The guard nearby swore and turned to Hasryan. “You’re dead.”
“Oh no.” Someone had come to save him. Someone cared. “No way.”
Hasryan dropped into a crouch as the soldier reached for his back, intending to shove him off the bridge. He flung his weight into his opponent’s legs, and the man crashed down hard. The guard rolled away, almost to the edge of the circle—a dangerous fall. Close enough to spark doubts, and he backed off to wait for reinforcements. Arathiel’s strong hands helped Hasryan up. One grabbed the rope around his neck and yanked it off. Hasryan touched his throat with a deep breath, then turned to his unexpected saviour. Arathiel smiled.
“Ready? We’re not out of this yet.”
Guards were closing in on their small circle. They raised crossbows, and a salvo of bolts followed. Arathiel jerked as one clipped his hip. He swore and gave the wound a cursory look. He seemed tense, perhaps even worried about it, but Hasryan knew he should have been on his knees, legs buckling under the pain. Instead, he wrapped the rope around his right arm, slipped the left one around Hasryan’s hips, then pulled him close.
“Hang on tight!”
Arathiel leaped off the bridge, not giving him time for an answer. The rope yanked as it reached its full length. Snap. Hasryan’s throat tightened as he imagined it around his neck. Snap. A friend had saved him from that awful fate, one he’d never dared to count as such. They swung above Carrington’s Square, Hasryan clinging to Arathiel, his eyes watering. Why would Arathiel risk it? What had Hasryan done to deserve this kind of trust? The wind of their speedy descent wiped his tears away. They accelerated fast, and as they passed the lowest point of their arc, Arathiel let go of the rope.
The crowd under them jostled in a panic to get out of the way. They screamed and ran, trying to take cover from the crossbow bolts that would soon fall. Hasryan thought he heard a few cheers. Perhaps he had imagined them, or perhaps people just loved a thrilling escape attempt, even from a hated criminal. The ground rushed toward them. It had seemed terrifyingly high from the bridge above, but now it was way too close for Hasryan’s liking.
“This is bad.”
“Less than death, no?”
Hasryan grinned at the wild amusement in Arathiel’s tone. A neck-breaking swing from a high bridge and a chance to stick it to Isandor’s guards and Brune? Of course it was better than death! He let go of Arathiel as they landed in the flower bed and tucked himself into a ball as soon as his feet touched the ground. Pain coursed up his legs and spine as he rolled through the bright-pink flowers, breaking most of his fall. He managed to straighten up despite the hands tied behind his back and sprinted away, eager to put distance between the guards and himself.
“Where to?” he called, turning to the side.
Arathiel wasn’t with him.
Hasryan skidded to a stop and spun around. Arathiel struggled in the flowers still. He tried to step forward, but the moment he put his weight on his left ankle, it gave in, and he crashed down. He’d landed wrong, broken something. Hasryan ran back and crouched nearby. Above them, guards yelled and pointed crossbows in their direction. Bystanders had cleared the park, leaving the two of them as easy targets.
“We’ve got to move,” Hasryan said.
“Heh. I knew I’d mess up a landing. At least it wasn’t the first.”
Arathiel didn’t even sound hurt. Irritated and worried, certainly, but he pushed himself up and took a careful step. Hasryan watched his expression as he put his full weight on his ankle. No sign of agony distorted his features. Chills coursed up Hasryan’s spine. This went way beyond tolerance to pain. Arathiel had dozens of small cuts from his run through the guards, a bleeding wound near his no-doubt smashed hip, and a deep slash in his shoulder. None of them bothered him in the least. None except his twisted ankle, and only because he had trouble walking. Hasryan struggled with several questions but decided not to ask any of them. Not now. Arathiel had just saved his life.
His friend shoved a paper in Hasryan’s palm. “Go there. It’ll be safe.”
“I’m not leaving you here! You can’t walk.”
“I can.” Arathiel grabbed his ankle with both of his hands. He jerked it back at the right angle in one sharp movement. The sudden pop and the sounds of bones grinding one against the other made Hasryan’s insides shoot up. He gasped, his mind refusing to wrap around what Arathiel had just done. Without flinching. Arathiel pushed himself to his feet, balanced for a moment, then smiled.
“See? Now run.”
Hasryan only stared. “What …”
“I don’t feel pain, or much else for that matter.”
Arathiel answered the unfinished question in a soft tone and looked away. Hasryan swallowed hard and captured Arathiel’s gaze.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Shouts from above warned them they didn’t have time to linger. The next bolts wouldn’t miss them. It might not kill Arathiel, but Hasryan would be done for. “May Cal’s luck be with you.”
He spun on his heels and sprinted away, the paper crumpled in his hands. Arathiel’s chuckle followed him, and the sound wrought crushing guilt through Hasryan. A shout to fire resonated from above as he reached the edge of Carrington’s Square, and he ducked. A bolt whizzed past his arm, narrowly missing him, and he kept moving. It wasn’t a serious wound, and for the first time since Larryn had ditched him in his cell, Hasryan wanted to live. Experience told him not to trust Arathiel, that he was running into a trap—something darker and trickier. But why would he, when Hasryan had been about to die? He needed to believe, to give this strange painless man the last of his faith. Everyone else had abandoned him, and Hasryan clung to the idea that one person had risked it all to see him through.
As soon as he was out of sight, he crouched, put the paper on the ground, held it with his foot and checked the address. Silly Arathiel should have found a better way, one in which handcuffs wouldn’t be a problem. Not that Hasryan had room to complain. The address was somewhere in the Upper City. Perfect. They would expect him to run into the shadiest part of town, not among the nobles’ bridges. Hasryan ripped the paper in two and kicked the pieces off the street and into the wind, trusting it would be enough to cover their tracks. Then he sprinted up, watching for signs of pursuit as he took a winding path through Isandor. The guards seemed to grow more distant, and it had been a while since he’d heard the whistle warning he’d been spotted.
He arrived at the indicated address, and as he lay eyes on the door that was supposed to be his safe house, his stomach sunk. It was a small white door encased in the side of a high tree-shaped spire. The Dathirii Tower. Home to Isandor’s elven House, friends of the Allastams, Larryn’s most hated nobles. How could this be safe? If an elf found him in there, he would be back to Carrington’s Square by nightfall. Hasryan swallowed hard. This wasn’t the main entrance, and no guards stood around. He could hear shouts from a squad of soldiers below him. Someone could run past his bridge and spot him at any moment.
He had no other choice. They would tear the Shelter down looking for him, and Brune knew all his hideouts. If he meant to trust Arathiel, he had to go all the way.
Hasryan twisted around to turn the unlocked doorknob, then slipped inside, unseen.
A wall of legs formed around Cal as he tried to push his way toward Carrington’s Square.
“Let me through!” he called. “Come on, I need to reach them!”
Except everyone had to go somewhere, and for most of them that somewhere was in the opposite direction. The panicked crowd didn’t care about his shoving and pleading. People from the Lower City had entered a confused rampage as soon as the first volley of crossbow bolts had flown. Cal understood. They couldn’t afford to get hurt—no one would be there to heal them. But he wished they would let him through anyway.
Cal had been watching from a connecting bridge, nauseated and distant, like his mind refused to believe in Hasryan’s hanging. Until Arathiel’s lithe form jumped from an upper bridge. Scream
s and grunts echoed down, but his viewpoint was too far below, the angle all wrong for him to see what was going on. Everyone froze at a standstill, holding their breath. Cal prayed harder than he ever had, half choking on his whispered pleas to Ren. Then the first bolts fell, and Arathiel had swung down, carrying Hasryan. Blood stained Arathiel’s clothes, and small drops followed their rapid descent. He would need a healer. Cal rushed for the Square, desperate to help.
The bodies around Cal blocked his view, and he couldn’t tell what was going on anymore. Had Arathiel landed? Were his friends safe? How wounded was Arathiel? He needed to move faster, but he was so small, and it seemed all he could do was get buffeted left and right.
A hand grabbed his collar and yanked him out of the thick crowd. Cal yelped as Larryn dragged him to a tower out of everyone’s way, then glared at him. An expectant lump blocked Cal’s throat, and he avoided looking at his friend, instead trying to peek at Carrington’s Square, half-hidden behind the building. Larryn knelt and grabbed both of Cal’s shoulders, frowning. Fear coursed through Cal. Would he yell at him again? Hit him? They hadn’t talked since their fight on the solstice, and thinking of Larryn’s punch made his cheek throb.
“What’s the plan?”
Judging from his tone, Larryn was trying hard to keep his anger in check. Cal bit his lower lip.
“What plan?”
“What do you mean, ‘what plan’? Your weirdo friend just landed in the middle of city guards and freed Hasryan! Don’t act like you’re not involved in this mess. You lying dipshits have a strategy, and I want to know what it is.”
“What? No, I don’t know.” Cal wished he did. Arathiel had never said a word about this. He had asked how Nevian fared, then vanished from the Shelter, thrown out by Larryn. “He planned this on his own. Hard to talk to me when you kicked him out.”
Larryn didn’t take the bait. He let go of Cal’s shoulders with a slight push. “Gods, you’re useless.”
Cal fought against his rising tears. Larryn’s relentless insults were acid down his throat. But he’d had enough. He refused to endure this unfair treatment for the sake of a friendship Larryn no longer cared for. Cal grabbed Larryn’s shirt and pulled it down. He blinked out his tears and met his friend’s grey eyes.
“You’re wrong. Without me, no one would’ve come for Hasryan and he’d be dead. Who do you think convinced Arathiel he was innocent? Who talked to him about the friend we knew instead of the scapegoat they want us to see? Who first invited him to our card games at all?” Cal pointed at himself, then released Larryn. “I’m so useless I managed to save both Nevian and Hasryan! For once in your life, Larryn, shut up. We need to help them now.”
Larryn scowled, and after the solstice’s night, Cal’s instincts took over. He recoiled and raised his arms to block. No strike came. They remained there, standing in silence, Cal holding his breath. Larryn stepped back, his expression morphing into horror. He cast his gaze down, his shoulders hunched, his fists unwinding. The obvious shame acted as a balm over Cal’s heart, but it wouldn’t calm his frantic heartbeat or erase the pain now etched in his soul. Larryn, once his best friend, now scared Cal.
“You’re right,” Larryn said. “Cal, I’m … I didn’t think it through. You’re … so often right.”
Cal stared at him, stunned into silence. When did Larryn ever admit being wrong? The most he’d ever gotten out of Larryn was a ‘how can I make things better?’. Despite Cal’s resolution not to let Larryn off the hook easily, his heart swelled, and he managed a smile.
“Yeah, I am. I’ll want to hear that again later.”
For a brief instant, Larryn seemed irritated, but he nodded. Cal decided to take that as a promise. “I saw them split,” Larryn said. “Arathiel had some scary wounds. We should search for him.”
“Lead the way.”
Cal followed him toward the now-deserted bridges, noticing for the first time the bow on Larryn’s back. What had he meant to do? What kind of awful idea would Larryn have gone through with, if not for Arathiel’s intervention? Cal still couldn’t wrap his mind around Arathiel’s stunt. When he’d spilled his heart, he hadn’t thought to convince him. He had just needed to let it all out. How and why Arathiel had planned this didn’t matter. He had landed above Carrington’s Square, fought his way to Hasryan, and escaped with a fantastic jump off the bridge. They all owed him, and now Arathiel was hurt. He needed Cal’s healing, and Larryn’s uncanny ability to avoid authorities.
Once the four of them were safe, they could talk at length about Larryn’s apology.
✵
Arathiel never even left Carrington’s Square. When Hasryan had turned heel and run, he had tried to do the same. His ankle didn’t comply. The weird angle voided all his walking and running practice. He couldn’t tell when his feet hit the ground, and his usual timing didn’t account for the broken bones. Jerking the ankle back into place had helped, but Arathiel put deliberate care in each step. The next volley of bolts rained down soon enough, and one struck his calf. The impact threw him to the ground.
Arathiel let out a soft swear and rolled over. Focusing became more difficult the longer blood oozed out of his shoulder, hip, and now leg. He swallowed hard, staring at the growing red stains on his clothes. Exhaustion was catching up to him, wrapping around his mind, thickening the blur that was already his world. He dragged himself to a bench and leaned against its side. Maybe he was dying. Was that even possible for him? He’d never tested his limits since the Well. But if he was alive now, then surely he could die, too? Darkness slipped at the corners of his consciousness, chipping at it. He was dying. The blood loss was killing him like it would anyone else—an oddly comforting thought.
A shape obscured part of the sunlight. Arathiel lifted his head and squinted until he identified Sora Sharpe. She had a crossbow aimed at his heart and stood over him.
“You’re under arrest.”
Her voice was strong and clear. Much more distinct than everything else. Arathiel used it as an anchor into this world.
“I know.”
She didn’t move. Her expression was stuck between fear and confusion. Indecisive, unlike her tone. Had he scared her too? Hasryan’s stunned horror when Arathiel had snapped his ankle back had crushed his heart. Perhaps only shock had caused him to recoil—he had seemed to recover quickly from it. Arathiel might never know how disgusted Hasryan was if Sharpe continued to stare without moving or helping.
“I don’t feel pain,” he said, “but I think the blood loss will kill me.”
“Are you expecting an apology? You freed a high-profile assassin on the day of his execution. Of course we shot you down.”
Arathiel chuckled, then he put his hand over the shoulder wound and pressed as hard as he could. If he could staunch the bleeding, perhaps a healer would get there in time. Without pain and other signals, he had no idea how long he had left. Arathiel hoped Hasryan had reached the Dathirii Tower. It would be a shame to die and have failed.
“No, I understand. I was hoping for some healing, actually.”
“Healing.”
Sharpe seemed to hesitate, and Arathiel lifted his head a little higher. Perhaps she didn’t want to help a monster like him. Or she was too angry. He couldn’t tell. He tried to decipher her solid mask, but his sight was growing blurrier. He closed his eyes, attempting to clear the rising fog in his mind. Sora would come through. If she let him die, she would lose her best link to Hasryan’s new hideout.
“All right,” she said after an eternity. “Let’s get you patched up and—”
“Back off! Step away or I’ll shoot!”
Arathiel’s eyes flew open when he recognized Larryn’s voice. He withheld a curse and tilted his head to the side until he spotted two familiar shapes at one end of the Square. It took some time before he could make out the contour of a bow in Larryn’s hands. They were threatening Lieutenant Sharpe with a weapon. His insides recoiled, and he gritted his teeth. If Larryn shot her, he could kiss hi
s Shelter goodbye. Whether Arathiel was welcomed there or not didn’t matter. The unique haven at the bottom of the Lower City couldn’t fall. Arathiel gathered his strength to speak loud and clear.
“Larryn, don’t,” he said. “It’s okay.”
“And let her lock you in a cell? No way this is happening again. I protect my own.”
His own. A bitter smile reached Arathiel’s lips. Two days ago, Larryn had thrown him out, making it clear he wasn’t part of the Lower City and didn’t belong. How quickly he could change his mind … and at the worst time possible, too. Arathiel shifted his weight to better see Larryn, earning a warning glare from Sharpe. She’d aimed her crossbow at the half-elf now, perhaps guessing Arathiel wouldn’t have the strength to do much.
“Larryn, you were right about me. My full name is Lord Arathiel Brasten, and I am a noble of this city. Was. More than hundred years ago.” Arathiel had almost withheld House and title, but there would have been more Dathirii at the execution today, and he was convinced one of them would have recognized him. The time for hiding was over. That had been the point all along. Sora hissed when she heard him, realizing the extra complications this meant for her. He ignored her. “Lower your bow. Don’t lose the Shelter on my account. I’m … I think I’m dying anyway.”
It was becoming harder to keep his voice from slurring, and his sight had grown so dark he couldn’t tell if Larryn put his weapon down. At least he wasn’t cold or in pain. It was like the world around him was moving further away than it already had in the Well. He heard Cal’s heavy but rapid footsteps across the park’s cobblestone pathways, then Sora’s sharp order.
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