City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  He placed his fingers on either side of the apprentice’s head and began a low chant. The room’s chill made it hard to feel Keroth’s presence beside him, but Varden focused, and a soft orange light emerged from his hands. It flickered like a thousand tiny flames and slid off his fingers to wrap around Nevian’s head. Varden had trained as a healer for years, dedicating himself to tending to his fellow Isbari’s wounds, but the two years in Isandor’s enclave had taught him even more, especially about mental injuries. Avenazar destroyed or twisted memories as a pastime, but Varden had learned to reconstruct them before the damage turned permanent. He didn’t want to discover what would happen if he couldn’t fix it in time.

  Nevian’s muscles relaxed as the priest eased his mind and soothed his migraine. The teenager stirred but didn’t wake. He wouldn’t for another hour, at least—long enough for Varden to move him elsewhere. Varden picked him up, eager to be in his quarters, in the temple. Avenazar never went there. Too hot, the wizard complained, and Varden avoided admitting that was on purpose. He deserved a haven—if any location within the enclave’s walls could be called that. With quite a distance to go, however, Varden soon found Nevian’s long and dangling legs unwieldy. He was glad to put him down at last.

  Despite Varden’s position, his quarters weren't fancy: a heavy curtain across the middle of the small room hid his bed. On this side stood his beloved fireplace. Nothing decorated the walls, except over his desk. Varden had dared to expose a handful of his favourite drawings—those that wouldn’t get him in trouble, at any rate. All were portraits of the Isbari who’d come to his service in Myria, who’d looked up to him for guidance, even though some were twice his age. These were his people, his flock, and he knew the Myrians had sent him far away from them on purpose. An Isbari leader gave them cohesion, determination, and hope for better circumstances. Inadmissible for most Myrians. Every time Varden looked at his portraits, his resolve hardened. He would survive Avenazar and this temporary exile, return home, and help his enslaved kinsmen.

  Varden’s gaze went from his sketches to the teenager. Nevian took the brunt of Avenazar’s dangerous mood swings, but not a day passed without Varden expecting his turn to come. How horrible for someone so young to suffer so much. Yet Varden couldn’t help but thank Keroth it wasn’t him instead. One day he would fail to save Nevian, or Avenazar would grow bored with him. And when that happened? Varden would be next.

  At least Nevian’s body had accustomed itself to the frequent exertion. He recovered faster and quickly returned to his secret studies. How long could he keep it up, though? Between the torture sessions, the hours learning magic on his own, those spent completing Avenazar’s tasks, and Nevian’s nightly escapades in Isandor, it was a wonder the apprentice slept at all. Perhaps he didn’t. He always seemed exhausted. Varden sighed. He wanted to help, but every time he tried to reach out, Nevian shunned him. So Varden kept his secrets and healed him when necessary.

  As he sat there, tending to the pale teenager, a new idea surfaced in Varden’s mind. It might get him in a world of trouble, but he had to try. Sitting still and bemoaning his fate didn’t sit well with Varden. Besides, Nevian’s audacity made him feel less lonely. When the apprentice woke up, Varden would have a proposition for him. In the meantime, he retrieved his sketch pad out of his desk and traced the general contour of the teenager’s body shape. Tall, lanky, bony. Nevian had no muscles to speak of. Just a firm square jaw and a prominent brow—features most often associated with brutish savages, not logic-addicted teenagers. They granted Nevian an appearance of constant irritation, which suited him just fine.

  After some time, Nevian’s breathing changed, and he moaned. Varden set his sketch pad aside as the apprentice’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Welcome back,” the priest said.

  Nevian glanced at him and tried to dab his nose with his sleeve even though it no longer bled. Once he realized that, he squeezed his eyes shut and remained still, breathing in and out slowly as time passed. One minute. Another. Then he pushed himself up. Varden’s eyes widened as Nevian sat, threw the blankets off, and slid his legs out of the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  Nevian swallowed hard. His pale skin turned a sick and sweaty white, and he fell back with a grunt. Varden tilted his head to the side and stared at him, unimpressed. Nevian met his disapproving glare with unflinching determination.

  “I’m leaving,” he said. His weak voice siphoned all credibility out of his statement.

  “You can’t. Your body needs rest.”

  Nevian’s fingers curled into the blankets, and he fixed his gaze on his knees, no doubt gathering strength for another attempt. Varden withheld a sigh. They went through this routine every single time. And indeed, Nevian tried again a few seconds later, only to fall right back. He grabbed the edge of the bed and managed to retain a precarious sitting position.

  “Nevian, please,” Varden said more softly.

  He would have gently pushed Nevian back into bed, but Varden had learned to touch him as little as possible, even in a supportive manner. Nevian flinched away from it every time, even when Varden gave advance warning. He couldn’t heal without contact, so they’d worked around it as best as they could, and Nevian’s forearm was an absolute forbidden zone. No need to ask why; Avenazar always grabbed him there.

  The apprentice shot him a glare. “I need to work. I can’t waste my time here. You’re the healer. Make me better.”

  Another frequent discussion. Nevian only ever wanted to leave as fast as possible, whether or not he should. Varden had given in on countless occasions before. He could saturate Nevian with enough energy to carry him through the day, and the teenager would collapse in his bed as soon as night came. Except Nevian wouldn’t sleep until forced to, and energizing him could lead to serious health complications.

  “No. I won't wash your exhaustion away.”

  “But—”

  “This is the third time this week. Your body cannot sustain it.” Varden crossed his arms. He needed Nevian to understand that he wanted to help. Cramming energy into him wasn’t the way to go. “What imagined slight triggered Avenazar this time?”

  “Master Avenazar did nothing I did not deserve.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Varden let the obvious sarcasm float in the room for a moment. Nevian always shot down conversations about Avenazar, as if the wizard would hear them. He avoided Varden’s gaze and tried to straighten his fluffed blond hair and apprentice’s robes. He smoothed the folds, never using more than one hand, keeping the other clamped on the mattress for support. Varden let him stew in the awkward silence for a while. Perhaps it would make him more receptive to his proposition.

  “If you stay here and allow me to take care of you, I promise I’ll help you make up for the lost time.”

  And just like that, he had Nevian’s attention. The apprentice sat a little straighter, lips parted, eyes bright. He studied Varden, not bothering to hide his suspicion, but the hook must have been too intriguing. He bit.

  “How?”

  Varden smiled as he transferred from the bedside to his desk. Nevian wouldn’t agree to anything without details, but his offer would be irresistible. The priest withdrew a wooden box from the last drawer. Long and flat, it sported fire-like carvings in its dark wood. Varden slid the top off with reverent care then retrieved the black bandanna within. Its only distinctive features were the two burnt orange designs at the front, stitched in the shape of Keroth’s flame symbol. Varden traced the sleek fabric with his thumb, remembering his first time wearing one of them. It had felt like Keroth had expanded his mind a thousand times.

  “What’s that?” Nevian asked.

  His wariness amused Varden. What did he imagine? Mind-controlling headgear? Avenazar performed enough of such atrocities for the entire enclave. But Nevian was always suspicious, by nature and by necessity. Varden regained his seat near the bed and showed him the piece of clothing.

  “A rekhemal
. We use them during the Long Night’s Watch ceremony—the night of winter solstice, when Keroth’s light and protection are gone the longest. It amplifies awareness and sensory input, drawing power from fire. You feel … more present, and also more awake.” Varden enjoyed the warm fabric a moment, then offered it to the young wizard. “I won’t need it until the winter solstice. We wear it over our eyes, but you could tie it on your forearm. A candle is sufficient for its magic to work.”

  Nevian did not move. He eyed the bandanna, then Varden, then the bandanna again. “Why would you give me that?”

  “I am naively hoping that if you are more efficient, you will allow yourself well-deserved rest. The rekhemal cannot replace sleep. It helps one remain awake, nothing else.” It was a gamble, with Nevian. The apprentice might ignore his warnings and never lay in bed again. Varden needed to contribute however he could. If only he could tell Nevian he knew about the nights of studying, or ask what he did when he left the enclave! But that would throw the teenager into a panic. It might be best if Nevian believed Varden had something to gain from this. “You become distracted and irritable when tired from an all-nighter, which makes it more likely you’ll provoke Avenazar. If you don’t get hurt, I don’t have to heal you. We both benefit.”

  Nevian’s nostrils flared when Varden mentioned the sleepless nights, but his breathing remained level. He examined Varden with care, his expression at a calculated neutral. Perhaps he wondered how much Varden knew.

  “You have keen eyes,” Nevian said.

  “It always pays to watch others. Take it, but please keep it a secret. The rekhemal is a holy relic. Purists would condemn me for lending it to someone outside the church.”

  Nevian was about to close his fingers on the bandanna when Varden asked for secrecy. Instead he snatched his hand back and glared at Varden.

  “You can’t do that. You’re Isbari. Master Avenazar is waiting for an excuse to snap chains around your wrists. If they catch you, they won’t just retrograde you to a lower rank.”

  Varden’s stomach clenched. He’d heard enough snide comments from Avenazar to know Nevian wasn’t lying. None of this was new to him. From the moment he had entered Keroth’s acolytes, he had been one false step away from returning to slavery.

  “There is always someone waiting for that excuse, Nevian. Take the bandanna.”

  “You have no reason to risk this.” Nevian hesitated but finally picked up the rekhemal. “Where's the trick?”

  Varden couldn’t help but mock his unrelenting doubts. After a guilty cough, he answered. “Once you wear it, your soul belongs to the Fire Lord.”

  A horrified frown passed through Nevian’s square features. “You’re joking.”

  “Am I?”

  “You are.”

  Varden was glad the conversation had moved away from the danger he put himself in. “Then you won’t hesitate to wear it. Not now, however. My one condition is that you sleep, at least tonight. It’s early evening—you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  For a moment it looked like Nevian might refuse. He had raised his chin with the usual stubborn expression, but he instead let himself fall back in Varden’s bed, his arms spread out. The way he flopped down reminded the High Priest of moody teenagers throwing a fit, and Varden’s smile widened. Only Nevian would get so angry about being unable to work.

  “All right, I’ll sleep,” the apprentice said. “At least until Master Avenazar comes calling again.”

  “I’ll buy you until late morning,” Varden promised.

  Nevian grunted in approval, and the High Priest rose from his seat. He grabbed his charcoal and sketchbook, intent on finishing his earlier piece. This deal felt like a huge victory. Nevian might never allow him any closer than this, but with the sacred bandanna, he would fare better. He could progress faster, which might mean more to him than any amount of healing.

  He had his confirmation a moment later, just as he was about to cross the curtain and move to the other room. Nevian’s voice rose from the bed, low and hesitant.

  “High Priest?”

  Varden stopped and waited for the rest. Nevian stared at the ceiling, and spoke two words he’d never offered in years of Varden tending to his injuries.

  “Thank you.”

  Lady Camilla Dathirii didn’t have a wide array of talents. Unlike her grandson Garith, numbers slipped through the threads of her mind, blurring together in a confusing mess. Her two serious attempts at sword fighting had ended in a sprained wrist and a broken leg, to Kellian’s great dismay. She couldn’t lie or disguise herself as Branwen so often did, nor could she sway the hearts of many, the way her nephew managed when he assumed his role as Lord Dathirii and addressed a crowd. Even the youngest Dathirii had a speciality: the family hadn’t seen such a healer in centuries.

  No, Camilla Dathirii couldn’t claim any such skills. She was, however, without a doubt the best listener in Isandor, and it suited her just fine. When trouble knocked at a Dathirii’s door, they always came to her. She settled them down with tea tailored to their taste, and they poured their hearts out while she poured the comforting brew into their cup. With time, Lady Camilla had extended her skills to the often-forgotten elderly of Isandor. At six hundred something years, she could hardly be called youthful anymore, but she did not age as humans did. So she helped however she could, cleaning their houses and chatting, strolling outside whenever the weather allowed.

  Today she met with Mister Stillman, a retired haberdasher who clung to her arm with surprising strength. Lady Camilla could usually pay the utmost attention to his rants, answering with the appropriate exclamations of offence and rectifying his thoughts when he went too far. Yet she found it hard to focus since Diel had made an irruption into her quarters last night, requesting strong tea and advice, but bringing dire news in return. While it wasn’t in her nature to call any story trivial—she hadn’t earned the trust of Isandor’s old folks by mocking their daily concerns—Mister Stillman’s tale failed to retain her attention on this particular morning.

  Her gaze wandered across the busy bridges, tracing the beautiful towers rising around them. She always strolled the Upper City with Stillman, even though his knees suffered from the many stairs to get there. He enjoyed pretending he belonged in the middle of all these riches, and Camilla saw no reason to deny him this pleasure. So far above ground, railingscarved from white marble lined the bridges to keep everyone safe. They arched from one noble tower to another, sometimes changing style midway to match the spire they approached.

  Camilla loved to survey Isandor from a high vantage point. The city started at the bottom of the cliff, where its extensive docks formed the last navigable port on the Reonne River. From there, it curved in a slow spiral around the steep incline, and the closer to the top one climbed, the more eccentric the towers became. Isandor’s founding families had almost all been Allorians, and the region’s cultural love for drama and exuberant shows of wealth had translated into a strange architectural competition. A tower needed to reach higher or be stranger than all the others, or it was unworthy of respect.

  She could mock them, but the Dathirii Tower wasn’t all that different. Her grandfather—the first Lord Dathirii—had marked their elven heritage by building it entirely of wood, crafting the spire to resemble a trunk while the bridges extending from it became branches. Elegant rather than whimsical, and outlandish enough to attract attention. The elven family had chosen to settle with humans, which meant participating in competitions and traditions. Now they were so involved in the conflicts inherent to Isandor’s lifestyle that Diel had struck a war of his own.

  As Camilla’s mind drifted back to the present, she noticed a strange figure standing in front of the Brasten Tower. Lord Arathiel Brasten. He’d changed, yet the man staring wistfully at what was once his home could be no one else. His dark hair had turned whiter than hers, but he still kept it in cornrows, although the style had gone out of fashion decades ago. Camilla wouldn’t have thought much of
his peculiar appearance, if not for the indisputable fact that this man shouldn’t be in the city at all. He shouldn’t even be alive!

  Lord Arathiel Brasten had left Isandor more than a hundred years ago. Time should have killed him, yet he hadn’t aged at all. He still looked like the sprightly, late-twenties weapons master that had gone in search of a cure for his diseased sister.

  Camilla raised a hand to interrupt Stillman and led him toward Arathiel. She would apologize later. Her curiosity demanded she investigate.

  “Excuse me, Lord Arathiel Brasten?”

  Her soft voice startled the lord, and he spun on his heels, shoulders tensed and eyes wide. While he eased when he recognized her, Camilla sensed he wanted to bolt.

  “Lady Camilla Dathirii.” His greeting was deep and smooth despite his initial shock. “Pardon my surprise. I didn't expect to hear my full name.”

  “Colour me pleased for this chance to utter it, Lord Arathiel,” she said.

  Stillman shuffled, then leaned forward to squint at Arathiel. He had never been the most patient person, and she suspected he wouldn't grant her the long conversation she desired with the elder by her side.

  “Would you care for tea, milord?” she asked.

  She offered him her best ‘sweet old lady’ smile. To Isandor’s human population, Camilla had always been the aged elf who prepared cookies and tea or strolled around the bridges, caring for those whose age or illness had stolen their autonomy. Her golden locks had gone grey decades ago, and in the city’s psyche, she had never been young—an amusing fantasy. Arathiel studied her, wary and hesitant, but his expression soon softened.

  “I would be grateful for one of Lady Camilla’s legendary tea chats,” he said. “I have been gone too long and feel a little lost.”