Hasryan ran a hand through his hair to shake away the snow while Camilla removed her gloves, hat, and coat. He knew what to expect from old ladies whose days were filled with hot baths, delicious food, and stories about the power of love. They never had the perspective to accept sometimes you couldn’t save everyone—that some lives managed to continue only by cutting others short. Camilla might have had comfort and family, but he’d always been surrounded by death and betrayal. This respite in Camilla’s warm quarters had lasted longer than it should have. He was only glad he’d had it.
“I’ll get what little I have and go.”
Camilla’s bony fingers grabbed his shoulders before he could move. She forced him to turn, and her blue eyes pierced him, nailing him to the floor.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hasryan.”
His heart clenched. Was he ridiculous? He wanted to believe in her gentle grip and tone, in the hope blossoming in his chest. He shouldn’t. Hasryan stared at his feet. “It’s okay,” he lied. “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do,” she said, and kindness filled her voice. She lifted his chin to stop him from looking down, and he found himself unable to glance away from the intense sadness in her eyes. The undeniable care for him. Hasryan’s insides melted; his composure and drive to leave vanished. She did not want him to go at all.
“You’re a fine young man, Hasryan. Plenty of people out there are ready to judge and condemn you, and I won’t be one of them. You deserve someone to help you—someone who will listen, no matter what. Especially if you need to talk about your mother’s laugh, the strange chants, or the line at your neck.”
Her finger trailed his thin scar, and his head spun. Hasryan choked down a sudden sob and stumbled backward. Away from her, and away from the gentle affection.
“I … I can’t.”
The throaty hymns of his mother’s cult filled his mind. His breath turned into a long wheeze, and black spots crawled into his vision. The ground shifted under him, and he reached for his neck with a whimper. He shouldn’t have talked about the pies and brought these memories back to life. Now they clung, closer and realer than ever before. Hasryan struggled to clear his mind, to see past the circle of adults intent on sacrificing him. He hated the panic paralyzing him, keeping his lungs shut and stabbing at his heart.
A cool hand picked up his own, removing it from his scar and squeezing it. Camilla’s soft voice whispered his name and wrinkled fingers brushed away his tears. He sobbed, and she pulled him close, running a hand through his hair.
“It’s over,” she said. “You’re with me now.”
Over. No more betrayals, no more attacks, no more solitude. Camilla’s frail arms would keep it all away. Or so she promised. The memories still hovered at the back of his mind, threatening to surge forward, but he clung to her robe and the scent of lilac and acrid soap. Those chants were in the past, and his future could be different. He had to believe that. Hasryan rested his forehead against her shoulder, shaking.
“It won’t go away. I … I tried to lock it all away, but it always comes back.” He wished he could control himself—wished he’d outgrown this. Maybe he never would. Maybe the nausea and flashbacks would always lie in wait.
“If you want to talk about it …”
“No.” Even trying to put words to the events squeezed his chest with pain. He couldn’t talk about it. Not now, and perhaps never. “You don’t happen to have any of those cookies left, do you?”
Camilla laughed, then caressed his cheek. He flushed at the touch, torn between his natural urge to flee and his desire for more. He was so desperate to nestle in her arms and believe in this. It might kill him—lead straight to his death—but he couldn’t help himself.
“I’m afraid not,” she said, “but we can make more together.”
Hasryan nodded and followed her to the kitchen. His movements were dazed and uncertain. Were the last minutes real? His cheek still tingled from her touch, a reminder of her inexplicable care. Like … motherly love. A completely foreign feeling. Hasryan wiped more tears away, cursing himself. Why was he crying again? He needed to stop. But Camilla knew about the assassinations, she knew he’d killed others, and she’d still held him in her arms. He dried his eyes, clinging to that thought, and flipped through her notebook for the recipe she no doubt knew by heart. They were going to make the best cookies ever.
Nevian had believed he would regret giving in to Efua’s demands, but the young girl proved as fast a learner as she’d promised. Every meal, he spent a little less than an hour on her letters, after which she stayed and sat on his bed with a small book, reading aloud and struggling with the sounds on her own. She became better with each passing day—enough to make Nevian a little jealous of her progress. At least he’d managed some, too. He had found the simplest spell in his tome and tried it out in front of Efua. Just a tiny ball of light—the kind Isra conjured all the time to show off—but the girl had clapped her hands and laughed.
“Please, Mister Nevian, promise you’ll teach me magic!”
His fingers tingled as power coursed through them, the light floating above them, and his chest had threatened to burst from hope. His magic hadn’t vanished. It was forgotten, hard to reach, but still within him—accessible. Light-headed, excited, he’d almost agreed to Efua’s request. How much time would he have to dedicate to her then, though? And what if Avenazar found him again? Anyone close to Nevian risked retribution. He shouldn’t make promises.
“If you learn to read and write fast enough, we might still have meals left together,” he had said.
Since then, the number of hours she spent in his room had doubled. Nevian no longer minded. She didn’t make a lot of noise, and only bothered him when he ate.
Unlike a certain halfling, who brought a complete questionnaire every time he visited. Once, Nevian had suggested to Vellien they should order Cal to give him some peace, but the young healer had laughed and waved the idea off. “It’s still good for you. Endure and you’ll progress faster, I promise.”
Nevian would have scoffed at the advice if it had come from anyone else, but Vellien had yet to let him down. Their visit boosted Nevian’s energy, calmed his throbbing headaches, and left him with the growing hope he would make it through this ordeal intact.
Accepting Cal’s help was harder. The halfling had saved him, however, so in order to express his gratitude, Nevian endured the endless enquiries without a word … literally. He sat through them, studying rather than answering, sometimes grunting vaguely. Efua had told him it was impolite once, and he had shrugged. He didn’t care, or rather, he didn’t want to. Deep inside, despite his progress with Vellien, he believed Master Avenazar would return to finish what he’d started. The less attached Nevian grew to the Shelter’s inhabitants, the better.
Efua made it difficult. Nevian had never encountered such a perfect study partner. Cal had been easier to ignore until he had come into his room with a brand new proposition. He had climbed into the bed next to Nevian’s desk with a proud grin.
“Nevian, I have found a paradise for you, and today we’re paying it a visit. It’s full of books! Tons and tons piled together and threatening to fall down on everyone. There’s so many it’s almost impossible to walk around the shop, and they have an entire section on magic. A tiny section, but a section!”
Nevian’s breath had caught in his throat, and his head had turned slowly toward Cal. He craved new books, but a cold sweat ran down his spine at the very thought of leaving his room. What if Avenazar was right outside the Shelter? Or a Myrian spy? He touched his forearm, imagining the pain waiting to ambush him beyond the crumbling planks of the walls.
“I can’t pay for books,” Nevian said.
“I can. Let me.”
“No.”
Cal crossed his arms and raised his chin in defiance. “You can’t live forever cloistered in the Shelter. It’s not far, I promise, and I won’t leave without you.”
“Okay. Fine.”
/>
A glimmer of hope flashed across Cal’s face until Nevian returned his attention to the tome before him. He owed him too much already, and an escapade into a bookstore would only make matters worse. It might make Nevian like him. He didn’t need new friends; he needed to restore his magical skills. He had a plan, and it didn’t involve getting tied down. With solid spells, he might be able to land small casting contracts, save enough coin and leave Isandor for somewhere safer.
“You’re being stubborn,” Cal said.
“I am.”
Was that supposed to insult him? Without persistence, he would never have progressed through life. He would be nothing, even more so than his almost-magicless self.
“And you’re being ridiculous,” Cal continued.
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are!” Cal put his chubby hand on Nevian’s page to stop him from reading. “I’m offering you free books. They’ll help with your magic stuff.”
“I don’t want free books. I want to be left alone.”
“What if you could have both?”
A mischievous smile spread across Cal’s features, warning Nevian not to ask. Peace was too tempting a prize to dodge the obvious trap, however. How much could he learn if he didn’t have to endure Cal for a while? He should at least consider the opportunity.
“Go on.”
“Come to the bookstore with me, and I’ll leave you alone for a whole week.”
A whole week. Cal said it like seven days were a huge break. Nevian’s mouth quirked. Judging by how desperate to string him along Cal sounded, he could negotiate better than that. “Two.”
“Two what?”
“Two weeks.”
Cal pouted. “You’re no fun.”
Nevian shrugged. Indeed, he was no fun. As with stubbornness, he considered it a primary reason for his survival. He’d rarely had the luxury of fun. The same was true of this little outing to the store: if it didn’t help him along, then he couldn’t afford it. Nor could he muster the courage for it. Silence stretched between them until Cal threw his arms upward. “Fine! Two weeks.”
A thin smile curved Nevian’s lips. He set his bookmark down, closed the tome in front of him, and straightened. Nevian towered over Cal, who intensified the height difference by jumping off the bed. Most halflings managed to grow past three feet, but Cal never had, and he seemed minuscule compared to Nevian’s tall and lanky frame. Size meant little, however. Avenazar’s meagre five feet contained more power than Nevian would ever wield, and Cal had amply proven his overbearing generosity and kindness with his endless questions.
“Let’s get it over with,” Nevian muttered.
Despite the obvious lack of enthusiasm, Cal grinned. “It’ll be great, you’ll see!”
Nevian withheld his deep doubts as he slipped on an ill-suited coat and raised the hood over his head. He’d snorted when Larryn had brought it, asking him if he’d found the bare threaded rag at the bottom of Isandor’s shitslides. Larryn’s dead serious affirmative answer worried him, but Nevian had figured those slides should only carry human refuse to the Reonne River, not clothes. Larryn must have been mocking him. Surely he wouldn’t give Nevian a coat once covered in piss! Yet as he sniffed it, Nevian couldn’t help but wonder.
Cal led the way out, an obvious skip in his step. Nevian followed, confused about why his companion was so pleased to spend his day with the grumpiest person in the neighbourhood. Didn’t he have any better friends? Efua had mentioned a fight with Larryn, so perhaps that was it. Or perhaps he just enjoyed rubbing Nevian the wrong way. Whatever the reason, Nevian had bought himself two whole weeks of peace. With a smile, he stepped out into the snowy weather.
✵
“Bookstore” wasn’t how Nevian would have described the minuscule structure Cal brought him to. “Book dumping ground” would be more accurate. They rose in swinging piles all the way to the ceiling, the shambling towers leaning into each other and threatening to collapse upon any poor soul who nudged them. Two narrow alleys snaked through the stacks, meeting at a counter in the back. Dust filled the air, along with the musty scent of old pages and ink. Nevian breathed in deeply as he stepped inside, closing his eyes to enjoy the familiar and comforting smell. Cal chuckled at his reaction, then walked off, but Nevian lingered at the entrance. Although he had been a ball of tightly-wound nerves outside, here his mind turned to the knowledge surrounding him, leaving Avenazar behind. He exhaled, slowly letting out some of his stress before ignoring the knots remaining in his stomach and starting his way through the columns of books.
These climbed so high that Nevian had to crane his neck to see the titles despite his considerable height. He tried to get a sense of the organization around, but would such a mess have one? The deeper he progressed into the store, the more he doubted anything but chance had put these books where they waited. How could he ever find something interesting in this chaos? Some of these books didn’t even have a cover! He walked farther into the shop, frustrated, until his eyes caught a cute illustration resting at the top of a distant pile. Nevian approached, his smile widening as he confirmed his initial impression: a kids’ story.
He leaned over the tomes with enthusiasm, bracing his left hand on a fairly low pyramid as he reached for the small book. Nevian had to stretch his long arm to its very limit before the tip of his fingers touched the spine and he pulled it back. Victorious warmth displaced the cold fear in his stomach as he flipped through the drawings of a cat living among Isandor’s spires. This might be above Efua’s reading level still, but he knew she would manage it anyway. He slammed the book shut with more than a little pride.
Nevian hurried along, eager to show Cal, but he found the magic section long before he spotted his halfling companion. Easy to notice it: all the strangest tomes had been thrown into a pile. One leather cover glowed softly, another had arcane runes on top, and a third seemed made of solidified fog. Not to mention the one oozing a suspicious substance, which he had no desire to touch. Nevian dug into the tomes, scanning their forewords and a few random pages to get a sense of tone and content. He created two piles of his own, separating the simpler theories within his reach and leaving the difficult treaties for later. He’d be back for advanced lessons and essays. One day, he would become a mage powerful enough to cast every spell in these pages.
“All right, magic tomes!”
The jovial voice interrupted his search for the perfect book—a voice he knew too well and dreaded almost as much as Avenazar’s. Nevian stopped breathing. Isra’s exclamations had come from right behind him, and she must have spotted the eclectic tomes from a distance. Panic drowned his thoughts, and the edges of his vision darkened as he stared at his fingers, hoping, praying he’d imagined it. It couldn’t be her. Why would she be in this store, of all places? But Isra loved to brave the Lower City and shop in obscure locations. The thrill of discovery and danger, or some other nonsense explanation. And if she stood close enough to notice the books, she was bound to recognize him—there would be no mistaking him for Varden this time.
“Nevian?” she asked.
Nevian jerked up at his name, whirling around to face her. She repeated it, her expression lightening with surprise and … joy? The fear returned to Nevian’s stomach in a heavy lump. He needed to run. Now. He couldn’t defend himself; all he’d learned again was one inoffensive spell! He stretched backwards and cringed as his fingers sank into the oozy tome, but he flung it at Isra. She cried out and scrambled out of the way, falling into the mountains of books. Dizzy, terror stealing his breath, Nevian sprinted past her. She reached out, and he slapped her hand with the kids’ story.
Cal skidded into his path not long before Nevian arrived at the exit. Was he trying to block passage? Why would he—a trap! It explained Isra’s presence. He should have known. Why would Cal insist on this outing? Why stay so nice despite the wall of silence Nevian had erected since the first day? A lump clogged his throat and a thousand insults rushed through his mind, some fo
r Cal, but most at his own naivety.
“Nevian, are you—”
Nevian didn’t give Cal a chance to finish. He barrelled into a nearby tower of books, pushing them down on the halfling. Cal exclaimed in confusion as heavy tomes buried him, and Nevian leaped past him, his long legs compensating for his crappy athletic skills. Then he was out. Outrunning Cal now would be easy; he had the tiniest legs. Isra was another matter.
A light snow covered the ground outside, and he almost slipped as he dashed down a flight of stairs. A powerful squawk warned him of Isra’s close pursuit, her bird form unhindered by the recent weather. Nevian swore and ran faster, but the hawk swooshed over his shoulder. He skidded to a stop as Isra landed in front of him, her claws lengthening into legs and feet, her wings retracting into a rapidly-enlarging body. For a split second, there was a mass of brown hair through the feathers, but it vanished as her human form became more distinct: a thin blonde girl with bright blue eyes. Isra stood with her hands on her hips, lips pinched into a disapproving frown.
“Stop running, I’m not going to attack!” Blonde strands blocked her sight, and she flicked them away. “I’m glad you’re alive, Nev Nev. Master Avenazar told everyone he’d killed you. Horribly.”
“He did?” Relief crashed through his body, turning his legs into wool. Nevian bent, hands on his knees, trying to recover his breath. His lungs burned from the run, and his mind spun with the potential meaning of Avenazar’s story. If Avenazar thought Nevian dead, he wouldn’t hunt him.
“Yeah!” Isra said. “You have to tell me how you faked death!”
“I didn’t.” Did she believe he’d built an elaborate escape plan? “I threw myself off the bridge.”
Isra stared at him, blinking, her mouth a perfect little circle. Then she laughed. “You look fine for someone who plunged. Come on, Nevian, won’t you tell me the truth?”
City of Betrayal Page 11