City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  “This happened because you freed me, didn’t it?” Arathiel asked.

  “To save Varden, yes.” He had heard the guilt in Arathiel’s tone and would have none of it. “I don’t regret my choice. Lord Allastam was already looking for an excuse to grab more power. He’s testing them—pushing at our customs to see how far he can stretch them. We’ll fight him. I just … need a break first.”

  Hasryan laughed, the sound heavy and mirthless, his earlier joy gone. “What wouldn’t I give for Camilla’s tea right now? The room will feel empty without her.”

  “I’m glad Miss Sharpe was with her. If she hadn’t spread word about Camilla’s arrest by the time Allastam attacked our home, I doubt she will.” Diel had never managed to speak with her after all.

  “Is everyone safe, Diel?” Arathiel asked. “Did you see Jaeger?”

  Diel closed his eyes. Thoughtful as always, of course. Arathiel had met the family before he had left for the Well, and he knew who mattered most. “I did. I demanded to. I had to say …” He trailed off to fight the tears in his voice. They had saved him, and he would see Jaeger again. “They beat him up. Guards died, too. No one else got hurt that I’m aware of, but a lot could have happened since they sent me away. Once we find somewhere safe, I can share the details, and I would love to hear your side. But where?”

  At first, no suggestions came, and the group halted. Hasryan and Arathiel looked at each other, then both shrugged apologetically. Branwen grumbled about the Dathirii Tower always being her safe place, and not knowing anywhere else, and soon enough, they were all staring at Cal. If he didn’t have a solution …

  “Well, we can’t go to the Shelter because Larryn would get super angry, but there’s always my place! It’s small and a bit of a mess, and I only have one bed, but I keep a lot of pillows, so we can figure something out. It’s no palace, but no one knew I was going with Arathiel tonight except Larryn, Nevian, and Miss Sora, and I don’t think they’ll repeat it to the wrong people. We should be fine.”

  Diel’s smile returned. “Sir Cal, you are most gracious.”

  “It’s an honour!” Cal exclaimed, and Diel laughed at how he sputtered. “No, it really is. I hate watching from the sidelines while the others do dangerous things.”

  “Cal, I’d be dead without you,” Hasryan said.

  “And Nevian, too,” Arathiel added.

  “We might never have reached Varden,” Branwen finished. “I’m glad you came along. This team needs more than fighters!”

  Cal’s cheeks turned a bright red, visible even in the dim moonlight. He stammered through thanks before staring at the ground. Hasryan prodded him with the tip of his boot, then ran a hand through Cal’s dust-covered hair, messing it up. “Don’t let anyone say you’re useless.”

  Cal lifted his head, meeting Hasryan’s gaze with renewed determination. His fingers hovered near his cheek and an older bruise. “Only assholes would utter such a thing. I know better. I’m Sir Cal, Lord Dathirii’s illustrious host, and the luckiest halfling in the city!”

  “You may very well be the most generous, too,” Diel said. “I won’t forget it.”

  He wouldn’t forget any of tonight’s events—not the people who’d betrayed him, and even less those who stood by his side. Weariness weighed on Diel’s mind as they set in motion again, bending his back and slowing his strides, so he drew strength from the strange companions around him. Cal talked almost ceaselessly, recounting card games he had played with Arathiel and Hasryan. His two friends sometimes corrected the gross exaggerations, but mostly they laughed alongside the story. Branwen interrupted with the occasional question, and Diel preferred to stay silent and enjoy. Eventually, they moved to the night’s events, and while it dampened the mood, their earlier laughter had soothed his nerves and reaffirmed his decision. Neither Arathiel nor Hasryan belonged in a cell or a noose. He’d fight for them—with them—until both could once more safely claim Isandor as their home.

  Jilssan arrived at the remnants of Keroth’s temple at full speed, and stones dropped to the bottom of her stomach as she discovered the true range of the devastation. Half the ceiling had collapsed, taking down part of the main alley and entrance with it, leaving a skeleton of arches behind. They reached up like bony fingers, witnesses to a once-proud structure, and a warning about the depths of Avenazar’s power. She eyed the lingering cloud of dust with suspicion. Already, air whistled through her damaged bronchia. The quick run had made breathing a struggle, and she feared entering would worsen her state.

  Somewhere in there, however, under the debris and heavy stones, was her apprentice.

  Jilssan angled for the collapsed wall and leaped from one large boulder to another, climbing the rubble with unnatural speed. Guards already milled around inside, moving in pairs as they inspected the damage. Keroth’s acolytes huddled near an unbroken pillar, staring at their destroyed temple. A few had cuts and bruises, and Jilssan wondered if any were now missing, stuck under the collapsed ceiling of their room. Doubtful, since most of the quarters had survived, and not her problem.

  Hers was probably the reason four soldiers and two acolytes were arguing in low voices, gesturing at broken stones and the pillar they came from. Jilssan strode toward them, and their conversation died as soon as they spotted her. They watched her approach with obvious apprehension, deepening Jilssan’s own fears, and parted ways for her.

  A young girl lay behind them, partly buried under rubble, with a boulder crushing her arm and a section of her chest. She was the right age, but could this be her apprentice? Jilssan studied the thick eyebrows, broad nose, and full lips, trying to convince herself of what she saw. No one could deny that the short skirt and Myrian blouse belonged to Isra, though. A large mass of wavy brown hair had replaced the straight blonde cut, and the darker colour of her skin had nothing to do with the substantial layer of dust on it. It had to be her. She could feel it in her guts.

  “Why are you all standing there instead of helping her?” she demanded, but she knew why—they all knew why. They had no qualms letting an Isbari girl suffocate. Jilssan glared at them, then snapped her second word of power, calling upon her magic to strengthen her muscles. They murmured as she stepped forward, grabbed the largest boulder, lifted it with care, and flung it away. The cacophony of its landing didn’t quite cover Isra’s moan at her release, and the quiet sound twisted her stomach. Jilssan thanked the halfling for the healing he had provided, even though the girl obviously required more. Jilssan spun to the others, stifling a cough. Displacing the boulder had thrown a cloud of dust into the air, and she could barely breathe, as if every speck clung to the inside of her airways. “Send a healer to her quarters, then someone find me Master Avenazar.”

  No one moved at her command. They exchanged hesitant glances. “Madam, she’s—”

  “It’s Master Jilssan,” she snapped. Never had the guards questioned her authority before. Did Isra’s Isbari descent weigh heavier in the balance, or could they hear the whistle of her breathing? “Until we know more, you answer to me. Break this rule and Master Avenazar will hear about it, is that clear? Now go.”

  They scampered off, and Jilssan waited until they’d left the temple grounds to release her wracking cough. The edges of her vision had started to darken, and she couldn’t wait to escape this place. She needed to know what had happened, though. How much had Avenazar seen? What had led to the temple’s collapse? She needed information to parse which lies to tell and which to avoid. If anyone ever suspected she had come across Branwen and her team and let them go, she could kiss her freedom and life goodbye. The same was true for Isra. Protecting her had become exponentially more difficult.

  Jilssan cast her gaze down as she walked off, the apprentice light in her empowered arms. The girl’s unbroken arm clutched her lucky amulet, a gift from her father. Shattered, now. What would Master Enezi say when he discovered what had happened here? He’d be furious, but what could Jilssan have done about this? He hadn’t even warned her!
Unless … she slowed down, staring at the girl in her arms, whom she had loved and protected for three years now. What if she wasn’t the real Isra? What if this Isbari girl had sought to escape Myria and impersonated Enezi’s daughter? Cold numbness climbed through Jilssan’s spine at the possibility. She would need to ask Enezi. If Isra, the daughter of one of Myria’s most powerful mage, wasn’t Isbari at all … would anywhere remain safe for the daring, cunning girl she’d trained? She hoped it was the same girl, that the amulet had indeed been devised by Master Enezi. The alternative terrified her. Jilssan tightened her hold, her stomach cramping, and hurried to Isra’s room.

  ✵

  Isra stared at the ceiling above her head and the intricate motifs painted on it. Every morning for two years, she’d woken to the depiction of the Myrian army marching through the dried Bielal Sea to conquer Isbar, and every morning, she had smiled, certain of which side she belonged to despite the heritage hidden under a spell. It had been a lie, to herself and others, but as long as no one pointed it out, she could continue living it.

  Not anymore. Her amulet had broken, taking away her protection, and she would be cast out of prestigious Myrian circles. No more shopping in upper-class boutiques with Alanna and her friends, no more beautiful balls with the Empire’s best mages and their daughters in gorgeous dresses, and no chance at becoming a wizard herself.

  The fresco blurred behind her tears, and she choked down a sob. Beside her bed, Jilssan woke with a start, as if she had waited for nothing but that small sound, that undeniable sign Isra had regained consciousness. Isra wished she had stayed silent. She couldn’t bear to look at her master or weather her inevitable anger. Helping Cal and the others had been a terrible, irrational, and ultimately disastrous decision. She shouldn’t have—she knew this much deep down—yet she surprisingly didn’t regret it.

  “I’m here,” Jilssan said, as if Isra hadn’t realized. “How are you?”

  The calm in her voice reassured Isra, but she didn’t risk a glance. No words would make it past the lump in her throat either, so she closed her eyes and waited for the storm.

  A firm hand touched her healthy arm. “You need more rest. The healer refused to give me something to numb your pain—they say Avenazar demanded every last drop of it. I believe that.”

  Isra wished they had denied him instead, but who here would ever risk such a thing? Between Varden’s torture and the ruinous spell at the temple, they’d had ample occasions to witness the consequences.

  “Isra …” Jilssan sighed and squeezed her arm. “I don’t know if you’re safe here anymore, but we’ll get through this. I’ll find a way.”

  This time, Isra’s eyes flew open. She wanted to help. “You’re not leaving me? I thought …” Her words ran out, and she met Jilssan’s gaze. Isra’s vision swam, but she held onto the smile on her master’s face.

  “Are you or are you not my apprentice?” Jilssan asked. “I once promised your father I would protect you. Today, I promise you directly. I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”

  “O-okay.” Her head buzzed, but the weight pressing down on Isra lightened. She had always believed her world would end if her secret was revealed, yet Jilssan now held all of them, and she meant to fight for her nonetheless. Isra lifted a hand to stare at her fingers, so different from what she was used to. Perhaps it wouldn’t turn out so bad, to be seen as she was. She wasn’t in Myria, and people had come to save Varden. The world worked differently here. She returned her attention to the ceiling. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell about the amulet and my mom that night, when we talked about … the other stuff. I didn’t think I could.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I said you could tell me your secrets, not that you had to. You choose when and how.”

  Isra pouted. “I didn’t choose this time…” She wondered what the future would hold. Would they send her back to Myria? What would Avenazar do, once he learned? “Please tell me how it ended. At the temple.”

  For all she knew, everyone had died, and she had risked her life for nothing. She hoped they had escaped—that her bubble had held long enough. It should have. Isra had struggled through the spell, nearly failing to grasp the magical energy and warp it into a protective shield, but she’d succeeded. She had cast a complex spell under stress, despite all her previous difficulties, and for a moment, the pride smothered her other worries. Isra listened to Jilssan explain what they’d found—or, more importantly, hadn’t found—at the temple, glad to know she had played a pivotal role in Varden’s escape. A good thing. The first, but hopefully not the last, and Jilssan had promised to help however she could. Isra propped herself up while, and soon she was explaining her own accomplishments in hushed and excited tones. This wasn’t the end, but the beginning of something new, of which she could be proud.

  Arathiel didn’t say much on the long walk to Isandor, allowing his more talkative partners to explain their expedition at the enclave. His attention kept drifting, to the stinging line on his back. It hurt. The foreign sensation had panicked him at first, but now excitement pierced through. What did this mean? Could specific events trigger his other senses? What if he could recover some of them permanently? He shouldn’t get his hopes up—with the exception of the burn, he couldn’t feel anything else. No pain from the rough landing, no cold at the winter’s night, and no idea of the textures of either Varden’s hair or clothes. He wished he could ask him if Keroth’s fire could have caused this, or if they could test it.

  They abandoned the horse when they reached Isandor’s first stairs. The chatter had died, and everyone walked with their heads low. Diel had tucked his golden hair into a hood, Hasryan sulked in the shadows out of sight, and Branwen scouted each bridge and set of stairs before they took them. They climbed through the Lower City until Cal pointed to a yellow door so bright it seemed to shine in the moonlight. Arathiel grinned. How flashy could it be if even he could see its intensity? Cal had been watching him, and he laughed at his reaction.

  “You’ll love my place, Ara.”

  And Arathiel did.

  Cal’s front door lead to a spacious and round living room, furnished with three large sofas—one red, one blue, one green—colours strong enough for him to perceive in all of their glory. Shelves lined the walls, half-buried under trinkets and statuettes of deities. Most were dedicated to Ren’s many physical representations, but other divinities were present. Perhaps because of the priest in his arms, Arathiel sought Keroth’s statues. An ivory one depicted the pale and masculine fire wielder the Myrians referred to as the Firelord, while the dark wood carving next to Them showed the black woman hailed as the Mother of Flames in most southern regions—both very popular aspects of Keroth. The six core deities had as many representations as there were cultures, while demigods like Ren tended to resemble their appearances before ascension—or what common lore said of them, anyway. Xe had rich brown skin, curly hair, a pear-shaped figure, and Xir eternal mischievous smile.

  “Your place hurts my eyes, Cal,” Hasryan said.

  “Oh, good. I’m not alone!” Branwen spun around, her wide eyes taking in the surroundings. “You need my help with this living room. What’s that in the ceiling?”

  Cal laughed, clearly enjoying their pain. “The pillows. There’s a ladder to get them.”

  Arathiel shifted his attention from the statuettes to the ceiling. An enormous net hung from it with a myriad of rainbow pillows waiting within. Arathiel squinted from all the colours, grinning. Cal was right. He loved it in all its ugliness.

  “It’s so lively. I could stay here forever.” Arathiel turned to Cal. “If you have no objections, I think we should grant Varden an actual bed. I suspect it’s been a long time for him.”

  “Please do! My room’s right there.” He pointed at one of the doors leading out. “Meanwhile, we’ll get some sort of community resting area going.”

  Arathiel headed in, and the walls’ deep blue disappointed him. They were envelop
ing and comforting but not as energetic as the sofas. Perhaps that was for the best—Varden might prefer to wake somewhere cozy rather than in a rainbow fest. Arathiel set him down on the mattress, thanking the gods for Cal’s human-sized bed. A small moan escaped Varden as Arathiel put a pillow under his head, and he touched the priest’s forehead only to remember with a sinking feeling that he couldn’t tell if it was burning hot. He’d have to ask Cal to look again. His friend had, in his words, ‘shoved some emergency healing’ into Varden, but after helping Hasryan and Isra, he’d had little left. Between ten days of torture and Varden’s actions in the brazier, the priest’s body might just be giving in.

  At first, Arathiel hadn’t understood what had happened in the temple. The powerful flash of pain had fried his mind, yet it had ended before Arathiel even hit the burning logs. One moment, Arathiel thought he would die, devoured by agonizing flames; the next, Varden had wrapped an arm around him, curls whipping about in the hot air, and the fire had formed a dome over them without coming close.

  “Are you okay?” he’d asked, his voice cracking.

  Arathiel had clung to him, panicked at the sizzling pain across his back, repeating “I hurt” again and again.

  Varden had squeezed him tight. A smile had brightened his face, erasing several lines of worry. The light had danced across his skin, and in the swirling chaos of flames and agony, Varden had turned into a beautiful, solid anchor. “It’s fine,” he’d said. “The fire is safe.”

  Keeping it that way had taxed him. The strain had become more apparent as the temple crumbled around them, stones crashing into the brazier. Varden had scowled, his fingers digging into Arathiel, his breathing raw and shallow. The shield of flames had held. Varden had only dismissed it when silence had returned. Flames had rushed into his body, heat had drained from the coals under them, and he’d collapsed into Arathiel’s arms.