City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  Cal’s eyes widened. It had to be him. He nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I was!” His smile returned a little. “Which means he’s not even on their side, so you can absolutely heal him without remorse.”

  Vellien chuckled, unbuttoned their sleeves and pulled them up. “I would have tended to him either way. This does explain the terrible state of his mind, however. Master Avenazar attacked it earlier. The burns are probably from him, too. I’ll do what I can to fix the damage, but … this kind of work demands precision and time, and I’ve had no practice with it. I guess we’ll know when he wakes up? Chances are I’ll be dealing with this until sunrise.”

  When Cal heard the doubts in Vellien’s voice, he reassessed them. Freckles covered their nose and cheeks, and their face was rounder than most elves. They couldn’t be much older than the teenager they were healing—not in relative age anyway. How much experience did they even have? How many nobles did Arathiel know? The answer should have been none, considering he had a room here in a shelter dedicated to the poor. Another piece of the puzzle for their already very mysterious friend. One that would have Larryn kicking him out if he learned, too. Cal had no intention of telling anyone. He reached for his stinging cheek and sighed. He wasn’t sure he’d even talk to Larryn again anytime soon.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’m Calleran Masset. Cal.”

  “It’s nothing. I’m glad I arrived when I did. If you need me to look at your cheek …”

  “No.” Cal wished he could forget about it instead. He’d helped Larryn through so much in the past, he couldn’t quite believe his friend had turned on him like that. He’d known Larryn would be pissed, but ‘Larryn would kill him’ had always been an exaggeration. Cal never thought his violent impulses would ever touch anything except objects, let alone him. “I’ll be fine. Just ignore Larryn. When he’s furious, he could set the whole world on fire and not care.”

  Most of the time Larryn had excellent reasons to be pissed. He just got carried away. Tonight was no exception. Hasryan had depended on Cal, and he’d failed him. Reminding himself there had been another life at stake didn’t wash Cal’s guilt away. He could apologize a thousand times without changing one hard fact: they would hang Hasryan because he had stopped for this teenager. While Vellien worked on healing the apprentice, their fingers shining from the white light, Cal rubbed his eyes and sighed. He wanted this day to be over. Gone and forgotten forever.

  After a while, Vellien withdrew their hands with a shuddering breath. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, but they already seemed exhausted.

  “Are you okay? Can I help with anything?” Cal asked.

  “I would appreciate it if you could stay through the night and bring me water. I’ll need frequent breaks. His head is like a battlefield after a clash of mages. Everything is ruined, and I’m not even sure how and what to put back together.” Vellien rubbed their face. “I’ll rest for a few minutes, then fix his leg before I spend all my energy trying to save his mind.”

  “Sounds rough.”

  Cal wondered how much it would hurt if everything was that broken. What kind of terrible person could do this to anyone? Plus, this teenager was probably a really sweet guy who didn’t deserve any of this pain. Cal hoped so. It helped him feel better about Hasryan to think he had saved the gentlest of souls.

  “Without a doubt. What a horrible experience.” Real concern tinged Vellien’s voice, and they squeezed the apprentice’s forearm as if they’d been friends. Perhaps trying to heal someone’s mind formed connections. Vellien sighed and turned to meet Cal’s gaze. “Can I ask you something? About Larryn.”

  Cal tensed. Even though Larryn had punched him not an hour ago, the thought of answering a noble’s questions about him bothered him. Nothing good would come out of that. Larryn hated them all, and the Dathirii even more than others.

  “No, I’m sorry. You can’t.” He wrung his hands, and found himself explaining. “He has a history with nobles, but I don’t think I should share.”

  “All right.” Vellien bent over the kid’s legs, and the strain returned to their voice as they snapped the knee back to its original position, hands shining once more. When he focused, Cal could feel the power flowing from them. Vellien’s connection to Alluma, the Elven Shepherd, seemed so different from his own with Ren. Cal’s luck followed him everywhere, as if Ren never left his side, but Cal struggled to call upon Xir power for long. In comparison, Vellien could bring their deity’s divine energy into sharp focus without pouring their entire concentration into the act. “He just seemed familiar, and so young to own a place like this.”

  “People age faster on the streets, or they die.”

  An awkward silence followed Cal’s answer. Vellien finished their work on the knee then straightened up again. “Can you make sure he doesn’t kill me if I come back? I’ll know more in the morning, but I might not be able to do everything tonight.”

  “I’ll … I’ll see what I can do.” Cal had no idea what would happen the next time he spoke with Larryn. He preferred not to think about it. “Please don’t hold it against Larryn. He has good reasons, and we’ve all had a tough night.”

  “I noticed.” Vellien offered him a reassuring wry smile. “Don’t worry. He seems to be doing a lot of good here. Not to me, but I don’t want to get in his way.”

  Cal thought of Drake Allastam, who had done nothing but that since they’d met him. Vellien was so different from the entitled lord. Instead of throwing insults at them, they tried to understand and went out of their way to heal a stranger. This calm and kind elf didn’t match what one expected, listening to Larryn rant about them all the time. But they all knew something personal lay there. Perhaps Cal shouldn’t be so surprised—if Arathiel had friends within House Dathirii, then they couldn’t be that bad.

  “Well, Larryn will appreciate that sentiment, for sure.”

  Vellien laughed—a tiny sound punctuated with an occasional snort, which Cal found both amusing and adorable. His smile returned. He was glad not to stay alone through this awful night. Vellien needed someone to keep them company? He would be more than happy to oblige and chat his worries away. After all, none of his problems would vanish before morning came.

  The guards’ headquarters had been on high alert all night. Soldiers rushed about, opening cells and counting prisoners, checking every corner. Hasryan listened to the panic with a slight smile, impressed by the chaos Larryn had left in his wake. The urgent search through the headquarters eventually morphed into confusion as it became more and more obvious that no one had escaped. Dangerous criminals still waited for their punishment in their dank individual cells while petty thieves quarrelled in the largest ones. Hasryan played with his smooth rock until his door creaked. He smiled but continued staring ahead. He didn’t need to look to know Sora Sharpe had come for a visit.

  “Ma’am, I have a complaint. My neighbours are noisy, and they keep me awake at night. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “I’ll make sure to warn them,” Sharpe answered. “I have to admit, I’m surprised you didn’t move out.”

  Hasryan shook his head with a bitter smile. “Not for lack of wanting,” he said, even though the words now felt like a lie, “but I seem to have lost the keys to my own door. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare?”

  This drew a short laugh from her. “Afraid not. Since you were awake, you might be able to answer a few questions? Has a thief attempted to break into your glorious home during the night, by any chance?”

  Hasryan doubted the use of ‘thief’ was accidental. If she’d looked into Larryn—and Sharpe would have—she would have found him in their records. Guards had even nicknamed him Bonebreaker, mocking Larryn’s last escape method: breaking the bones at the base of his thumb to slip out of his shackles. Hasryan scoffed at the thought. He’d seen the bend in his friend’s fingers and knew soldiers had snapped them more often than Larryn himself. He threw his rock at the wall.

  “One prison break and you’r
e convinced it’s about me. This borders on obsession.”

  “You are a high-profile prisoner, I haven’t heard from your very insistent friend since your sentence was made public, and your precious dagger is missing from the evidence room.”

  High-profile. What a nice way of saying a lot of political weight rested on his execution. Hasryan stretched to pick up his rock again, his heart squeezing at the idea that Larryn had gone through the trouble of retrieving his weapon. He played with the stone for a moment, then looked at Sora. She never ceased to impress him with her ability to size up people. As far as he knew, she had only met Larryn once, but she had guessed he wouldn’t leave it at that.

  “Seems like he’s not as good a friend as you thought, then.” Hasryan lowered his gaze. He’d meant to sound amused, but bitterness drenched his tone. “Whoever came left me in my cell. Brune might’ve wanted the proof of her lie back, for all you know. Don’t harass Larryn. He does a lot of good for people who otherwise don’t get any help.”

  Sharpe crouched next to him. She stared at Hasryan for what seemed like an eternity, and he made sure never to look back. The longer the silence stretched, the tighter his throat became. He wanted to be left alone.

  “It was him, wasn’t it?” she asked softly.

  “Why would I tell you?” His fingers clenched around the stone—too obvious an admission for someone brilliant like Sora. “I’m not talking to you.”

  “It seems to me no one else wants to talk to you anymore.”

  “Yeah. I get it. I’m alone. Pretty used to that part by now.”

  She was still studying him; he could feel it. He hated that scrutiny, which forced him to wonder what she saw in him. A cold monster, probably. Hasryan wished he could tell her to disappear, but he didn’t have the strength to shoo away the last vaguely friendly contact he’d have before his execution. Sora sighed and straightened up.

  “You deserve that noose. My brain knows you do.” She sounded annoyed. Hasryan’s eyebrows shot up, and he forced himself to look her way. The irritated crease in Sora’s forehead hid a softer expression. “I dislike hanging others, but with you it’s worse than ever before. I wish you hadn’t killed anyone.”

  “I am so sorry I’m not the heartless killer you wanted me to be.”

  “Yeah. So am I.” Sharpe sounded sincere, at least. Funny how the one person who would regret his death would be the same one who put the noose around his neck. She strode to the door and added, “Your food will be along shortly.”

  “Thanks.”

  He leaned his head against the cold stone wall as she closed the door, a shudder running up his spine. Perhaps the broth would bring him warmth, but he suspected his shivering had nothing to do with the actual temperature. As time passed, Larryn’s brutal departure became more real. More draining, too. Hasryan’s exhaustion went beyond the sleepless night, the hard floor, the piss stench or the lousy food of the last week. He didn’t have the energy to fight this life anymore. Soon enough, he’d have a noose around his neck, and a quick shove off a bridge would put an end to his pointless struggles. This world had pushed him down and betrayed him since day one, and Hasryan was finally ready to admit defeat.

  ✵

  The rising sun found Diel Dathirii curled against Jaeger on a large sofa, awakening from a fitful sleep. After Branwen had left them, he had stood in his office, stunned and wordless, unable to process what she’d yelled at him. He couldn’t handle having Branwen’s shattered hopes thrown in his face in such a fashion. Her anger ripped through his heart and stomach like a dozen shards, leaving confused shock behind. Jaeger had been at his side in an instant, a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Diel could only stare at the door his niece had slammed.

  A man she cared deeply about was being tortured. Diel had met High Priest Varden Daramond before on diplomatic occasions. The priest had remained distant, guarding his thoughts behind pleasant words. Diel had assumed he was silencing the worst of his worldviews when it had been the other way around. What was the man truly like? Diel hoped he’d meet the real Varden one day. But for that, he would need to conjure a miracle. Diel had heaved a sigh and leaned into Jaeger.

  “I hate letting them down,” he had said.

  He despised disappointing anyone at all, but Branwen’s promise he would have a solution worsened it. He wished he could provide. How often had he fixed her problems for her to assume he could resolve any issue?

  “You can’t save everyone,” Jaeger had said. “She’s tired and distressed. Give her time.”

  Time. The one thing Varden didn’t have. Weary to the core, Diel had gathered every piece of information they had on Myrian or Dathirii funds and manpower. “Let’s go through everything again.”

  And they had, deep into the night, without finding their miracle. Before long, Diel was half-sleeping on Jaeger, muttering the occasional idea while his steward verified the actual numbers. Diel didn’t even remember falling asleep, but when the door was flung open the following morning, he jerked to his feet with a start.

  Yultes strode in without a pause, giving him and Jaeger a slightly irritated look, like he couldn’t believe they were cuddling at a time like this. Which was quite ridiculous—Diel needed Jaeger’s warmth now more than ever. He raised his chin and shot Yultes a warning glare. His brother-in-law enjoyed slinging subtle insults at Jaeger, but Diel wouldn’t tolerate his dismissive banter.

  “Knocks are always appreciated,” Diel said.

  Behind him, Jaeger had decided to remain sitting, his back straight as a plank. How unusual for him to disregard etiquette. After last night, however, Diel could understand. It was Jaeger’s way of indicating he cared little for Yultes’ intrusion.

  “Someone broke into the prison yesterday and tried to free Lady Allastam’s assassin.”

  Yultes flung his news at them in a matter-of-fact tone, and Diel struggled to retain his calm. His head throbbed, although to a lesser degree than his heart, and he had no patience for Yultes’ sense of self-importance. He needed to get this over with before he exploded.

  “Tried?” Diel asked.

  “They failed.”

  “Pray tell, Yultes, why a failed attempt matters so much it couldn’t wait another hour, or even the few seconds of a knock?”

  “Because I think the one who tried …” Yultes’ voice trailed off, and his eyes widened, panic flickering through his expression. He pressed his lips together. “We don’t know who it is.”

  Diel frowned. How was that proper justification? And why did Yultes seem so horrified with himself? Diel pinched his nose and wrestled with his desire to throw Yultes out and force him to come back later. He had a House to lead, a priest to rescue, and a war to win. He couldn’t afford to lose control of his shaky emotions.

  “Out with it, Yultes. I have too much on my plate to guess at your half-truths. Whatever you’re not saying, spill it and be done with it.” Yultes cast his gaze down but remained silent. Diel stared at him, hoping against experience that Yultes would talk. They hadn’t had a heartfelt conversation in years, and Diel no longer counted the number of unfinished sentences Yultes left hanging, as though he’d almost spilled a terrible secret. He yearned to know what. More than anything, he wished they hadn’t grown so far apart, and that Yultes himself hadn’t become so arrogant. Impenetrable silence met Diel’s request, however. “Fine. Whatever. Keep your secrets. How is Lord Allastam?”

  “Disagreeable.” Yultes squared his shoulders, and his glacial bearing returned. “Your last visit left quite an impression on him. Congratulations.”

  Although Yultes’ face was the perfect mask of neutrality, his tone dripped with contempt. Diel glared at him. “A statement I find quite mutual. Keep placating him, and let’s pray he was pulling my strings when he spoke of joining the Myrians. He’s more arrogant than he is greedy, and a deal with them now would be admitting he should have done so sooner. Play that against him as much as you can, and do remind him I was right about Branwen. We need his r
eluctant neutrality.”

  “I know my job.” From the sound of it, Yultes believed no one else in the room did. Diel almost wanted to agree—between Lord Allastam and Branwen, he had run from one disaster to another. Jaeger’s discreet cough behind him staved off his doubts. Yultes cast the steward a disdainful glare. “Enjoy your lazy morning while I keep us afloat. And please pass my good wishes to my niece.”

  Pass his good wishes? Diel scowled. What was it with Yultes? When Branwen was born, he’d been so excited to have a niece, he could barely hold it together. He had told everyone he couldn’t believe his little brother was building a family, and insisted on touching Diel’s sister’s belly every day. Just in case something special happened. Yultes’ enthusiasm had been contagious, yet time had passed and he’d grown distant and pretentious—unbearably so. Today, he couldn’t even be bothered to see Branwen after she’d been kidnapped.

  “She’d love to hear it from you, Yultes. If you don’t care enough to tell her yourself, I’m not sure your ‘good wishes’ are worth passing on.” Yultes’ jaw dropped in surprise. Diel pressed on before he could regain countenance. “She is your niece, and we’re your family. Some days it’s like you forget this is more than a business arrangement.”

  Yultes closed his eyes, and for a long time, he let Diel’s words hang unanswered. The silence itself surprised Diel, but not as much as his shifting expressions. Under the expected disdain flickered guilt and sadness. Diel’s curiosity flared, along with a pang of worry. Perhaps the old Yultes still hid under there.

  “Yultes …”

  “Don’t.” He raised a hand and met Diel’s gaze, his eyes cold and hurt. “It’s all so simple for you. Don’t you dare talk about family to me.”

  For the second time in less than a day, someone turned their back on Diel, strode out of his quarters, and slammed the door. Except this didn’t hurt like Branwen’s departure. It left a slew of questions—a small crack in Yultes’ mask that Diel despaired of widening. His memories of the excited, soon-to-be uncle were too vivid for him to accept the snide noble he spoke to every day.