He might die rescuing Hasryan, as he should have in the Well. If the extra time given to him allowed him to save Hasryan, then he could take pride in his abilities and assign purpose to his failure. He hadn’t saved Lindi—could never have, really—but he would not let a friend die. He could rescue Hasryan, and he would.
Why Uncle Kellian bothered with guards at the main gates of the Dathirii Tower had always been beyond Branwen. Two soldiers wouldn’t protect them from good thieves—the frequent disappearance of precious commodities and the piss on Garith’s favourite rug one night had proven that. Nor could they stop dangerous enemies. Kellian’s love of protocol had turned into a waste of personnel and a useless show of force meant to parade the family’s ceremonial armour. He could have replaced them with mannequins with the same result.
Her opinion changed when she reached the Dathirii Tower that night. By the time she’d climbed to their door, every shuffling step lit Branwen’s back with agony. Walking felt like shoving hot iron bars along her spine, her head swam, and tears welled in her eyes. Even blurred by them, however, the sight of the two guards encased in their decorative armour brought warm fuzziness to her heart. Home. She had survived her days at the Myrian Enclave, Avenazar’s attack, and the climb through Isandor’s stairs. Somehow.
Intense relief sapped away the last of her strength. She stumbled to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. Booted feet rushed to her, and within a minute strong hands lifted her back up. Mannequins wouldn’t have done that.
“Miss Branwen! Are you okay, miss?”
The world spun around Branwen, but she used the woman’s soft voice as a focus. She knew that guard, had always found her kind of cute. Branwen managed a smile and held tight to her shoulder.
“Don’t let Kellian hear you call me that. You say anything but ‘Lady Branwen Dathirii’ and he’ll give you night duty.”
“I’m already on night duty.”
“Oh.” Branwen blinked, then burst into a short laugh. It rippled through her back and ended in a pained groan. “True enough. Would you escort me please? To Lord Dathirii?” She doubted she’d make it on her own.
“With pleasure. But first, you should be presentable.” She gestured at her cheek and grimaced. Branwen gasped, then wiped away the trash’s filth in a hurry.
“Better?”
“Beautiful.” She hooked her arm with Branwen’s, allowing her to lean into her. Every step inside her home breathed new strength into Branwen. She trailed her fingers on the wooden walls, marvelling at their familiar softness. Nothing like the rough stones of Varden’s quarters. The tightness lodged in her stomach for the last week slipped out through her fingertips, freeing Branwen of her constant fears.
Despite her renewed energy, the climb to her uncle’s quarters seemed to take forever. Branwen let out a low whine when the door came into view, even if it lacked Jaeger’s usual presence. She’d made it. A web of pain crisscrossed her back, and her head throbbed, but she could tell Diel and the others she was safe. That, and so much more. Her heart squeezed as she thought of Varden and what might be happening to him. She trudged to the door and knocked twice. Familiar voices spoke to each other inside, and Branwen smiled. Uncle Diel and Jaeger. Of course they’d be together at this hour.
“I’ll be fine, thank you,” she told her guard as steps approached. The soldier wished her a good evening, disappearing around the corner as the door opened.
Jaeger stood in the doorway. His silky black hair cascaded over his shoulders and down his back in wild strands, an unusual sight for the tidy steward. A part of it had been braided on the side, however, the task clearly incomplete. An intricate hairstyle, which would require long hours of practice to master. The kind Diel used to apply to Branwen’s hair when she was a little girl. Jaeger flung the door open when he saw her.
“Lady Branwen! You … I’m … Welcome home.”
Branwen stared at Jaeger. He was so flustered he couldn’t form a coherent sentence, yet he’d still used her proper title? Did he ever forget? His delighted stutter warmed her heart all the same. She took a tiny step forward, and he caught her arm, supporting her weight and leading her inside. An instant later, Diel’s lighter voice followed.
“Did I hear—” Diel emerged from his private rooms and stopped short, his eyes widening. “I did!” Then he was running, bare feet hitting the ground in three long strides, golden hair flying freely behind him. Before she could say anything, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. The sudden pressure sparked sharp agony in her muscles, ripping a surprised scream out of her. Diel let go and stumbled back, confused and horrified.
“I’m sorry, Branwen, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She struggled to calm her breathing despite the fire in her spine. Jaeger pushed a chair against her legs and applied pressure on her shoulder, forcing her to sit. Her calves thanked her for the relief, but she leaned forward, keeping herself clear of the chair’s back. “My back feels like a dozen horses trampled it, but I’m alive.”
“We were so scared.”
His voice broke at the end, and Branwen studied her uncle. Now that his initial grin had dimmed, she noticed the large bags under his eyes and how thin he seemed. It had only been six days, but worry had eaten through Uncle Diel like moths through her best dresses.
“Me too. I thought I was dead. Several times.” She ran her hands over her face with a shuddering breath. “I can’t believe I’m here.”
Before she could add anything, the room’s door flew open. Garith strode in, golden hair in a ponytail and glasses on his nose—the work outfit. “A cute lady guard told me Branwen was here!” She turned as he stormed inside and offered a feeble wave. “And you didn’t come to me first?”
“Thought you’d be in bed. With someone.”
Also, reporting to Diel meant she could get the important things done immediately, before she ran out of strength and collapsed for good.
Jaeger gave a small, polite cough. “I daresay no lady has come and gone from Lord Garith’s quarters since you vanished.”
Her astonishment must have shown because her cousin winked at her. “You’re the one true lady in my life. You should know that.”
Branwen tried to laugh, but a tidal wave of emotion hit her, and she produced a stifled sob instead. He’d been too worried about her to flirt. All of them had thought her dead, or under torture, and she’d been one bad disguise away from it happening. Tears welled up again, and she cried before she could fight them back. Diel’s hand squeezed hers, then she noticed Garith leaning in for a hug. Branwen stopped him, putting a hand on his chest.
“Don’t. No hugs.”
“No hugs? You disappeared for days—no, months! Years!—and I can’t even hug you? What is this sorcery?”
Branwen wiped her cheeks, smiling despite her tears. Nothing said home like Garith’s faked indignation and his willingness to exaggerate every detail to make a point.
“I got thrown into a wall. My back cannot endure your outrageous demonstrations of affection.”
At first Garith laughed, but his mirth died as the meaning of her words sunk in. “Thrown into a wall? Who did this? I’ll … I’ll …”
“Ruin his day with numbers?” Branwen asked. “I can’t wait to see that.”
“Keep this up and I’ll thank him.”
He shoved a hand into her hair and messed it up, an act he was fond of when she’d spent hours preparing it, sometimes braiding the wild strands into a flower crown matching her dress. Branwen replied in her usual manner: she kicked his shin hard and forced him to hop back with a pained laugh.
“Six days didn’t change you,” he said.
“Why, thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“You know it was.”
Their gazes met, and a defiant smile curved her cousin’s lips. Branwen knew what that meant. He had no intention of giving in so soon, and neither did she. She matched his expression with
a proud grin, forgetting for an instant about the pain in her spine and the night’s scare. Before Garith could continue what promised to become hours of endless banter, however, their uncle interrupted.
“All right, kids. That’s enough.” Diel tried to sound stern, but Branwen mostly heard tired relief and amusement. He was used to their antics and probably glad to witness them again. “You can have this important debate later, with Vellien as judge. Can you tell me what happened, Branwen? Did the Myrians take you? What did they do to you?”
“Nothing.” Her damaged back said otherwise, and Branwen groaned as she tried to get her thoughts in order. Fatigue clouded her mind, but one thing mattered more than any others in this story. She started there. “Varden hid me in the enclave all week.”
“That fire-happy religious maniac?” Garith’s expression turned into an angry scowl. “If he touched you—”
“He didn’t. Don’t be jealous, Garith,” she interrupted with a sly smile. “I’m allowed to have a platonic relationship with another handsome man, you know.”
Stunned silence followed, Garith’s lips moving without a sound as he worked on a witty denial. Branwen’s smile widened at the proof she could still get her charming, honeyed-tongue cousin to fumble for his words with a few choice sentences of her own. She had no time to savour this small victory, however. Branwen turned to her uncle. She needed him to understand Varden’s part in this.
“Varden is the sweetest man I’ve met in a long time. If anyone else had been in charge of burning the tailor’s shop, I would be imprisoned in the Myrian Enclave with Avenazar tearing my mind apart for information.” Nevian’s screams still echoed in her mind. That could have been her. Branwen lowered her head, and her voice fell into a tight whisper. “Varden saved me from the fire and hid me until I could escape. He risked Avenazar’s wrath to keep me safe.”
She remembered his answer when she’d called him a coward—how his hands and voice shook as he tried to explain Myria to her. In the end, if you make one false move, you are an uncouth savage to be disciplined, an object that can be thrown away. And Master Avenazar? He combines this mentality with incredible fickleness, a cruel sense of humor, and the power to rip your mind into tiny shreds. During her stay, he’d once woken screaming in the middle of the night, then stoked the fire and stared at the flames until dawn returned, never uttering a single word. Tonight, his nightmares had turned into reality. Branwen raised her head and met her uncle’s gaze.
“We have to help him. They caught him. Avenazar called me Varden’s protégé before he slammed me into a wall. That disgusting excuse for a human being knows he helped me.” In reaction to her plea, she received a horrified look and a small squeeze on her hand from Diel. She reached into her bodice, withdrew the charcoal map of the enclave, and showed it to him. “Uncle, he didn’t just save my life. He drew this for me and answered all my questions. He’s an ally, a friend, and a good man. He needs our help.”
Diel Dathirii was already shaking his head. Branwen’s guts twisted. He couldn’t say no. He wasn’t. She refused.
“You can’t do this!” She snatched her hand back from his, a hitch in her voice. “Not you. You’re Uncle Diel. You can’t leave him there.”
“I can’t get him out. I’m sorry, Branwen. I really am. We were preparing to attack the enclave for you but … it would have meant so many deaths. Too many.”
He moved to put a hand on her shoulder, but she slapped it away. She hated the defeated look on his face. So she had been worth that plan, but not Varden? How could he even say such a thing? Anger and disappointment roiled in her stomach. She couldn’t believe she was hearing this from her uncle.
“I don’t care. You don’t understand. He was terrified to help because he knew if we didn’t win, he’d pay for it and lose everything. But he did. Because it was right. Do you know what I told him? I said: my uncle never leaves anyone behind. My uncle can beat any odds. He always finds a way.”
“Branwen …”
“He doesn’t deserve this!” She jumped to her feet, shaking so badly she should have fallen. A light hand grabbed her elbow to support her. Garith. The delicate attention almost triggered her tears again.
“I believe you, I do.” Her uncle’s voice had grown soft and hurt, and he stared at the floor, too ashamed to look at her. He knew he was wrong. “We owe him. I’ll search for a solution, I promise. We’re not giving up, but … we’re just not rushing in either. We’re all exhausted, and perhaps a solid night of sleep will help. Sometimes life needs time to provide an answer.”
Branwen lifted her chin. Sleeping on it wasn’t good enough. Not knowing the fate awaiting him. Her usual inclinations to compromise vanished, her resolve hardening. She would not accept this. “Varden doesn’t have time. Do me a favor, Uncle: when you go to bed tonight, recall the torture you believed I was enduring. Bring the worst scenarios to your mind, all of them. This is what they’re doing to him, right now, while you’re trying to get some beauty sleep. Remember that. I certainly won’t forget.”
She spun on her heels, intending to stride out with dignified anger. Diel’s crestfallen look hurt, but she refused to give in. Varden had to be a priority. Branwen managed two steps before her tired left foot caught on her right, and she stumbled forward. Garith caught her, avoiding pressure on her back, and helped her along. The floor shifted under Branwen’s feet as he half-carried her out of Diel’s quarters. Silent tears streamed down her face, and the moment they were out, she drew her cousin into a tight hug, almost collapsing into his arms.
Garith caressed her hair, allowing Branwen’s maelstrom of emotion to run its course, then helped her to her room.
✵
Lady Camilla hadn’t expected her search for Vellien to send her climbing up and down the Dathirii Tower. Age stiffened her bones, and the shortened night of sleep sapped her strength. Despite regular exercise on the city’s unending stairs, her ability to come and go as she pleased was waning. One day—far away, bless her elven blood—she would need as much help as the old people she cared for. At least her mind hadn’t decayed yet. Tonight it was more awake than ever, puzzling over Arathiel’s mysterious request even as she sought to find her nephew.
What complaints Lady Camilla had vanished once she learned why the youngest Dathirii was no longer in their quarters. Branwen was home.
The news breathed life into her tired legs, and she hurried back up to her niece’s quarters. Camilla didn’t knock, or even call. She knew Branwen wouldn’t mind and went straight inside. Her niece’s quarters were among the tower’s smallest: they had been a single room with a second section split by an archway, but Branwen had installed a curtain of heavy cotton to separate her bed from the rest. A mannequin decorated one corner, and one of her walls was covered in a flurry of fabrics hanging from a pole at the top, as if she’d piled up a dozen different curtains. Some had bright plain colours, others sported soft flower patterns. Branwen kept her small desk with the sewing machine Camilla had given her decades ago in front of them, near the window. Sunlight would flood it during the day. After a week without access to it, Camilla would bet Branwen couldn’t wait to sew again. She picked her way across the room, toward the curtain through which Vellien’s young voice drifted.
“Say I needed you to avoid any activities possibly straining your back … what would be my chances?”
“Next to none.”
Until she heard Branwen’s voice, Camilla hadn’t understood how real her return was. Relief washed down her spine, lifting a weight off her heart, and while Branwen’s tone held a worrying emptiness, she grinned as she pulled the curtain aside.
“Already defying your healer’s advice, young lady?” she asked.
“Aunt Camilla!”
Branwen tried to push herself up from the bed, but Vellien forced her down with a hand on her shoulder. She lay on her chest, her back bared, its smooth skin bruised into a surrealist pattern of sick yellow, deep purple, and brownish red. She muttered unhap
pily about her cousin’s quick reaction, which in turn made Vellien smile. The warm colours of Branwen’s blankets and curtains highlighted the copper undertones in Vellien’s hair, along with their freckles. They massaged the back of their neck.
“She shouldn’t,” they said without much conviction.
“And yet, we all know she will,” Garith said. “No one ever listens to you.”
Garith had dragged a posh chair to the other side of the bed and sat in it, holding Branwen’s hand. Camilla wasn’t surprised to find her grandson here. He and Branwen were inseparable, and she must have sent for him immediately.
“Everybody should,” Camilla said, looking at Branwen and Garith in turn. “They’re wiser than both of you combined even though they’re several decades younger.”
Garith scoffed, which earned him a shove from Vellien. It reassured Camilla that Branwen’s serious wounds did not mar their usual dynamic until she noticed their mirth didn’t reach Branwen. Her niece had plopped back down on the bed and stared ahead, waiting for everyone to be done joking. Normally, she would’ve been the first to jump into the banter. Worry constricted Camilla’s heart. She stepped closer and brushed a strand of her hair aside.
“It’s a relief to have you back, Branwen. We’ll all have our first good night of sleep in a long time.”
“I won’t.” Tears returned to her eyes. She sniffed, wiped them away. “How am I supposed to sleep while Myrians torture my friend for saving me?” Her voice broke at the end, and Branwen heaved a sigh. “It’s just … all of it is so unfair.”
Camilla caressed her hair, at a loss for words. She doubted any would help, anyway, and while Camilla wished to know Branwen’s whole story, she decided to postpone asking for it. Her niece needed to rest, and Arathiel waited in her quarters. She let the moment pass, allowing Branwen time to wrestle with her feelings and acknowledging their validity by giving them space, then squeezed her shoulder briefly.
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