent Arathiel and Cal to retrieve yet another ally. Larryn sprang to his feet, his head spinning and hot.
“Nevian,” he said, cutting him off. “Vellien is coming tonight, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Soon?”
Nevian frowned. “Why?”
“I need to have a chat with them.”
Larryn had kept a close watch on Vellien’s coming and going. As promised, they’d brought a cloak every time, and stayed after healing Nevian to care for the patrons’ ailments. Larryn avoided them when he could, glaring from a distance, yet Vellien had never shown anything but patience with his people, and as time passed, Larryn had started thinking of the young priest less as a Dathirii, and more as a kind teenager.
Not anymore.
“I’ll grab us something to eat, and we’ll wait together.”
Alarm flashed through Nevian’s expression. “They’re not involved in this. I need them. Whatever you’re—”
“I won’t rip their throat out, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He didn’t even manage to sound dismissive, and Larryn hated the casualness of his tone. Vellien was a teenager, and Dathirii or not, they were not involved in this mess. Larryn could believe that. He couldn’t hit them—couldn’t let his anger take over as he had on winter solstice—but he needed to help Hasryan. Larryn clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to get the whirling rage under control. Nevian spotted the movement and paled.
“Eliminating one option amongst many does not ease my fears. Leave them alone.”
“I can’t.” Larryn knew one thing with absolute certainty: noble families protected their own, no matter what. Vellien’s safety would be priceless to them, no matter Larryn’s actual intent—well worth Hasryan’s release. “I won’t hurt them, but there’s too much at stake. Don’t argue.”
Nevian did anyway. Larryn cast one last glare at the darkened mirror and stalked out of the room, ignoring him, blood still beating against his temples. He would save Hasryan, no matter the risk.
Varden collapsed to his knees in front of his temple’s great brazier, palms flat on the ground. Not his temple anymore, not really. Myrian authorities had stripped him of his High Priest title, as if that alone could destroy his connection to Keroth. The intense warmth radiating from the flames seeped into him, soothing his nerves, piercing through the iced shackles. Water slid along his wrists and to the ground, and Varden closed his eyes. His bonds melted with every passing second, and Keroth’s proximity grew stronger, more comforting.
To think Avenazar had chosen this one last refuge as the source of his doom. At least Varden would disappear with his god nearby. He stared at the growing pool under the curve of his palm while Avenazar traced patterns on the ground around him—runes to call upon magic and harness the power imbued in their surroundings. Not that the wizard could draw on the biggest source. Keroth chose to whom They answered.
For a moment Varden considered flight, but what would be the point? He’d manage three steps at best, and while those could take him to the flames, he’d never have the strength to fire-stride out of the temple. Vanishing into the fire plane demanded incredible energy, and leaving it even more so. He doubted he could protect himself from burns at the moment, so he lumbered to his feet and stood as straight as he could manage in the centre of the large rune.
His gaze sought the dancing flames, and he lost himself in the eternal movement. The thousand needles prickling his heart vanished as he forced deep breaths into his lungs. It was over. He should panic, perhaps, but he couldn’t. Somewhere in the last ten days, he had accepted it would end soon. He’d fought it, clinging to parts of himself as a litany, yet he had never foreseen an escape. He hoped Avenazar’s spell worked well enough for him not to remember ho
w much he’d lost. It would be easier that way. Varden didn’t have it in him to fight anymore. He focused on the fire, on his urge to find charcoal and draw one last time, on all the peaceful moments he’d spent within the flames.
A weak chant escaped through his cracked lips, a final prayer to Keroth. He had done all he could. He wished it had been more, so much more—for Nevian and Branwen, for Miles back in Myria, for all the Isbari who had looked up to him. Varden shut his eyes once more to focus on the heat. He could feel the inferno burning close, so close—warmth brushing him, flames leaning toward him, calling out to him. His strength returned, leaking in, and he raised a hand, a smile touching his lips as the brazier responded to his movement, bending in his direction.
A thin lash snapped against his back, sending a shock wave of pain up his spine. Varden cried out, stumbling back down.
“Don’t you even think about it,” Avenazar said. “Not until ordered to.”
Varden’s slow breathing was gone, replaced by sharp gasps. He struggled against the flaring pain in his mind, his brief serenity destroyed. Avenazar grabbed the back of his ragged shirt and yanked him up.
“Stay on your feet.”
He almost let himself fall just to spite Avenazar. Something held him back—the remnants of his pride, perhaps. He gritted his teeth.
“Just get on with it.”
Avenazar cackled, then walked back in front of Varden, between him and the brazier, letting the green whip in his hand disappear.
“Your enthusiasm is heartwarming,” he declared before slamming his palm on Varden’s chest and knocking his breath out. He stumbled back, but tendrils of magic erupted from Avenazar’s hand and held him tight. When Varden tried to inhale, his lungs refused to respond. A tiny wheeze escaped his lips as his limbs stiffened, the wizard’s cold magic crawling through his body like a thousand ice spikes, growing out of each other and reaching ever further. He choked, sought the brazier’s warmth once more. It had been so close a moment ago! Avenazar stepped back, a thick fire-gold thread of magic linking his palm to Varden’s chest. The cold continued to spread, stealing his energy and leaking it to Avenazar. It climbed into Varden’s throat, around his jaw and nose, encasing his head until his ears rang and the world turned black.
All but the golden link. It moved, floating to the left, thickening with every second. The contour of a hand appeared on the other end briefly, a pale shadow. Its fingers clamped on the magical connection.
Avenazar’s massive mental presence shot through the thread and crashed into Varden’s. The crushing pressure had become familiar by now, and the priest’s mind gave way without a fight. Varden knew the routine. Easier to hide and wait. Why struggle when he could emerge later and rebuild himself?
No, no!
Varden tried to get a hold on himself. There wouldn’t be a next time. He needed to fight now. His consciousness stirred, attempting to see past the invasive cold and Avenazar’s bloated presence. The movement triggered a wild laughter from his attacker, and the pressure intensified. Pain blossomed in Varden’s mind, and icy fingers shot down from his head into every nerve in his body. He moaned, his grip slipping as the agony spread. He could feel Avenazar’s mind coursing through the energy, mixing with Varden’s, eroding it. Becoming him. Varden struggled against it, desperate to retain control.
His eyes opened. Varden took a jerky step forward—one he hadn’t meant to. Panic started to replace the priest’s determination. Avenazar might not be tearing his mind to shreds, but he was pushing Varden so far he couldn’t even dictate his own movements.
Be patient. Mockery laced Avenazar’s voice. We just need a little more magical energy, then you’ll be gone for good. Thank Keroth I had a source of power built in your honour.
Another stride forward brought Varden closer to the great brazier, to the flames that had called to him, soothed him, been a part of his life and his very self for so long. Intense nausea washed over Varden, and the world spun under him. He recoiled at the thought of using the fire to fuel this spell. Avenazar had to stop moving his body. He shot quick pain through Varden’s mind—the mental equivalent of a solid jab—then they were walking again at a good pace, until he stood on the dais in front of the blazing fire. Varden’s hands rose, and flames jumped at them, wrapping around his arm in a minuscule tornado of heat.
Keroth’s power surged through him, and Varden was distantly aware of Avenazar’s triumphant laugh. He ignored it and basked in the familiar sensation, allowing it to wash over him, envelop him. Why would he want anything else? Let the fire take him. At least there he could be happy. He didn’t need to exist. Or … That last thought jarred him. Something about it was wrong—more aggressive, violent. Varden recognized neither his exhaustion nor the Firelord’s serenity in it. It wasn’t him; he didn’t reason like that. Were any of these thoughts his own anymore? He tried to spread his consciousness. To find his mind, find his body through the flames. A massive presence blocked him, and its terrifying familiarity snapped Varden back into reality. Avenazar was manipulating him into giving up, using Keroth’s power and the peace it brought Varden against him.
Except Varden had spent a lifetime connected to his god, and refused to abandon Them now. The temple had vanished from his perception, leaving nothing in his mind but darkness, fire, and the blazing link to Avenazar. Strength filled him—Keroth’s strength, his strength. He wrestled control over the energy, wrapping himself in it like a cocoon. Avenazar slammed against it, and Varden hardened the protection, layering it, one wall of mental fire after another.
He wouldn’t let Avenazar infiltrate him again. He couldn’t. He did need to exist, even if his spirit felt ragged and battered, even if it led to more suffering. Varden gathered the smatterings of his willpower and directed his focus against the crushing presence of Avenazar’s mind.
He would resist until the bitter end and make the wizard fight for every sliver of control.
The Dathirii Tower’s great tree blocked the setting sun as Diel approached it. The closer he got, the more he dragged his feet, and the heavier his heart turned. A long debate had followed the Golden Table’s stripping of their title about who should inherit the seats. Diel’s last input as a member of the council, and he’d had to fight for every single word they’d allowed him to say. The constant silencing had infuriated him and exhausted what remained of his energy, but at least Diel had helped convince the Table to give one of his two seats to House Brasten. Amake Brasten’s jab at Lord Allastam and their subsequent fight repaired his dwindling hope. Perhaps she’d carry his legacy at the Golden Table while he rebuilt the family’s fortune.
The biting wind whipped his face, stealing what warmth he had left. Garith trailed behind him, shoulders hunched and nose hidden in a golden scarf. When Diel caught his gaze, the young elf forced a smile. “At least it’ll be warm inside.”
True. Diel looked forward to sitting in front of a roaring fireplace, his arms wrapped around Jaeger, waiting for news of Arathiel and Branwen. Devising what plans he could for Hasryan’s escape. Later, though. First, he needed to find his aunt. At least he’d tell her himself about their fall. Diel didn’t know what her answer would be—something wise and comforting. After, he could enjoy the combined warmth of fire and Jaeger. Gods, this day had stretched on for too long already.
“Plans for tonight?” Diel asked Garith as he pushed open their main door.
“I have an excellent bottle of old wine hidden in my quarters, and it’s the only plan I need.”
A soft chuckle escaped Diel as he moved inside. Belatedly, he realized no guards had greeted him. Had Kellian pulled them away? Then he registered the nine soldiers in House Allastam’s livery, standing in the main antechamber, blocking all exits. Their leader advanced as the door slammed behind Garith, and Diel’s blood drained from his face. The walls closed in on him for a brief moment, but he pushed the shock away and stepped forward with a scowl. “Who allowed you to enter our home?”
An awkward si
lence followed. Garith moved closer, gloved index finger tapping a stressed melody on the top of his leather account book. Diel exercised great willpower not to fidget at the foreboding presence of Allastam guards in his tower. He didn’t believe in coincidences.
“The current Lord Dathirii did, sir.”
“There’s no ‘Lord Dathirii’ anymore,” Diel snapped, his gaze flying to the ceiling, past the delicate fresco of the Elven Shepherd and toward his office. The title might no longer exist, but the family still needed a leader. It seemed someone had decided to replace him. “I assume you’re here to take me to him.”
“I am.”
Diel tried to wrap his mind around this mysterious Lord Dathirii. Over the last days, he’d felt increasingly threatened while striding through Isandor’s streets, but never here, at home. He’d thought to sit for a few minutes, eat a brief dinner while he discussed with Jaeger, then leave for the Sapphire Guard’s headquarters. Instead, his tower wasn’t his anymore, and hostile soldiers waited for him.
“Uncle, there’s blood everywhere,” Garith whispered.
Diel shifted his attention to the ground, and his throat tightened. “Everywhere” was an exaggeration, but several considerable splashes of blood stained the walls and floor. The paintings hung wrong, and several seats had been shoved to the side. One was even slashed through. Kellian’s guards had fought and lost. Diel hoped his cousin was safe. If blood had been spilled … Diel pulled his mind away from the dark paths it wanted to follow—away from the crushing fear regarding what orders Allastam soldiers would have about Jaeger. Stay calm, he ordered himself.
“Indeed. Garith, I believe we stand before the first military takeover in Isandor’s recent history. Most rivals stop after they’ve busted their opponent’s finances and stripped them of their titles, but Lord Allastam once again defies even my most awful expectations.” He set a hand on Garith’s shoulder to reassure him and turned to the guard. “Take us, then.”
City of Betrayal Page 28
