Arathiel did his best, but the answers blurred in his mind. He didn’t even need to lie; he couldn’t keep track of what he had said and what he had kept silent, of the dates and details of his own life. He needed rest. His ankle might not throb with pain, and his wounds had been closed, but Arathiel knew he hadn’t healed yet. Rescuing Hasryan had required an enormous amount of energy, and he could sleep for weeks without recovering.
Not that Sora would allow it. He supposed he should have expected this. Hasryan had probably lived through it several times. Exhaustion and stress could lead to a slip, and she would jump onto any information she could use. If she was in any state to notice it. He stared at Sora during a brief lull in their back-and-forth, noting the bags under her eyes, her agitated tapping on the table, and her growing frustration. Arathiel straightened in his chair. He’d had enough of this ridiculous charade.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“An interrogation. What does it look like?”
“A desperate attempt to drag information out of me through verbal bludgeoning? You’re tiring yourself, hitting so hard.” A hint of mockery had slipped into his voice, and fury flashed across Sora’s face. Good. “Why now, however? Pressure from the lords and ladies of Isandor?”
“Not the kind you’re thinking of,” she said. “Why are you surprised? You’re a criminal withholding essential information from Isandor’s Sapphire Guard. You’re lucky an all-night interrogation is the hardest we go on you.”
Arathiel laughed, but his heart twisted inside. Was she threatening him? What would even be the point? “With all due respect, Miss Sharpe, I don’t think torture would lead you anywhere with me.”
She paled, and Arathiel suspected she hadn’t realized what her words implied. Sharpe used brutal determination as a mask for her doubts. The more he insisted on Hasryan’s humanity, the more aggressive she became about the crimes committed. He already knew better than to believe her tough front. She had let Larryn point a bow at her without retribution and had allowed Cal to partially heal him on the very day he’d freed Hasryan. She might sling threats his way, but Arathiel doubted she’d resort to physical violence—with him, or anyone else under her watch.
Sora squared her shoulders, letting her temporary horror wash over her. “Nothing leads me anywhere with you, does it? You’re bound to crack at some point.”
“I spent a hundred thirty years in stasis. I’ve grown very patient.” Ironic, that his first blatant lie to Sora wouldn’t even concern Camilla or Hasryan. The years trapped into the Well had snapped by, time passing beyond his consciousness. Arathiel remembered going down the stairs, determined to find a cure for Lindi’s fast-degrading health. His memory grew confused as he travelled farther down. The Well had sapped his energy and awareness, and only with an immense effort of willpower had he pulled out of the magical torpor and crawled out. Boots and clothes had fallen to pieces as he stumbled up one step at a time, unable to feel the stone under his hands, confused and increasingly terrified. Half-alive, paper-thin, and hungry. Arathiel chased the memory away and found himself staring at a very concerned Sora.
“Are you back with me?” she asked.
“I never left.” His voice was rough. Black spots obscured the edge of his vision and receded as he focused. What had happened there?
“You’ve been unresponsive for a handful of minutes. I was about to get a healer.”
“I …” Arathiel trailed off. Thinking about the Well did not usually make him lose track of his surroundings, and his heart raced at potential explanations. What if he’d never escaped? Would he forever be connected to it? Could the Well continue to leech his senses, even now, so far from it? Arathiel curled his fingers around the chains of his shackles, tightening his grip until he could feel the cold metal digging in. A month ago, he would have greeted the perspective with reluctant fatalism—proof that he was never meant to escape and should have died in the Well. Not anymore. He’d come to Isandor searching for a goal, a sense of self, and a home. Meeting Hasryan had given him the first, and helped him toward the second. And while Arathiel had no idea what to call home yet, he knew it was nearby, and he would fight for it. “No need. I’ll be fine. I’m here to stay.”
“True enough. Neither of us is going anywhere any time soon.” Her voice had softened, and Arathiel wondered how disturbed he’d looked. He’d rather not give Sora too much insight into what troubled him—he didn’t trust her not to use it against him—but she must have realized his mind had gone elsewhere for a moment.
“This is pointless. Exhausted or not, I won’t betray Hasryan. He’s my friend, and you’re dangerous to him.”
“Who isn’t?” Sora countered, and an instant later, her expression shifted. She leaned forward, linking her hands. “Who, in your tiny circle of acquaintances and friends, would not be a danger to Isandor’s most famous assassin? You keep repeating Larryn had nothing to do with it, yet everything brings it back to the Shelter.”
“Then investigate. What stops you?”
Sora huffed, refusing to answer. Either she didn’t believe Larryn was involved or she’d already searched the Shelter and questioned its patrons, to no avail. Arathiel had known not to speak of his rescue to any of them, not even Cal. They were the obvious scapegoats, the first ones any good investigator would think about. Unlike Camilla Dathirii, the peaceful old elf known for her tea chats and her dedication to Isandor’s elderly. Asking her had been a terrible risk, but Arathiel trusted her heart. She would see this through.
“Run me through your winter solstice night again,” Sora said. “Slowly, with ample details.”
Arathiel heaved a sigh, leaned against his seat, and started at the beginning. Slowly, as requested, which pleased him. More time to recover from his strange fade-out earlier, and more time to cover the tiny lie protecting Larryn’s attempt to break Hasryan out of prison. This was a story he’d practised before, and Arathiel told it with the careful ease of someone who knew each word counted.
The brutal stench of his new cell surprised Arathiel and sent a jolt of joy coursing through him. He clapped his hands, striding inside with childlike enthusiasm.
“This stinks!”
The pungent smell of urine filled his nostrils and scorched his throat. Even the Lower City hadn’t fazed him, yet in this cramped space, the disgusting odour of human refuse pierced through his numbed senses, and he felt more awake than he had since his arrest. After the night of unrelenting questions, Arathiel welcomed this change.
Two steps behind him, Sora Sharpe met his outburst with a groan. Fatigue hunched her shoulders, and she had grown too distracted to ask coherent questions over the last hour, leading her to admit defeat and call a stop to their interrogation. Arathiel had caught sight of sunlight through a window, but none of it reached this cell. His new home, though not for long, he suspected.
“You’re so strange,” she said, then dropped to a whisper. “But loyal. How did Hasryan earn this dedication?”
Arathiel didn’t turn around. He doubted she had meant to voice that question, but exhaustion took its toll on self-control. He walked to his cell’s opposite wall and ran a hand over the stones, wondering if they were cold or rough.
“He accepted me.” Wasn’t that what had mattered most, in the end? Hasryan had seen him bleed without flinching, had sensed Arathiel’s secrets and difference, and he had taken it in stride without prying further. Better, he had sought to protect and help him. “I’m not strange to him. Hasryan knows what it’s like to be the odd one out.” This explanation didn’t cut it, but words could never cover the depth of comprehension that had passed between them. Arathiel didn’t even quite understand it himself. The bond they had formed was unique, similar to what he had experienced through romance before, yet with a different love at its core.
“What a huge mess.” She sounded like she wanted an escape. Arathiel wished he had one to offer. “Rest. You have a visitor tomorrow, and you might find it taxing.”
&
nbsp; “I’m allowed visitors?” No one had had permission to see Hasryan, and he had expected the same rules would apply to him.
Sora grimaced. “Some people go as they please. If a lord of this city demands to speak with you …”
Arathiel’s stomach twisted at the mention. A lord? Had Lord Allastam come to put a different kind of pressure on Arathiel? He hoped not. Although Camilla had shared some insight into Isandor’s current politics, his grasp remained tenuous, and he might blunder in a face-off with a hostile noble. He had no idea how his actions impacted House Brasten. Did Isandor link them by mere virtue of his name? Sora had said they’d confirmed his existence in their records, but Arathiel doubted they had endorsed him. Did he still count as a Brasten, then?
“May I ask which lord?”
Sora’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Perhaps we should trade information. You tell me where to find Hasryan …”
Arathiel laughed. She expected nothing from the proposal. “As if.”
“It’s Lord Dathirii,” she said, then closed the door without another word, as if angry at herself for sharing.
Arathiel sat down, removing the weight from his recovering ankle. He might not feel the pain, but that didn’t mean he should needlessly slow his healing. Once his initial shock passed, a wave of relief washed over him. He knew Diel, even if only through brief and now long-gone contacts. Arathiel would much rather speak with him than face Lord Allastam’s anger or, worse, meet with Lady Brasten. Camilla had only good words for the young leader of his family, but thoughts of this encounter left him anxious and restless. What would Lady Brasten say to Arathiel once they met? She could deny his bloodline, treat him as the outsider he now was, really. The odd one out. Would she cast him out? Titles had been removed from nobles in the face of unforgivable crimes before. Perhaps it would be best this way—a clear cut from his previous life. Yet it terrified him. Few threads connected him to Lindi still, and House Brasten was the biggest one.
The Dathirii might well be the second, though Arathiel suspected Diel hadn’t requested an interview to discuss the past. The elf had a trade war to win and no time for remembrance. This mystery led Arathiel to waste his precious hours of rest lying on the ground, wondering how he and Hasryan’s escape fit into Diel’s fight with the Myrians, and why Lord Dathirii would approach him now. He hoped no one had noticed the new resident in Camilla’s quarters—if Hasryan had made it.
The wasted night only made Arathiel more exhausted, yet his fatigue washed away as he entered the interrogation room and found Diel Dathirii sitting in a chair, fidgeting with a loose strand of hair. He recognized the habit from over a century ago, and as guards chained him to the table, he searched the lord’s face for more of the familiar, idealist elf he’d known.
A hundred thirty years had aged Lord Dathirii, giving his youthful features a more mature appearance, and the smallest wrinkles now decorated the corner of his eyes. He had the same lush hair, presumably golden, braided back to keep it from his face. Their gazes met, and for a moment, Arathiel was caught in Diel Dathirii’s eyes. He remembered their intense green, but like everything else, the Well had washed it into a dull grey, with just a hint of emerald left. Arathiel cleared his throat, heat rushing to his head. He hadn’t expected the elven lord to grow even more handsome with time.
“The last century has been good to you, milord,” he said.
“I wish I could return the compliment.” A quick silence followed Diel’s answer, heavy with the implied meaning. The Well had turned his hair white, his face gaunt, and his limbs bony. His time at the Shelter must have helped, but Arathiel doubted he carried a peaceful and healthy aura about himself. Diel frowned and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say … You look great, if exhausted. I heard it hasn’t been easy.”
“It hasn’t.”
The lord’s clumsiness amused Arathiel more than it insulted him. He remembered Diel as a smooth talker, prone to jump into idealist rants which always, somehow, pierced through the prevalent cynicism and convinced others. He had a way with words—except, it seemed, when it came to greeting long-gone acquaintances. Arathiel let the mishap slide, waiting to see what Diel wanted to say.
“When you sprang into the fray during the execution, I thought I had imagined the resemblance. I asked Jaeger if that was you, and even with his confirmation, I could hardly believe it.” Diel settled back into his chair, a thoughtful smile lighting his face. “It’s good to see you again, despite the circumstances.”
Arathiel’s eyebrows shot up. Had they been on friendly terms? They rarely spoke, and he had seen Kellian a lot more than he had Diel. At the time, the young lord had been too busy feasting with friends in various establishments or striking off on unannounced expeditions down the Reonne River or one of its tributaries. It had been somewhat of a joke, how Diel Dathirii skipped on ceremonies and events he ought to attend, yet turned up unexpected at others. Charming and irresponsible all at once. The former had endured through time, but from what Camilla had said, he’d grown into a reliable leader. Perhaps Arathiel had disregarded him too quickly back then, and had never noticed any interest Diel might have given him. Arathiel raised a hand and shook the shackles. The rattling sound echoed in the small room. “These circumstances?”
“Yes, and everything tied to them. How are they treating you?”
Arathiel shrugged. “Well enough. They healed my wounds and transferred me into a scented cell. I am the unwilling subject of all-night interrogations, however.”
Diel leaned forward, setting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands. He studied Arathiel in silence, his deep gaze searching him as he asked his question. “Why save him? Investigator Sharpe had me sit through a list of his crimes before I could enter. Protecting assassins is unlike what I would’ve expected of you, long ago.”
“Hasryan is my friend, and no more a monster than I am. We understand each other.” How many different people would need to hear this explanation? Would any of them even believe it? Arathiel gritted his teeth, a wave of defiance surging. “Would you rather defend his boss? Siding with corrupt schemers rather than the tools they casually betray is unlike what I would’ve expected of you, long ago.”
Their eyes locked, Arathiel daring him in silence to deny it. Diel instead threw his head back and burst into laughter. “I knew I could come to you.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the strands that had managed to escape his tired half-ponytail, and the simple, casual gesture immediately made him more approachable to Arathiel. It had always been easy to like Diel Dathirii. With the flash of a smile and a quick laugh, he could melt barriers and make himself welcome. “I need your help. In exchange, I can arrange accommodations for you. Several of Isandor’s Towers have individual cells in them, comfortable quarters meant to imprison nobles who have committed crimes. It’s not freedom, not yet, but it’d be better than this place.”
Arathiel’s heart leaped, and he tried to rein in his enthusiasm. The Diel he knew promised a lot but rarely followed up on his word. He trusted Lord Dathirii more—responsibilities and power seemed to have had a positive effect on him—but he didn’t want to become too hopeful. This imprisonment had been more difficult than he’d anticipated. Immobility reminded Arathiel of the Well, and sometimes he imagined magic sapping more of his senses away, as if he were dying still. His short blackout during the interrogation last night hadn’t helped.
“Why would you?” Arathiel leaned forward, fingers wrapping around the chain of his shackles. “I’ve been gone for a long time, but I’m not completely out of the loop. You have this enclave on your back, and allying with me would turn the city against you. Lord Allastam will make you regret it.”
“I am aware, but I cannot accept the alternative. Brune is dangerous, more so than I thought, but she has too many friends within Isandor’s guards and nobles. I can’t go after her at the moment. I know that, and so does Miss Sharpe. Once I’m … cleared of the Myrians, however, I’ll l
ook into it. For now, I need your help.” Still an idealist, Arathiel thought with a smile, but he had lost a veneer of naivety. At least enough not to pick more battles while the Myrian Enclave threatened him. Yet Arathiel didn’t understand how angering Lord Allastam would make things better. Diel pushed his hair back, then caught his gaze again. The distance between them vanished, and Arathiel’s throat dried. “Whatever happened to you … I’m sorry. I am. But if you would use it to save another man, I would be grateful.”
Of course. The warmth in Arathiel’s belly disappeared, replaced by acrid bitterness. Why else would he catch anyone’s interest? His abilities made him a unique asset, an incredible tool to use when at war. Arathiel looked down at his manacled hands, a sharp refusal on the tip of his tongue. Elven fingers settled on his, squeezing just enough for him to feel the pressure and forcing his gaze back up. The lump in his throat tightened at Diel’s apologetic expression.
“Please hear me out,” he said. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust your judgment.”
“Go ahead,” Arathiel whispered.
He owed it to Camilla. She had given him so much since his arrival, and never asked anything in return. If her nephew had a special request, the least he could do was listen. Besides, Arathiel couldn’t deny that Diel’s very presence sent his heart rushing, and he wanted to help. He just hated why he was being asked to. Diel hesitated for a moment, perhaps trying to decide how to start.
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