City of Strife Read online

  The brimming nostalgia in Arathiel’s voice sent needles at her heart. The last century had changed more than his physique. Camilla remembered an energetic young man, always volunteering for difficult tasks and very protective of his sister. The kind of person friends relied on. Something about him now was … unsteady. Frail.

  “Meet me at the Little Square in an hour.”

  Before he could agree, Mister Stillman let out a loud cough. “Can we go now? I need to pee, and I don’t like the looks of him.”

  A soft chuckle escaped Camilla’s lips, but it died as she caught Arathiel’s haunted expression. He said nothing about the insult so casually flung at him, stepping aside to let them pass. Camilla thanked him.

  “Don’t worry, Mister Stillman. We’ll be at your house in no time.”

  She continued on her way, even deeper in her thoughts than before. One thing felt horribly wrong about her short encounter: Lord Arathiel had been staring at the Brasten Tower—his home—with the nervousness of an introvert about to give a public speech. By all means, he should have strode inside without hesitation. After so many years, however … Every Brasten he knew would be dead. No wonder Arathiel had been so surprised to hear his name. He was a ghost to this city. A ghost only a handful of elves could recognize.

  ✵

  Little Square was a small park at the frontier between the Lower and Middle City, in the eastern part of Isandor, where the land rose more abruptly. The large elm tree clinging to the steep ground, half its roots protruding, used to be a pathetic and desperate piece of vegetation, and the small platform built around it a mockery of the glorious plaza Upper City folks enjoyed. After a hundred thirty years, however, it had grown into a solid and majestic tree, and mages had helped grass and flowers blossom into a beautiful garden. Arathiel waited on a bench park alone. He watched couples huddle close and rub their hands together as they strolled through the neighborhood, and a dog barked at him for long minutes before his owner managed to control it. Had the animal sensed his difference? He’d done his best to remain inconspicuous—putting on proper winter cloaks despite his inability to feel and sitting rather than walking—but animals detected things no human could. Arathiel tried not to let it bother him, but it made him feel like he no longer belonged.

  “Why is it that whenever I find you, half of you seems in another world?”

  Arathiel started as Lady Camilla Dathirii slid onto the bench next to him. He hadn’t spotted her, one colourless blur among many others, unimportant to his tired mind. She’d thrown a shawl over her shoulders, concealing part of her wealthy dress, but her Dathirii House brooch was displayed plainly. Arathiel met her gaze, uncertain how to answer. Camilla hadn’t wasted time getting to her interrogations, yet they didn’t threaten him the way strangers’ enquiries so often did.

  “I feel like it, truth be told.” His fingers went to his sleeves, to pull them even though he couldn’t quite feel the fabric. He’d never lost that nervous habit. “It’s unsettling to be an outsider in your own city.”

  “I can’t imagine,” she said. “There is a teahouse nearby you might enjoy or, if you prefer privacy, we can return to my quarters in the Dathirii Tower. I assure you, however, that the establishment is well-reputed for its discretion.”

  Arathiel’s stomach churned at the idea of meeting any of the Dathirii. He’d avoided giving his full name to Branwen when he’d arrived, and felt no more ready to do so now. If they recognized him, he would have to explain over and over. Once with Lady Camilla would be more than enough. She had a calm sweetness about her that invited confidence and long-winded tales. Perhaps that was the magic of Lady Camilla Dathirii, so reputed for listening to everyone: she made you feel at ease.

  “I can deal with the tea house.”

  Twenty minutes later, they sat in a semi-private booth, hidden by curtains from the rest of the customers. The employees knew Lady Camilla and had this table ready for her in an instant. Without a single question about her companion, they had taken her order then slid out of sight. Their attitude relieved Arathiel. He hadn’t realized how hard on his morale the stares had become. In the tea house, the only gaze to withstand came from Camilla’s sharp blue eyes, and they brimmed with compassion.

  “You haven’t entered the Brasten Tower, have you?” she asked.

  “No.” Arathiel set both his hands on the table and stared at them. “I’ve been in town for a week, but I can’t bring myself to knock. They’re my family but … at the same time, they’re not. No one’s left.”

  He knew Camilla would understand the void that left in him. Blood ties mattered in every noble house in Isandor, but the Dathirii elves were more tightly knit than most. They lived together for decades—centuries, even. When one of them died, it created a permanent hole. Arathiel watched the sadness settle on the old lady’s expression as she reflected upon his words.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. So much has changed since you left us. How long has it been, exactly?”

  “A hundred thirty-two years.” He leaned back in his chair. Time had no significance in the Well. A century had vanished and he hadn’t noticed. Was he supposed to have aged and died in there? The magic had drained colour from his hair and broken the rest of his body, yet Arathiel had retained the strength of his youth. Perhaps his skewed perception of time was only because of the added longevity. “Is it normal, for more than a century to feel like a single year?”

  Camilla’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened in horror; Arathiel didn’t need another answer. He regretted asking. The waitress arrived, and an awkward silence settled between them. She poured the pale yellow infusion into their cups, then left the teapot on the table and withdrew. Camilla leaned forward and wrapped her wrinkled fingers around her steaming teacup.

  “I’m afraid not. Passage of time doesn’t change when you live longer. Some elves have excellent memory and can recall with precision most of their lives, but most lose entire decades, remembering only key events. Really, you just forget more.”

  Arathiel’s mind whirled as he tried to buffer the blow, and he spread his fingers on the light wood. If only he could ground himself with that gesture! The Well had stolen more than a century from him, however. The table under his hand was but a dull pressure, and the tea Camilla had chosen with such care would never smell or taste like anything to him. He struggled to find a way to continue their conversation and eventually decided to change the topic. It would help to talk about something other than himself.

  “How is Lord Dathirii?”

  “Lord Dathirii is no longer Lord Dathirii,” she said, a hollow to her voice. “My brother died more than a century ago—some twenty years after you left. His son, Diel Dathirii, took up that mantle. You two were of an age. You might remember him?”

  “I do.” Diel was a carefree idealist who spent more time goofing around the city with friends than learning about politics and history. The last Arathiel had heard, he’d ditched his family to go exploring the world with a servant. Not the most serious of leaders, but very handsome nonetheless. “So he returned from his trip, at least.”

  Arathiel’s expression must have revealed his doubts because Lady Camilla chuckled. “He did, and has since grown into a fine man—the kind who puts actions behind words, even when it brings his entire family on the frontline.”

  Something in her tone made Arathiel examine her—a hint of fear behind the pride. Arathiel had always been good at picking up on others’ moods. He used his talent in battles to predict his opponents’ intentions and in conversations to understand what was left unsaid. This sounded more like a specific reference than a general comment on her nephew’s behaviour.

  “Has something happened?”

  Camilla didn’t bother to hide her surprise at his question. Her thin smile created a ripple of wrinkles on her face. “I’m afraid we’ll be very busy running terrible people out of the city, but you shouldn’t concern yourself with it. You must have so much on your mind already. Do y
ou have somewhere to stay, at least? Enough funds to be comfortable? We could accommodate you.”

  Arathiel shook his head before she had finished her offer. “I have a room inside a shelter, in the Lower City. I gave them what I had left and they will house and feed me for as long as I want. They’ve treated me well since I’ve arrived, and I would not dream of going elsewhere at the moment.”

  At first he’d thought they wanted to trap him. They were too trusting, too nice. In the Lower City’s hostile environment, Cal’s cheerfulness felt out of place. If neither he nor this Larryn were wary of him, perhaps they were trying to lure him in. Except they invited the one with dark elven blood without hesitation, playing long card games with him despite his ancestors’ terrible reputation. As he’d watched them, Arathiel had understood. They didn’t care. In Larryn’s Shelter, he would always be welcome, no matter how different. Smiling, Arathiel reached for his cup. As he grasped the handle and raised it, Lady Camilla’s eyes widened.

  “Don’t drink it yet, it’ll be—”

  Too late. The tea slipped through his lips and he swallowed. Liquid ran down his throat, tasteless, barely noticeable.

  “Scalding hot,” Camilla finished. “Are you okay?”

  “It … hurts.” Arathiel tried to reassure her with a brief smile. “I’ll be fine. I was distracted.”

  His voice trailed off under Camilla’s piercing stare. She didn’t believe a word of it. Arathiel put down the cup, his hands shaking a little. He must have burned his tongue but couldn’t tell. All he’d wanted was to keep himself busy as his mind wandered, and now he’d drunk steaming hot tea right in front of her. No wonder she would have none of his ‘I’m distracted’ excuse. Fighting the panic swirling at the bottom of his stomach, Arathiel pushed the topic in another direction.

  “There is something else you could do for me.”

  He hesitated. Now might not be the best time for strange requests. This could become a matter of life and death, however. How could he phrase his needs so they seemed normal?

  She leaned forward and put her hand on his. She must have squeezed, or he wouldn’t have felt the pressure. “Won’t you tell me what happened? You should be dead.”

  “I’d rather not.” Arathiel avoided her gaze. “I don’t truly know and never will. I’m alive, for no reason I can fathom. Perhaps some things are best unquestioned.”

  Camilla didn’t answer, allowing his words to sink in. Then she once more wrapped wrinkled hands over her tea. “Very well. Tell me what you need, and I won’t ask why. It would be a pleasure to help, no matter what happened to you. Just ask. It pains me to think you would deal with this alone.”

  Arathiel’s throat tightened, and he met her gaze. He’d believed himself without allies, isolated in a city he no longer recognized, but here was Lady Camilla Dathirii, offering unconditional help. Returning to Isandor had always been a gamble—a last resort. If Arathiel couldn’t find a home here, he never would. After his plunge in the docks’ water, he’d doubted his decision and despaired at his chances. Camilla’s concern shed a ray of hope on his future. He had to try.

  “A mirror. A tiny hand-held mirror. It’s a lot of money, I know, but it could save my life.”

  “Consider it done.” She blew on her tea and finally sipped it. The slight pain in her expression told Arathiel the drink was still too hot. She set it down with a disappointed frown. “My door will always be open to you. To talk, or for anything else. And if one day you wish to return to your family, I will vouch for the veracity of your claim. We all will.”

  Arathiel nodded, slow and solemn. “It means a lot to me, milady.”

  More than the offer, her willingness to help without prying warmed his heart. He clung to it, gathering the courage to ask his most painful question yet—the one he needed answered, even though he feared the knowledge it would bring.

  “Milady, if you heard of what happened to my sister …”

  Lindi was dead, of course. She was human, a century had passed, and she had been deathly sick when he’d left. Widespread tales of a magical well that could cure all ailments had reached him even as he despaired of seeing her recover. Her illness had been eating her body fat away and killing her lungs, and no healer, priest, or mage in the city could help. Lindi hadn’t wanted him to go, but he had been too stubborn to listen.

  “Healers eased her pain. She died within a year of your departure. I’m sorry, I don’t know a lot. Lady Brasten will.”

  Arathiel thanked her in a whisper—he couldn’t manage more at the moment. He’d started grieving as soon as he’d learned how much time had passed while he was imprisoned in the Well, yet he didn’t think he’d ever stop. He should have been by her side. That had been his place. Home with Lindi. Now she was gone, and he didn’t know what to do.

  Camilla shifted the topic to the city’s politics, allowing Arathiel to both wrangle his grief in silence and catch up with the most important changes. It amazed him how few true transformations the city had undergone. Names had switched, certainly, but everything else remained similar. House Allastam had grown enough to rival House Lorn’s power, House Balthazar’s wealth had risen like a shooting star—it was expected to burn out just as fast, leaving behind nothing but vines of gold crawling across an empty tower—and Arathiel’s family had managed to carve out for themselves a monopoly over alchemical components and rare magic items. Trades changed, power shifted from one family to another, but in the end Isandor was mostly the same: bickering lords fighting over the Golden Table’s limited seats, flaunting their wealth and letting as little trickle down as possible. The Myrians were new. They had stepped into the game like any up-and-coming House, but the power of an empire backed them up. Camilla detailed how they’d wormed their way into major Houses’ finances, leaving a bloody trail whenever they deemed it necessary. Their influence reached everywhere, yet they didn’t even sit at the Golden Table, and the fear in the old lady’s voice was unmistakable. She worried about her family.

  By the time they emptied their teacups, the sunlight outside had dimmed. Dark clouds still hung in the sky, promising rain, but nothing had fallen yet. Camilla finished the tale of Lady Allastam’s gruesome murder a decade ago and the feud between House Allastam and House Freitz that had followed. The bad news far outweighed the good, and she heaved out a sigh.

  “Often I feel as if there is little this old lady can do about anything important. It’s a balm on my weary heart to see you alive, even if my mind has trouble believing it still. I must return to the tower, but we should talk again. Maybe with me doing less of it, and you more?”

  Arathiel laughed. As their conversation had stretched on, he had grown more and more comfortable. He’d dared to ask questions, make a few jokes, connect events to others that had happened while he was still in Isandor. It wasn’t much, but it seemed easier to be himself around Camilla now.

  “Most certainly. You are too hard on yourself, milady. A long conversation with a kind lady was exactly what I needed today.”

  She thanked him with a small laugh, then stood up, using the table for support. Lady Camilla wished him a good evening before leaving the tea house. Arathiel watched her go, a strange daze settling into his mind. He hadn’t planned on meeting anyone he knew when he’d awoken this morning, but it was pleasing. The kind of pleasing that spread all the way to his fingertips and made him smile despite everything else.

  Jilssan leaned on the balcony next to Master Avenazar, keeping a careful eye on Isra practising spells and on the dark grey sky above. How long before the rain broke out? Dead leaves covered the small grassy area, taken from their branches by the night’s howling winds, and humidity thickened the air. She loved how autumn’s colours shifted from vivid green to bright yellows and oranges, but the rotting brown that always followed killed her enthusiasm. Nothing escaped the transition from living to dead, not even peoples’ moods. Or most peoples’ moods, anyway.

  Avenazar must have had an excellent time yesterday. He had
an extra skip to his steps and unlike most days, it didn’t bother him to be unable to lean on the tall railing without looking ridiculous. He usually demanded they walk to another spot that didn’t underscore his height. Not today, however. If Jilssan was to venture a guess, this abnormal pleasantness tied into the long screaming session he’d inflicted upon his apprentice the previous afternoon.

  At least hers had escaped. Isra had taken a ridiculous and unnecessary risk, and Jilssan worried that despite her admonition to be warier of Avenazar, the teenage girl might pull off such a dangerous stunt again. Master Avenazar was staring at her now, examining her as Isra transformed a carrot into an apple.

  “I heard you haven’t punished your apprentice yet,” he said.

  His casual tone gave her goosebumps. Careful, Jilssan, she told herself. If she messed this up, Isra might be next on his list. Or her, even. In theory, Avenazar shouldn’t be involved at all in Isra’s education, and unless Jilssan betrayed the Myrian Empire, he had no right to attack her either, but they lived a long way from home. In the two years since their arrival in Isandor, Avenazar had demonstrated his love for retribution, his disdain for rules, and his unwillingness to let any slight slide. Jilssan hadn’t thrived in Myria’s nasty political environment by provoking dangerous and volatile men. She gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “What for?” she asked.

  “Don’t play this game with me. I saw her fly away yesterday. She was in Isandor with Nevian.”

  Jilssan kept her gaze on the thin girl now planting her apple into the ground. Isra focused on the fruit, palms on the packed dirt. Years of practice had attuned Jilssan to magical currents, and she followed their movement as they gathered around her apprentice. Isra always struggled with this part, and the swirl of magic deviated from the norm, bumpy instead of smooth. She eventually managed to sprout a tiny tree from the ground, right where the apple had been. Jilssan suspected she’d have no trouble casting the spell if she put her heart to it, but Isra didn’t care about basic transmutations. If she could ignore Jilssan’s assignments, she’d try to skip over them and specialize in shapeshifting right away.