Familiar footsteps scuffed the ground behind him, discreet and welcomed. Simply knowing Jaeger approached sufficed to make Diel smile. Then a hand ran up his back, warm and reassuring, and squeezed his shoulders. No need to tell Jaeger how exhausted he was. His love would have guessed from the slump of his shoulders and decades of companionship.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Diel asked.
“Lord Arathiel Brasten.” Jaeger moved to his side and set his hand on Diel’s. “We have received word from the guards’ headquarters. He confirmed it himself upon his arrest and said he used to live here a hundred thirty years ago. Your eyes were not deceiving you.”
“He changed, though,” Diel said. “Even if the last century hasn’t otherwise aged him … watching him move … I can’t explain. He felt different. It could be an illusion, not the real Arathiel.”
“Do you think it is?”
Jaeger’s voice was soft. He was withholding his own opinion, knowing how much Diel would rely on it to form his. The little trick brought a smile to Diel’s lips. He wondered when in their decades of interactions Jaeger had noticed how often Diel asked for his advice and developed ways not to give it right away.
“No,” Diel said after a moment. “My gut tells me it’s really him.”
“Passing as Arathiel would be a very convoluted lie, requiring knowledge of minor events that happened too long ago. Isandor struggles with remembering anything before Lady Allastam’s murder. I doubt anyone recalls the young lord from a modest family who left searching for a cure for his sister.”
“Anyone but us.” Diel leaned on the railing. “Arathiel must have known we would recognize him. I don’t understand any of this, Jaeger. He’s human. How can he still be alive? What happened to him in that century? When did he return, and why would he do this?”
Diel ran a hand over his face. He would need to speak with Arathiel himself. Regulations around visits would be strict at the headquarters, but he was Lord Dathirii. He could get through. He wanted to ask Arathiel so much. His actions brought up as many questions as those surrounding his past.
“I’m guessing Lady Brasten denied any involvement in this mess?”
“Yes.”
“Send word that we do the same,” Diel said. “Just a quick note to declare that our family had no part in today’s events, but that we recognize Lord Arathiel Brasten and support his claim to the title. There is no point in denying it. It would look suspicious, and I can’t afford to have the other Houses against me at this time.”
And yet … whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Arathiel drop among the guards, parrying and dodging, moving with amazing ease. He had always been a skilled fighter, but the way he ignored every hit as he progressed toward Hasryan had stolen Diel’s breath. Given the element of surprise, Arathiel had bested a dozen soldiers at once.
“If you could find Kellian, I need to ask him a few questions.”
“Yes, milord.” Jaeger squeezed his shoulder again, strongly enough to make Diel turn. His gaze met Jaeger’s deep-set eyes, and the trust and understanding in them was like a blanket around his heart. Jaeger knew what he was thinking. Didn’t he always? The steward smiled. “It’s a dangerous idea, but it might be worth it.”
Then Jaeger walked away to take care of his duties. Diel watched the balcony’s door close behind him, lightheaded. Even after more than a century, Jaeger’s approval stirred powerful warmth in his chest. Diel trusted his lover’s opinions and instincts more than he did his own—Jaeger had the same solid moral compass, and none of Diel’s tendency to panic and get carried away.
He doubted Kellian would appreciate his idea as much as Jaeger had. How could he breach the topic with his guards’ captain? Kellian was loyal to a fault, and Diel wasn’t worried about betrayal—they were a family, had toiled together for decades—but Kellian could get tempestuous and would heartily disagree. No wonder. If Diel decided to go ahead, Kellian and Yultes would bear the brunt of the extra work, appeasing Lord Allastam and protecting House Dathirii. Diel returned his gaze to the towers around him, glowing bright red in the setting sun. Even the greenery covering most of the Upper City had an angry colour. The white spirals of House Allastam’s tower seemed bloodthirsty in this light. Diel knew Lord Allastam would never be satisfied until someone paid for his wife’s murder with their life.
The sun had almost vanished by the time Kellian joined him on the balcony. His smaller cousin frowned, and Diel couldn’t help but think he looked exhausted. He had spent his weeks running around, trying to organize the few guards and mercenaries they had to keep their trade partners safe. The entire family was worn thin by the constant fight against the Myrians.
“Long day, wasn’t it?” Diel asked as a greeting.
“Sora’s was worse. We thought she’d have some time off after the execution, but she can kiss that goodbye.”
Diel tried not to smile at how ‘we thought’ implied they had eagerly planned to use that time to see each other. Under the circumstances, Kellian’s fondness for Miss Sharpe would be a hindrance.
“You witnessed the escape, didn’t you?” Diel waited for Kellian’s confirmation even though he had no doubt his cousin had been somewhere in the crowd. “What can you tell me about Arathiel’s fighting skills?”
“His skills? Why?”
Diel glanced at Kellian, then pressed his lips together. It might be better not to explain too soon. The silence stretched until Kellian gave in.
“He’s good, as he always was. Quick and fluid, brilliant at dodging. He used to have some of the best footwork in the city.” Kellian stepped up to the railing and stared at the closest bridge. Diel wondered if he was reliving the fight in his mind. “But Diel, you saw him too. He’s unnatural. He doesn’t notice when he gets cut, and his movements are more calculated than improvised. Sora said he broke an ankle and snapped it back into place without flinching. He admits to feeling no pain, and I’ll venture there are a lot of other things he no longer feels. The way he walked and ran made me suspect he couldn’t sense the ground beneath his boots.”
Diel’s stomach sank as Kellian explained what he could. What had happened to Arathiel to change him this way? Was he all right? They had been good acquaintances, sharing social circles and meeting at events often enough for Diel to develop a huge crush. He hoped nothing too horrible had affected Arathiel.
“No physical pain, then,” he said. The adjective seemed an important distinction.
“None.”
“Kellian, we both watched him take on a squad of Isandor’s guards and free a high-profile assassin alone. Provided with a small elite team, how would you evaluate his chances of infiltrating a powerful wizard organization to liberate their prisoner?”
“What?” Kellian spun on his heels, glaring with disbelief. “You want to send him into the Myrian Enclave?”
Diel gripped the railing and nodded. Could anyone else succeed at something like this? Arathiel had just proved he had the skills for it.
“You can’t. He just freed Hasryan. He has to stay in prison until he tells us where the dark elf is.”
“That’s not an answer to my question, Kellian.”
Silence stretched on, as if Kellian believed he could avoid providing one if he waited long enough. Diel didn’t budge. “He suffered terrible wounds from which he has yet to recover, so no, he can’t do anything like that. He can’t even run on his twisted ankle, let alone fight.” Kellian crossed his arms. Exhaustion deepened his angry scowl. “This is ridiculous, Diel. You might be able to pull enough strings to get him out of prison, but you’ll have the entire city against you. What good is this rescue mission if we lose all our allies?”
Diel closed his eyes, his throat tight. He knew that. Lord Allastam would consider it a betrayal and say he’d sided with the enemy, with his wife’s killer. The wrath he had directed at Lord Freitz for years would fall upon House Dathirii at a time when another powerful player was trying to take them down. Not to mention that if Arathiel
succeeded, Master Avenazar would only become more aggressive. He needed Lord Allastam as a proactive ally, not his enemy. Approaching Arathiel as anything other than a criminal would be a horrible strategy. There was no rationale that justified it.
“What is the point of running the Myrians out if we allow them to torture whomever they please? I started this conflict to protect a teenager from undeserved pain. I can’t ignore the man who defended Branwen from a worse fate. I promised her I would try—that if I had a solution, I would do it. Arathiel is our solution.”
Kellian fell silent. Branwen had been sullen and irritable these last few days. She had refused to speak with either of them, except to follow Diel at the second Coalition meeting, and her eyes were often red from crying. Diel missed hearing her laugh and tease everyone, or having her burst into an important dinner to show off the last dress she had modified with Camilla’s help. She had grown serious and angry, and without her energy, he felt empty.
“You’ll ruin our family to save one man,” Kellian said. “Even if we make it through, we’ll never have the same political strength.”
“We won’t,” Diel agreed. “But if it lets me rescue Varden and return Branwen’s smile, then I’ll be content.”
Saying it out loud made it concrete. He would do it. It was the right thing to do, and he could feel it to the core of his bones. As the decision sank in, the sun vanished. Bioluminescent flowers lit up the city, wrapped around railings or hanging from balconies. As usual, lively colours covered the Upper City while the Lower City was plunged into darkness. He wondered where in those shadows Hasryan had hidden.
“I guess you were right, Kellian. I am this family’s greatest peril.”
Kellian’s strong hand landed on Diel’s shoulder, and he squeezed. Their gazes met, and though Kellian was still frowning, Diel knew the guard would have his back. Family sticks together, he thought. Every Dathirii would stand behind him in this decision, and so would Jaeger. They would always be there for one another.
“No, Diel. You’re our greatest challenge.”
The more I write, the more people I find I want to thank for their support. City of Strife is my first all-indie novel, the beginning of a long and promising adventure, and the result of years of an universe simmering in my mind and evolving. I like to start my acknowledgments in my own tongue, in French, for the wonderful people in my local life, but first I want to share the tale behind this novel and what it means to me to finally have it published.
Isandor is how I started writing. It wasn’t a novel at the time—I was Dungeon Master for a sprawling roleplaying game that stretched on for over three years and was dedicated to a single player. I’d never played around in my imagination, created characters, storylines, and whole universes that way before! Soon I was writing short scenes happening out of my player character’s sight to complete the unfolding adventure. That, really, is where my first thanks for Isandor should go: to Bobby Moran—you told me once I should be a writer, and sparked a fire that has since engulfed my life.
Things have changed a tonsince these characters first emerged in my mind—I’ve changed a lot! This story is truer to myself, tighter than any roleplaying game needs to be. Even after my original game died, I kept playing these characters in other circumstances, and they evolved with me. And the wonderful thing about that? These precious babies have so many more things to live. I can only hope that as I continue to grow, so will Isandor, and that it will continue to live on with me.
[English will be back later, don’t worry!]
Je voudrais donc dire merci d’abord à mon ami Jonathan, à qui ce livre est dédié, qui a suivi les aventures de ces personnages et leurs changements depuis les premiers balbutiements. Ta loyauté, ton rire facile, ta créativité et ton immense gaieté de coeur me seront toujours précieux. Merci aussi à Marianne et Audrey, pour les heures incalculables de roleplay et l’inspiration et les rires constants qui en ont découlé.
Merci encore à ma famille, mes amis proches, mon merveilleux copains, Eric, pour le soutien, les belles soirées, les rires--particulièrement à ma soeur, qui continue de produire des couvertures à couper le souffle pour mes histoires. Je vous aime tous.
[And look, we’re back!] Speaking of thanks to support circles: I have met so many amazing people through social media. Shira, Elena, RoAnna, Ren, Lyssa, Jaylee and so many more: your enthusiasm, love, thoughtfulness, and talent are a constant joy to behold. And please, if you are not directly on this list, know that you are included, and I value our exchanges greatly.
I need to thank more specifically the people who worked on this book with me. Marianne (again!) who reads and loves everything I write and gets to see it all in its roughest form. Brenda and Katie, who saw first drafts and helped shape Isandor into the solid novel it now is. Ren, Jaylee, David, Nicole and Amy, who all to some extent commented on City of Strife and made it better. Special mentions go to Megan Reynolds, without whom my prose wouldn’t be so crisp and polished, to Lyssa who keeps designing my interiors, and to Gabrielle for the cover. You’re all amazing.
Frankly, I hope this novel finds its way into the hands of a great many asexual and aromantic spectrum people. Your support and enthusiasm as we neared publication helped me through writerly self-doubts. I have found great solace and fun in stories that featured aromantic and asexual characters, and which focus had little to do with romance and desire. I hope you enjoy(ed) this new one as much as I loved writing it.
Merci à tous, and here’s to the start of a wonderful series!
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You can also pick up Claudie’s first book, Viral Airwaves, in which a reluctant noodle-lover stumbles upon a government conspiracy and must expose it with little more than friends and a hot air balloon!
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Find more at claudiearseneault.com
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