City of Strife Page 9

  Not that their illustrious Myrian leader would take the blame. Varden held no illusions about Avenazar’s defence should things go sour. Between Keroth’s priests’ bad reputation for arson and the too-common branding of Isbari as savage criminals, Varden made a perfect target. Avenazar had requested he wear his full High Priest regalia to impress the locals … and to better turn him into a scapegoat. After all, what could one do against an out-of-control, barbarian pyromaniac?

  Yet Varden had accepted the mission. No choice there: refusal would be considered treason, and Master Avenazar’s punishment terrified him more than anything Isandor could throw at him. Even death.

  Jilssan stepped up to his side and glanced at the tower. Unlike him, she wore nothing to identify her as a Myrian. If guards arrived, she’d meld into the crowd, unseen. No one would notice her if he stood in the middle of the inferno, fire erupting from his hands, the burned orange and black outfit designed to mimic flames flapping in hot currents. Jilssan hadn’t come to make an impression. She was here to keep an eye on him.

  “You always look so sour,” she said. “Like you bit into the world’s biggest lemon as a kid, and the expression imprinted on your face. Don’t you ever smile? You should. I bet it would melt every woman’s heart.”

  Varden had no interest in melting women’s hearts, and now that they’d forced him apart from Miles, he wasn’t sure he wanted to melt any man’s either. Two years had passed, and Varden knew they could never go back, but it was impossible to forget his teenage love. Not after a decade together. He refused to answer Jilssan’s taunt and encourage her. Despite his continued polite disinterest in her, she wouldn’t leave him alone. The enclave wasn’t big, and time made her harder and harder to ignore. Varden stepped away and glared at her.

  “We have work,” he said.

  “This particular task doesn’t seem to please you. Strange. Burning things should be right up your alley.”

  “We’re taking away someone’s livelihood.”

  “So? Sometimes people are at the wrong place at the wrong time. Is it our fault if this merchant’s ally threatened us?” With a sweet smile, she patted his shoulder. “I never thought you were a sentimentalist, Varden. How does an Isbari climb so high without stomping every competitor on the way?”

  “He doesn’t.”

  When it came to surpassing Myrians, however, Varden had no qualms. Why would he regret beating those who’d crushed his people for decades, reducing them to slaves and outlaws, taking their lands and destroying their culture? Isbar had been the first and most violent conquest of the Myrian Empire. They’d drained the narrow Bielal Sea between their countries and marched through while Isbari reeled from the loss. The water had never returned. Myrians called it the Victory Valley, but among Isbari, the vanished sea was known as the Bielal Scar. An ugly mark on the land. A century had passed, yet like the Isbari slaves huddling at night and retelling stories of their homeland, it, too, remembered the glorious life it once had.

  Resisting sorrow and despair had become every Isbari’s struggle. Varden took pride in Keroth’s unwavering favour and the victories that came with it. How often did he have to stand by and watch Isbari get mistreated, though? It gnawed at his soul, this silence, this complicity. Without it, he wouldn’t be High Priest. Varden had tried to make up for it and give back to his community, to help. He’d spoken eulogies and ceremonies dedicated to other Isbari in addition to his regular duties. By the time the Myrians had sent him away, all those who could attend did so. They came to him for guidance. But where they perceived a free Isbari who’d achieved something great despite Myrian prejudice, all Varden saw was the trail of those he’d abandoned before and the invisible chains still limiting him. Every morning, he prayed for forgiveness and the strength to do more.

  “Well,” Jilssan said, “think of it as another competitor to crush. It needs to be done.”

  True, even if it left a bitter taste on his tongue. Varden murmured a prayer to the Firelord, and Their presence filled him—infinite, warm, and hungry. Tiny flames danced at his fingertips as he strode into the boutique. Two customers browsed through the available gowns while the owner, a bony lady with curly hair, conversed with an elf.

  A petite elf, with a slit skirt over comfortable pants and a vest-like top. A large barrette held her golden-brown hair pinned atop her head, decorated by a delicate peony. Varden’s attention did not linger on the flower, too caught by the unmistakable brooch on her vest: a silver D on a forest-green background. Lady Branwen Dathirii. The family’s ears and eyes, and Lord Dathirii’s most likely heir. A wealth of knowledge for Avenazar, should he get his hands on her. He’d be inside her head in minutes, tearing through for the desired information. Varden’s stomach churned. His gaze met Branwen’s as he fought the rising nausea, his instincts screaming at him to stop. Stop. Varden ground his teeth. Branwen Dathirii’s eyes widened as he aimed his palm at the ceiling and shot flames up. The powerful wave of heat struck panic in the few customers, and they threw themselves to the ground.

  “Everybody out, now!” Varden called.

  Nobody argued. Branwen Dathirii helped the tailor up, but as they passed him, Varden grabbed the elf’s arm and stopped her.

  “Except you.”

  Branwen wouldn’t miss the intense warmth in his palms, even through her sleeve. Fire waiting to be unleashed again. She glared at him. Her free hand edged backwards. A hidden weapon. He didn’t have long.

  “And let you burn me down with the place?” she asked. “I’m not—”

  “Hush.” He released her, stepping away to be out of a quick strike’s range. The shop owner had stopped at the exit. Despite her panicked breath, she seemed reluctant to abandon Branwen. Varden’s mind whirled for a solution to his dilemma. “Is there a back door for her?” He jerked a thumb at the Dathirii, tense and close, one false move from pouncing on him.

  The shopkeeper offered a confused frown and silence as an answer. Long seconds passed. Seconds Varden didn’t have. Jilssan waited outside the tailor’s shop, and any delays might make her suspicious. Large flames erupted from his hands with a puff and climbed up his arms. He let them dance around him, allowed the warmth to calm his frenzied heart. His voice, however, lashed out with resolve.

  “Answer!”

  “No! No back door. There’s no bridge behind, so it’s just the front.”

  Varden cursed his luck. No one would have known if she’d sneaked out. What now? Sweat ran down his forehead, and the growing fire wasn’t the cause. Avenazar wouldn’t forgive him if he let such a valuable source of information escape. He would finally inflict on Varden what he had reserved for Nevian so far. But if he brought back Branwen, she might get even worse.

  Do what needs to be done, Jilssan would say. Another competitor crushed. Just one more sacrifice.

  One too many.

  “No one can know she was here,” he told the shopkeeper. “No one. Or she’s dead—or worse.”

  A small lie. If the truth spread, they were both dead, or worse. But Varden would reduce her shop to cinders. Why would she care about him?

  “And … I’m sorry. For all this. Now get out.”

  His tone hardened and he shot a beam of flames next to her. With a startled cry she scrambled outside, where Jilssan would be waiting to deliver Avenazar’s message. She could have followed inside, adding words to the fire, but Varden knew how smoke affected her lungs and turned her breathing into a wheeze. Varden turned to Branwen. He noted her tense shoulders and spread feet, to give herself better balance. One wrong word and she’d attack. He let most of the flames disappear and extended his hands, palms open, trying to appear non-threatening. Not an easy task after setting fire to a rack of pretty skirts.

  “Listen. Please, listen to me.” He didn’t like his pleading tone but couldn’t help it. Keroth’s strength burned in him, pushing to be unleashed at last, and he ached to give in. Scorch everything. The power made him dizzy, and it became hard to concentrate. “Master
Jilssan is waiting outside. They will take you prisoner. If I let you leave, she’ll know I didn’t capture you. We’ll both be in trouble.”

  “What’s your point? Should I stay and burn with the rest of the gowns? I love dresses, but not that much.”

  “No, no!” He groaned and ran a hand through his curls. New flames seeped out of his sleeves. When he had both feet in fire, Varden controlled it with ease. He couldn’t maintain a conversation and lose himself in the blazing heat, though, and he struggled to focus. The flames burned the very thread of his consciousness, pulling him in. “I can get you out unseen.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “If I wanted you captured, I would have let you leave, to run into Master Jilssan’s arms. If I wanted you dead, I’d burn the hand and knife you’re hiding, then all of your body. I’m not doing either. Take your chance.”

  Branwen didn’t show any surprise at the mention of her weapon. She studied him from head to toe, as if evaluating his character. It reminded Varden of slave buyers as they judged potential acquisitions, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  He couldn’t wait for her careful examination to be over, either. Now that everybody had supposedly cleared out, a tame fire would arise Jilssan’s suspicions. Varden decided to offer Branwen a more convincing show and gave in to the tingling sensation in his fingertips. Keroth’s strength coursed through him, a fiery and reassuring elation.

  He evacuated the heat built inside. Large flames barrelled toward the door, then in a blast around the shop. Branwen let out a surprised yelp but crouched back into a readied position right away.

  As the gowns began to burn, Varden enveloped himself in a shield of fire. Tendrils of flames shot in every direction from him, running across the floor, licking at the counter and support beams. When they circled around the Dathirii elf, Varden protected her from the heat with a flick of his hand. Raw power crackled inside of him, fuelled by the Firelord’s presence—so close, so infinite. His throat was dry. The priest wanted to extend his hand, touch the power, get lost in it. Forget this world with its cold nights and even colder hearts, and forever be embraced by Keroth’s warm grace.

  “What are you doing?”

  Branwen’s voice pierced his daze and grounded him to the seared wooden floor. Shaky and exalted, Varden spun to face her.

  “Choose. Leave with me or die here.”

  His tone had become hollow. He could kill her here. Burn her clothes and skin and flesh like he had everything else around. Leave nothing but blackened bones behind. A darker part of him wanted to try, just this once. He reined it back. Branwen raised her flimsy knife, and Varden let flames lick it as a warning, even as he quelled the heat.

  “Choose!”

  He stepped forward; she stepped back. Smoke rose between them and floated to the ceiling, obscuring the brazier. A wooden beam gave a plaintive crack. They didn’t have long.

  “Choose,” Varden repeated, but this time he pushed the flames back from them.

  She swallowed hard. “All right, fire zealot. Tell me what to do.”

  He didn’t. Instead, Varden stalked to her and grabbed her wrist. Before she could wrestle out, the flames drew around them and formed an opaque cocoon. They didn’t feel the heat, but an invisible force pulled at their bodies. The crackling fire turned into a blur of orange, red, and yellow. Varden passed through the plane between fires, and everything vanished.

  No more smoke. No more roaring inferno.

  They stood in his High Priest’s quarters in front of the lit fireplace. Varden stared around, dazed, exhausted. Fire-striding drained his strength, and he no longer had the surrounding blaze to steal energy from. Branwen found her bearings faster than him. She smashed her elbow into his nose, then sprung on him and slammed his body to the ground, knocking his breath out. Stars flashed before his eyes, and her dagger’s warmed blade pressed against his throat.

  “Where are we?”

  “My quarters. In the enclave’s temple. Don’t do this.”

  Her grip tightened against the front of his robes. Her weapon hand trembled, and the shaking dagger nicked his skin.

  “You said—”

  “I can’t work miracles!” Every one of his muscles wanted to shove her off, but he never doubted Branwen’s commitment. If he moved, he’d die. “I can’t teleport to any fire. I need to be familiar with it, to have been there. My other option was the great brazier in the middle of our temple. Would you rather appear there?”

  “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  She pressed harder, and a trickle of blood ran down his neck. A pathetic whimper escaped his lips. He didn’t want to die. His whole life he’d known a single mistake would be the end, but that didn’t mean he was ready. His stomach twisted and clawed up his throat. He had to convince her.

  “You don’t! By the flames, stop this, you’re blowing what little cover we have by putting wounds on me. Nobody gets a dagger cut by starting a fire.” Blood rushed to his head, made his own hand shaky. The longer he disappeared, the bigger the risk. “Please, miss. I need to go back. No one comes in here but me. You’ll be safe.”

  Her lips tightened, her glare intensified; Varden’s heart sank, dragged down by despair. She didn’t believe him. She would slit his throat, then try to sneak out of the Myrian Enclave. Acolytes swarmed the temple at this time of day, and guards patrolled the walls. She’d fail. Maybe death wasn’t so bad if that was her plan. Better to stand by Keroth’s side than deal with Avenazar. Varden closed his eyes and whispered a short prayer.

  The warm metal left his skin.

  Branwen withdrew from him, her weapon ready, uncertain. He swallowed a big gulp of air and scrambled up, relief unknotting his stomach.

  “Thank you.” He shouldn’t say that, not with the staggering risks he was taking for her. But she’d spared him, and his mind reeled from the kindness. Varden touched the blood at his neck. Their fates were sealed now. If either of them got caught, the other would pay. “I will return.”

  Under her silent scrutiny, Varden turned to the fire and set his hands in it. The heat prickled his skin, a telltale sign that his strength would run out soon. As the flames once more enveloped him, he prayed he’d have enough power to control his inferno before it consumed the entire tower.

  The fireplace’s flames reached out like tendrils and enveloped their priest until he disappeared in a brilliant light. Branwen exhaled. Her fingers clutched the dagger’s hilt so tightly they hurt, and her frenzied heart nauseated her. Heat and fear had turned her vest sticky with sweat. One moment, she’d been joking with the nice tailor lady about the latest fashion in sleeves, and the next, this wild fire monster had stormed in. Her skin still prickled from the intense heat inside the shop, and her throat clenched at the memory of the High Priest. He had stood in the middle of that brazier—whips of fire snapping in all directions, a warm current ruffling his curly hair and making his clothes flutter—and in that moment, Branwen had been convinced she was going to die. Too much power in a single man. Too much rage rippling under his golden skin.

  Yet he’d brought her here.

  She tried to focus on the way Varden Daramond’s voice had broken when he’d said ‘please’, on how he’d apologized to the tailor, on his small whimper as she put a blade to his throat. The blazing cleric terrified her. The man squirming under her dagger? Not so much. Branwen took a deep breath. If he’d wanted her dead, she would be. Which didn’t mean his intentions were pure. She needed to keep her wits about her and make sure she would have the upper hand by the time he came back.

  Good thing he’d left her alone in his quarters, then.

  She rotated slowly, giving the room a quick examination. How foolish of him. Two decades of sniffing around for her family had taught Branwen that everyone had secrets. While Branwen disliked using hidden weaknesses as blackmail, situations like these offered little choice. What other weapons did she have? Sneaking out of the enclave at this hour would be near impossible. Sh
e needed to ensure selling her out to Avenazar would be as dangerous to him as to her. She should also find a disguise in case a quick escape became her only solution.

  As the beginning of a plan formed in her mind, Branwen’s stress diminished. She rubbed her fingers against her skirt, the familiar fabric calming her nerves further. Step one, the disguise. You never knew when someone could open the door. Branwen spotted the closet and hurried over, opening it with unrestrained curiosity. Recreating a uniform required time and study, and she couldn’t wear a High Priest’s ceremonial robes. No one but this Varden held such a rank. Plus, he was half a foot taller than her, with broad shoulders.

  She started by snatching a pair of black pants off the shelves and switched her skirt for them. The bottom trailed on the floor, so Branwen rolled them inward and took a mental note to search for a sewing kit. Then she flicked through the shirts and robes, looking for something that would belong to a fire acolyte without being an official outfit. She hadn’t studied the details of their clothing and didn’t want to be discovered for a small mistake. It would be easier to bluff that she’d hoped to join their cult. After all, the Firelord was one of the six original deities, and though Their religion mattered less here than in Myria, They were still honoured.

  When Branwen spotted a light shirt with little flame designs at the bottom, she knew she had a winner. She snickered as she imagined the High Priest in it. Clichéd official outfits were one thing, but flames on an everyday shirt was kind of endearing. She changed into the shirt, her fear ebbing away. This top would’ve been loose even for Varden, and it hung around her awkwardly. She found a burnt orange belt and wrapped it around her waist, then pulled the heavy fabric down. It created folds under the line, which amplified the flames in what seemed like an intentional part of the design. The higher half also clung to her skin and revealed some cleavage. One could almost believe she wasn’t wearing a man’s shirt. Branwen completed the disguise with a threadbare travel cloak, which hid some of the imperfections and had a hood to conceal her ears. Close examination would unmask her, but she hoped never to risk it.