Larryn snorted. “Then we need rules. Follow me.”
He opened the doors to his kitchens and motioned for Vellien to come. They stood rooted to their spot, hesitant to obey. Did they want to enter Larryn’s untouchable space? It felt like overstepping. But Larryn had invited them, no? Shouldn’t that mean it would be okay, even if only for this one time? Vellien might never have another chance to establish boundaries with the Shelter’s owner. Refusing might even anger him further, so Vellien gathered their courage and hurried after Larryn.
A strong cinnamon odour greeted them as they slipped through the door, and it overpowered the other sweeter scents. Vellien’s eyes widened as they took in the enormous pot, the cutting boards, the pans, and dozens of tools they couldn’t name, let alone guess at the uses for. A huge bag of apples rested on the counter next to a pile of potatoes and carrots, and Vellien focused on those familiar elements, desperate not to appear too wildly impressed with their surroundings. Larryn was not fooled.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been in kitchens before.”
“Well, I—” Vellien sighed, then shook their head. House Dathirii had cooks. “There was never a point.”
Larryn stared at them, his mouth a thin line, anger boiling right under the surface. Vellien dropped their gaze to their feet, sheepish.
“This is why I hate you people,” Larryn said, and though the words were harsh, his tone managed to stay contained. “My patrons don’t even have a home, but you can bet your ass they can cook for themselves, and would if they had a chance.”
“I-I know. Larryn, sir, I understand. I mean, I understand that I can’t really know, and I realize that when I step in your Shelter, I take this space away from them.”
Larryn leaned on his counter and studied them, looking straight at Vellien instead of tilting his head to the side to hear better. Was that newfound respect in his expression? Perhaps Vellien shouldn’t get their hopes up. Larryn clacked his tongue. “You’re less oblivious than your peers. Or you have a little someone telling you what to say.”
Perhaps it was the “little” in Larryn’s words, but Vellien immediately thought of Cal. They raised their hands and shook them. “Cal didn’t say anything! He only admitted to me you didn’t like us, but he wouldn’t explain why or—”
“Let’s not talk about Cal,” Larryn snapped. “In fact, that will be rule number one. Don’t mention Cal to me.”
“Is he barred from coming? He was supposed to help me.”
“You’re already breaking rule number one.”
Larryn crossed his arms and glared at them. Vellien didn’t recoil, despite very much wanting to. Instead, they met his gaze without flinching. “If he is not talking with Nevian, it may take longer for him to heal. I need to know.”
It earned them a little huff. “Cal comes and goes,” Larryn said with a dismissive wave, before moving on. “Rule number two: in my Shelter, you’re a nobody. There’s no ‘milord’ and ‘sir,’ and no one owes you shit. Keep making yourself small or you won’t be tolerated.”
This time, Vellien smiled. “That’s good. I don’t like being gendered.” Not that it would stop the crowd from using masculine pronouns. Vellien would rather not, but they didn’t intend to spend their days correcting the Shelter’s patrons. Larryn didn’t miss the implications of their answer.
“Do you use neutral pronouns, then?”
“Yes!” Excitement coursed through them briefly. They didn’t often get asked for their pronouns, even though many non-binary folks walked Isandor’s bridges or lived in their legends. It inevitably brought a grin to their lips. “It’s ‘they.’ Please.”
“Yeah, sure.” Larryn’s expression softened. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell others if you want. Rule number three? Keep giving us cloaks. We love those peace offerings.”
“Each time? One for every new visit?” Vellien didn’t have enough spares for that, and all their money went straight to fighting the Myrian Enclave. How would they comply?
“You heard me. I’m sure you’re resourceful enough to find what you need. You sure can’t be too poor.”
Vellien swallowed hard. They would have to ask Camilla and Branwen for extras. Who would have guessed it would cost them so much to help one teenager? “All right. A cloak.”
“The last rule is the hardest. For both of us.”
That didn’t bode well. Vellien gritted their teeth, reminding themself this Shelter was Larryn’s home and creation, and that every time they came, they trespassed into a space not meant for them. Vellien hated confrontations, and none of the rules so far justified one. “Go on.”
“I want you to stay.” Every word obviously cost Larryn.
“Stay?”
“Not long! I’m not patient enough. But … it’s not fair for Nevian to have all the treatment because of some connections with you people. The others are sick, too. They got colds and rotting teeth and disgusting mouldy shit crawling up their feet. Heal a few. None of them can afford a healer, and Cal’s no good at it.”
It could have been a plea if Larryn hadn’t been glaring at them, daring Vellien to mock or pity his people. Hard to believe he’d even asked when he had called their very existence—as a noble and as a Dathirii, but still—a problem. When Vellien thought about it, they were being asked to pay through cloaks to work here and help these people. Yet they couldn’t refuse.
“I’ll do what I can until I’m too tired. Nevian’s first, however. It’s a complicated task and I could cause irreparable damage if I tried exhausted.”
Silence slipped in the conversation. Larryn studied Vellien for a moment, and his expression flicked between a scowl and something altogether softer, almost curious and relieved. Vellien withstood his scrutiny. Considering their first encounter with the boiling half-elf, this calm chat seemed a miracle. They didn’t want to break the frail balance achieved today, and with Larryn, any wrong word might. With a weary sigh, the Shelter’s cook returned to his work.
“Nevian’s waiting for you.”
He didn’t thank Vellien, but they knew it was hidden in his permission to stay. Hoping this truce would last, they left without another word. They had a young wizard’s mind to heal.
✵
Dinner time had flown by. It always did, in a way—who watched time when they ran around trying to get everyone fed at once? But on most days, Larryn didn’t endure the rush-hour sprint alone. Several of the Shelter’s patrons had learned to balance plates and lent the occasional helping hand, but none as frequently as Cal. His friend used to show up almost every evening, compensating for his short legs with boundless enthusiasm and endurance. They would chat as they worked, either exchanging a few quick sentences each time their paths crossed or yelling across the common room in a desperate attempt to cover the buzz of conversations. Hasryan occasionally joined the routine, and when patrons became rowdy and impatient, he quickly taught them to keep their peace.
Without their help, dinner time became gruesome and exhausting. When the rush diminished, Larryn dragged his feet, shoulders hunched, fatigue setting deep into his bones. He hid in his kitchens, slumping against the counter and closing his eyes. Larryn clung to the many smiles and thanks he had once more received. Cooking, serving, and cleaning for the Shelter was endless work, but it was worth it. His folks were worth it, just as they were worth inviting a Dathirii within his walls.
His stomach churned at the thought, a low nausea settling in. The Shelter was his space, his only refuge. How could he trust any of these elves in it? His mother had paid for their lies with her life, and they had stranded him alone in Isandor’s cold streets before he turned seven. When Vellien stepped into the Shelter draped in cozy fur-lined clothes, Larryn remembered the nights curled in a corner, the stabs of pain from an empty stomach. His fingers tingled from the countless times guards and merchants had snapped them as punishment for stealing, and when cold crept up his toes, he glanced at his feet to ensure he did, in fact, still have good boots to
ward him against the cold. It had been hell, and no Shelter could truly protect him from the consequences. The memories would follow him as surely as his left ear would remain deafened by an untreated infection.
It didn’t matter if Vellien hadn’t done any of this. They were a Dathirii, and to Larryn’s body and mind, the distinction quickly vanished. He should be more careful to lay the blame where it belonged, but that involved staying calm. Not his strong suit. Larryn brought his knees closer and leaned his forehead against them. Vellien had stayed so calm earlier, accepting Larryn’s every request without a word of complaint. Perhaps there had been no need for the brutality with which he’d set boundaries, but Larryn had never met a noble with whom gently asking worked. None of the usual rules seemed to apply, leaving Larryn stranded in new and scary territory. Anger he was familiar with, but even that had betrayed him too often recently. He wished he could talk with Hasryan about some of this—any of this, really—but had no idea where to find his friend. No one but Arathiel knew now.
Larryn shoved the thoughts away. Hasryan would turn up eventually. Why not? No shackles or prison bars held him now. It might be difficult and dangerous, but when had that stopped his friend? Larryn could hold on tight until then. Somehow, the ground always felt more stable when Hasryan was there.
He pushed himself to his feet once more and studied the mess in his kitchens. He cleaned as much as possible while he cooked—the limited space wouldn’t allow otherwise—yet piles of knives, pots, and cutting boards still clamoured for attention. And there would be everyone’s plate, soon. No way he would let his tomato-based sauce stick overnight. Not now, though. Dishes would have to wait: he needed a break, and one patron had yet to eat.
Larryn prepared a final plate and slunk out of the kitchens, down the corridor toward Nevian’s room. He stopped upon hearing a tiny snort-laugh that could only come from Vellien and gritted his teeth. He had hoped Nevian would be alone now, but no such luck. Larryn knocked anyway, steeling himself for another brief encounter with the Dathirii. He might as well get used to it.
When Cal invited him to enter, his voice muffled by the door, Larryn almost didn’t. Could he deal with both at once? Larryn resolved to keep it short and professional, then pushed the door open.
The three of them overcrowded Nevian’s tiny room. Cal occupied the desk, his small fat legs dangling from the chair, a sheet of parchment in his hands. He focused on it, clearly avoiding Larryn’s gaze. Nevian and Vellien sat cross-legged on the bed, facing each other. Nevian’s fingers dug into the thin blankets, twisting them, and bullets of sweat covered his forehead. Healing, it seemed, would not be painless.
“I, um …” All three of them stared at him now. Larryn was not used to being treated as an outsider in his own Shelter. He gritted his teeth and stayed in the doorway. Short and professional. “I brought a plate for Nevian. I noticed he hadn’t come to dinner.”
“Not hungry,” Nevian replied, his words slow and stilted, as if pushed out only through great effort.
Cal’s eyes widened. “Refusing Larryn’s food is not permitted.” He tried to keep the familiar teasing out of his voice, as if pretending he hadn’t essentially lived in the Shelter for the last two years could ease the tension between them.
Silence stretched, until Larryn cleared his throat. “Should I bring more?” He didn’t want to, not really. Vellien and Cal could afford to feed themselves, but if they meant to stay and help …
“It’s all right. We’re done for the night.” Vellien unfurled their legs and slid down the bed. Nevian’s head snapped up, a protest clear on his lips despite his sorry state, but Vellien didn’t let him utter it. “I cannot do more tonight, Nevian, and neither can you. Rest and food will help you. We’ll continue tomorrow.
“So you’re leaving,” Larryn concluded, his grip tightening on the plate in his hands. Did Vellien want to hurry out because he had scared them? Or was the young healer already skirting on their promised duties to the other patrons?
“Yes. I’m tired.” Vellien straightened their shoulders before adding, “Your patrons may have to wait two or three days, depending on our progress here. This is … draining.”
“Whenever you can,” Larryn replied, and the softness in his voice surprised him. The voice in him screaming that this noble only wanted to escape work had gone silent in the face of Vellien’s and Nevian’s obvious exhaustion. It coiled below the surface, ready to yell again. Better to leave now before it returned in force.
Larryn handed the plate to Cal, and as his friend’s small hands clasped around it, their eyes met. Anxious hope shone bright in his friend’s gaze. Larryn’s stomach churned. He inhaled, as if about to speak—and part of him desperately wanted to! Cal deserved better than the anger and violence he’d received. But his throat tightened, and his body refused to cooperate. A part of him might desire an apology, but too much of him clung to the fury of winter solstice. He tightened his lips and turned away, addressing Nevian instead.
“Just don’t waste it.”
Nevian cast a doubtful glare at the plate. “No promises. I have work.”
Larryn scowled. Others could use the food if he didn’t want it! Something in Nevian’s tone kept him from snapping back—a hollowness Larryn recognized from his own experience. Hunger had gnawed at his stomach for so much of his life, yet in the weeks following Jim’s death, Larryn had gone without touching any food for days. He hadn’t wanted to. He had neither cooked nor eaten, busying himself with the challenges of building a new Shelter, until Cal picked up on his growing thinness and forced the barest meal into him. If Nevian grieved, even a bite would be a victory, the rest of the plate notwithstanding.
“Eat what you can, then. I promise you won’t regret it.”
The tension in Nevian’s shoulders eased. He closed his eyes and flopped down on the bed, arms spread, fatigue and frustration mixing in his expression. “Understood.”
Larryn hoped the meal’s quality would help, but Nevian might not even notice. He promised himself he would keep trying and get what food he could into the teenager, then excused himself. Every minute spent in a room with Cal and Vellien tested his reserve, and he didn’t want to ruin an otherwise calm interaction. Besides, a mountain of dishes awaited him, and he needed to consider breakfast for the following day. He couldn’t afford to stop when exhausted: the Shelter’s people wouldn’t wait on him.
Three thick lines of pain spread across his back. Three burns, three days. So many more to endure. Varden curled on the ground, despair filling his mind so fully that not even sleep could find room.
Avenazar had continued to come. Varden had tried to keep him out, but he’d smashed his defences, cracked them like a nut, and now he was peeling him apart one layer at a time. Tearing pieces of his self away, brutal and gleeful, until Varden lost track of who he was. Never of where, though.
This was the Myrian Enclave, which would surely see him dead. Once its leader left—uncontested, all-powerful—Varden stayed sprawled on the ground, cold stone against his cheeks, bits of himself scattered through his jumbled mind. And he rebuilt it. Every time, knowing Avenazar would return and mock him, knowing it could never last. What else could he do? He had to resist somehow. Whatever the end, Varden would meet it as himself.
He was Varden Daramond, Isbari, leader of his community. He had fought and prayed and cried for them, and himself.
He was Varden Daramond, High Priest of Keroth. He thrived within the flames, had survived the fire burning his childhood home, and climbed the ranks of priesthood.
He was Varden Daramond, and he loved men. He loved to talk with them, touch them, draw them, kiss them. He had been with one, too, for a decade.
Varden continued to hammer his own name, to cling to its sound, attaching parcels of self to it. Varden, the charcoal artist, who found peace in detailed portraits and sketched flames. Varden, who had defied every Myrian’s expectation of him and channelled Keroth better than priests twice his age. Varden, who ha
d helped young Nevian slip out of the enclave in secret, and who had saved Branwen and hidden her from Avenazar.
Pointless acts, in the end. Avenazar had found and killed them both. Nevian with his head cracked on a bridge, and Branwen in a much slower, much more horrible manner. Nausea pushed up Varden’s throat as he recalled the detailed memories Avenazar had shared with him—steady fire crawling up her legs, acid splattering her arms and face. He wondered which was worse: her painful death or his pathetic life?
No, no. Varden struggled against those thoughts. They would drag him down, defeat him. He was Varden Daramond, and he was proud to have helped them. He refused to regret it, even now. As long as he remembered who he was—loved who he was—Varden had won.
A key turned in the lock, jolting Varden further awake. So soon? He’d thought only a few hours had passed since Avenazar’s last visit. But what was time in this cursed, sunless cell? He lost track, flitting in and out of consciousness, too weak to feel the sun rise and set through the walls by the grace of the Firelord’s power. Varden missed Their presence, wild and comforting at the bottom of his soul, always with him. Not anymore, not so clearly. Avenazar had blocked Keroth with iced manacles, horrible cold devices that crawled up his wrist and forearm, and stalled his access to Them. This battle was Varden’s alone to fight. He struggled into a sitting position, schooling his mind into an empty calm, preparing the litany of himself as a defence against Avenazar.
Bright torchlight invaded his cell, and he squinted against it. A figure stepped in the doorway. Too tall for Avenazar, whose malevolence was packed in a short stature. Relief flooded through Varden, an intense moment of release, of struggles delayed. Then he recognized Master Jilssan, and wariness doused his fleeting enthusiasm.
City of Betrayal Page 3