“Maybe Branwen—”
“Shh, yes,” Diel said, leaning his forehead against Jaeger’s. “I’ll be praying to every deity and demigod I can think of, but we can’t assume …”
“They’ll go back for you.”
“I hope.”
They stayed like this for a long time, silent. Jaeger breathed in Diel’s scent, recording all of his voice and presence nearby, as if any memory would ever compare to the real elf. When three loud knocks echoed on the door, they both jumped. Diel withdrew and slid down from the bed.
“Jaeger …”
“I know.” I love you too, he added mentally. “Keep it for when you return.”
Diel turned around and looked at him, with a hint of a smile. He’d forced it, but it lit up his expression and smoothed the lines of worry. Jaeger could almost superimpose his memory of Diel’s full grin above it. He promised himself that was the version he’d remember most.
“All right. I will.”
Their gazes locked for a moment, a final goodbye, then Diel turned away and left.
Some days should never exist. Sora stared at the young teen who had barged into her quarters, carrying more terrifying news. Ne had dyed nir kinky hair a bright red since their last meeting, in addition to painting nir nails and lips in a similar colour. Sora distrusted most official Sapphire Guard spies and informants, but Lai was her protégé and never interacted with other investigators unless Sora asked. Astute, discreet, and efficient, ne had become an essential part of her work. And when ne explored new facets of nir gender identity and how they related to being intersex, Lai knew ne could count on Sora’s respect. Though vastly different, their experiences still overlapped, and Sora loved to support Lai however she could.
Today, she’d asked Lai to watch the Dathirii Tower and report on anyone leaving through Lady Camilla’s entrance. No doubt ne had pieced the rest of the story together, but Sora knew the word wouldn’t spread. Only, Lai hadn’t returned with clues about Hasryan’s location. Ne had shoved the office door open, striding in as if ne owned the place, slowing only as ne caught sight of Camilla staring out of the window on nir right. Sora motioned for nir to come closer, and Lai leaned over the desk to whisper.
“Eighty Allastam soldiers entered the Dathirii Tower. Most never left, and I doubt the elves hold control anymore.”
Sora stiffened, her gaze flying to Camilla. The elf stared right back, questioning eyebrows raised, but she stayed silent. Sora focused on Lai, trying to ignore the incredulous buzz between her own ears. She didn’t bother to keep her voice down. “Do we know the Golden Table’s conclusion?”
Lai grinned, straightening with pride at nir foresight. “Checked it before I came. They’re out. No seats left to their names. Rumours say that was pretty unanimous too, but I’m not sure I trust that bit.”
“What about Diel? Garith?” Camilla’s controlled tone didn’t hide her fear. “Lord Dathirii and his bookkeeper.”
“Hard to know,” Lai said. “People saw them heading home though. Don’t think anyone warned them it wasn’t theirs anymore.”
Camilla closed her eyes but only answered with a brief gesture to carry on. Lai turned back toward Sora. “Remember my zucchini? He still works inside that tower. Once he leaves, I’ll know more.” Ne hesitated, and for a moment, nir confident stance fell. “He’ll be safe, right? He’s got nothing to do with these politics.”
Sora wished she could promise that. Lai had met this boy months ago when Sora had asked nir to snoop around the Dathirii household and discover if any of them helped that thief who had snuck inside and stolen from them for years. They’d grown close, creating a special dynamic Lai described as neither friendship nor romance, but deep and thrilling—soulmates without love, voices singing in perfect harmony. Since Fern’s shortened name was a plant and he worked in the kitchens, ne had taken to referring to him as nir zucchini. Nir attachment to Fern reminded Sora of the profound connection Arathiel had often expressed having with Hasryan. Lai should have the truth.
“I don’t know. Politics rarely spill the blood of those who deserve it.” Thoughts of Hasryan hovered at the edge of her mind, and she shoved them away. He had killed people for money! “Thank you for the information, Lai. Come back as soon as you have more.”
“I will.” Nir worry hadn’t vanished from nir tone, but ne carried on with nir usual confidence. “No one in town will know more than you, boss!”
Ne saluted with a smirk, and Sora groaned. She hated the formality, and ever since she’d voiced her irritation at it, Lai had teased her accordingly.
“Off you go!” Sora called, and Lai scampered away, laughing. The joyous sound echoed down the corridor, contrasting with the office’s heavy mood. Sora waited for it to vanish before she turned to Camilla. The elf sat with her back straight, hands clinging to each other, lips tight with worry. If Lord Allastam learned why she’d come to the Sapphire Guard’s headquarters, Sora might not be able to keep her safe. “Milady, do you have anywhere safe to stay?”
“There are soldiers in my home.” Her sharp tone surprised Sora, but Camilla pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, Miss Sharpe. I did not mean to snap.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “but surely if you headed to wherever Hasryan is …”
Sora couldn’t believe the proposition had crossed her lips. What was she thinking? She’d been badgering Lady Camilla with questions a few hours ago to learn where that might be, and now she was suggesting the elven lady should slip out of the headquarters and hide there, too? Lord Allastam’s attack on the Dathirii Tower unsettled her. How far would he go? What would he do if he discovered a Dathirii had hidden Hasryan? He owned their tower and might keep other elves trapped in it.
Lady Camilla tore her gaze from the window slowly, as if she’d miss crucial news if she relented for even a single second. Deep worry filled her eyes, but she managed a sad smile. “As I said, there are soldiers in my home.”
For a brief instant, Sora considered clarifying her suggestion—then Camilla’s layered meaning sank in, snatching her breath away. In the Dathirii Tower. She couldn’t believe Camilla had kept him right under everyone’s noses. And now … Lai hadn’t spotted anyone leaving while ne staked the door. If Hasryan hadn’t escaped in time, Lord Allastam would have him. “For his sake, I hope he vanished this afternoon.”
“I never thought …” She sighed. “Lord Allastam has a history of bloody vengeance. He attacked everyone tied to House Freitz that he could touch without incurring the city’s wrath. Hasryan has no protection, and what little remains of ours will disappear if they find him in my quarters. We have to do something.”
“I can’t demand to search the tower without revealing I believe he’s in there. I’m afraid Hasryan is on his own.” With how things had evolved this afternoon, Sora hoped he would remain out of sight. Her meagre desire to catch him had vanished. She wished he could make amends for his crimes instead of paying for them, but between Brune and Lord Allastam, he would never get the chance. “The best I can do is locate the missing members of your family and keep them out of immediate danger.”
“Thank you, Miss Sharpe. We will remember.”
Sora quirked an eyebrow. “Are you promising not to hide my targets again?” Camilla laughed at the question—answer enough for Sora, who hadn’t expected anything else. She reached into her pocket and withdrew the solid iron key to her home. “I’ll get you settled at my place. It’s not luxurious, but the tea collection ought to interest you. Relatives from the Tuen Peninsula sometimes send me the most unique leaves, or so they say. It’s kind of wasted on me.”
The invitation breathed new life into Camilla. Her gaze snapped to Sora, her arms and shoulders relaxed, and she rose to her feet with surprising speed and fluidity for a lady her age. “I—You are most gracious, Miss Sharpe, and I find myself at a loss for proper words.”
“Then don’t say any.” Sora didn’t need thanks. They’d only embarrass her and drive home the c
ontradiction between her duty to Isandor’s laws and her current actions. Her job demanded she warn Lord Allastam about Hasryan’s most recent location. She should rush to the Dathirii Tower in case she could find him still hiding in Lady Camilla’s quarters, and she should accuse the elven lady of complicity. Yet as she gathered her belongings and slipped her winter fur on, Sora’s heart lifted. She would do none of those things, and for the first time since she’d led Hasryan to the noose, she didn’t need to justify her actions to herself. She just knew this was right, legalities be damned. Arathiel had convinced her. She didn’t work for Lord Allastam, or for Brune, and she refused to stay their pawn, not when she could help so much more elsewhere. House Dathirii deserved protection, not attacks. Sora’s smile widened, and she offered her arm to Lady Camilla.
“Let’s get you to safety,” she said, “and we’ll see if I have more luck finding a handful of golden elves than a single dark one.”
Lady Camilla studied her, sharp blue eyes piercing Sora with unsettling intensity. Sora felt evaluated, and she flushed with anticipation. It shouldn’t matter, yet when Lady Camilla smiled and accepted her arm, relief flooded through her.
“Hasryan thinks you make a poor cook,” Lady Camilla said. “Perhaps I can help with that to compensate for my stay?”
Memories of quips in bad taste about the kitchens and her initial clash with Hasryan returned. He’d apologized for the sexist comments, which was more than any of her colleagues had ever done, but she wouldn’t forget so soon. To think he still taunted her now, through Camilla! “Don’t believe him. He’s jealous, I bet.”
“Well, I’ll admit he lacks experience himself.”
Sora snorted, then laughed. They left her office in good spirits, and with every new step, Sora felt better about her decision. Perhaps Camilla would even have a tale or two about Hasryan to share. Sora yearned to know more about the dark elf, but the murder accusations had limited their interaction heavily. She couldn’t deny her curiosity. Hasryan used to make her blood boil, but he’d revealed a completely different side of himself after Brune’s betrayal—one she’d worked hard to ignore. Now, she had this slim chance to both explore it and help nobles she respected, and Sora intended to seize it. Some days should never exist, but even in those, one could find a sliver of good news.
✵
A strong hand slapped over Vellien’s mouth when they stepped into Nevian’s bedroom, muffling their yelp of surprise. Larryn pulled them back against his wiry body, slamming the door behind them. A knife glinted in the candlelight in front of their chest—not in a position to strike, but terrifying nonetheless. Vellien trembled uncontrollably, their panicked gaze sweeping across the room. Nevian sat on the bed, staring at his hands and refusing to look their way. In the middle, a chair with ropes waited. Vellien whimpered, and Larryn released his hold enough for them to speak.
“I-I don’t understand. I didn’t break any rules!”
To think they’d come to the Shelter hoping for a distraction from the family’s problems and their guilt. At least with Nevian, they contributed to something. They helped—his memories, his gruff moods, even his unshakable fear of Avenazar. Calling upon Alluma always soothed Vellien, but listening to Nevian list both his most recent progress with magic and Efua’s growing reading skills had another kind of rewarding effect. They’d been eager to reach the Shelter and settle into that comfortable routine, and now Larryn threatened them, weapon at the ready.
“You didn’t,” Larryn confirmed. “Our little truce still holds.” Larryn dragged them to the chair, shoving them down and snatching the ropes. “You did well, kid—my favourite Dathirii, not that you had a lot of competition. Blame your rotten family for this.”
Favourite or not, Larryn grabbed their hands to tie them. Vellien knew they should fight, do something, try to run, but they couldn’t. Fear froze their muscles, and they let Larryn bind their wrists and ankles to the chair, their only resistance a constant shake. Vellien wanted to piece together Larryn’s motivation, to force some logic into his attack, but their mind drew a blank. They’d get hurt, Vellien knew they’d get hurt, and the certainty blocked all rational thoughts. Their tongue stuck to their palate, and even speaking became a battle.
“Why?”
“It’s a trade,” Nevian volunteered, his voice empty and distant. “His assassin friend for you.”
“What?”
Larryn walked back in front of Vellien, calm and grim. Vellien wished he’d yell. They’d witnessed and received Larryn’s anger before, and it would almost make the situation normal. Instead, the rage stayed contained, burning in the cook’s grey eyes, controlled. Larryn leaned forward, hands on his knees. This close, Vellien noticed the lines of exhaustion behind Larryn’s mask. “Your family holds Hasryan. Don’t try to deny it.”
A pit opened at the bottom of Vellien’s stomach. How did Larryn know anything like that? It wasn’t even true! They didn’t hold him, Hasryan stayed willingly! But why would Larryn listen? Panic crawled into their throat. Larryn had punched Cal over this, no? What would he do if Uncle Diel couldn’t make Hasryan magically appear? He’d brought a knife—a knife! Tears welled up in Vellien’s eyes, blurring their sight. They tried to convince themself that Camilla would explain everything, that their family would find a way to save them, but the ropes digging into their wrists cut through their hopes and any chance of calming down. Suddenly, Vellien’s words poured out, pushed on by desperation.
“We don’t. We’re not keeping him trapped! Please, it was just Aunt Camilla. She helped him.” The tears rolled down their cheeks, and they tried to wipe their face, but the bonds held them. They squirmed, choking on a sob. “She’s in prison now. In prison for aiding him, and she won’t tell anyone where he is, so Uncle Diel can’t make that trade. He doesn’t know where to find your friend.”
Vellien blinked hard, trying to push out the last tears and control themself. They hated this undignified position and their panic and endless crying, but Larryn terrified them. One day ago, Vellien would have sworn Larryn acted tougher than he was, but now … now they didn’t know how far the Shelter’s young owner would go—if that knife was for show, or if he meant to use it. And when faced with uncertainty, Vellien’s mind always focused on the worst. They would get hurt, or die, and no one could do anything about it.
“They’re crying, Larryn. Crying,” Nevian said, unease and reproach lacing his tone. “Stop it. Untie them.”
Larryn cleared his throat and looked away, the muscles of his jaw working. Had regret flickered through his expression, or had Vellien imagined it? But then Larryn slammed the knife on Nevian’s desk and scoffed. “They’re lying, too. We saw Hasryan with your spy girl—Branwen. In a cell, and she blocked the exit.”
Vellien hadn’t believed the night could grow more confusing, yet Larryn’s bitter words threw their mind off again. “That can’t be. Branwen’s with Arathiel. They’re … Maybe your friend is at the enclave!”
“Or maybe they don’t tell you everything.” Larryn’s tone softened. He leaned on the desk, crossing his arms. “Your family has an amazing track record for shitty secrets. Just because you can swallow your pride and follow the rules doesn’t mean they’re all angels.”
Vellien’s head snapped up, and they met Larryn’s grey eyes, forcing themself not to flinch. “They wouldn’t hurt him.” Their voice didn’t shake now, and Vellien took comfort from their surface confidence. “I know them—Uncle Diel and Branwen and Aunt Camilla—they would never harm him. He’s safe with them. Just look at all they risked for Arathiel! We might not even be nobles anymore because we angered Lord Allastam.”
“What a terrible loss. You’re giving me reasons to celebrate.” Larryn rolled his eyes and a brief smile passed over his features before he crouched in front of Vellien. “Listen, I know two things for sure: this city wants my best friend dead, and your family has been hiding him. If he’s safe, then so are you. I don’t mean to hurt you—you’re just a naive kid.”
“I’m decades older than you are.”
Larryn laughed, the sound bitter and strained. “Yet you’d never been in a kitchen. Age doesn’t mean anything—not when it comes to understanding the level of shit this world can throw your way. You’ve been lucky. And that’s good, really. Good for you. The other side of that coin stinks. But it teaches you a lot.” Larryn’s shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand over his face. He picked up a folded parchment. “I’m going to send out this missive and come back with something for all of us to eat. If your Lord Dathirii is as nice a person as you think, this will be over in no time.”
Behind Vellien, Nevian emitted a low grunt of disapproval. Larryn raised his head. “I wish I had another messenger I could trust. No one will look twice at the delivery girl. And unless you can handle a trip to the Upper City to knock at the door of Avenazar’s biggest rival, Efua has to be the one.”
Nevian didn’t respond. Vellien had only met Efua once, but they knew Nevian had grown fond of her. He hid it behind gruff comments about her progress, as if they didn’t all know she was learning faster than he’d anticipated. Nevian’s fear of Avenazar obliterated everything else, however, and Vellien doubted he would leave. Cal had convinced him to do so once, and since running into Isra, he had stayed in his bedroom. Somehow, Nevian’s obvious discomfort and terror allowed Vellien to stomp down their own, if only briefly.
“She’ll be fine,” they said. “If anything, Diel would reward her for delivering the message.”
Larryn rolled his eyes and left the room without comment. Silence stretched onward, and Vellien’s panic morphed to confused shock as seconds trickled by. Kidnapping. Larryn had tied them to a chair and proposed a trade for his assassin friend. Without the memory of a hand over their mouth and the ropes binding them, Vellien wouldn’t believe it. How had it gone so wrong so fast? They closed their eyes, trying to calm the tears still flowing and their panting breath. Nevian shifted on the bed again and again, unable to hide his discomfort. After a while, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”
City of Betrayal Page 30
