City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  “Wow, you sure have that gratitude thing pinned down,” he snapped. “If your Dathirii prison was so comfortable, you can go right back to it.”

  Hasryan met his gaze, and something in it—exhaustion, coldness, a plea to stop—broke the rising tide of his fury. Larryn’s mouth dried. Hasryan had changed since his arrest. Larryn didn’t understand the details of how, but he felt it in his bones. Whatever they’d had before had shattered. They would need to rebuild a different relationship—a better one. But how? Larryn struggled to reach out to this Hasryan, calmer and more serious, with rarer smiles and a new hard edge.

  “I was worried,” he said, desperate to explain himself. “What if they hurt you? I couldn’t function—could barely cook! Everything else mattered less.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been hearing a lot of stories about that.”

  The acid reproach in his tone startled Larryn. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I know you hit Cal.” Hasryan strode forward, his voice almost a growl. “I don’t care how angry or terrified you were! How could you? He’s your friend. How often did Cal save your ass? Where would you even be without him? None of this was his fault, and I hope you’re horrified at yourself.”

  “He never came to the headquarters!” Larryn’s mind reeled from Hasryan’s attack. He shook, nauseated, torn between the instinct to defend himself and the desire to apologize a thousand times. His friend was so close—menacingly close, even, and never before had proximity with Hasryan felt threatening. “I don’t know how. I didn’t—it … it just happened! I didn’t mean to, and I was so angry. We needed him, and he’d disappeared, and—”

  “You vanished too,” Hasryan interrupted. “You left me there. How is that better? But that’s just the thing, Larryn. You might not want to hurt others, but you still do. You get angry and lash out and blame those around you. You yelled at me in that prison, for actions you undertook to free me, like I had inflicted that pain on you! And it hurt—shit did it hurt to watch you leave—even if you hadn’t meant to attack me like that.”

  “I know! I know …” Larryn stared at the unstable ground beneath his feet. Had Hasryan come only to scold him? Did they all hate him now? They would dump him alone in this trash world, and—no. Larryn squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against his spiralling thoughts and urges to lash right back. He had failed them, and he deserved Hasryan’s anger. He needed to listen. “I’m sorry. I freaked out and ruined everything.” He forced himself to meet Hasryan’s gaze. “None of this would have happened if I had stayed with you.”

  “It’s not just that night, Larryn. You always do that, and it needs to stop. Our shit lives can explain a lot, but at the end of the day, we take these actions. They’re our decisions. And if I can resolve to move past assassinations and make up for them, then you sure as heck can deal with your anger.”

  Heat rushed into Larryn’s cheeks, and he struggled for an answer. How often had he thought similar things in the past days? But it wasn’t the same as having it laid down by Hasryan so thoroughly—so undeniably. Larryn wished he could disappear into the ground rather than confront the truth. He felt sick and confused and overwhelmed, and he instinctively clung to the one thing he knew he’d done right.

  “At-at least I freed you. You’re here now, thanks to this.”

  He gestured toward Vellien, whose eyes widened. They and Nevian had remained deathly silent, making themselves as forgettable as possible. A good reflex because Larryn knew he’d snap if either dared to say a single word. Hasryan’s assaults already taxed his control—and the reverse was true, too, judging by the stiffness in his friend’s shoulders.

  “So what happened, exactly?” Hasryan asked. “When did your brain decide the Dathirii were to blame for this one? Were they too good to Arathiel? Or did you just pick your favourite target?”

  Now that was unfair. “You think I’d kidnap a kid on a whim? Nevian used a divination spell, and I saw you in a cell with their spy. I didn’t jump to that conclusion! You were there, in a prison, and a Dathirii blocked your way out.” When had Hasryan grown so attached to them anyway? He didn’t trust these elves, right? He knew where that had landed Larryn’s mom. “Listen to yourself. It’s … it’s like you want to side with them.”

  “Side with them.” Disappointment laced Hasryan’s tone, and it struck Larryn worse than anger. “I am indeed going to ‘side with them’ if by ‘side with them,’ you mean that I will accept their help. Because when you look at it, I kind of owe my freedom to a bunch of dangerous nobles right now. Arathiel leaped into that crowd to save my ass, Camilla hid me when the entire city wanted me dead, and Diel promised to keep me safe and clear my name. I walked straight into the Myrian enclave with Branwen by my side to save a man I had never seen before because they needed my help, and I needed theirs.”

  Larryn listened with a desperate, sinking feeling. He was losing a friend—his best friend. This was a mistake, a horrible mistake, worse than them holding him prisoner. The panic crawled into Larryn’s mind, coating his answer with despair. “You can’t trust them, Hasryan. You can’t.” It wouldn’t end well. You couldn’t believe a Dathirii, not unless you had a title yourself, not unless you had dirt on them to keep you safe. Hasryan had to see that. He knew better. He had to. “They’re liars. They’ll use you, and—”

  “Stop, Larryn! Listen to me. Whichever of them is your dad can rot in hell, but I swear that’s not the whole family.”

  Larryn stepped back, the air knocked out of his lungs, and grabbed Nevian’s chair for support. Vellien slapped a hand over their mouth, muffling a gasp, but Larryn ignored them for now. His skull buzzed, and his thoughts spun wildly. It didn’t matter how Hasryan knew. This was his secret, sealed shut behind bitter walls, and he had never shared it willingly, not even to his closest friend. Hasryan had no right to throw it into his face like that—and in front of a Dathirii! Anger and betrayal choked Larryn. Unable to look at Hasryan, he whirled on Vellien and focused his pain into sharp rage. The young elf stared at him, recognition and horror dawning clear in their eyes. They knew who—Larryn shared too much of Yultes’ appearance for Vellien not to understand.

  “Rule number five,” Larryn said, his voice strangely flat. “If you utter one word of this to anyone, ever, I will find the most secret, bloodiest rituals to invoke Seiman, Master of Revenge, and we will curse you. Is that clear?”

  Vellien paled and swallowed hard. Their hand snatched Nevian’s, startling him, but he squeezed back. Vellien nodded.

  “Good,” Larryn said. “You’ve never broken a rule before. I’ll trust you to continue.” What else could he do, anyway? He had hurt Vellien enough already. “This is my secret to share, on my terms if I decide I should. No one else’s.”

  “I-I understand!” Vellien squeaked.

  The words hadn’t been meant for them. Slowly, gathering his wounded pride and dismay, Larryn faced Hasryan. His friend’s shoulders hunched with obvious regret.

  “Everyone suspected, Larryn.”

  “Everyone can go fuck themselves. It’s none of their business. But you …”

  “I shouldn’t have said it.” Hasryan ran a hand through his hair, uneasy, but met Larryn’s gaze with renewed determination. “It’s just … you have to understand. When you left, I hit rock-bottom. The noose seemed a fitting conclusion to the life that had come before. Camilla helped me out of that. She was unconditionally sweet and present, and this very morning, she chose prison over selling me out to her nephew. You don’t have to like the Dathirii, but they’re not the monsters you imagine.”

  “I know,” he whispered, and his anger flushed out, leaving him empty and exhausted. Larryn glanced at Vellien and shook his head. “I can’t trust their family, Hasryan. I don’t have that in me, and they don’t deserve the chance. Not from me.”

  “I’ll take it. I’ll take that chance.” Hasryan ran his fingers through his hair again. “But you’re still my best friend, you know? It’s not you against them.
I … I want both in my life.”

  Larryn tilted his head to the side, considering the words. Hard to conceive of his world as anything except a fight against nobles. They stole everything they could from others, forcing the Lower City to struggle for homes, food, or a minimum of hygiene. Those who helped sought to appease their guilt, and they often disappeared too quickly to have lasting effects. But perhaps Larryn could create a new category in his mind for the rare nobles who didn’t actively ruin everything. It would make it easier to deal with Vellien and Arathiel.

  He didn’t answer beyond a grunt, and after a long and uncomfortable silence, Hasryan leaned against the wall behind him with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know how you manage to be angry all the time. I’m exhausted. Can we, like … not fight ever again?”

  Larryn laughed. He wanted to fall apart and cry, to grieve over their old relationship and his shattered secrets, but he laughed instead. Maybe something had finally broken inside him after all these years of fighting against everything—constant hunger, stinging cold, relentless guards, harassing nobles, and his ever-present anger. But Hasryan’s little joke struck a chord, and he crumbled back into a chair.

  “Yeah. Let’s not. It’s starting to wear me out, I think. All of this …” He gestured vaguely around, not even certain himself what ‘this’ meant, then rubbed his face, his hands shaky. Larryn wished Vellien and Nevian had left the room. Others shouldn’t see him in this state. His voice dropped to a whisper, and he hoped only Hasryan would catch it. “You’re right, you know. About the anger. But it’s so hard to let go and move on … I’m glad you’re back.” He wouldn’t make it without Hasryan. “I had something for you, too.”

  With a weak smile, he reached for Hasryan’s weapons, still on the desk next to him, and his friend’s eyes widened when he recognized the sheath. Larryn pushed himself to standing again. Hasryan hesitated, then stepped forward and clasped his fingers around Brune’s poisoned gift, used to frame him for Lady Allastam’s murder. Larryn didn’t let go yet.

  “That’s not all.” He forced himself to meet Hasryan’s gaze despite the shame and fatigue and remaining anger. He had once promised to reveal his age if he learned Hasryan’s secret job. It had been a jest, but Larryn needed the reminder of their past dynamic. Those peaceful nights drinking in silence or teasing each other had meant the world to him, and although they might never return in that exact form, Larryn refused to break a promise made during one of them, no matter how silly. “I’m twenty.”

  “Twenty.” A wide grin split Hasryan’s face, washing away the exhaustion. “Look at you! This big grown-up man finally reached a fifth of a century!”

  Hasryan pinched his cheek, and Larryn flushed, the heat climbing all the way to the tips of his pointed ears. “Yeah, okay, enough! Don’t go telling the entire Shelter! No one would take me seriously.”

  Hasryan snorted and pulled Larryn into a tight hug, the dagger between them. It lasted only a second, but it lifted a huge weight off his shoulders. Things would turn out okay somehow. When Hasryan drew back, Larryn let his weapons go.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “Terribly, but I should bring Vellien back.”

  Vellien scrambled to their feet and emphatically shook their head. “Please eat. It’s too good for you to refuse. I can wait—I can even finish healing Nevian! We could find another room …”

  “Your uncle might die of stress before we return,” Hasryan said, but he smirked. “I’ll take it, Larryn. I’d love to indulge in your meals once more. Camilla can’t compare, even though she’s a great cook.”

  Larryn jumped to his feet. Nothing pleased him more than feeding others, especially friends, and he wanted to force the food down Hasryan’s throat. As if an amazing meal could vaporize the last half hour and smooth everything over. “I’ll be back!”

  He hurried toward the door, but as he passed near Hasryan, his friend caught his forearm, holding him back. “Larryn … if a bunch of people are thrown out of their home because of a political coup, could they rely on the Shelter for their first meal?”

  Larryn froze. Between the rumours of attacks that had reached the Shelter and Vellien’s mention of losing their titles, he could guess Hasryan meant Dathirii elves. Who else would he ask for? He gritted his teeth, struggling with the very idea of feeding nobles. But the request was from Hasryan, and after tonight, he couldn’t refuse. “They can pay me back later. How many?”

  “Round it up to ten. Add cheese for Cal.”

  Larryn snorted, grinning. He would bring them food—just this once—as a thank you for helping Hasryan. And perhaps as an apology for Vellien, too. After that, they’d have to figure out another solution—sell their silks, plead to their richer friends, whatever. His patrons needed the free meals more than the Dathirii did—every meal they didn’t have to prepare freed up time to ply their trades, and every penny they saved could go to other needs. Larryn left Nevian’s room, eager to reach his kitchens. The time alone with his pots would allow him to sort through the mess of emotions whirling inside, find his footing, and properly celebrate Hasryan’s safety.

  ✵

  Nevian escaped into the corridor, Vellien trailing behind him, and finally breathed again. He hated tonight. From the unusual way his divination spell had acted to Larryn’s horrible kidnapping plan, including being forced to watch the excruciatingly intimate confrontation with Hasryan. If he could have melted into the bed and vanished, he would have. They slipped into the first empty room they could find—number 7, right across from his—and Nevian collapsed onto the bed.

  “That was horrible.”

  Vellien had stayed near the entrance. “It’s over, isn’t it? I don’t think I can take any more.”

  Nevian frowned. Did he hear tears in Vellien’s voice? What would he do if they started to cry? He propped himself up on his elbows, terrified at the prospect of having to offer comfort. “It is. Come here.” Maybe Vellien would appreciate a distraction. “Finish healing me.”

  Vellien’s eyes widened, then they smiled and laughed—a disgraceful snort-chuckle that had come to reassure Nevian. “It was an excuse. You don’t need my help anymore.”

  “I … don’t?” Intense disappointment rushed through Nevian. He should celebrate that they had pieced together everything they could, but Nevian understood this meant Vellien would leave for good. Why would they return to a place where they had been kidnapped and threatened? But Nevian couldn’t leave the Shelter. Even crossing to another room dizzied him since his run-in with Isra.

  He wished their last healing session hadn’t involved Larryn staring at them. He always threw everyone out before they worked on repairing his mind. It hadn’t felt right for a third person to watch as Vellien had slipped into his head. Nevian had forced his initial panic to recede even though the usual crawling throb had climbed up his arm, a ghostly reminder of Avenazar’s actions. It had only been ten days, but Nevian had taught himself to box that particular pain, pushing away the fear and imagined agony as long as Vellien needed him to.

  The exercise always left both of them exhausted. Nevian struggled with having anyone in his mind, even though the experience with Vellien bordered on communion. They worked as a team: Nevian guided his companion as they navigated his memories, and Vellien assembled the demolished fragments together. That’s how they had described it: knitting loose threads together until they formed a pattern Nevian recognized and remembered. Vellien never did anything Nevian didn’t sense beforehand—and more than once, Vellien had sensed his hesitation and slowed or stopped. Nevian remained in control—of himself, of his mind, of who was allowed in it and what they could do. At first, he had held the reins tight, terrified of slipping, of letting anything escape his grasp. How could he trust anyone after all the damage already done? And yet … Nevian did trust Vellien. It had taken three meetings—very little time, all things considered—but he trusted the elf’s light touch, the gentleness and patience of their care. Vellien didn’t intrude; they w
ere invited. Welcomed, even. And because he didn’t need to fight, Nevian could participate in the piecing of his mind together, sharing the thrill of recovered memories with Vellien. The work was tiring but exciting, and he would miss it.

  He would miss Vellien too, and the calm smile and reassuring voice. They stared at him now, more shaken than Nevian had ever seen them, and he recalled their sudden gripping of his hand. The touch had sent a surge of panic through Nevian, but he’d endured and squeezed back. Vellien had so often served as his anchor that Nevian had meant to help in return, even if just this once.

  “That’s what we had said, no?” Vellien replied. “Our progress is stable and won’t unwind, I’m sure of it, and although it can speed recovery, you don’t need me anymore.”

  Nevian had limited the number of sessions because he had preferred to stay alone. Yet over the last days, Cal had diminished his time in the Shelter, Efua had respected his wishes for a safe distance, and Nevian had found his room increasingly empty. In the enclave, company had meant problems. Here, however, people wanted to help. They provided incredible food, threaded his mind back together, or looked up to him. None of them—not even ever-angry Larryn—treated him with hostility.

  “We should renegotiate.” The words stumbled out of Nevian’s mouth, and he scolded himself. What right did he have to ask Vellien to keep returning here?

  “I would love to see you again, Nevian. I think … you’re very strong.” Vellien’s cheeks turned a deep shade of red, and their freckles stood out more than ever. “What I mean to say is that I like you, but I don’t know if I have a home anymore. I can’t negotiate in such a position, but you will definitely receive word from me when I can.”