City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  Branwen grabbed the double doors’ large handles and pushed them open, slow and steady. The plaintive creak sent a shudder up Arathiel’s spine, and magic drummed through his head, beating down on him. He tightened his grip until the sword felt solid under his palm, grounding himself. He was ready to follow Branwen inside.

  ✵

  A heat wave greeted Branwen as she opened the doors to Keroth’s temple, swooshing around her to rush into the cooler outside. She peeked in to get a sense of what awaited them, her heart beating in a frenzy, bracing against what would follow. The sight stopped her dead, horror crawling up her throat.

  Avenazar stood a few steps behind Varden, to the priest’s left. A golden-red link of throbbing magic led from his outstretched palm to Varden, digging into his chest and extending around her friend. It slithered across torn clothes and skin, sliding into his hair and ears. Varden himself leaned slightly back, as if only the power held him, and pain twisted his round visage. Branwen choked down a scream—of rage and disgust, of terror at what Avenazar was doing to Varden’s mind, of guilt at not arriving sooner—and lifted her slim sword.

  Someone’s hand pushed her forward, and she realized she’d been blocking everyone. Whatever. They could enter as she stalked to that monstrous wizard and cut him into tiny pieces. She started off, straight for Avenazar. He wouldn’t notice anyway! Magic enthralled him as much as Varden, but his expression hovered closer to exaltation than pain. He loved this, the sick bastard.

  “Branwen!” Hasryan whispered. She ignored him. “Come back. You can’t just rush in!”

  She waved him off, a sharp ‘just watch me’ at the tip of her tongue. She couldn’t endure the wait, no matter how ridiculous the risk. Varden stood right there, with Avenazar trampling down his mind. Swears followed her, but she didn’t pay attention until Isra’s shrill warning.

  “Stop, no, he’ll have a shield!”

  She spun on her heels, hesitating. Could Branwen trust the girl? Isra had always hated Varden, and she could just be pulling Branwen’s leg. Then Varden moaned, a noise both weak and raw, as if he didn’t even have energy left for a proper sound. Her stomach twisted, and she turned back toward him.

  Avenazar stared at her.

  Fuck.

  “You’re not the Dathirii I expected,” he said.

  “What?”

  Avenazar smiled. While his left hand maintained the link to Varden, he summoned a green rope with his right one and shot it toward her. Branwen stumbled back, shocked. What Dathirii? She lifted her sword, instincts screaming at her to defend herself, but her brain wouldn’t let go. She took a clumsy swipe at the green whip and missed. The rope lashed at her forearm, wrapping around her wrist and pulling her off-balance. Before Branwen fell, Arathiel rushed to her side, slashing the rope clean through.

  “Get your friend,” he said.

  Arathiel’s voice sounded rough, broken. How much was the magic affecting him? She wanted to help him, but Varden was her priority. Arathiel could handle himself, and she would welcome the opportunity to stab Avenazar. She dashed for the thick golden thread, trusting Arathiel to cover her. Green ropes danced at the corner of her vision, snapping through the air, and Arathiel always intercepted those directed at her in time. Branwen stopped next to the wide ribbon of magic—the disgusting, slimy, throbbing link holding her friend prisoner—gripped her slim sword with two hands, and spread her feet.

  “All right. Keroth and Ren and every other deity out there watching, I need your help.”

  She slashed down, putting all her might and hope behind the strike. Her blade hit the thread and stopped, the shock reverberating into her muscles. It didn’t slice through, not even a fraction of an inch. Branwen’s stomach sank, and at the contact point, energy sizzled, gathered, and exploded. The force shattered her sword and flung her across the room, into a wall. Pain blossomed anew in her still-sensitive back. What was it with Avenazar and stone walls? Branwen shook her head, desperate to clear her daze away and muster the strength to stand and try again.

  The link taunted her, complete and pulsing, as if she’d never even touched it.

  Arathiel dealt with several ropes now. His blade flashed with amazing speed, catching the flickering light of the fire as it kept the green lashes at bay. He was losing ground, however, his feet sliding backward. Something in his movement felt off to Branwen, unlike Kellian’s easy and efficient grace. Perhaps the nausea affected him, or one of the several particularities of his body. Either way, Avenazar’s attacks got closer to latching onto him with every strike. Arathiel needed help, and Hasryan had disappeared.

  She struggled to her feet. Her spine groaned, making her feel like the oldest lady on earth. She only had a thin dagger, exactly like the one she’d thrown at Avenazar that night on the bridges of Isandor. Better a small dagger than nothing at all, she told herself as she dashed forward.

  A line of bright fire cut off her path. The flames flew past her with a whoosh, and she stopped just in time to avoid being burned to a crisp. They’d come from her right, from the great brazier—and Varden. Branwen turned to him. He was standing by the flames, eyes empty, his mouth a grim line. More fire curled between his palms, and he stared at her. A predator focusing on his target. Her heart sank. It couldn’t be. They had come for him—they were right there, right now! She refused to believe they were too late.

  “Varden!”

  The priest hesitated and lowered his hands an inch, his frown easing. His link to Avenazar pulsed faster, and its shade slid toward golden instead of red. Branwen’s heart pounded against her chest. Varden was still in there. “You have to fight him. I came back! We’ll get you out.”

  The fire between Varden’s hands intensified, and his scowl returned. How could Avenazar maintain such a hold on him while battling Arathiel? They had circled each other, Arathiel staying away from the golden thread to avoid Branwen’s fate, the pair moving closer to the fire and the twin stairs that wrapped around it like two huge arms. It gave her a nice, clear shot at the wizard.

  One dagger had saved Nevian, and another would save Varden. She smirked and let go.

  The weapon flew straight into Avenazar’s shoulder again, and he stumbled with a surprised cry. Arathiel pressed his sudden advantage, dodging one rope and lunging. When his sword came close, a force field deflected it and pushed him back. What should have been a few steps to balance turned into a full-blown fall, and Arathiel landed heavily on his back. Branwen sprinted toward him, only to be cut off by fire again. She let out a frustrated cry. That golden thread pulsated bright red now, giving her an intense headache. They needed Varden to snap out of it.

  Panting, Avenazar clutched at his link to Varden, glaring at Branwen. Only one rope remained, and he wrapped it around Arathiel’s ankle as her companion struggled to stand. Arathiel didn’t even feel it until the wizard yanked him up. His eyes widened, and he dropped his sword with a yelp. Branwen swore and renewed her attempt to get closer, but Varden’s flames inevitably forced her back.

  “Someone needs to pay a visit to Keroth’s great brazier,” Avenazar said, shaking the upside-down Arathiel. “Then I can chat with Miss Dathirii here.”

  With a flick of his wrist, Avenazar flung Arathiel high up in an arc that would land him in the middle of the large fire. Branwen’s stomach sank into her heels, and suddenly Arathiel wasn’t the only one with intense nausea. She stared at his flight, horrified and entranced, until she noticed a shadow leaping down the stairs behind Avenazar.

  Hasryan landed on his back and wrapped his legs around Avenazar, crashing both of them to the ground. He grabbed the hand controlling the fire-gold thread as they fell, and when they smacked against the stone, he flattened Avenazar’s palm on the floor. His dagger flashed, and in a fluid, perfectly balanced strike, Hasryan stabbed it through Avenazar’s wrist.

  A high-pitched keening buried the wizard’s shrill scream as his shield flared to life. It shone a bright light, only to crack into a hundred crystal shards and e
xplode outward. Several sank themselves into Hasryan’s chest and side with a horrible thud, and he stumbled back. Branwen dashed to help, and no wall of flames blocked her path.

  The pulsing link had broken, retracting upon itself in a thick, throbbing ball of energy. It shed more light than the nearby fire, bathing Varden in a red glow as he gasped and collapsed to his knees.

  Behind him, Arathiel fell into the brazier, a dark shape in the shifting shadows.

  The flames ripped a surprised and terrified scream of pain from him, and Varden’s head snapped in his direction. Fire tendrils burst from the inferno in an instant, enveloping Varden and dragging him into the flames. Branwen prayed the sudden interruption of Arathiel’s cry meant good news. She heard nothing but Hasryan’s ragged breathing, the humming ball of energy, the crackling fire, and her own heart, beating and beating. No screams, no calls.

  Branwen shifted her focus back to Avenazar, who had struggled to his feet. He held Hasryan’s bloodied dagger but ignored both the dying assassin and Branwen, staring at the unstable remnants of his spell. Terrifying greed shone in his eyes as the immense power contained in the link gathered in the centre, so intense Branwen could feel its buzzing pressure. If Avenazar reached for it … Branwen didn’t know the horrors he could cast, nor did she want to find out. She dug panicked hands into her pockets, looking for something—anything to stop him. When her fingers clamped around her room’s iron key, she didn’t hesitate: she flung it at the ball and prayed it wouldn’t kill them all.

  It disappeared within, and for an eternal second, nothing happened. Then the magic stretched out, growing a sick dark green as it reached from one pillar to the next. It had turned almost black when it snapped back into a ball, unleashing a surge of power that shoved her backward. Avenazar folded over from the shock, murder in his eyes.

  “You little elven—”

  “Genius?” Branwen cut off.

  Avenazar snarled, holding his wounded wrist close. Blood streamed down his forearm, soaking his robes. How did he even stay conscious? He lifted his other palm toward the freed energy, enunciating each arcane word with a surprising amount of spite. A shudder coursed through the ball, and it shot to him. Avenazar flung himself to the side, cursing, and the bolt grazed his leg. Branwen stared at the smoke where the pure magical power had hit the stone, the frenzied beating of her heart covering the energy’s constant crackling. What had she done?

  “Good job getting yourselves killed,” Avenazar said.

  He snapped a word, his voice deepening with the power it contained, and vanished. Another black jolt of energy crashed where Avenazar had stood a split second ago, as if called by his magic, and shards of stone flew in every direction. Branwen cursed, but with Avenazar gone, her mind zipped back to Hasryan.

  He leaned against the railing, bleeding from a dozen cuts, his legs shaking. She rushed to his side and slid under his armpit, wrapping one arm around his waist. Hasryan clung to her, and for a moment, they stared at the sizzling magical energy without a word. Whips lashed out of it, snapping back and forth with increasing intensity, distorting the air as they passed. Hasryan gripped her shoulder tightly and tore his gaze away, sweeping the room with it.

  “Did Arathiel …”

  Stones piled at the bottom of her stomach. The fire burned lower, tamer. “I don’t know.”

  Before she could elaborate, Cal came running toward them, Isra in tow. He flailed, pale despite the short sprint, pointing at the wild magic. Branwen’s meagre satisfaction at chasing Avenazar away vanished. Judging from their expressions, she might have unleashed an even greater danger.

  ✵

  Isra refused to look at the battle. The quick glimpse of Varden linked to Avenazar had sickened her, and she couldn’t bear to watch him destroy the rest of Nevian’s friends. She listened to the ropes whipping through the air, Arathiel’s swords swishing and his occasional grunts, and Branwen calling out to Varden, her stomach crawling up her throat with each passing moment. Her palms had turned sweaty, and her heart had threatened to burst through her chest. They would lose, and she would be next on Avenazar’s list. She would never convince him she had wanted no part in this. Not with Cal just a few steps away, absorbed by his friends’ fight, too busy narrating it through small exclamations and curses. He didn’t even look her way. She could have knocked him out at any point. She should have, but she didn’t want to.

  Jilssan would scold her for ignoring the pragmatic route—her one chance at a lie. It didn’t matter. She had never meant to hurt Nevian, and Varden didn’t deserve this magical enslavement. Hadn’t Jilssan talked Avenazar out of torture? Surely she’d understand why Isra needed to help, or at least stay out of the way. Even if it led to Avenazar trampling through her mind and unravelling the lies she’d crafted about herself. She glanced at Cal, at his small hands clutching his mace and how he leaned forward, desperate to dash out. He confused her. Why did he defend her earlier? His intense level of care and absolute niceness stood in stark contrast to anything she had ever experienced in Myria. Perhaps she didn’t have to hide so much.

  “Ren’s gracious luck,” Cal exclaimed, “they did it! He just vanished.”

  “What?” A rush of hope spun her head, and she scrambled to see for herself. A throbbing ball of energy floated in the hall, and Hasryan and Branwen stared at it. Varden, Arathiel, and Avenazar had disappeared—a wise decision, considering the spectacle before her eyes. Unhinged magic never stayed concentrated in a single spot for long. “How did they—We have to flee. This thing’s not safe at all!”

  The horror in her tone wiped Cal’s victorious grin away. He grabbed her wrist and ran straight toward the uncontrolled power, giving a brand new meaning to the word “flee.” Cal flailed as they approached, and Branwen turned to him. Isra wrenched out of his grasp and cut him off to warn Branwen and Hasryan.

  “Don’t stand there! Magic shouldn’t stay concentrated like that! It’ll shift and distort and snap, accumulating everything it can until it’s too much. And then—” Magical energy lashed out and smashed into a pillar on the opposite side, splitting it in two. Large stones crashed to the ground, raising a cloud of dust and making Isra’s point for her.

  “We can’t leave,” Branwen said. “Varden and Arathiel are in the fire!”

  Isra glanced at the diminishing brazier. What could they even do about that? “So we wait to get crushed alongside them? Come on, we need to take cover.”

  “But—”

  “Isra is right,” Hasryan said, and each word cost him.

  “Hide behind another pillar.” Isra grabbed Cal’s wrist, and this time she pulled him along. Branwen half-carried Hasryan to the spot, supporting his weight, and she didn’t bother to conceal her doubts. The last pillar hadn’t lasted long, after all, but Isra had no intention of leaving the stone untouched. She knew the spell they needed, had practised it in several boring exercises with Jilssan. And she had always struggled to cast it.

  As they reached the pillar, the light behind them intensified and lashed out again, wrecking the archway near the front doors. Isra shoved Cal and his two friends, then slapped her hand on the circular stone structure. She pushed her doubts far inside, raising her voice in a quick chant. The magic swirled around her, wilder and more slippery than ever. She grasped at the currents as the power dashed away from her, or curved in unpredictable ways around her amulet. She needed to succeed, and fast. Magic was always drawn to magic, and it was only a matter of time before the wild power at the centre of the temple lashed out at her. Isra grabbed her talisman, fighting against the tears rising, focusing on the task at hand. She knew better materials than stone. She could protect them, if only she managed this spell before the ball of power reacted to it and destroyed the temple.

  As the thought crossed her mind, the flailing whips of magic retracted to the centre. A dragon inhaling before breathing fire.

  “Isra, stop!”

  She ignored Branwen’s warning. Her words flowed more easily, a
nd Isra traced the single rune for Body midair, sealing her intention. She pulled at the pillar’s stones, fusing them and transforming them into a translucent bubble of impenetrable material. Isra struggled to maintain control, but she grinned with pride as the protection rose around them. It was working. She had cast a complete and complex spell!

  A bolt of pure energy surged from the centre before she sealed the hole. Isra’s eyes widened, and she flung herself to the side, releasing her spell, knowing it would close on its own. The jolt of magic didn’t flash over her head, however. It bent as it neared, drawn to another source of concentrated power: her amulet, and her father’s spell.

  Searing pain tore through Isra’s hand as the bolt smashed into her talisman, then spread to her body, wracking her muscles. The amber cracked as the unnatural force blasted her away, sending her sliding across the temple floor. Her bubble closed without her inside, and her arm snapped as she hit a shard of rock. The second explosion of pain tore through her mind, leaving her dazed and panting.

  The temple collapsed around Isra, but she didn’t register the chaos. Her burned hand still clutched the broken amulet as its magic slipped out of her body, immediately sucked in by the unstable power. Her blonde hair turned into a wavy brown crown and her skin darkened. Isra’s consciousness dimmed as she shifted back to her original form, leaving her with a single, clear thought: she wouldn’t even recognize herself without the amulet.

  Hasryan flinched when Isra’s bubble closed above them. Debris crashed into the protection, hammering on it without leaving a scratch. Trapped, his mind yelled, and he struggled to shut down his screaming instincts. Cal rushed after Isra, blocked by the wall before he could follow her. He pounded on the translucent material, stopping only to peer out through the swirls of dust and zapping magic, but his little fists were just as inefficient as the rocks. Isra’s weird transparent stone was impervious—from the outside, and from the inside.