Despite his best intentions, Nevian couldn’t study after Isra’s visit. He sat at his desk, staring blankly at his notes while her story ran through his head. How could he have been so careless? A tall man climbing the oak tree? With a little more light, she would never have mistaken him for Varden. His secret would be out, and he’d be dead. Or worse. Nevian’s nighttime expeditions now seemed downright suicidal. But what else was he supposed to do? Stay trapped in the enclave at the mercy of Master Avenazar’s whims, unable to progress with his magic? Nevian could endure a lot of abuse when he put his mind to it. He needed to know when it would end, however. To have a goal. He had no choice, not if he wanted his life to get anywhere, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how close he had come to being discovered.

Luck had redirected the blame on Varden. Pure luck—a luxury he couldn’t rely on. It never lasted. Nevian shuddered to imagine what might happen to him once it gave out. Varden’s very fate, soon. For him it would be brief, at least. Long enough to figure out Isra’s accusations were baseless, that he’d done nothing wrong. Then Master Avenazar would turn his attention to Isra. Perhaps his retribution for the time wasted would grant Nevian a few hours of peace to study more, free of his master’s constant ridiculous demands.

Nevian frowned and reached for the bandanna tied around his forearm. He hated that it had to be Varden first. Who would heal the priest once Avenazar trampled through his memories and turned him into a wretched ball of pain? Wasn’t right to let him take the fall, however briefly. Avenazar would have too much fun. Nevian should warn him as a thank you for the rekhemal. It’d give him a chance to flee.

Except he couldn’t do that.

No one escaped Master Avenazar. Sauria had tried. She’d run halfway across Myria, Nevian in tow, before Avenazar found her. Nevian had heard every inn they’d stayed at during their flight had been razed to the ground. After witnessing the destruction Avenazar had left at her last hideout, Nevian had no trouble believing the stories. Once the wizard set his sights on someone, there was no escape. Nevian was already trapped with him by virtue of being Sauria’s old apprentice, and Varden would be no different. Avenazar would find him, and once he had his hands on him, he would rip through his memories and discover Nevian’s warning. If he tried to help Varden, he would condemn himself. He couldn’t save the priest. Nevian’s best option was to sever all ties with Varden. He had to think of himself first.

The next morning, Nevian found his way to the High Priest’s door. He knocked twice to warn of his presence, then turned the knob. He needed to be fast, before guilt overrode his good sense. Tell Varden, the burning shame in his stomach said. You owe him. But he had never asked for Varden’s help. Nevian refused to get himself killed because the priest was nice to him once. He had to go in, return the rekhemal, and leave. Nothing else.

As he pushed open the door, he heard swearing and scrambling. A foot blocked the movement from the other side.

“A moment, please!”

Panic seeped into Varden’s voice. Nevian frowned and stopped pushing.

“I don’t have one.”

“Nevian?” Behind the priest’s nervousness was a hint of relief. “You can’t come in, not yet. I’m sorry, I’m … naked.”

Nevian jumped back as if the door had burned him. Why was the High Priest naked in the middle of the day? Then he heard a woman’s stifled giggles, and Varden hushed her. The door snapped shut and they shuffled inside. Nevian would never understand that kind of desire—he had never even experienced attraction and doubted he one day would—and physical proximity unnerved him. He waited, wishing people were more reasonable about this whole sex thing. Because, really? The middle of the day?

After a minute or two, Varden reopened the door. He wore black pants and was buttoning up the front of his dark orange shirt. His official robes had been thrown on his desk’s chair, in disarray, and the curly hair seemed more a mess than usual.

“I didn’t expect you.” His cold tone indicated he didn’t want him either and left a strange taste in Nevian’s mouth. Varden had never made him feel unwelcome, building in his person one of the rare sources of safety in the enclave. The subtle rejection hurt more than it should have. When had Nevian grown attached? This was bad, very bad. Good thing the priest had decided to play in the middle of a work day, then. His irritation at being interrupted reminded Nevian of what their relationship truly was, and had to be. In Avenazar’s enclave, no one had room for tentative friendships. Nevian gritted his teeth and prepared to underscore the ridicule of Varden’s annoyance considering the moment of the day, but the High Priest cut him short. “Be quick.”

The apprentice bit back his previous comment on timely recreational activities. He was supposed to get in, give Varden the rekhemal, and get out. Not lecture him. “Tomorrow is the Long Night’s Watch,” he said. “You should have this back.”

Nevian lifted the bandanna but couldn’t meet Varden’s gaze. What a pointless gesture. What if Avenazar went overboard and Varden was dead within a week? Perhaps Nevian should keep the artifact and continue using it. It had done such amazing things for his productivity! But Varden had said it bordered on heresy. Best not to give Avenazar another excuse to attack either of them.

“Thank you, Nevian.” A smile brightened Varden’s face as he retrieved the bandanna, all of the usual warmth flooding back into his tone. Had the cold treatment been a fluke? Could he still count on Varden? Yearning tugged at Nevian, but he hushed it. Things would get bad now. He needed to stay away. Varden folded the rekhemal with great care. “Will you want it again?” he asked.

If only. Nevian tried to hide his desire. If he could, Nevian would wear the rekhemal every day, every hour. Only Varden’s warning about sleep had stopped him. As desperate as he was to progress, Nevian knew better than to disregard instructions.

“No.” When he saw Varden’s eyebrows shoot up, Nevian struggled to find a good justification. He didn’t want to appear suspicious. Just in case Avenazar searched through Varden’s memories, noticed anomalies, and wondered if Nevian had known beforehand. And even though the apprentice wasn’t warning Varden, Avenazar might resent him. Better not to take the slightest chance with him. He needed a credible excuse. “I rely on it too much. It won’t always be there.”

“True, but—”

“I’ll manage,” Nevian interrupted. “I don’t need your help.”

Varden flinched, and the reaction twisted Nevian’s stomach. People were always trying to use him or destroy him, yet Varden had been nothing but helpful. Friendly, even. The apprentice could give it back, allow Varden closer. Right now, with just a few words, he could tell him to flee. Help. Nevian closed his eyes. He focused on the terrible punishment that would follow, and the dull throb it brought to his arm kept him silent.

“Sometimes, Nevian, it shouldn’t be about what you need.” Varden lowered his gaze and ran his finger over the bandanna’s soft fabric. “If you change your mind …”

“I won’t. I’m sorry.”

Nevian realized he was apologizing for much more than refusing the rekhemal. He forced himself to look straight at the man he was about to sacrifice for his own safety. Nevian’s mouth went dry, and Isra’s story almost crossed his lips. Then Varden sighed and leaned against the doorway.

“If you say so,” he replied with a slight smile. “Good luck, Nevian. We’ll see each other when Master Avenazar again decides to vent his anger on a helpless target.”

Nevian’s stomach churned. Varden was the next helpless target. Isra had it all wrong. The High Priest was no savage. His smiles hid concern for Nevian’s safety, and his jabs at Avenazar reeked of ill-concealed outrage. But if Nevian didn’t correct Isra’s racist mistake, was he any better? Letting Varden take the fall was a cruel decision made by a terrible human being. Nevian gritted his teeth. He needed the respite. A pause in his painful life. If that made him a horrible person, so be it. His arm burned at the very thought of getting involved. This couldn’t be tracked to him, not if he wanted to live. Every extra hour he was spared from Avenazar’s wrath would allow him to learn new spells and become a full-fledged wizard.

“One day, I won’t be helpless anymore.”

He let the promise hang in the hair and spun on his heels, hurrying down the corridor. Bullets of sweat ran down his forehead and neck. He could feel Avenazar’s hand on his forearm, the imaginary pain coursing up. A scream swirled at the bottom of his lungs and wound its way up, only to get stuck in his throat and choke him. Nevian broke into a sprint as he emerged from the temple and onto the enclave’s ground. His vision blackened at the corners as he fought for control over his wheezing. The imaginary pain had crawled all the way up to his shoulder and neck, reminding him of a very simple fact: nothing was worth facing Master Avenazar. Varden would have to fend for himself.

 

✵

 

Varden stared at the door as it closed behind Nevian, the soft rekhemal in his hands. He’d expected Nevian to take it back after the Long Night’s Watch. Varden had seen the change in the young apprentice through the last week. It was subtle, but Nevian had grown more alert and healthy, prompter to complete Avenazar’s tasks and vanish. More determined to see things through. There had been a new spark in him—one gone from the scared and distrustful teenager who had just left his quarters.

“Was that his apprentice?” Branwen asked. “The one he attacked in front of Uncle Diel?”

“Yes.”

Varden set the bandanna atop his desk, then slipped back into his official attire. He tried to flatten his hair into a more respectable appearance and destroy the quick disguise he’d created to explain Branwen’s presence if needed. One day, I won’t be helpless. He wondered how long it would take Nevian to escape, and whether Varden would ever have that chance. Nevian might learn to defend himself and become a full-fledged wizard, protected from Avenazar’s wrath by fellow Myrian mages, but as long as Varden lived among Myrians, he would need to watch his words. No magic could make the power imbalance between Isbari and Myrians vanish. Sometimes, he daydreamed of fleeing Myria entirely, but guilt locked him down. He had managed to carve a space for himself in Keroth’s church and help so many other Isbari. Varden couldn’t resolve himself to abandon them. He had to hope he would eventually move somewhere safer than around Avenazar.

“We’ll trounce him,” Branwen said, as if she’d been following his train of thought. “My uncle is the best, you’ll see. He’ll find a way to crush Avenazar and send this whole enclave running!”

Varden answered with a bitter smile. Branwen’s absolute conviction in the Dathirii’s success warmed his heart, but it was naive and pointless. Master Avenazar wouldn’t pack up and leave. If things became bad enough, even a direct order from Myria wouldn’t keep him from inflicting his wrath upon the Dathirii.

“Lord Dathirii made a mistake. Skilled politician or not, this is too much for him. He should have stayed out.”

Branwen jumped to her feet, her wide grin transforming into a serious grimace. The sudden shifts in her moods always took Varden unaware. One minute she was a cheerful companion, the next a ruthless professional. He wondered if she did it on purpose, to keep others on their toes. Or maybe she didn’t even notice.

“You don’t know him,” she said. “Uncle couldn’t have stayed out. This enclave has bothered him from the very first day you arrived. It’s a surprise it took two years before he acted, really, but that’s good. I gathered a lot of information on you guys, and Garith had an almost complete financial portrait. Everyone except Uncle Diel himself knew this was coming. Sooner or later, we’d have had this conflict. We’re ready.”

She leaned past Varden and pulled a blank parchment out of his pile, then handed him the cooled charcoal he used to sketch. Branwen was so close her hair tickled his skin, but he didn’t say a word about the sudden proximity. He’d learned quickly that she had little concept of personal space.

“You’re helping me,” Branwen said, “so you don’t believe this is hopeless. Don’t be a defeatist and draw me a map of the enclave.”

“A map?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow, right? We’ve covered a lot of things together, but a map will be precious information if I need to infiltrate again. Be precise.”

A small laugh escaped Varden, and he picked up the charcoal. It seemed they were back to her badgering him for every tidbit of knowledge about Myria and the enclave. Once Branwen had accepted she wouldn’t leave the enclave before the winter solstice, she had decided to make the most of her time. Every evening, when Varden returned and closed the door behind him, she assaulted him with an endless string of questions. He suspected she spent her days thinking of a list then waited to ambush him. The interrogation carried late into the night—her sitting cross-legged on the couch, him lying in his bed. Sometimes he’d try to cut it short. “Can I sleep?” he’d ask, but Branwen would laugh and reply, “I’m not done yet.”

Varden answered everything he could. Why not? Lord Dathirii was his best chance to get rid of Avenazar, no matter how little Varden believed in it. He’d already crossed so far into traitor territory he doubted this information would worsen his fate.

Last night, the tone of her questions had changed. Varden had tried to coax Branwen into silence or toward other topics with a bottle of wine. Not the best idea. At first, it had worked. They had drunk most of the night, occupying their usual seats, their posture getting more and more relaxed as the level of wine in the bottle lowered. Branwen talked about what it was like to grow up with the Dathirii family. Her parents had vanished before she could commit them to memory, and Diel Dathirii had done his best to be an adequate substitute despite his other duties.

“He didn’t really have the time, so he let me braid his hair while he worked and did mine on occasions,” she’d said. “But there were the others, too. I spent entire days playing tricks on Vellien with Garith, being scolded by Kellian, or eating Aunt Camilla’s cookies. Sometimes I wondered why my parents left. If it was my fault. When Uncle Diel talks about them, he makes it sound like they were the most romantic couple he had ever seen. But anyway …” She’d swirled the wine in her glass, thoughtful. “I’m glad I have everyone else. Parents matter less when you have a family like mine.”

Varden had stared at the flames burning in his fireplace. A supportive family must have been nice. Having anyone to catch you when you stumbled made life a lot easier. Growing up, he’d learned not to expect praise, had taken his victories in the disapproving glares of rivals and masters as he constantly managed to do better than them. As long as he succeeded, he knew Keroth was with him. The strength of his power over fire—his incredible control even when older priests struggled—became his best guide.

Branwen had stretched out on the couch, taking as much room as she could. “Do you have anyone back in Myria? I could never find anything on your family.”

Her question had shattered his relative peace of mind. “A fire took them. We were slaves locked in a wooden barn. I was six.”

Varden didn’t remember a lot of it. Chains and iron bars had kept everyone inside. He’d buried the events away, trying to ignore the holes in his memory and the flashes of recollection haunting his dreams. Branwen cleared her throat and emptied her glass of wine. She turned to face him.

“You survived.”

“I’m here, am I not?”

“How?”

“Because somehow, even at six, I could stand in the middle of a brazier and not die. Just me. No one else, and I couldn’t protect anyone.” The fire had blinded him, but human screams had pierced its roar. He still dreamed of his mother’s hand, blackened by the flames, grabbing his wrist, crying. He didn’t know if it was a real memory or not. He hoped he never would. “One of Keroth’s priests found me. They control major fires in Myria, extinguishing them safely. He told me I was standing in the middle of the building, flames still dancing around me like a cocoon, and he stole me away. Before someone could claim me as a slave again.”

Branwen had tilted her head to the side and propped herself up. “Fire put your entire family through a horrible death, so you decided to become a priest of Keroth?”

Her reaction had knocked his breath out. A little ‘I’m sorry’ before the insensitive questions would have been welcomed. He’d slammed the glass on the ground, almost breaking it, and straightened into a sitting position. His fingers had dug into the blankets to keep his hands from shaking too much.

“I love Keroth, but I did not choose Them. Isbari don’t choose, not in Myria. You take what life grants you and make the best from it. And at this?” He gestured toward the fire, and flames leaped into his palm, forming a swirling ball. “I am the best. Keroth destroyed my previous life—one of slavery and fear—to grant me another, where I control at least some of what happens to me. It hurt—it still hurts—but I’ve moved on. Creating one thing requires the destruction of another. When I draw, I use the leftovers of wood I burned. Such is the nature of the universe. Call me a fool, but I accept that while my life wasn’t without trials, I have at least been able to accomplish a lot already. Including saving you.”

His tone had hardened at the end, and he’d released the fire in his hands. Branwen had bitten her lower lip and stretched to set the empty glass on the ground.

“Sorry, Varden. I—I’m really glad for that, and my comment was horrible. After everything you’ve told me about Myria, I should’ve known better.”

Varden had barely refrained from agreeing with the last statement. Branwen wouldn’t stop berating herself for the mistake. She often spoke out of turn, and the stress of having her in his quarters or sneaking around the temple thinned his patience, but her apologies were quick and sincere. Varden had no desire to hold a grudge. He snatched his glass of wine and emptied it.

“To answer your original question, however, I did have someone. First, I had my people. Other Isbari looked up to me, sought my guidance and blessings, and I did my best to help. Then there was Miles.” He had smiled, breathed in. He could almost smell Miles’ light cologne, even so long after leaving Myria for Isandor. “You saw him in my sketchbook. Someone tipped the Myrian wizards to us, however. He arranged to be transferred far away before it got me into trouble. I think it contributed to my forced assignment to this mission, though.”

“How was he?”

“Really sweet.” They had shared so many secret routines. Every year on what passed for their anniversary, Miles had brought him fireflowers—the flowers under which they’d first kissed, almost a decade ago. “Shy, too. The first few years, we’d see each other all the time. It grew into a calmer relationship, but he helped me get through a lot.”

They’d discussed Miles for a while longer, with Varden recalling their first meeting. Branwen had stayed clear of the heaviest topics for the night, and after some time, she became drowsy. Varden had trouble remaining awake too—the wine and fire’s warmth enveloped him, soothing some of his worries away. They had fallen asleep still dressed.

Varden pushed the memories of last night away. He had dreamt of his parents again, crawling through the flames, trying to grab him. He hoped they would go away soon. He couldn’t afford to be distracted during the Long Night’s Watch ceremony. He finished the sketch of the enclave’s map for Branwen, then pointed to the eastern gates.

“You should leave through there. They put guards on the wall but not at the door itself. Time yourself between their patrols to sneak out. If Nevian manages it every other week, you should be fine.”

“Nevian?”

Varden realized his mistake too late. This wasn’t his secret to share, but the difficult night had dulled his wits, and he’d said too much. Varden had caught him once, and since then, he kept an eye out for the apprentice and sometimes helped him leave. Nevian had no idea, and perhaps that was for the best. He would push him further away, as he had whenever Varden attempted to get closer and make his life a little better.

“Nevian isn’t the docile and enduring apprentice he’d like us all to believe.” Varden smirked, then changed his charcoal for a quill. He began marking areas of his map, moving the conversation away from Nevian. “The prisons are here. Avenazar’s quarters are in the northern side of this building, here. This is my temple, and the guards’ quarters are near the enclave’s main door. If you can’t leave through the eastern gates, there is also an oak tree here, which might be tall enough to climb out from.”

He blew on his writing, then threw a bit of sand on it to dry. Branwen examined the map while they waited, her eyes darting about the rough plan as she committed it to memory. After a few minutes, she rolled it up. “When should I leave?”

“An hour after sunset. You should have enough light to navigate the enclave, and everyone will be either in their quarters or at the temple for the ceremony.”

“Perfect!” She slid the tiny map in her bosom, then lifted herself onto his desk. “This might be the most productive information gathering I’ve done in years. To think I believed it was over when you flame-jumped here with me. I … Thanks, Varden. You’re great. Not at all what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” he asked. “A sadistic pyromaniac hell-bent on setting the world afire and crushing it under his foot? I hear that’s the new rumour in town these days.”

Branwen laughed—until she noticed his bitter expression. Varden couldn’t help himself. Her compliment reminded him of what others believed. Her mirth vanished. “They’ll forget. It doesn’t matter. They couldn’t be more mistaken.”

Varden shrugged. It did matter to him. Even if they hadn’t cared about his race, they had pegged him as a dangerous maniac. How was that any better? But perhaps with time, they would forgive and forget. He hoped he could prove them wrong one day.

“Let’s take care of Avenazar first. We’ll figure out something about my reputation after.”

“You bet we will!” Branwen smiled at him and set a hand on his forearm. “You’re a Dathirii ally now, and my friend. We don’t abandon either.”