City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  Varden rested on the bed, and Vellien had pulled the thick blankets back. They had set one hand on his forearm and the other on his head, and they cast a pale light against the dark blue walls. A line barred Vellien’s forehead, and the glow of their palms wavered in intensity as they muttered to themself. Hard work. She knew Varden would need it, but worry constricted her insides.

  Branwen scanned the room for a chair. When she found none, she dragged a pillow closer and sat on the floor with her back against the bed. She closed her eyes, figuring she’d rest them while Vellien continued their work. Just a moment. She wanted to be awake when Varden came to.

  ✵

  The cracks in Keroth’s mind shield widened under Avenazar’s assault. Varden fought back, struggling against the weighty presence ripping his last defences apart. It wouldn’t hold. Branwen had arrived. She sounded distant, as did her companions, but Varden knew they’d come to rescue him. He was no longer alone. They wouldn’t reach him in time, though. Already, Avenazar trampled through the shreds of his protection, tightening his grip around Varden’s mind and squeezing out the last of his strength. Bright flames appeared in his hands, and he panicked as his body prepared to strike. So close. Varden tried to stop himself, but he couldn’t handle the pressure on his mind—Avenazar’s spell was crushing his skull, flattening his willpower into nothingness, and creating new holds for the wizard’s use. His senses were dimming, his surroundings growing farther away as fire lashed out of his hands and cut a line to Branwen.

  Her scream woke him with a start. Powerful nausea leaped to his throat and head, and the world spun around him. He squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t hit her, he knew he hadn’t, but the vivid dream clung to his mind and sickened him. Varden struggled to slow his ragged breath when a firm hand touched his forearm through the blankets.

  “It’s okay. You’re safe, sir. I’m sorry I triggered that memory.”

  The calm voice belonged to a teenage elf, sitting by his side with an apologetic smile. Freckles lined their cheeks and nose, making their round face appear even more youthful. They wore clean clothes with a sharp but simple cut. Varden blinked several times, struggling to gather his thoughts. He was in a bed—on a comfortable mattress—with a wealthy elf by his side. No longer in the enclave. Branwen had come for him.

  “You’re a Dathirii.”

  He croaked the words, then tried to clear his parched throat with a painful cough. The elf reached backward and handed him a waterskin before helping Varden to sit up to drink. The few vertical inches increased the tilt of the world underneath him, so Varden gulped water in a hurry before lying down once more. His companion smiled.

  “I’m Branwen’s youngest cousin, Vellien, and I will be your healer. Please use they pronouns when referring to me.” Their official tone turned shy, and Varden nodded to indicate he had heard. “You’re lucky, in a way. I have developed a certain … expertise in countering Avenazar’s brand of mental destruction, so you’re in good hands.”

  How had Vellien even practised that? Varden’s hazy mind couldn’t find an answer, but he thanked Keroth for the care. The very thought of healing himself drained him—the thought of doing anything at all seemed exhausting, in truth. At least he could rest now. His nightmare was over.

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “Surprisingly good, if I daresay. I believe you have all your memories, which is more than I could say of Nevian at first, and—”

  “Did you say Nevian?” Varden’s pulse quickened, and his breath caught. Avenazar had described Nevian’s death in vivid detail, imprinting the scene in Varden’s mind as surely as if he had witnessed it. But he had lied so often and falsified so many thoughts and memories over the last ten days … Varden didn’t know what to trust anymore. “Nevian is alive?”

  “He is. Alive, and growing more stubborn and healthy with every passing day.” Vellien grinned, and their cheeks flushed. Varden stared at them, surprised by how attached the young elf seemed. Never in two years at the enclave had anyone cared for Nevian like that. A shadow flitted through Vellien’s expression, however, and Varden braced for the awful news. “Avenazar had left him in a horrible state. The first time, I didn’t even know where to start. So many of his mental connections were destroyed … I jogged his memory, then followed in his mind as it tried to rebuild itself, helping him along. It’s a complex process, and he did most of the work, no matter how exhausting.”

  Relief surged through Varden and he forced a smile to his lips, fighting back the tears. “That does sound like him.”

  “You’re in a much better condition,” Vellien said. “All the important parts are there, safeguarded.”

  “Oh. I …” A solid lump rolled up Varden’s throat, blocking any other words. He had done it. Somehow, through the daily assaults and final, crushing spell, he had kept himself intact. Tears welled in his eyes, and he blinked them back. He had done it. He was in a bed, safe, and he had salvaged everything that mattered. He was still a priest of Keroth, still an Isbari who loved to draw. He still loved men, and he remembered saving Branwen and protecting Nevian. He had won. Even if nightmares plagued him for years, even if he needed weeks in a bed to recover, he had won.

  “That’s … thank you,” he whispered.

  “Sir, I’m not the one who deserves this gratitude. I solidified your memories and lessened the headache, but you held yourself together long before I arrived.”

  A stifled laugh escaped Varden. Vellien was right. He hadn’t had any help in that cell, couldn’t even sense Keroth through his iced shackles. His only support had come from Jilssan’s willingness to treat his burns and push Avenazar to stop torturing him. It hadn’t prevented Avenazar from attempting his final spell. Yet he’d held on. She had been wrong about his pride—it had saved him in the end. Varden allowed the thought to comfort him like a fire dancing in a small hearth. Despite Vellien’s efforts, his back throbbed along the burn marks, and his head pounded.

  “I can wake up Branwen if you want,” Vellien suggested before motioning toward the ground at the bottom of his bed. “I think she meant to wait for you, but we’ve all had a long and difficult day.”

  Varden stretched his neck enough to see the top of Branwen’s head. Pale light filtered through the window, reflecting copper on her brown hair. Not a single one of them looked singed, and Varden tried to dismiss his earlier nightmare. “Please.”

  Vellien grinned, then prodded Branwen’s side with their booted foot. She groaned and pushed it back, but they insisted until she glared and mumbled, “What do you want?” so low Varden barely distinguished the words. Her cousin laughed.

  “Your friend is awake, sleepyhead.”

  “Morning,” Varden greeted her.

  Branwen’s head jolted, and she scrambled to her feet with such speed she grabbed Vellien’s arm for balance. A wide smile lit her features, and its warmth spread to Varden. Vellien wished them a good night—what remained of it—and left them.

  “How are you?” Branwen asked.

  “My body feels like it’s been caught in a rock slide and my mind like it drowned.” And yet he couldn’t remember being so relaxed. When had he last been surrounded by friends and felt safe? Short meditation spells in Keroth’s great brazier couldn’t wash away the constant anxiety of life in Isandor’s Myrian enclave. Two years waiting for the axe to fall, and now he had survived even that. Varden wished he could clear all the cobwebs in his head, but he suspected Vellien would have if it had been possible. Varden smiled at his impatience—how often had he scolded Nevian for trying to substitute divine healing for rest? “Yet … I feel like myself, and that’s nothing short of a miracle.”

  Branwen sat into the recently-vacated chair, leaned forward, and mussed up his hair with a chuckle. “You look terrible. Pretty sure we can arrange a hot bath for you, unless the whole fire-cleansing thing is literal and you only need wood to burn.”

  “Water’s good.” Branwen’s forced cheer didn’t escape Varden, and h
e examined her, a sense of unease creeping into him. She grinned, yet the mirth never reached her eyes, and her shoulders stayed slumped. “I missed a lot while I was in there, didn’t I? I can tell you’re smiling for my sake.”

  She sighed, and the mask slipped off. “I’m sorry. I’m not faking it, I promise. I couldn’t think of anything but reaching you over the past ten days. Meanwhile, my family lost its titles and home, and Lord Allastam even sent Uncle Diel to the Myrian enclave.”

  Varden’s ears buzzed, and he struggled for a reassuring answer. No one knew better than he how awful that place could be. The edges of his vision blurred, and his head lightened, as if he’d faint soon. “Is he … is he still there?”

  “No, no! Oh gosh, you’re so pale, I’m sorry.” She reached for his forehead. “We brought him back, same time as you. Avenazar never had a chance to lay a finger on him.”

  “Oh. Good.” Relief washed over him, yet Branwen’s words sparked one dreadful question in his mind. “Avenazar isn’t dead, is he?”

  “No.” She pulled her legs up onto the chair and wrapped her arms around them. “He disappeared when things got bad. Half your temple collapsed on us. Without Isra’s bubble, we wouldn’t have survived.”

  “Isra’s … bubble?”

  How did Isra fit into all of this? He thought of her visit in the prison and the remorse she’d shown. Perhaps she had been more sincere than he had believed. Always hard to tell with her: one day, she was chirpy and nice, and the next, she treated him like dirt.

  “She helped. Led us to you, although not without pressure,” Branwen said, and that sounded more like her. “We had to leave her there. Jilssan should protect her—she’s a callous asshole, but she obviously cared about that girl.”

  “Isra is the only person outside herself she cares about, yes.” He struggled with every hint that Branwen had received inside help from the enclave—and not only Isra, but perhaps Jilssan too? If Avenazar learned … Varden didn’t even like them, yet his stomach clenched at what would follow. No one deserved this. He stirred, his urge to leave growing. Avenazar had no limits, no sense of priorities beyond what revenge and wounded pride dictated. They would need help, and they would need it fast. Except he was stuck in his bed and couldn’t do anything, not yet. He had to pace himself, heal his frayed mind and body. He ran a hand through his greasy curls and groaned.

  “Are you okay?” Branwen asked.

  “I’m so … tired.” Varden closed his eyes, his breathing unsteady. He wanted to cry—to just let it all out—but the tears wouldn’t come. All the exhaustion and relief stayed bottled inside. “I spent all my life imagining the moment Myrians would get me, and when they did, it was every bit as awful as I had predicted, if not worse.”

  She didn’t answer, only reached out and squeezed his forearm. What could she say, anyway? She had dragged him out of this nightmare before it was too late, and nothing else mattered. He was safe now. Safe, but exhausted. “I need to rest. Could you … talk? About anything—unimportant things, funny things, whatever you want.”

  In the silence with his eyes closed, he might forget Branwen’s presence by his side. Varden feared the nightmares would return, that he would sink into a fitful sleep, expecting a cell door to open with a creak and Avenazar to step in. Perhaps a friend’s voice could keep the memories at bay. At first, she didn’t answer, as if no inconsequential topic came to her mind, and Varden wondered how much had happened to staunch the flow of anecdotes.

  “We spent dinner retelling stories about my aunt. Well, great aunt.” She grinned and leaned forward. “You’ll get to meet her soon, I’m sure, so let me tell you everything!”

  Then she was off, repeating the tales they’d apparently shared a few hours ago. Varden enjoyed what he heard, along with the promise of discovering more of Branwen’s wonderful family. Talking about them had helped her manage the stress of the enclave, and today, her words wrapped around him like a second blanket, warm and comforting. Varden drifted back to sleep, secure in his friend’s presence.

  “I think we’ll have to switch quarters.”

  Yultes stood at the entrance of Jaeger’s room, the door closed behind him. His hesitant voice had shattered the silence and drawn the steward out of his daze. Jaeger had been staring at his hands again, his attention focused on the new scuffs and scars, half-stunned from a too-short night. How long had he slept? Not enough, of that he was certain. He had flopped down on the blankets after Diel’s departure, filled with little beyond the throbbing pain of his wounds. He used to cherish the few hours by himself, stretching out over the mattress, knowing Diel was but a few doors away. Over the last two weeks, however, Jaeger had chosen to share Diel’s bed and bring what comfort he could. He had looked forward to the sanctuary of his single bed when everything calmed down. Nothing had, and despite his bone-deep exhaustion, it had taken a long time for Jaeger to fall asleep. Now the sun had returned, and all he knew for certain about Diel was that he’d reached the Myrian enclave. Nausea mixed with his anxiety until Jaeger grew convinced his heart would fail. Yultes’ unwelcome intrusion didn’t help.

  “Eager to live next to Our Great Saviour Hellion? Is he moving into Diel’s quarters too, or will he wait until he’s dead for sure?”

  “He won’t wait.” Intense bitterness laced Yultes’ tone, and Jaeger looked up. Large bags hung under his eyes, and his mouth twisted into an angry line. Shouldn’t he gloat at their success? But Yultes hadn’t planned this, Jaeger reminded himself. He’d attempted to flee with Jaeger. At the end of the day, however, he had accepted the desk. “You shouldn’t stay so close to Hellion,” Yultes said, “but that’s not the main reason to move.”

  “What is, then?” Jaeger didn’t trust this. Yes, Yultes had tried to escape with him, and yes, Diel’s fate unsettled him, but he had mocked Jaeger for decades. Even on his best days—rare occurrences—Yultes had listened to Hellion’s advice, followed his arrogant lead, and expressed clear disdain for any household staff, Jaeger chief among them. This sudden change of heart didn’t fit the pattern, creating more fear than hope.

  “I’ll need your help,” Yultes said.

  Jaeger scoffed. A single day in his position and Yultes already pleaded for support. Did he think keeping the chaos of Diel’s life under control was an easy task? If he knew every tiny detail Jaeger oversaw while Lord Dathirii met with merchants and nobles, he would give up right away. “Enlighten me, Yultes, because I don’t follow your logic.” With each word Jaeger hammered out, the frustration of the last day surfaced, piercing through his control, leaking into his voice. “You’ll dislodge me from quarters I’ve inhabited for over a century ‘for my safety,’ hoping my overflowing gratitude will allow me to forget who you’re working with and what he did to Diel, the one elf I’ve loved from the moment I laid eyes on him—loved to the very core of my being. You, after decades of snide insults. You, who didn’t even refuse my position when offered. You—” He laughed, his control fraying, tears choking his voice. “You think I want to help you any more than I want to help Hellion?”

  The question hung in the space between them, unanswered. Jaeger ran a shaky hand through his dishevelled hair, grounding himself with the sharp pain every movement brought. He was losing his self-control—the last stable element of his life. Jaeger only desired arms around his waist, squeezing, reassuring, but that embrace and the warm, loving voice that accompanied it were gone, ripped away. Jaeger curled up on himself, ignoring the strain in his muscles, and he stared ahead. He couldn’t crack, not in front of Yultes.

  “Beat me up again if you want to, but I will never help either of you.”

  “Jaeger … You chose the location of my quarters. Do you remember?”

  A map of the tower surged to the forefront of his mind, each room falling into its place along the tree-like structure. No one knew the Dathirii Tower better than him, especially since they had reshaped it and relocated everyone forty years ago. He didn’t have the patience to recall Yultes’
quarters and guess at this charade. “Spare me your games and get to the point.”

  “I’m above Garith—nice large rooms, but rowdy, especially at night.” Yultes smirked, and Jaeger blinked at him. Long seconds passed while Jaeger struggled with the meaning of this, until his exhausted mind remembered the sex noises often drifting out of Garith’s always-open window. A brief smile flitted to his lips. Placing Yultes above him was a petty but satisfying revenge. “The point,” Yultes continued, “is that you would be close to him. Able to talk, plan, scheme. I think you misunderstood, Jaeger. I …” His voice faltered, and he leaned against the wall. “I need your help to counter Hellion, not to smooth his way into leadership.”

  Did Yultes mean to fight? How bizarre. A part of Jaeger wanted to laugh, the other to snap at Yultes. He did neither. Every passing minute, the situation became more surreal. Soon, he might assume he had never woken up, that the pain in his muscles and heart could still vanish. He stared ahead, willing that to happen, knowing it wouldn’t. He didn’t answer Yultes—what was the point? They could turn Hellion’s life into a nightmare and it wouldn’t bring Diel back. Jaeger hated staying in this tower, left behind, unable to save him in any way. He prayed Branwen would come through, but morning had dawned, and no one had heard anything about them. What if they had not returned? What if they had all died?

  “Jaeger?”

  Worry pierced Yultes’ voice and grounded Jaeger. Whether or not anyone survived the enclave didn’t change a simple fact: he had promised Diel not to abandon their family, to help Garith and Branwen through this ordeal. They deserved better than Hellion. Jaeger closed his eyes, directing his mental energy to the layers of hurt, physical and otherwise, visualizing them as a massive cobweb. Slowly, he gathered the threads in his hands, creating a large ball, heavy and sticky and disgusting. Jaeger imagined a shitslide under it, plunging into the city to dump its contents into the Reonne. With a deep breath, he let go, releasing the grief and exhaustion and despair.