City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  Vellien turned to him. “It’s not your fault,” they said.

  “I know. I told him not to. It’s a bad plan. A wrong one. But he wouldn’t listen, and he threatened to make me sleep in the common room if I got in the way. I can’t do that, Vellien, it’s full of people and—”

  “It’s okay, Nevian. Please just stay.” They didn’t want to be alone with Larryn when he returned, not with that knife so close. “It’s less scary with you around.”

  Nevian’s face brightened at their words. “This is my room, and my healer is here,” he said. “I don’t see why I’d leave. I … Larryn says he doesn’t intend to hurt you, but I … I’d get in the way. I would.”

  A mirthless chuckle escaped Vellien. “Thank you. I’m sorry your last check-up will have to wait.”

  Vellien prayed to the Elven Shepherd they would have the chance to heal Nevian—or anyone else, for that matter—again. They clung to Larryn’s promise that they’d be safe if Hasryan was and hoped their uncle would eventually find a way to prove they had never hurt the assassin. Vellien sunk deeper into their chair, knowing they couldn’t expect a rescue anytime soon.

  An Allastam soldier glared at Yultes, silently intimating that he should go and hide, as he waited in front of Lord Dathirii’s office. Yultes didn’t budge, nor would he unless the guard decided to forcefully remove him. He needed to speak with Hellion and would stay however long it took. His brief exchange with Diel had shaken him to the core, and he knew he sought reassurance—that, like a coward, he hoped Hellion would convince him no one else would get hurt, including and perhaps even especially Diel. Yultes didn’t want to fight; he’d rather trust his old friend, and he was ready to believe that remained possible.

  Hellion’s high-pitched voice from the office gave him hope. “That was never part of the deal! I needed Diel here for everyone to fall in line. You can’t sell my family like that!”

  What did he mean by sell? Yultes caught a hint of fear under Hellion’s indignant anger, and his stomach squeezed. His friend should have been in control, not scrambling to protest against a Lord Allastam who only laughed.

  “You’re right, dear Hellion, Diel didn’t figure in our deal, which means you failed to protect your assets, not that I betrayed my promise. Master Avenazar was quite clear on his conditions, however.” Cold horror drenched Yultes, and Diel’s parting words resurfaced with more weight than before. How could Allastam do this? Yultes imagined him leaning on his cane with a stiff smirk. Despite the smooth tone, Allastam didn’t sound amused. Perhaps he disliked that it had come to this, but if such was the case, he’d buried any regrets far away. “Stop wailing about it. You won’t redeem this family by clinging to the elements poisoning it. Diel’s presence would have given his crew a core to gather around and fight for. They might be more docile now, and if they’re not? If you can’t get that smart-mouthed accountant and his cousin in line? Then you need to cut them loose, too.”

  A resounding silence followed Lord Allastam’s instruction. Hellion didn’t protest—not against the idea of cutting anyone loose nor against its necessity. Yultes ground his teeth together, staring past the guard and at the door behind him. Could the human soldier hear this as clearly as he did? If it bothered him, it didn’t show in the least. Yultes tried to stomp down his horror and control the shake of his hands. Hellion didn’t say a word because he knew it would be pointless, not because he intended to follow the suggestions. He cared for House Dathirii, and that meant caring for those inside, too, even through frequent disagreements.

  “If that is all, Lord Allastam, I’m afraid I have a lot of work ahead of me.” Hellion’s glacial tone reassured Yultes. “I’m sure we’ll have ample opportunity to discuss the merits of your ruthlessness over the next months.”

  Lord Allastam only laughed again and headed for the door. Yultes listened to the cadence of his steps and cane, straightening as it grew closer. He retreated, half-hoping the lord would continue on his way without a word to Yultes. The burning shame left by their last encounter still haunted him, and he had no desire to spar with Allastam’s cutting mockeries right before he spoke with Hellion. When the door opened, however, Lord Allastam’s gaze snapped to him, freezing him.

  “Lord Yultes!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations on your promotion. You’re a bigger, better lapdog now.”

  Acid dropped at the bottom of his stomach, but he forced a smile to his lips. “Your kind hospitality will be greatly missed, but alas, one must move on with their life. I’m sure you’ll find a suitable replacement.”

  Allastam’s appropriately bark-like exclamation startled Yultes—he must have been in a good mood to think that funny. “None as entertaining as you, I’m afraid, but we’ll meet again.”

  He tapped Yultes’ forearm with his cane, then left, still smiling. Anger burned in Yultes’ cheeks, but he swallowed his urge to reply. Better to let him go and retain what little dignity remained. Instead, he hurried into Diel’s—no, Hellion’s now—office. He glanced at the spot of blood from Jaeger on the floor, fought his rising nausea, and focused on their new leader. Hellion glared back.

  “Close the door,” he snapped.

  Yultes waited for the guard to act, but the Allastam soldier stared back, impassive. He did not mean to obey. With a huff, Yultes strode to the door, slammed it shut, and sighed. “I saw Diel.” He did not bother to mask the accusation in his voice.

  “Did he say where he hides the wine? I’m in terrible need of a glass.” Hellion closed his eyes and leaned on the desk, his shoulders slumping. “I’m glad you’re here with me. This is not how everything should have unfolded.”

  In one simple admission, Hellion melted away Yultes’ resentment. He couldn’t blame Hellion for what happened to Diel. “Allastam would have found a way. Nothing stops him when he sets his mind on revenge.”

  “And we have to make sure we never become a target again. Yes, you’re right.” Hellion squared his shoulders, his smile returning, a new light in his eyes. Pride swelled in Yultes at cheering Hellion with a few choice words. “Lord Allastam is an ally, and we must put this quarrel behind us. He’ll help us rebuild our name.”

  Quarrel. The euphemism threw cold water on Yultes’ bliss, and stark images of the past hours rushed to his mind. Fleeing down the stairs with Jaeger. The steward’s muffled cries when they beat him. The haunted look in Diel’s eyes, and his last words to Yultes. I know you can be a great architect, Yultes. It’s up to you to decide what you build.

  “He won’t. He’ll lord his contribution to your success tonight over you as proof of his help, then use you whenever he needs it. As long as he has troops in here, you’re not an ally, you’re a subordinate—someone to order around.”

  “Don’t be—”

  “I’m not being ridiculous,” Yultes interrupted. “I’ve watched Allastam grow since he was a baby. I know how he thinks and works.”

  “The soldiers are for our protection, not to force us into submission.”

  “Then disobey,” Yultes said. “What do you have to worry about? Disregard his advice and refuse to cut loose more of the family. Don’t downplay the fact he sold Diel out to torture. We’re not assets. He didn’t deserve—”

  “Enough.” Hellion used the same sharp tone he’d wielded against Allastam earlier. Yultes’ stomach plummeted, and his words dried out. Hellion only directed his anger toward him when he fumbled—if he forgot important trade relationships, if he parroted Diel’s political opinions, if he allowed anyone to address him without a proper title—and each time, Yultes had both earned the retaliation and sorely regretted his actions. They had been lessons—hard-learned from difficult experiences, but important nonetheless. Hellion had shaped him into the ruthless negotiator and planner this family needed. Every time Yultes had ignored his advice, the results had been catastrophic. Yultes often doubted he’d achieve anything without Hellion’s help. “That matter is closed. Over. We can’t do anything about it. We have to look forward, to our futur
e and how we can build a greater House. I promised I wouldn’t let Diel be our downfall. This is a necessary step. Don’t you want to regain the honour that was ours?”

  How could he say no? Of course he wished to restore House Dathirii to its former glory and to play a fundamental part in the process, but at what price? How many would Hellion cut loose on the way? What would the family even look like in the end? Yultes already didn’t belong—he had no noble blood, only ties through his now-gone brother. Efficiency, professionalism, and the systematic, costly burial of his biggest mistake had allowed him to stay a Dathirii, but what would Hellion do if Lord Allastam declared Yultes superfluous? Hard to believe his old friend would throw him out, but Yultes would never have guessed he would go around his back to strike a violent deal with Lord Allastam either.

  In truth, he didn’t know what to think anymore. When Hellion spoke, Yultes’ world fell back into its comfortable, rightful order. Yet nothing could make him forget Diel’s disappearance or the bruises covering Jaeger. Think about how much power is in your hands now, and what you want to do with it. Yultes closed his eyes, letting Diel’s words sink into him.

  “You’re right.” Tension slid off his shoulders, and his voice calmed. Yultes didn’t know what he wanted to do with his new position, not yet, but he had one certainty: Hellion’s future was not it. He would have to fight. “Tell me what you need. I’m your man.”

  Hellion smiled, regaining the assured countenance so natural to him. He swept across the office to Yultes’ side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I’m glad to hear it, my good friend.”

  The warmth in his voice almost melted Yultes’ resolve. How could he plan to undermine him? Hellion had supported him for decades and taught him to be an experienced and astute negotiator. Yultes owed him everything—his skills, his acceptance in Hellion’s Dathirii circle, and now his dream job. Yet the first time the roles flipped and Hellion needed help, Yultes prepared to betray him.

  He could deal with that. He had done so much worse before. Yultes had let down the only love he’d had, throwing her out into the street. He had let down their son, only appearing eighteen years later—too late to have any say in Larryn’s life. He had let down House Dathirii, albeit secretly, selling information to Brune. And now he would let down his best friend, crashing Hellion’s dreams one ill-executed order at a time until Diel’s heirs could once more claim the heart of House Dathirii.

  Yultes had known the right path when he’d tried to rush Jaeger to safety. Hellion might never have wanted things to get this far, but he had still assaulted the steward, and he had no plans to counteract Lord Allastam’s grip on their family. He meant to roll with it and obey. This couldn’t stand. Yultes couldn’t accept it. And somehow, for reasons that were beyond him, Diel believed he could stop it—he believed in him.

  For so long, Yultes had sought to prove he belonged to the family and was worthy of the Dathirii name. Now, he could either rebuild their former glory, following Hellion’s lead, or trust in Diel’s idealistic and dangerous vision of their future. Always before, Yultes had listened to his best friend’s smooth and reasonable voice, even when his heart called for a different path. Not this time. Yultes had made too many mistakes, and Diel relied on him to avoid one more.

  This time, Yultes wouldn’t let him down.

  It started as a twist at the bottom of his stomach. Arathiel ignored it—no one else seemed affected, and they struggled to keep the group together. Branwen strode through the compound like she no longer cared how many guards she’d have to kill to get to Varden, Hasryan trailed behind with constant and irritated admonitions to slow down, and Isra had the terrified wide eyes of someone heading straight to her death. Cal’s expression varied depending on whether he tried to reassure her or to keep up with his longer-legged friends. Arathiel followed last, watching their backs, calling to Branwen and Hasryan in angry whispers. The handful of minutes they would gain by rushing wouldn’t save Varden, but being separated might get them all killed.

  Something was happening, however. As they grew closer to the temple, Arathiel’s slight discomfort turned into a strong nausea. And when the doors came into view, Arathiel would have sworn he saw the magic seeping out of them like waves of heat on a summer day. When they spotted the two soldiers guarding the front door, they slid behind a nearby building and stopped. Arathiel leaned against the wall, trying to fight his spinning world.

  “I can show you a way around them,” Isra whispered.

  “Let’s,” Hasryan said. “Dead soldiers at the front would give us away.”

  A powerful burst of energy shot from the temple before they moved, punching Arathiel in the gut. He choked, grabbed Hasryan’s shoulder for support, then shook his head to clear out an extra layer of blur in his sight. Light had flared behind the glass windows, but no one was looking at the building now. They’d all turned to Arathiel. Hasryan put a hand on his arm and held him up, making sure he didn’t fall.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Arathiel’s mind buzzed under the constant assault of magic. “I’m … Can’t you feel it?” Everyone shook their heads, even Isra and Cal, both more attuned to their respective types of spells. Why him? Hadn’t Sora’s healer suggested that nothing but magic held him together? Did that make him more sensitive? Arathiel squeezed Hasryan’s shoulder, then swallowed hard and straightened.

  “There was a huge surge of power. It’s still growing. We might not have time to go around.”

  He didn’t say anything about his nausea, but Hasryan caught his gaze for a second, as if looking for the information he knew Arathiel silenced. Then he nodded and let go.

  “Okay. Take a minute to recover. I’ll get the guards.”

  He walked off before any of them could protest, into the shadows stretching from their current hiding place to the temple. Arathiel’s gaze trailed him as he advanced in short and silent sprints, crossing open spaces and crouching behind what cover he could manage. If Arathiel hadn’t known where to find him, he’d never have spotted Hasryan, despite the cloak not completely hiding his wine-red coat. His friend didn’t even make a sound. Then again, perhaps he wasn’t half as good as he seemed to Arathiel’s dulled senses.

  Beside him, Branwen huffed and readied a dagger. “He better not mess this up.”

  If either guard had time to raise an alert, their team would be in trouble. Arathiel wanted to prepare to jump in too, but if he tried to sprint with his current nausea, he’d trip and fall. Instead, he inhaled deeply to clear his head. He needed to be in a state to fight, and soon. Diel hadn’t pulled him out of prison for magic to sicken him in the middle of the Myrian enclave. As he exhaled a second time, Hasryan crept about five feet away from one of the two guards, who’d made the mistake of standing in half-shadows. Arathiel caught the glint of moonlight against a blade. The four of them stared, silent, entranced by the inexorable death they’d sent after two soldiers.

  It was one thing to think of a friend as an assassin, and another to watch him execute someone with perfect professionalism.

  Hasryan surged from the darkness, one hand covering the guard’s mouth as he plunged a dagger through his neck. The second man started to turn around, but Hasryan reached for another weapon, leaving the first embedded in the soldier’s throat. He threw the new dagger with incredible precision. His victim collapsed, and Hasryan caught him before he crashed to the ground, laying him down. All Arathiel had heard was a little clanking from the first guard. Two men were dead.

  “Whoa,” Cal whispered.

  Judging by the dazed silence, everyone agreed with the sentiment. Hasryan retrieved his daggers, then turned to the group, wiping the blood off with his cloak. When none of them moved, he gestured with impatience. Branwen swore under her breath and started off. Cal followed, grabbing Isra and pulling her along. Arathiel struggled against his nausea, glanced back to ensure no one had spotted them, and joined the rest of the group.

  “For someone who couldn’t st
op rushing, you sure took your sweet time coming here,” Hasryan told Branwen.

  She glared at him but didn’t counter with anything, instead turning to the others. “Cal, can you stay here with the girl? Make sure she’s not trouble.”

  “Can’t I just leave?” Isra asked.

  “And risk finding every guard in the enclave waiting for us when we leave the temple?” Branwen replied. “No thanks.”

  Hasryan looked at Isra, and she paled. What they had just witnessed must have extinguished her desire to provoke him. “Stay, shut up, and stop arguing,” he said. “That’s all we ask.”

  “We’ll go right inside,” Cal said. “I want to see what’s happening in case you need healing, and outside we risk getting spotted. I can fight a bit, you know. If it comes to that.”

  “You … can?”

  “Yeah. I hate it, but I can.” Cal wrapped his fingers around the butt end of his little mace. “I learned as a teenager from my big brother. We were fleeing religious zealots, and I figured my luck might run out one day.”

  Cal’s hushed tone and white knuckles unsettled Arathiel. Why had he never mentioned a family before? Did he have other siblings? Where were they now? Hasryan reached out, bending forward to put a reassuring hand on Cal’s shoulder. Neither said anything, yet Arathiel had the distinct impression of an entire conversation passing, an understanding between them, not unlike his first connection to Hasryan. These two might jest and laugh a lot every day, but in that instant, Arathiel glimpsed how much more they kept silent.

  Arathiel’s hand slid over his sword hilt, and he gritted his teeth. Waves of magic washed over him, leaving him dazed and worried. His curiosity about Cal and Hasryan would have to wait. “We should go. It’s getting worse … Building up.”