City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  “I hate this. Shields are no good if they keep us locked down for guards to find,” Hasryan said.

  Cal spun about, his mouth a flat angry line. “At least they won’t discover a mess of crushed and burned flesh! She just saved our lives, and now she might …” He trailed off, stomped his foot, then returned to his examination of the demolition outside.

  A lash of magic smashed into the wall not ten feet away from them, and nearby windows burst into pieces. Hasryan watched the flying shards and shifting colours with fascination, caught in a daze by the beautiful destruction: slow, brutal, inexorable. He reached for the cuts in his midriff and felt the sharp pain inflicted by Avenazar’s shield. Two fragments had stayed embedded, one of which sent lances of agony down his left leg with every step. Hasryan leaned against a pillar, keeping the weight off it, knowing he’d lost too much blood already. Why else would he marvel at the death around him instead of searching for a solution? He closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. “I’m sorry, Cal, you might be right. I’m not used to believing the best in others. But … you can’t help her. I-I need healing.”

  “Oh!” Cal’s eyes widened, and with one last glance in Isra’s general direction, he came running back. He retrieved his holy coin, fumbling. “I’m so sorry. I panicked and forgot and you must be in so much pain!”

  Hasryan leaned against the pillar and lowered himself with a brief smile. His entire body throbbed, and every movement worsened it, but he shook his head. “I’m dandy.”

  Branwen’s eyebrows shot up at the suggestion, but she continued surveying the outside chaos. The explosions rumbled the ground under them, destroying more and more of the temple. Hasryan fought against his mounting dread. Even if Arathiel had survived the fire, how could he avoid getting crushed? They had come to save Varden, and they would lose both of them. Cal’s healing helped soothe that growing void, as if his spirit and magic reached more than Hasryan’s physical wounds. Had he developed a new technique? Hasryan didn’t remember this level of skill from him.

  “Hasryan …” Cal touched the fragment, and the sharp pain jerked Hasryan’s leg. It went numb right after, and Hasryan’s eyes flew open. They met Cal’s worried gaze. “I don’t know if I can fix that.”

  His throat dried. Blood soaked his shirt around the wound, and the stain extended to his pants. “Hurts my leg. I’m losing sensation, Cal. Going numb. Bad sign. You have to … please.”

  “What if I make it worse? What if—”

  “You’ll do great,” Branwen interrupted. “I can hold Hasryan down. Focus on your healing and have faith in yourself. Ren showed you the way into this enclave; Xe will guide you now, too.”

  Cal’s grip tightened on his holy symbol, his lips hardening into a determined line. “Right. Luck requires faith, but not just in others. I-I can do this.” His gaze met Hasryan’s, and guilt flickered through his face. “I won’t let you down twice. You can count on me.”

  For a brief instant, Cal’s unwavering love overwhelmed the pain. Hasryan fought against tears and dragged a smirk to his lips. He had smiled through betrayals and hardships. Surely he wouldn’t cry over Cal’s words. “I have the best friends,” he whispered. “Let’s do it.”

  Branwen crouched next to him, one knee pinning down his leg while her hands gripped his shoulder. Cal’s tiny fingers dug around the biggest fragment, gripping the shard. His holy symbol shone brighter, and he took a long, deep breath, holding Hasryan’s gaze. Then he pulled.

  Pain blossomed in Hasryan’s midriff, then shot through his body. He cried out, his vision darkening, aware only of Branwen’s strong hands and the searing agony in his leg. The collapsing temple vanished, the world closing in on Hasryan at a terrifying speed until he forgot even his friends. Everything turned black, empty, vast.

  Warmth reappeared near his knee, growing hotter and hotter. Hasryan opened his eyes, trying to get his bearings, and the universe spun around him. Cal and Branwen stared at him, neither bothering to hide their worry. His gaze slid down to his leg, and he folded it slowly. Pain twinged through it, but it moved without effort, and a wave of relief washed over him. Hasryan smirked at Cal. “See? You’re amazing.”

  Cal flung himself on Hasryan, hugging him tightly and reviving a dozen smaller flares of pain. Hasryan squeezed back with a laugh, then detached his friend and struggled to his feet. The ground shifted dangerously under him, and he set a hand on Cal’s head for balance. The chaos outside their bubble had settled. The wild magic had dispersed, leaving demolished walls and broken pillars behind. The main entrance had collapsed along with most of the temple on the opposite side of the aisle from them. Moonlight shone through the dust. The stairs wrapping around the brazier had been smashed, but most of them held. A wall of debris blocked the view to the dais, the fire, and their friends.

  “Do we know—”

  “It’ll be fine,” Branwen answered, her voice laced with doubt.

  Hasryan’s grip tightened on Cal’s shoulder. This bubble kept them trapped, unable to run out and check on them. What if Varden and Arathiel needed healing too? Arathiel couldn’t die here, not after admitting he willingly disregarded risks to his own life if it meant saving another’s. He deserved to live fully—to enjoy himself, the changed city, and his new friends. Hard not to wonder if the fight could have unfolded differently. Hasryan had slipped into the shadows around the pillars, studying the wizard while Branwen and Arathiel rushed in. Surprise played a crucial role in his line of work, and he would have only one opportunity. Stalking and waiting had given Avenazar the time to fling Arathiel into the fire, though. What if Hasryan could have prevented it? Saved his friend, just as Arathiel had rescued him? He pushed the idea away, aware of how little ‘what ifs’ mattered in the end. He only needed to know Arathiel had survived.

  “So, do you think we can escape before or after the guards all get here?” he asked.

  Isra’s bubble must have been sentient, because it popped the moment Hasryan finished his question. Rocks leaning upon it tumbled in, and they scrambled out of the way, Hasryan almost falling in the sudden movement.

  Cal smirked at him. “I think Isra doesn’t appreciate your sass.”

  “That’s her loss. Let’s get everyone and leave before we have to fight for every inch.”

  Branwen and Cal didn’t need his signal. They rushed out, Branwen running for the brazier while Cal scrambled over a pile of fallen stones in the direction Isra had gone flying. Hasryan hesitated. Cal could never move the rocks by himself if she was buried under them. But he thought of Arathiel shooting past him, of how he’d intervened just a tad too late, and his brief indecision vanished. He caught up with Branwen as she reached the obstructing pile of debris, and before either could go around, they heard a deep, wracking cough from inside. Hasryan’s heart jumped, and he sprinted past the stones, ignoring the pain still shooting up his leg.

  Relief washed over him as he found Arathiel on all fours, coughing out a mix of dust and spit. His arms shook, and dirt covered his white hair, but he was alive, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. The fire had gone out, and even the burned logs under them seemed cool. Hasryan called his name and hurried to his friend’s side, ignoring the dull throb in his leg. He crouched down, squeezing Arathiel’s shoulder hard, words stumbling out in a mess.

  “You’re—how did you …”

  Arathiel met his gaze with a shaky smile and nodded toward Varden, now unconscious. Grease weighed down the priest’s curly hair, he was thin and underfed, burns had made holes in his ragged clothes in several places, and the stench of his cell still clung to him. None of these things stopped Branwen from kneeling next to him and feeling for his heartbeat. For a moment, they all held their breath; then she choked and started crying. Hasryan’s stomach squeezed, but she smiled through the tears.

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no, but he’s alive.”

  Good enough for Hasryan. Arathiel sat back on his haunches and wiped his mouth. He was f
rowning as if … as if in pain? That wouldn’t make sense. Questions pressed through Hasryan’s mind, but his curiosity could wait. “We all are, somehow. Let’s get out before guards arrive and change that. We need somewhere safe to recover.” He turned to Arathiel. “Can you stand? Walk?”

  Arathiel stared at a point above his shoulder. Had he even heard? Worry gnawed at Hasryan, and he shifted into Arathiel’s line of sight. Brief relief flooded through him as his friend’s attention snapped back, but the fear in Arathiel’s gaze washed it away. “The fire,” he said, tone hushed and frantic, “it burned me. It burned me, Hasryan.”

  “I saw. I’m sorry I didn’t leap in sooner, I really am.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It hurt.” His voice cracked, unsettling Hasryan more than he cared to admit. Arathiel had always carried a grounding tranquility, as if nothing could break his calm. Even his laugh was soft, downplayed and reassuring. Not anymore. Panic and confusion had shattered it. “It still hurts! It only lasted a second, but when I touched that fire, it felt like someone had ripped the skin off my back.” Arathiel swallowed hard, his breathing shaky. “I don’t understand. I still can’t smell, I still can’t sense the ground under me, or see colours right, or truly feel your hand on my shoulder! I didn’t notice the burn of too-hot tea, but fire, yes? Why? Where’s the logic?”

  “I don’t know, I really don’t.” What was he supposed to say? The collapse of Arathiel’s calm terrified Hasryan, but he lacked reassuring words. He refused to lie—he’d lived through enough horrible stuff not to travel that path. “We’ll try to figure it out, but not here. Maybe Varden will have answers when he wakes up. He’s a fire priest, isn’t he? But we need to go.”

  “Right.” Arathiel’s features hardened, returning to the more determined expression he had worn through the mission. He struggled to his feet. “At least I’m not nauseated anymore.”

  Hasryan straightened with him. “Think you can carry Varden? I’m … my leg complains at my own weight, and I’d rather spare it. If you two can handle him, I’ll go check on Cal and Isra.”

  He hoped Cal had found her. They didn’t have time to linger, not after the massive explosions and Avenazar’s escape. The entire enclave would be bearing down on them soon.

  “We’ll manage,” Branwen said. “Climbing the oak tree to get over the wall is out of the question, though. We’ll have to risk a gate.”

  “Nevian recommended the southern one,” Arathiel replied. “Smaller and less guarded.”

  “Let’s try that.” The temple stood in the northern half of the enclave grounds, but the distance might become an advantage. The Myrians would block the closest exits in a hurry and rush to the collapsed building. If the group managed to sneak undetected past the first wave of soldiers …

  Their plan made, Hasryan nodded to Arathiel and Branwen, then left to find Cal. Every step sent a tiny wave of pain up his leg, but Hasryan had endured worse in the past. He could deal with that until they were safe. Cal worked on a pile of rubble, removing rocks and throwing them away. He had cleared an arm—one a shade darker than Varden’s skin. He frowned, hurrying to Cal’s side. This didn’t look like the pale blonde girl who had shielded them.

  “What happened? That can’t be her.”

  “Who else?” Cal snapped back before sniffling and flinging a rock away. “Sorry, I’m just … I don’t get it either, but it has to be her, and I don’t want to find her head crushed and there’s this big rock and I can’t lift it and—”

  Hasryan put a hand on his shoulder, stopping the flow of words. Cal didn’t need to say more. “I’m on it. It’s okay. Arathiel and Varden are both alive. We’ll get her out, find somewhere safe, and lick our wounds.”

  Cal raised his chin, wiped his tears, and nodded. “Right. It’s fine. I shouldn’t panic—this isn’t me.” Cal forced a smile. “Lift the boulder and I’ll pull her out?”

  They set to work immediately, clearing out a few extra stones before Hasryan grabbed the larger one which pinned the girl down. She’d have a horrible bruise on her arm, if it wasn’t broken. He counted to three, grounding his feet for balance, then pushed to lift the heavy rock. Or tried to. His muscles strained and his left leg burned with pain, but the monstrous boulder proved well beyond his strength and didn’t even shift. Hasryan let go and stepped back, panting.

  “Cal, I don’t think—”

  “It has to. She saved us!”

  Hasryan turned to the girl. They’d freed enough to reveal she was no more a prissy white girl than Hasryan. Her thin blonde hair had become massive brown waves, the small nose had grown bigger, and her eyebrows had both darkened and thickened. Her arm and ribs would be broken, crushed like this under the rock, but Hasryan had no solution.

  “I’m sorry, Cal. I can’t free her. Arathiel is shaken and weak, and Branwen’s not any stronger than you are. Even together, we couldn’t move this boulder. We can’t stay here. Guards are on their way.”

  Cal stared at the floor, his hands curling into small fists. “She saved us …”

  “I know.” He crouched, to be at his friend’s eye level. “Heal her as much as you can. She’s one of them. They’ll spare her.”

  A blatant lie. Would the Myrians take kindly to her change in appearance? What if they discovered she had helped them? But what would be the point in staying back and proving her complicity? They would all die for her sake, and Hasryan had learned long ago to cut his losses while he could. Hasryan didn’t have the heart to say that to Cal, however, no matter how much he hated fake reassurances.

  Cal answered with a determined nod and knelt next to the girl. His hands shook, and he conjured only a pale light. Hasryan shifted his weight away from his left leg, suddenly self-conscious of his friend’s exhaustion. He watched the healing process, wondering when he had become the group’s reassuring presence. First Arathiel, now Cal? The latter had always been their source of pep talks and comfort before. Whenever something went wrong, Larryn ranted, Hasryan joked, and Cal promised a better future. Hopefully, they’d fall back into their old dynamic once everything calmed down, and Arathiel could provide helpful solutions. After the last month, Hasryan looked forward to a modicum of normalcy.

  “Okay,” Cal said. “I guess that should be enough.”

  His voice startled Hasryan. He tried to shake his daze away, but the long day and constant pain took their toll. How late was it now? The sun set too early in winter, and nights stretched on forever. At least Diel must have returned from the Golden Table and spoken with Camilla. He hoped they’d managed an agreement with Sora, and that his family hadn’t lost all their titles. Hasryan glanced at Branwen, providing what support she could to Arathiel as he carried Varden, and joined up with them, Cal by his side. Blood and grime covered every single one of them, and although they’d accomplished what they’d come for, no one shared a victorious grin. Branwen set her hands on her hips.

  “Let’s get out of this hellhole and bring Varden to his new home.”

  Jilssan watched the carriage containing Lord Dathirii roll through the east gate without a word. Allastam soldiers greeted her, and she answered with a nod but avoided striking up a conversation with them. Her thoughts drifted elsewhere, to Keroth’s temple and Avenazar’s terrible intent. She had hoped Lord Dathirii’s arrival would spare Varden some of the hurt, delaying Avenazar’s plan until he could, perhaps, be convinced to abandon it entirely. Instead, he had hurried it along, forcing Jilssan to deal with their new Allastam allies and the package to seal their relationship while he worked on his spell. Avenazar had designed several parts from scratch, and his eagerness to test them dismayed her. He didn’t care if the magic went awry and destroyed Varden, not with a new toy arriving.

  Jilssan focused on Lord Dathirii as guards pulled him out of the carriage. His shoulders sagged, and his gaze stayed fixed on a random space somewhere behind her knees. Her rare memories of him depicted an energetic man always ready to back his naive convictions with a passionate speech. H
is drive had been sapped away, and the discomforting sight before her pulled uneasily at her stomach.

  “Sorry you provoked him,” she said. “You’re lucky he’s too busy to welcome you.”

  Lord Dathirii twitched—a slight shake of his head—and answered in a rough whisper, “He was torturing a teenager. In front of everyone.”

  Nevian. Somehow, Jilssan doubted the apprentice had asked for help, or appreciated it. Avenazar had made him pay for the interruption tenfold afterward. Not that it mattered much anymore. “A lot of good that did him, or any of you. Nevian’s dead, Varden is being turned into a mindless slave, and you’re here waiting for torture. Some fights cannot be won and are best left alone.”

  Lord Dathirii straightened up and squared his shoulders, fixing his gaze on Jilssan. Something changed in him. An intense light burned in his eyes, and she found herself sliding back, caught off-guard by the shift. The defeated elf had vanished, replaced by the combative spirit she remembered. As if he had forgotten the hopeless situation he had landed in.

  “It’s not so simple,” he said. “You can’t always choose your fights. Some battles need to be fought whether you want to or not—whether they can be won or not.”

  “Except now, you won’t be there to fight the next one.”

  He smiled. Jilssan’s unease grew as she watched his expression lighten with certainty. “Someone else will be. I’m not alone, even now. There is always someone ready to risk everything and do what needs to be done.”

  What needs to be done. Her secret mantra—words she had abided by all her life. Yet from Lord Dathirii, they implied selfless sacrifice, not pragmatism, and this shift in meaning bothered her more than she cared to admit.

  Before Jilssan could answer, a deep rumble shook the enclave, followed by a loud crash. She spun on her heels, her heart racing in her throat as she saw the thick cloud of dust rising around Keroth’s temple. Another explosion boomed across the grounds, then flashes of light of varying colours. She glanced back at their prisoner. He had grown pale, and his mirth had vanished, but he didn’t seem quite as shocked as he should have. “What’s going on?” she asked him.