“Milord, I will not defend his actions,” he said.
“No?” Lord Allastam snorted and spun around to face Yultes. “Isn’t that your only use? To grovel and plead forgiveness for your stepbrother’s ill-advised decisions? Better get to work, Lord Yultes.”
Yultes stiffened. His only use? Lord Allastam was taunting him, but the words stung nonetheless. Was that how everyone saw it? He’d done much more than placate Lord Allastam through the years. Surely Diel realized that. “Ill-advised or not, his decision was predictable.”
“Trust Lord Dathirii to make mistakes? Or trust him to try and humiliate me?”
Mockery didn’t surprise Yultes, but when Lord Allastam dropped his voice and continued, a chill ran up his spine. Prideful men didn’t react well to perceived slights. Preventing Lord Allastam’s ire at Arathiel’s release was an impossible task, but if Yultes could convince him not to see it as a personal offence, he might avert a disaster.
“Trust him to go to extensive lengths to protect allies.”
“Are the Brastens allies now? Have they not turned down your pathetic Coalition, same as every sensible noble in this city? Lady Brasten may have a softness in her heart, but she has more political sense than to side with your failing House.”
Yultes gritted his teeth. By ally, he meant the High Priest Diel wanted to save, but he couldn’t slip a word of it. It was a family secret—one Yultes doubted Diel had planned to tell him. He had badgered his stepbrother with questions until it spilled out. A team would soon set out under the cover of the night, led by Branwen, to save her imprisoned friend. With Arathiel in the group, Diel believed they could succeed. It wouldn’t be worth the sacrifice in Yultes’s opinion, but when had anyone ever listened to him besides Hellion? Hellion and Brune, although Yultes wished the latter was false. She only cared for the secrets he was willing to trade to keep his own silent. She already knew about Arathiel. Yultes refused to betray Diel’s trust twice and share the plan here, however, which meant he would never convince Lord Allastam this had nothing to do with the assassin’s escape.
“House Brasten may have acknowledged Arathiel as their ancestor, but they didn’t condone his actions. Arathiel himself, on the other hand, lived more than a century ago. Several of us had met him, and some called him a friend, Lord Dathirii among them.”
Lord Allastam scoffed. In a quick movement, he threw his cane upward, grabbed it at the centre, then prodded Yultes’ shoulder with the golden tip. They rarely stood so close to one another. “Tell your Lord Dathirii he should care more about whom he calls a friend. I’ll summon him in forty-eight hours, and I expect this foolish behaviour to have stopped by then. Now get out!”
“You’re wasting your time, milord. He won’t—”
“Get. Out.” Lord Allastam shoved him with his pommel, then turned on his heel and started down the pathway. “Your very presence angers me. Leave, and send my next audience in.”
A dismissal as brutal as his demand to follow into the hall. Their meeting had lasted a handful of minutes, but it shook Yultes to the core. Had Allastam asked him to call someone else after? Like a servant? Yultes stared as the aged noble walked away, too shocked to move. He was a lord of this city, had been for over half his life now. He deserved to be treated better, even by those higher in power. Yet Yultes knew it would help no one if he argued, and that no amount of brandishing his Dathirii sigil brooch could erase the simple truth of his lowly bloodline. He had been proving his worth for almost a hundred fifty years now, but he had learned long ago it would never end. A single mistake would expose him—it had already landed him in Brune’s unrelenting clutches, and it would get him kicked out of House Dathirii if he wasn’t careful.
Yultes straightened with a huff, squared his shoulders, and strode out with as much pride as he could muster. Diel would never change his mind, but at least next time, he would have to face Lord Allastam and defend his decision.
✵
Whenever Yultes stepped into Lord Hellion Dathirii’s quarters, he simultaneously became more tense and more relaxed. Here, he didn’t need to withhold his opinions on the often self-destructive behaviour of the rest of the family, and he could receive counsel from one who understood Isandor’s politics. Over a century had passed since Hellion had forged a friendship with Yultes, guiding him as he wrestled with his new responsibilities as a Dathirii noble, and Yultes still turned to him for advice.
He had no one else, really. Others of his generation—Diel, Kellian, even Jaeger—went to Aunt Camilla, and the younger Dathirii either talked with her or Diel. Yultes couldn’t, not anymore. They used to be close, he and Camilla, two elves poring over theoretical physics late into the night, until Diel inherited the mantle of Lord Dathirii … and named Jaeger as his right hand. So much had changed in that moment. Yultes had lost his future position, and his nascent relationships with most Dathirii had shattered through one fight or another. At least Hellion had seen his talents and encouraged him to persevere. He had understood his bitter disappointment at Jaeger’s arrival and agreed Yultes should have inherited the position. He had always perceived his worth, even when doubts surged forward once more. Even when no one else did.
“Yultes!”
Hellion’s smooth voice greeted him as he entered the expensively decorated living room, and in a swift motion, Hellion placed a full glass of wine between his hands. He moved with a grace that surpassed most elves’, his silky golden hair flowing freely behind him, its colour richer than Yultes’ dull, straw-coloured hair. As with everything between them, really. Where Hellion had deep green eyes, Yultes’ were a pale blue, and instead of the other elf’s delicate and angular traits, Yultes had hard prominent cheekbones that granted him a constant scowl. You could tell at a glance who was a full-bloodied Dathirii, and who had entered the family through marriage, a washed-out shadow of the other elves.
Yultes brought the wine to his lips and downed a large gulp of it as his friend guided him toward the thick sofa. The last two days had turned into an exhausting marathon of audiences and dinners, all in an attempt to calm Lord Allastam. No Allastam family member was willing to reach out to their leader, however. They either agreed with him or dared not confront him.
His only break from them had been the mandatory meeting with Brune, and that had turned out more exhausting than any audience with Lord Allastam. He hated their dynamic. One month after Yultes had found Larryn and started funding the Shelter, she’d intercepted him on a Middle City bridge, striking up a casual conversation about the variety of origins of Lower City inhabitants and how amazingly resourceful some were when it came to sheltering others. He had frozen, his head buzzing, and she had set a hand on his back.
“You and I should talk,” she had said. “I own a teahouse not far from here.”
She had made two things very clear during that conversation. First, she knew every relevant detail of Larryn’s origin, from his parentage to his mother’s fate. Second, she would not hesitate to either reveal these secrets or wipe Larryn out of existence if he refused to answer her questions. From now on, she required him to inform her of every development in House Dathirii, failing which his son’s life was forfeit.
Yultes would have endured the first consequence to protect Larryn, but if selling their secrets could save him from both threats … he hadn’t hesitated. Every time they met, Brune badgered him with questions, dragging out details he’d meant to omit, mocking his attempts at subtlety until his last shred of dignity and energy had vanished. In comparison, Allastam’s angry rants rolled off his back.
Yultes crumpled into the sofa as Hellion filled his own glass, humming a soft song, more cheerful than he had a right to be. Not the way everything was going. “Have you finally been kicked out of the Allastam Tower, or did you tire of catching the brunt of the abuse that should by all means be directed at our dear Lord Dathirii?”
“Both.” Yultes sank further into his seat with a weary sigh. “They hinted I should disappear, and I no lo
nger had the strength to hold on. I let go and left. Tomorrow marks the last day of Allastam’s ultimatum, and our alliance with them.”
“You should rest. Drink and stop working.” Hellion motioned toward the wine with a steady smile, as if his suggestion wasn’t utterly absurd. Yultes could not take a day off. He rarely did, and his presence in the Allastam Tower had become a necessity. If he could salvage even the tiniest part of this wreck … Hellion sensed his doubts, perceptive as ever. “You worry too much. Stop trying to save Diel from the consequence of his mistakes. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”
Yultes flushed and hid his unease by drinking more wine. He knew he should have abandoned his attempts to knock sense into his stepbrother a long time ago, but Diel remained Lord Dathirii, and his leader. House Dathirii had accepted him as a noble, and he already betrayed them to Brune. He refused to go even further. “This family does. I don’t want it to sink.”
“It won’t.” Hellion’s tone brimmed with confidence and mirth, as if the very thought of House Dathirii failing amused him. “I’ll say it again, Yultes: you worry too much. Take my friendly advice and forget about it. I guarantee House Dathirii won’t collapse over this matter. We are old and resourceful beyond what humans imagine. Lord Allastam is nothing but a brief speck in our long existence.”
Yultes did not think of himself as old, even though he was of an age with Hellion, and neither did he feel resourceful. Not tonight. If he had been, wouldn’t he have found a way to placate Lord Allastam? To dodge Brune’s clear blackmail about Larryn’s paternity and safety? How he wished he had Hellion’s easy trust in the future! But to him, living longer than humans only meant he had more time to make mistakes, and centuries to carry his burden.
He washed down his bitterness with more wine, emptying his glass. Perhaps Hellion had it right. He needed a break, no matter how small. Relentless pessimism was unlike him. Yultes extended his hand, asking in silence for a refill.
“As usual, I find myself agreeing with your counsel. I’m glad you’re here to take care of me, my friend.”
Hellion poured the wine with a grin. “Someone has to. You certainly don’t.”
And neither did anyone else in the family. Only a select few had made it into Diel’s inner circle, and Yultes’ spot had been taken by Jaeger. Sure, Diel reached out to the twenty or so Dathirii elves living within the Tower, but they all understood whom he actually listened to. And neither Diel, his close guards, nor the rest of the family truly cared for him. As if they could sense he wasn’t worthy of them. Hellion must have realized that, too, but he had never let it drive him away. Without him, Yultes would be alone.
Hasryan flung another book aside with an exasperated sigh. How many of these had he tried to read? Ten? Twenty? Camilla brought one novel after another from the Dathirii library, but none of them caught his attention. Why would he care about powerful tales of love? They seemed so distant, so fake. These stories were reserved for others, for people unlike him, who knew trust and romance. Sure, his life had been an adventure of sorts, riddled with murder and betrayals, but what good had really come out of it? He was stuck in these tiny quarters with an old lady convinced he was a wild wounded animal that could be tamed with butterscotch cookies.
Hasryan sighed and pulled the nearby curtains apart to look out the window. A thick snow fell outside, covering the bridges and obscuring his sight. A handful of Isandor’s lawful citizens went about their business despite the wintry weather, free to do as they pleased while he was trapped. His leg was getting better, but even once healed, Hasryan had no idea where else he would head. Taking tea with Camilla would always remain preferable to freezing to death or being captured. If Hasryan left, he would be alone again.
“Would you like to go out?”
He shivered at Camilla’s question. Sometimes, he wondered if she could read his mind. He had been staring at the falling snow, so perhaps you only needed a little perceptiveness to follow his train of thought. Hasryan released the curtains and turned. She stood in the doorway, her pale winter cloak already thrown over her shoulders.
“Life’s never about what I want,” he said.
“It could be, for once.” She smiled at him, and Hasryan waited for her miraculous explanation. “I drop by Esmera’s place today. She’s an old girlfriend of mine, and she’d love the company while I clean her house.”
Camilla regularly spent a few hours with Isandor’s aging humans. One half social calls, one half cleaning services, her visits helped them care for their pets, homes, lives—whatever they required. But while Camilla often referred to them as good acquaintances or even friends, she’d never mentioned a romantic involvement before. Hasryan perked up, unable to imagine the dignified old lady in the middle of passionate kissing, and confused about the nature of Camilla’s proposition. It was almost cruel for her to offer. She knew he couldn’t stand lying low and hidden, but neither could he risk showing up at a random lady’s house.
“I don’t think the local assassin is the best company for her.”
Camilla laughed, and not a hint of doubt sipped through her mirth. “You’d be surprised. Esmera does not deal in tea and butterscotch, though she has a knack for brewing.”
“Brewing,” he repeated. Her tone indicated something darker and deadlier than beer.
“Indeed.” Camilla’s eyes shone with an intensity that confounded Hasryan and made him wonder about what lay in her past. He’d been so caught up in the flowery curtains, the tea, and her kindness that he’d never considered what it took to welcome an assassin into your quarters without flinching. He’d always assumed she believed he hadn’t committed any crimes, but now …
“I still can’t trust her,” he said.
“Can you trust anyone, really?”
Hasryan froze. No, he thought. He couldn’t. They could all turn on him and sell him out to Brune or Isandor’s guards. So many had betrayed and abandoned him already! But not everyone, not quite. “I can trust Arathiel,” he said, and with wariness creeping in his voice, he added, “I want to trust you.”
“You can.” She stepped forward, her expression softening back into the kind old lady’s. Hasryan couldn’t forget the glimpse into a wilder past, however, nor did he have any desire to. “Don’t stay here. Esmera knows what confinement and pursuit are like. The two of you have common enemies, and you know what they say about the enemies of your enemies …”
“I know it’s a shit saying that’s never applied to me,” Hasryan countered with a scoff, but he lumbered to his feet nonetheless, ignoring the painful pull in his leg. He had needed to leave the quarters, and he doubted another similar opportunity would present itself. Hasryan buried his worry under a smirk. “I’m coming, though. What’s the worst that could happen, after all? It’s not like the entire city wants to put a noose around my neck!”
“Wonderful!” Camilla clapped her hands, and warmth spread through Hasryan at her genuine pleasure.
“Do promise me one thing.” He tried to keep his tone level and serious despite his mood shifting back into something more playful. “Don’t turn this into the motive for a dramatic break up or something.”
Camilla’s laugh echoed through the living room, clear and melodious. Hasryan loved it more than the home-baked cookies or calming tea. He’d missed being the source of real amusement. Brune always stayed serious, and Sora had found his humour inappropriate at best.
“We haven’t been together for years, Hasryan. I think we’re well past ‘dramatic break up.’” She opened a small closet near the outside exit. “I just fixed one of my grandson’s winter outfits, and he’s just a tad taller than you. Take it. With the heavy snow, you should be able to conceal yourself.”
Camilla pulled out a fashionable coat, double-lined with fur inside. The outfit was a dark red with black stripes, and two lines of large silver buttons ran down the front. Hasryan pressed his lips together, uncertain he wanted to wear someone’s else clothes, never mind ones so expensive. Camilla
didn’t give him a choice. The moment he extended a hesitant hand, she slipped the sleeve up his forearm, then walked around and lifted his second arm to put on the rest of the coat. Hasryan froze, too surprised to protest. He stared ahead in stunned silence as she buttoned the front, folded the collar down, then smoothed the jacket over his chest. Her proud smile when she stepped back frightened him.
“You look fantastic,” she said.
“That’s great!” He didn’t even try to hide his bitterness. The way she had casually dressed him up had shaken Hasryan, and he needed her to back off. “Maybe once everyone sees how handsome the dark elven assassin is, they won’t want to hang him!”
Camilla set her hand on his arm and squeezed it. “No one will hang you. Not while I’m here.”
Nice words, but what could she do? She already hid him from the city guards, and had treated his wounded leg. If he was caught, not even her title would save him. Yet her willingness to try triggered a warmth at the bottom of his stomach. Hasryan attempted to quell the feeling before he allowed himself to become too fond of Camilla, but it persisted.
“Let’s go.”
City of Betrayal Page 9