“You tell me,” he answered. “This is your kingdom, ruled by your laws, and it’s your boss transforming a man into—how did you say?—a mindless slave.”
With untested, unrevised magic. She cursed and turned to the guards. “Hold him here until I learn more.”
Perhaps she should have had Lord Dathirii sent to a cell, but she’d rather know exactly where he was. Something about his calm and this explosion bothered her, and Jilssan trusted her instincts. She left as the three guards closed in on Lord Dathirii, her attention fixed on the flashing lights ahead.
Had Varden resisted the spell and caused it to go wrong? Perhaps Avenazar’s plan to use Keroth’s power through the priest had turned against him. Jilssan hoped so. She would never say it out loud, but if this night ended with Avenazar blown to smithereens while Varden survived, she would celebrate. Even losing Varden wouldn’t be that great a price for getting rid of Avenazar. He might have won this trade war, but his brief clash with Lord Dathirii had shattered the delicate balance of power at the enclave. With Nevian gone and Varden at his disposal, Avenazar’s behaviour had become more erratic and violent with every passing day. Would she manage to stall him the next time he attacked Isra? How long before he turned on them? The slightest hint of treason would set him off, and this far from Myria, no one would stop him.
The flashing lights and rumbling from the castle finally subsided, and Jilssan wondered in what state she’d find the temple. She couldn’t see its top above the roofs any longer and suspected at least part of the front had collapsed. Well, she’d soon know, she thought, approaching the last corner.
Yet just before she turned, she noticed four shapes disappearing between two buildings, hurrying into the darkness. None of them were familiar, and one carried something heavy. Heavy and human-like. She snapped a word of power, draining her reserves to grant herself supernatural speed, and sprinted after them. Their little headway melted as Jilssan moved between buildings, careful to stay out of sight of both the intruders and other Myrians.
She shouldn’t avoid her people. What was she thinking? Four of them against her, alone? Even if she added magical endurance to her speed, she might not be able to take them on. Anyone who had messed up one of Avenazar’s spells and lived to tell the tale ought to be a formidable opponent. She couldn’t stop them alone and should get reinforcements.
Except she had no intention of stopping them, she realized.
There is always someone ready to risk everything and do what needs to be done, Lord Dathirii had said. Four of them, it seemed, and they were leaving without him.
Jilssan dashed down the street, cutting them off some thirty feet ahead. “Wait!”
She got her first good look at the group, and surprise stole her words away. These were Lord Dathirii’s great fighters? She recognized Branwen Dathirii easily enough, but not the halfling by her side. She pegged him more as the kind of person who insisted on providing meals than a warrior. At least she knew why Lord Dathirii had freed Arathiel Brasten, however. He stood two steps behind, arms wrapped around Varden’s unconscious body, both of them covered in soot and dust. After all she’d heard of his exploits, he would worry Jilssan if his hands weren’t full. Which left—wait, where had the dark elf vanished to?
“Out of the way.”
Branwen stepped forward, her tone hard, and a dagger gleamed in her hand. Her halfling friend crouched and set his palms on the ground, bringing forth a soft light. Jilssan slid back, wary. They had saved Varden from Avenazar. She had to be careful.
Her heel hit a perfectly round rock, which had somehow found its way under her foot. She strangled a cry as her balance shifted and she stumbled, right under a torch. The bright light blinded her, but she heard the halfling’s satisfied exclamation and Branwen’s strides as she rushed forward. Jilssan cursed, slammed her hand on the wall, and scrambled through her spell. The magical speed helped her pull out a stone staff in a record time.
And in the moment she connected with the stone around her, sending part of her consciousness into the material to shift and change it, she felt the light footsteps of their missing dark elf, a slight limp to his cadence, right behind her. Within striking range. Jilssan spun about as he slashed upward, slapping her weapon against his blade and parrying it. She jumped aside before Branwen could reach her, retreating toward the other end of the street. Her heart hammered—she had almost died. “Stop, I don’t want to fight!”
Branwen scoffed, and Jilssan gritted her teeth. She held her staff at the ready, watching Branwen and her dark elf teammate. Wait. This man had melted into the shadows the moment she had appeared, to sneak up on her with deadly precision. She glanced at Arathiel, then back at him.
“Did … did you kill Avenazar?”
She directed the question at Hasryan—who else could it be? Isandor had a limited supply of dark elves with great stealth—and pleaded silently. If anyone could do it … When he shook his head, Jilssan almost cursed. It would have been too perfect.
“Come on,” the halfling said. “She’s not stopping us, and we can’t linger here. Let’s go.”
“We can’t.” Hasryan twirled his dagger. “She knows who I am, has seen me with you. One word from her, and the entire city will want to hang Lord Dathirii beside me.”
“A bit too late for that.” Jilssan smirked despite her instincts not to provoke them. They had no idea what had been going on elsewhere in Isandor, poor things. “He ruined his reputation without my help, I’m afraid.”
They tensed. Jilssan crouched, ready for any of them to jump on her. Branwen glared her way, and when Jilssan caught the elf’s gaze, her desire to fool around died. Her eyes contained a storm, anger and sorrow and fear all roiling together, pushing to escape. Beautiful and terrifying all at once. Jilssan did not want to trigger the outflow.
“He’s here,” she said. “That’s why I intercepted you. I thought you should know and … leave by the east door, where soldiers hold him. If Avenazar isn’t dead, he can’t stay in this enclave. Neither he nor Varden would survive it.”
“Here,” Branwen whispered, and Jilssan wondered if she’d broken after all. “Is this some kind of trap?”
“He’s guarded by three men.” Unless Avenazar had gone straight to him. Jilssan hoped not. “I suspect they won’t pose a problem for you.”
A long silence followed. Jilssan leaned on the wall, keeping an eye on the assassin. With her magic, she could move faster than him, but she didn’t trust that to be enough. If he really meant to kill her, he would vanish again, and she might not elude him.
“Why would you tell us?” Branwen asked. “What do you have to gain from this?”
The excellent question left Jilssan at a loss for words. What did she have to gain? Avenazar would be enraged once he learned Diel had escaped, and deflecting that anger would be a difficult and dangerous task. But the alternative meant he’d win, and Jilssan found that her fear of the Myrian wizard ran deeper than she had believed. If Avenazar crushed his enemies and kept his alliances with the two biggest Houses in Isandor, he would know nothing could stop him anymore. She couldn’t bear the thought of letting him loose, not if she could help it.
“Avenazar has no real friends within these walls, and no one he considers beyond attacking. I prefer my life and that of my apprentice to remain in relative safety.”
If doubts lingered in Branwen’s expression, they vanished immediately from the halfling’s. He stepped forward, his smile tainted by fear. “You’re Isra’s master! She needs your help.”
The ground tilted under Jilssan’s feet. She flattened her hand against the wall behind her and tried to ignore her dizziness and the ache in her shoulder. “What? Tell me.”
“She’s stuck under boulders, in the temple.” His voice shook with barely-contained tears, and the depth of his panic caught Jilssan off-guard. Who was this halfling who so obviously cared for Isra? When had they met? Tonight? He wrestled himself under control and continued, “I healed her as
much as I could.”
Jilssan swallowed through the lump in her throat. What had Isra done? How wounded was she, even?
“She’ll live,” Hasryan said. “Tell anyone you saw me, and I’ll retaliate in kind.”
Jilssan stiffened at the threat but understood its necessity. The ramifications of speaking of their brief encounter tonight would destroy both Jilssan and Hasryan’s allies. “No one needs to know, not even Isra.”
“Good. Then you’ll want to get to her first.”
“I will.” She started off, her initial shock subsiding. They meant Isra no harm. In fact, the halfling seemed eager to protect her. If anything, she owed them. “Thank you. You should hurry, too. Don’t keep Lord Dathirii waiting.”
Jilssan didn’t linger—Isra needed her. Magical speed still flowing through her muscles, she dashed across the enclave’s grounds, fighting to ignore the throbbing in her shoulder. After what she’d done, the light graze was the least of her problems.
✵
Diel waited, flanked by three Myrian guards, shivering in the winter night. The cold of the ground seeped through his boots, and he could feel the shackles’ freezing metal through his sleeves. The enclave’s wall rose behind him, blocking Isandor from sight. How long before Jilssan returned to deal with him?
Explosions in the temple had interrupted their argument, but their brief encounter left him full of hope and questions. Jilssan had sounded displeased by how little he had accomplished, as if she was simultaneously rubbing his failures in his face and telling him she’d expected better. And she had seemed almost relieved to escape him and investigate the temple.
Diel’s throat tightened as he considered the possible causes of the explosion. Who else besides Branwen could have created it? He hoped it meant good news, but the force of the rumbling worried him. Nothing worked as it should today. Why would his luck get any better? Branwen might have reached Varden, but if Jilssan was to be believed, they’d have to fight Avenazar to save him. Diel prayed to every deity he revered—Alluma, the Elven Shepherd, Ren with Xir amazing chance, Seldare of Light and Goodness—and waited for the outcome, helpless to influence it.
Eternal minutes trickled by. The flashing lights vanished; the rumbling stopped. The ongoing destruction was over, and still, no one came. Shivers wracked his body at random intervals, breaking all his attempts at standing still and regal. He kept his eyes peeled for a clue—something, anything—to tell him what had happened. The guards beside him shifted uneasily.
The first soldier fell without a noise, a dagger through his throat. Diel jumped as he caught the glint of the blade and paled as he realized what it meant for the poor man. His head buzzed and nausea spun his world as the two remaining guards shouted in alert. One grabbed his forearm, perhaps intent on pulling him close, but a second later, a dark hand clamped over the man’s mouth.
“Let go,” Hasryan whispered, and as his voice pierced the night, so did rapid footsteps—two pairs, swooping on the last Myrian soldier.
Branwen and Arathiel strode into the light, well-timed and confident, weapons brandished. The guards glanced at each other, and Hasryan’s target let go of Diel while the other threw his sword to the ground. Diel fell down when released, manacles clinking, too stunned to hold himself standing. The cool dirt grounded him, and he focused on the coldness under his fingers as his thoughts spun.
“Three of them,” Arathiel said. “We’re good.”
“I’ll get Cal.” Hasryan’s tone was casual, yet Diel didn’t doubt for a second he’d landed the initial dagger throw and killed that man. “Knock yours out.”
Without batting an eye, he pulled his soldier into a chokehold, muffling his protest with a hand as he snuffed consciousness out of him. Routine, Diel thought. Branwen and Arathiel didn’t have his ease. They hit the last one hard and caught him before he fell. Hasryan had vanished already.
Diel drew a long and shaky breath. Waves of relief crashed into him as his situation sank in. They had come for him—saved him from the horrible fate Avenazar had in mind. Tears blurred his sight, and he stifled a sob. This nightmare had ended. Branwen was with him, his wonderful niece, his own miracle worker. She put a steady hand on his shoulder, and he lifted his head, smiling despite the hollow in his heart where Jaeger and House Dathirii stood. They were lost, but not forever. Together, they would see to that.
“We’re here, Uncle. You’ll be fine.”
Diel wiped his tears and struggled to his feet. He loved Branwen’s voice at that moment, confident and warm, reliable in an almost regal way. Diel wrapped her into a tight hug, squeezing with all the strength of his tired arms. “I … so much has happened since I left this morning.”
“Is everyone all right?” she asked. “Kellian never joined with us, or tried to. We had to go without him.”
A new knot of worry appeared in Diel’s stomach. Kellian was too dutiful not to show up unless physically stopped. Had he stayed at the Sapphire Guard’s headquarters? Or had Allastam’s men intercepted him?
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t see him before …” The weight of the day crashed into him. His shoulders sagged, and he heaved a sigh. They needed to fight, but where would he find the endurance to do so? How could he stand strong against Avenazar again, knowing his family would pay the price? Arathiel slipped closer to the conversation.
“We’ll figure it out, Diel,” he said. “One step at a time, we’ll unravel this mess and set things right.”
“Yeah, listen to Arathiel!” Branwen pulled back and bumped Diel’s shoulder in a forced, playful movement. “We saved Varden from under Avenazar’s nose. If we can do that, we can do anything.”
Diel straightened and looked at each of them in turn. Their confidence bolstered his, and he managed a real smile. “Good. There’s a lot to accomplish.”
“Starting with those handcuffs,” she replied. “That’s not a sight I want to endure.”
Branwen reached into her sleeve and flicked a sturdy lock pick out. He gaped as she began to work on the shackles, surprised at this particular level of resourcefulness. Then again, he had never asked her how she got most of her information. As it turned out, while she could pick a lock, she needed several minutes and swears to do so, and by the time she was done, Hasryan had returned with Cal and Varden, limping and carrying the latter with great difficulty.
Diel struggled to his feet and dusted himself off. He shouldn’t have sat down, not with the packed earth so cold.
“You’ll have to tell me about your evening as we return,” he told his niece, before waving at the approaching men. “Sir Cal, it’s a pleasure to see you again, albeit in these difficult circumstances.”
Cal waved him off with an amused snort. “Please, no need to be so formal. Friends never use my title.”
Diel laughed, his despair abating. Alone, he never knew how to keep his emotions under control and deal with his thoughts. He needed others to ground himself. He turned to Varden, already calmer than a minute ago.
“How was he?” Diel asked. His hollowed cheeks and ragged outfit provided an answer, but he hoped they would know more.
“Not good, but he won’t die,” Cal answered.
“We got there just in time,” Arathiel added, “but I think the last ten days caught up to him.”
“He’s almost safe, and he can rest as much as he wants. Once we’re in the city, we can find Vellien to help him out.” Diel pinched the bridge of his nose. Had Vellien returned to the Dathirii Tower? They might be out of reach now. “Let’s head back.”
They freed the carriage horses, and Cal insisted that Hasryan mount one of them to rest his wounded leg, only to be told Hasryan “refused to approach any of these beasts.” It earned the dark elf relentless teasing from the other three, and the back-and-forth warmed Diel’s heart. In the end, Arathiel climbed atop the horse with Varden, holding him steady. Branwen held the reins—perhaps both to guide the animal and stay close to Varden. They headed out of the eastern gate.
Their good mood was surreal, and they had left the enclave far behind by the time Diel dared to interrupt. He hadn’t wanted to ruin this tiny bubble of determination and confidence, but Branwen needed to know what had transpired that evening. When he cleared his throat to speak, everyone fell silent.
He first explained the Golden Table, even though the Council now seemed like it had occurred a week ago. He couldn’t believe Lord Allastam had stood at the table with him, acting like he didn’t know what was happening at the Dathirii Tower or what awaited Diel right after. It took a special level of hatred and coldness to do something like that.
Branwen managed to stay silent during most of the tale, grunting in place of the angry swears that burned her lips. When he first mentioned being accosted by Allastam inside their tower, however, she paled. Her mouth worked through silent rage, then intense worry, and when finally she managed words, she asked about Garith. Diel tried to reassure her—as far as he knew, no real harm had come to Garith, and he doubted it would change. Diel mentioned Hellion in his reply, however, and Branwen’s tongue loosened immediately.
“That no-good pile of bones and spite! I should have spied on his arrogant ass. Who does he think he is? Even Isandor’s shitslides aren’t as slimy as he is. I’d rather shower in their contents than spend another minute by his side! I swear, if I see his face again, I’ll break his nose into thousands of tiny pieces.”
“I … think I’d like to witness that.” Diel didn’t like how tired he sounded. He reached for Branwen’s hand and squeezed it. “He didn’t send me here, though. Lord Allastam swept in, and with his guards all over the tower, he grabbed control. I’m afraid they’re now allies of the Myrian Enclave.”
“I can’t believe it. Won’t the Golden Table slam him for that attack? This is unheard of!”
Diel recalled the tangible hostility in the council room and how quickly they had rallied against him. “We’re not nobles anymore, and they’ll only care if they believe they could be next. But I intend to try. I have at least one ally.”
City of Betrayal Page 34
