City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  How strange to have saved someone he had never met, only to be immediately saved in return.

  Arathiel smiled and pulled the covers over Varden, promising himself he’d watch over the priest. He couldn’t leave Cal’s place anyway. Being forced to hide alongside Hasryan, Diel, and Varden pleased him. With so many of them stuck in Cal’s tiny home, Arathiel doubted they’d have a moment of boredom.

  ✵

  Hasryan’s peace of mind had vanished the moment their group entered Isandor once more. Now he was watching Lord Dathirii with reflexive wariness out of a habit entrenched for years. He couldn’t forget his current situation. This lord—a stranger, really—had lost everything tonight, and he could retrieve it in a single exchange: Hasryan for his home, his reputation, his family. Could Hasryan trust Diel’s promise of help, made before his world had unravelled? Larryn would mock him for even considering this noble an option, and yet … Worry etched on his face, Lord Dathirii shifted pillows around unhelpfully, unable to focus. Hard to imagine a cold and calculating traitor in the listless man thinking of his trapped love. Hasryan didn’t blame him—if any of his friends were in the Allastams’ hands, he’d find it difficult to concentrate too. Except that was precisely why he feared Lord Dathirii. Good but desperate people quickly abandoned morals to achieve their goals.

  “Is Uncle that attractive, or are you just staring for fun?”

  Hasryan dropped his pillow, startled by Branwen’s voice. She grinned at him, and he’d teased enough folks to know she thought he would fumble into an apology. He met her gaze and smirked. “Staring is amusing. I wanted to make you jealous, and it seems like it worked.”

  “What? Of course not!” She huffed, her cheeks burning. Hasryan laughed.

  “Hurried denial and immediate blush? Very credible.” If she had noted his focus on her uncle, she must have been staring too. Hasryan’s stomach tightened. He hated being watched, studied, judged. Too often, those who noticed him meant harm. At least Branwen didn’t feel threatening. Her curiosity and teasing set him on edge, but Hasryan appreciated the change of pace from hostile onlookers. He reminded himself that Cal’s place would always stay safe for him as long as his friend had a say in it.

  Hasryan’s gaze sought Cal out. He’d fallen into step with the halfling during their return, away from the others, and they’d had their first private conversation since his fateful headbutt in the Skyward Tavern. At first, Hasryan floundered when he tried to voice his thoughts, so he thanked Cal for healing his leg, tried to explain why horses terrified him, and eventually shifted the topic toward the Shelter.

  “I considered fleeing Isandor while I was hiding with Camilla but … I couldn’t leave everything behind. Even thinking neither you nor Larryn wanted to speak with me again. It’s my home now. I’m glad I stayed to fight for it, and for Arathiel.”

  “He’s great, isn’t he?” Cal asked.

  “Inviting him to play cards was our wisest decision this year,” Hasryan agreed. “I declared him an official part of our Halfies Trio. Apparently Sora’s cleric described him as half-alive.”

  “That’s gross.” Cal had glanced back and frowned. “He’s as alive as they come. I wonder how they healed him. I tried, and it felt like a cold vortex sucking me in. My fingers became numb.”

  They had stared at Cal’s small hand for a moment before shrugging it off. Just another layer to Arathiel’s mystery they had no intention of prying into. “Listen, Cal, I think you should know … I’m glad you stopped to save that apprentice. Nevian?”

  Cal’s breath had caught and he had paled. “You-you are?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. It hurt to believe you didn’t care about me. But you did the right thing, and I bet you’re full of guilt about it.” He had smirked when Cal bit his lower lip—of course he had been beating himself up over this. “Please clear your conscience.”

  “Larryn—”

  “Is wrong on so many levels, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Cal had laughed, then hugged his legs. When he had whispered “thank you,” tears had filled his voice, and Hasryan had been glad he had discussed it. He owed the halfling so much, and he hated the idea of guilt weighing his friend down. Cal deserved nothing less than happiness and endless crates of cheese. Perhaps Lord Dathirii would see to the latter once they had taken back his tower.

  Urgent knocks interrupted his thoughts, and Hasryan slid away from the entrance, his heart hammering. How had they found them so fast? But no, guards would have smashed the door without pause. He continued to draw back, ready to disappear into the kitchen, when a young voice called through the thick wood.

  “Cal! Cal, please!”

  Hasryan recognized Efua’s voice, and he hesitated. She sounded terrified, but should they let her see everyone? He had played and chatted with her a few times, but Hasryan preferred to avoid children in general, and he doubted they could trust her with the huge secret this living room had become. Cal must not have shared his worries because he ran and flung the door open. She threw herself into his arms, crouching to compensate for the height difference, and squeezed tight.

  “Whoa, Efua, what’s wrong?”

  She sniffed and pulled back. “It’s Larryn, he—” Efua stopped, her gaze settling on the numerous strangers in the room. She clamped shut and straightened. “Nothing. I’m okay.”

  “We can’t help him if you don’t tell us,” Hasryan said. A low dread built in his mind. Larryn had a knack for getting into trouble and paying tenfold for his mistakes. “You can speak freely here.”

  Efua furrowed her eyebrows and studied the group. Her eyes lingered on Lord Dathirii, then she dug into her pocket and retrieved a folded parchment. Cal accepted it with a frown, prying it open under everyone’s watch. No one said a word, and only Efua moved, pulling at her curly hair: a nervous habit. With every line, Cal grew paler, until he reached the end and groaned.

  “Ren’s gracious luck, he’ll get himself killed one day.” He rubbed his face with one hand, concern and anger warring in his expression. “Who did he want to receive this message, Efua?”

  “Lord Dathirii.” She stared at her feet, doing her best not to look at Diel. Even if she didn’t know exactly who he was, Isandor had a limited supply of upper-class golden-haired elves. She must have suspected. “I went to the tower, but the guards weren’t Dathirii, and they told me there wasn’t a Lord Dathirii anymore, and then they asked me if I wanted to give it to the elf in charge. I asked them if he was the Lord Dathirii, and they laughed and shooed me away.”

  “I’m right here,” Diel said. “Since this missive is destined to me, might I perhaps have it, Sir Cal?”

  Although Diel continued their little knightly humour, the strange edge in his voice made it clear he’d just ordered Cal. Efua gasped, and for a moment, Cal stayed put, uncertain. His hesitation dug claws of worry through Hasryan’s stomach. Just what had Larryn done this time? When Cal finally brought Diel the message, Hasryan was already cringing.

  “Please don’t get mad at him,” Cal said. “I’m sure they’re totally okay!”

  “They …”

  Diel’s voice trailed off as he dropped his sentence to read. Hasryan waved Cal over, hoping for some insight into the contents of this letter.

  “Are you certain it’s real? Larryn can’t write.” He whispered, but in the heavy silence, everyone must have heard him.

  “Oh, it’s him all right,” Cal said. “Reeks of him. I think he made Nevian write it. You won’t like what it says.”

  A tired laugh escaped Hasryan. He suspected this involved him, and he doubted Larryn’s words toward the Dathirii would be kind. Resigned to deal with whatever Larryn had cooked up this time, he waited for Diel to finish the message. And indeed, when the elven lord reached the end, he looked straight at Hasryan.

  “The good news is, I know exactly where Vellien is, and we’ll have a professional healer for Varden soon.” With a heavy sigh, he gave the letter a slight shake. “The bad news i
s, this Larryn wants to exchange their safety for yours. He seems to be under the impression I’m holding you against your will, Hasryan.”

  “That does sound an awful lot like Larryn.” How had he learned Hasryan had stayed in the Dathirii Tower? Had he guessed it because of Arathiel’s friendship and temporary freedom? Except he couldn’t prove that, which meant he’d kidnapped a noble and threatened them with nothing but his bitter opinions to support his conclusion. How exactly did he think that would work out? Any House had the resources to track him down, drag him to a cell or a noose, and close the Shelter forever. “I’m touched by his dedication, but this is ridiculous.”

  “So, you all know him, don’t you?” Diel crumpled the parchment, steel in his voice. “I’ll admit I have little patience for those who would attack my family tonight. I have lived through enough of it.”

  “Please don’t hurt him!” Cal stepped forward, spreading his arms as if Larryn stood behind him. “He’s a good person who puts all his time and energy and money into a shelter where he feeds and houses homeless folk. He’s just … misguided, and angry, and since Hasryan’s arrest, he’s grown more and more erratic. Please understand. His best friend almost got hanged in front of everyone, and he is convinced no one else can keep Hasryan safe. You can’t blame him! This city always treated both of them as shit. Dirt under your boots.”

  The passion with which Cal defended Larryn surprised Hasryan. After the punch, no one would have faulted him for staying silent. “Don’t unleash the resentment you’ve built against Lord Allastam on him,” Hasryan added. “He’s an easier and unprotected target who made a shit decision, but he doesn’t deserve it. I can fix this.”

  Diel straightened in his seat, fingers playing with the corner of a pillow. “Then please do. I don’t care about punishing this Larryn in any shape or form, but I cannot let him hurt Vellien.”

  “They’ve been helping at his Shelter for days!” Branwen added. “Your friend needs to work on his thank-you skills.”

  “That, and so much more,” Hasryan said. “I’ll go. It’s risky, but we should talk, and I can bring Vellien safely here after.”

  Lord Dathirii’s shoulders slumped, and he nodded. “Thank you, Hasryan. That’s all I want, really.”

  “Happy to serve, milord.” Hasryan grinned, then found a cloak to throw over his too-bright coat. “If I can, I’ll even return with dinner for all of us. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m dying of hunger, and you haven’t really enjoyed food until you’ve tasted Larryn’s cooking.”

  His comment drew a smile from Diel and a joyful exclamation from Cal and Efua. Hasryan motioned for her to lead the way. “Let’s head out together.”

  She had been standing in silence, always staying close to Cal, and Hasryan’s suggestion surprised her. “I thought you couldn’t be free anymore. Are you okay now?”

  “I am, but I still have to be careful not to be seen by guards.” He pulled his hood up and opened the door. “Come on, I’ll explain what I can on the way.”

  She skipped ahead, hair bouncing as she left Cal’s place. Hasryan wondered how much he could tell her, but she needed to know she couldn’t talk about who she’d seen at Cal’s, or even that she had delivered a letter there. Efua had always been a quick thinker, and he believed she could handle the secret if no one asked. He hoped she’d never be in a position where people pressured her for such information.

  As they travelled to the Lower City and Larryn’s Shelter, Hasryan’s stomach began to knot. Seeing his friend again after their fight in the prison made him anxious—no, more than that. Every step wound his nerves tighter and brought new catastrophic scenarios to his mind. Larryn would hate what Hasryan had to say, even if he needed to hear it. No one else could reach through his wall of anger, though. Larryn trapped himself in it like the city of Nal-Gresh in its stone egg. Those not welcomed never entered. Except Hasryan didn’t want to fight for him to listen. Hasryan considered the Shelter his home, and its owner had carved a place for him there. They shared specific hardships and a criminal bent that made their friendship unique. Not to mention Larryn’s loyalty had obviously never died, not even in the Sapphire Guard’s prisons. Only Larryn would kidnap a Dathirii elf for his sake. Hasryan smiled at the thought despite the short-sightedness of it all. Or because of it, perhaps. It was time to get a few hard truths out of the way and drag the last member of the Halfies Trio—or, well, Quartet now—back into his circle of friends.

  Larryn was pacing around and around in Nevian’s room, unable to stop. Every time he sat down, he started tapping his foot, earning himself a glare from the young wizard. Then he jumped back to his feet and circled once more. Music drifted in from the common area, but even the lively violins and spoon rhythms sounded discordant and distraught. Patron conversations should bury them, but his people had started talking in low and tense voices. Rumours of attacks had reached them, confusing and alarming, and no one knew the details. Larryn pushed it out of his mind. Only Hasryan and the Dathirii mattered tonight.

  What was taking them so long anyway? Were they preparing an assault on his home? Had Efua run into problems? The scary stories dripping down the bridges and stairs conjured terrifying possibilities. Larryn wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he regretted this entire affair. When would he learn to think these plans through? He groaned and collapsed into the chair again, his growing fear threatening to overtake his anger.

  Larryn had returned half an hour ago with Hasryan’s enchanted dagger, stolen from the Sapphire Guard’s headquarters when he had tried to free Hasryan, and dinner for three. He untied Vellien, worried at first that the teenager would try something—use their connection to the Elven Shepherd to invoke Their wrath, or blind Larryn with light and escape. Something—anything—to ruin Larryn’s plan. Vellien instead rubbed their shoulders, thanked him for the freedom and the meal, and started eating. Their delighted squeal of surprise at the first bite calmed Larryn, as did the speed with which Vellien finished their plate. They hadn’t changed from the kind teenager who had healed so many patrons and respected all his rules; they’d only turned into a ball of anxiety. The food helped appease them, too, and they clearly struggled not to gush about how delicious the meal was. Nevian suggested Vellien could finish healing him since they were untied, and they both stared at Larryn for permission. His stomach squeezed. It wasn’t right to have scared Vellien so much, Dathirii or not. They were just a naive kid, in so many ways.

  So he let them and watched from his chair, arms crossed, the way an angry parent would. Nevian and Vellien were almost of an age with him, no more than two or three years younger, yet Larryn couldn’t think of them as full adults. Perhaps he shouldn’t think of himself as one either, but he had run this Shelter for two years now and fed himself for a decade. He had never been a teenager in the proper sense of the term. Larryn listened to Vellien’s professional tone as they went through routine questions, their smooth rebuttal of Nevian’s gruff responses, and the ease with which they conjured white light and delved into the apprentice’s damaged mind. Nevian almost leaned into the touch, and Larryn belatedly realized he’d never seen him comfortable so close to anyone. Physical proximity and contact stressed Nevian, and except for healing, he rarely let others within this boundary. Even now, Vellien restricted their touch to fingers on his forehead, the rest of their body staying clear of their patient’s. Guilt wracked Larryn’s stomach. He shouldn’t think of these two as sheltered kids. Could elven youth ever be called proper teenagers? Decades of experience had changed Vellien’s approach to life and granted them the wisdom and humility to submit to Larryn’s rules. And while Nevian hadn’t carried hundreds of buckets of piss to the shitslides, he had endured his share of disgraceful tasks and abuse. Yet Nevian’s stubborn protests against this plan had crystallized their dynamic in Larryn’s mind: they were the young ones, and he was the adult—the irresponsible man who’d kidnapped one of them to trade for his friend. Larryn groaned at himself again, but it was too
late for regrets. He couldn’t back out.

  The door handle rattled, and Larryn jumped to his feet. Too late indeed. He stalked to the entrance, his palms sweaty, his chest hurting from stress. “Who’s there?” he growled, hoping to make his high-pitched voice more intimidating.

  “Larryn, for the love of every god out there watching and laughing at us, let me in before someone comes by.”

  Hasryan’s voice sent a jolt of relief through his body, and he scrambled for the door, a little dizzy. He hadn’t expected Hasryan to just appear in the Shelter. He’d thought he would have a threatening message, or guards, or Kellian Dathirii. Behind him, Nevian and Vellien had fallen silent. Larryn flung the door open, unable to keep the grin off his face.

  Hasryan stood in the corridor, hood pulled over his head, hands inside his sleeves to hide them. His lips stretched into the usual smirk, and amusement shone in his red eyes. “Wow, you’re bad at this stuff,” he said. “Good thing no one had coerced me into talking through the door, hm?”

  “I …”

  He was right. Any guards with Hasryan would have had a clear shot. Larryn flushed a red deeper than the winter coat on Hasryan’s back—the same he’d seen in the mirror. His friend laughed and swept in, closing the door behind himself, and the beautiful sound washed Larryn’s mortification away. Hasryan had returned, safe and in good spirits. Everything could change now. Larryn would apologize to Cal, and they could fix their shattered relationship and rebuild what they had before.

  Except Hasryan threw a glance toward Vellien, and his smile vanished. “Don’t pull this kind of shit again.” His tone cut through Larryn’s hopes. “What were you thinking? You’ll get yourself killed.”

  Larryn staggered back, stunned. One moment, his heart had been soaring, happy to have his friend beside him; the next, it crashed on the ground, smashing into pieces. Shouldn’t Hasryan thank him? Larryn had risked everything to save him! Larryn had expected them to laugh at this ordeal and smooth over the terrible mistakes he’d made, but not … not this. Anger trickled back, nestling in his stomach, familiar and reassuring.