Isra’s third attempt to turn her skin into bark fizzled out, her magic evaporating before it could so much as stiffen her arm. She cried out in rage and stomped before positioning herself for another try. Frustration tensed her muscles and tightened her lips, and Jilssan recognized the storm brewing under her staunch refusal to stop. Isra would never have the concentration to finish the spell in her current state.

“Enough,” Jilssan said.

Isra’s shoulders slumped, and she glared at Jilssan. “I can do it! I’ve cast more complicated spells!”

“I know you can, but not today.” Jilssan motioned toward the large elm at the back of their courtyard—the very one Isra had spotted Nevian on. “Why don’t we talk?”

Isra’s anger deflated, and she threw the tree a haunted look. Jilssan knew she’d spent a great deal of last night staring at it. She had watched Isra from a distance, the two of them freezing outside while Varden’s screams rang out of the prisons’ basement. Hard not to empathize with Isra. Jilssan remembered too well how guilty she’d felt betraying her first rival, and throwing him to the wolves. And he had deserved it, unlike Varden.

They moved to the tree, and Isra sat down with a pout. “I don’t see what you want to talk about.”

Jilssan’s eyebrows shot up. “You know.”

She left it at that, certain Isra would come around. She needed time to sort through her feelings and decide what to share and what to keep to herself. Jilssan settled next to her apprentice and leaned back on the solid trunk, closing her eyes. Cold already seeped through her skirt and tights, and the afternoon sun did nothing to warm her. Isandor’s winters always chilled her to the bone, but she suspected the day’s shivers also came from the latest turn of events.

“I miss him,” Isra said.

“Varden?” Jilssan couldn’t believe such words from her. They had never gotten along, to say the least, and even if she felt guilty, she wouldn’t miss him.

“No. Nevian.”

That surprised Jilssan even more. Why would anyone miss Nevian? He never did anything but complain or study, and Isra’s determination to spend time with him had always confused Jilssan. Maybe she was desperate for someone her age, even though Nevian acted decades older than he really was. Still. Nevian’s absence would make the enclave more dangerous. An imprisoned Varden wouldn’t hold Avenazar’s attention forever.

“That’s sweet of you,” she said, lacking more encouraging words.

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t he say anything? I offered him a chance—he knew I’d spotted him! He could have told me the traitor wasn’t Varden.”

“And you would have kept silent?” Jilssan turned to face Isra, worried. “Isra, you see what happened to Varden because he protected Nevian. Don’t make their mistake. Master Avenazar is not an opponent you want to fight.”

“Varden hid a Dathirii,” Isra protested. “It’s not the same.”

“It would have been.” Jilssan picked up Isra’s hand and squeezed it. “Listen to me. You are not responsible for what happened to Nevian and Varden. They made their decisions and put themselves in that position. You did what you had to. It’s not easy, and you won’t feel better about it anytime soon. But until we have full control of Isandor, we’re stuck here with Master Avenazar. The best we can do is obey and make it through to the other side.”

Water filled Isra’s eyes. She reached for her amber amulet and sniffled. “I hate this city. I wish Father was here.”

What wouldn’t Jilssan give for Master Enezi’s presence, too? His reputation in Myria carried a power even Avenazar would have a hard time ignoring, and his mastery of transmutation spells made him an incredible adversary, should it come to that. “Me too, Isra. Me too.”

No point in daydreaming, however. It didn’t matter how much Isra wished Nevian had survived, or whether Jilssan regretted never having a chance to stop Varden. They would both have been caught, and it would take a miracle to save Varden now.

 

✵

 

Diel stood on the balcony outside his rooms, his gaze drifting to the city below. He had thought things would be calmer after today, that the lords of Isandor would put aside their squabbling. This execution, distasteful as it was, should have marked the end of a decade of feuding. Lord Freitz had come to speak with Lord Allastam, a first since Lady Allastam’s murder. Diel had hoped to drum up a desire to collaborate from this new united Isandor. He had to make them see that for all their infighting and competitions, their collective success relied on the city’s status as a major independent trading post. And there was nothing independent about a Myrian Enclave controlling half the Houses sitting around the Golden Table.

His new campaign was only possible thanks to the capture of one assassin. Or rather, his execution.

In less than twenty minutes, Lord Allastam had accused Lord Freitz of orchestrating the dark elf’s escape, and the hostilities were on again, harder even than in the last few years. Freitz had taken personal offence and returned to his tower. Neither man was willing to talk. Diel had sent Yultes to Lord Allastam, praying his step-brother’s glib tongue would smooth out part of the situation. He didn’t have high hopes, not in the current state of their relationship with the Allastams. Even though Diel was convinced Lord Freitz had nothing to do with the sudden escape, reason seldom worked on Lord Allastam. Despite his best efforts, he had no soldiers to include in his Coalition and no House willing to join. Branwen’s return had only cemented their reluctance to get involved. Once again, he needed a new plan.

Familiar footsteps scuffed the ground behind him, discreet and welcomed. Simply knowing Jaeger approached sufficed to make Diel smile. Then a hand ran up his back, warm and reassuring, and squeezed his shoulders. No need to tell Jaeger how exhausted he was. His love would have guessed from the slump of his shoulders and decades of companionship.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Diel asked.

“Lord Arathiel Brasten.” Jaeger moved to his side and set his hand on Diel’s. “We have received word from the guards’ headquarters. He confirmed it himself upon his arrest and said he used to live here a hundred thirty years ago. Your eyes were not deceiving you.”

“He changed, though,” Diel said. “Even if the last century hasn’t otherwise aged him … watching him move … I can’t explain. He felt different. It could be an illusion, not the real Arathiel.”

“Do you think it is?”

Jaeger’s voice was soft. He was withholding his own opinion, knowing how much Diel would rely on it to form his. The little trick brought a smile to Diel’s lips. He wondered when in their decades of interactions Jaeger had noticed how often Diel asked for his advice and developed ways not to give it right away.

“No,” Diel said after a moment. “My gut tells me it’s really him.”

“Passing as Arathiel would be a very convoluted lie, requiring knowledge of minor events that happened too long ago. Isandor struggles with remembering anything before Lady Allastam’s murder. I doubt anyone recalls the young lord from a modest family who left searching for a cure for his sister.”

“Anyone but us.” Diel leaned on the railing. “Arathiel must have known we would recognize him. I don’t understand any of this, Jaeger. He’s human. How can he still be alive? What happened to him in that century? When did he return, and why would he do this?”

Diel ran a hand over his face. He would need to speak with Arathiel himself. Regulations around visits would be strict at the headquarters, but he was Lord Dathirii. He could get through. He wanted to ask Arathiel so much. His actions brought up as many questions as those surrounding his past.

“I’m guessing Lady Brasten denied any involvement in this mess?”

“Yes.”

“Send word that we do the same,” Diel said. “Just a quick note to declare that our family had no part in today’s events, but that we recognize Lord Arathiel Brasten and support his claim to the title. There is no point in denying it. It would look suspicious, and I can’t afford to have the other Houses against me at this time.”

And yet … whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Arathiel drop among the guards, parrying and dodging, moving with amazing ease. He had always been a skilled fighter, but the way he ignored every hit as he progressed toward Hasryan had stolen Diel’s breath. Given the element of surprise, Arathiel had bested a dozen soldiers at once.

“If you could find Kellian, I need to ask him a few questions.”

“Yes, milord.” Jaeger squeezed his shoulder again, strongly enough to make Diel turn. His gaze met Jaeger’s deep-set eyes, and the trust and understanding in them was like a blanket around his heart. Jaeger knew what he was thinking. Didn’t he always? The steward smiled. “It’s a dangerous idea, but it might be worth it.”

Then Jaeger walked away to take care of his duties. Diel watched the balcony’s door close behind him, lightheaded. Even after more than a century, Jaeger’s approval stirred powerful warmth in his chest. Diel trusted his lover’s opinions and instincts more than he did his own—Jaeger had the same solid moral compass, and none of Diel’s tendency to panic and get carried away.

He doubted Kellian would appreciate his idea as much as Jaeger had. How could he breach the topic with his guards’ captain? Kellian was loyal to a fault, and Diel wasn’t worried about betrayal—they were a family, had toiled together for decades—but Kellian could get tempestuous and would heartily disagree. No wonder. If Diel decided to go ahead, Kellian and Yultes would bear the brunt of the extra work, appeasing Lord Allastam and protecting House Dathirii. Diel returned his gaze to the towers around him, glowing bright red in the setting sun. Even the greenery covering most of the Upper City had an angry colour. The white spirals of House Allastam’s tower seemed bloodthirsty in this light. Diel knew Lord Allastam would never be satisfied until someone paid for his wife’s murder with their life.

The sun had almost vanished by the time Kellian joined him on the balcony. His smaller cousin frowned, and Diel couldn’t help but think he looked exhausted. He had spent his weeks running around, trying to organize the few guards and mercenaries they had to keep their trade partners safe. The entire family was worn thin by the constant fight against the Myrians.

“Long day, wasn’t it?” Diel asked as a greeting.

“Sora’s was worse. We thought she’d have some time off after the execution, but she can kiss that goodbye.”

Diel tried not to smile at how ‘we thought’ implied they had eagerly planned to use that time to see each other. Under the circumstances, Kellian’s fondness for Miss Sharpe would be a hindrance.

“You witnessed the escape, didn’t you?” Diel waited for Kellian’s confirmation even though he had no doubt his cousin had been somewhere in the crowd. “What can you tell me about Arathiel’s fighting skills?”

“His skills? Why?”

Diel glanced at Kellian, then pressed his lips together. It might be better not to explain too soon. The silence stretched until Kellian gave in.

“He’s good, as he always was. Quick and fluid, brilliant at dodging. He used to have some of the best footwork in the city.” Kellian stepped up to the railing and stared at the closest bridge. Diel wondered if he was reliving the fight in his mind. “But Diel, you saw him too. He’s unnatural. He doesn’t notice when he gets cut, and his movements are more calculated than improvised. Sora said he broke an ankle and snapped it back into place without flinching. He admits to feeling no pain, and I’ll venture there are a lot of other things he no longer feels. The way he walked and ran made me suspect he couldn’t sense the ground beneath his boots.”

Diel’s stomach sank as Kellian explained what he could. What had happened to Arathiel to change him this way? Was he all right? They had been good acquaintances, sharing social circles and meeting at events often enough for Diel to develop a huge crush. He hoped nothing too horrible had affected Arathiel.

“No physical pain, then,” he said. The adjective seemed an important distinction.

“None.”

“Kellian, we both watched him take on a squad of Isandor’s guards and free a high-profile assassin alone. Provided with a small elite team, how would you evaluate his chances of infiltrating a powerful wizard organization to liberate their prisoner?”

“What?” Kellian spun on his heels, glaring with disbelief. “You want to send him into the Myrian Enclave?”

Diel gripped the railing and nodded. Could anyone else succeed at something like this? Arathiel had just proved he had the skills for it.

“You can’t. He just freed Hasryan. He has to stay in prison until he tells us where the dark elf is.”

“That’s not an answer to my question, Kellian.”

Silence stretched on, as if Kellian believed he could avoid providing one if he waited long enough. Diel didn’t budge. “He suffered terrible wounds from which he has yet to recover, so no, he can’t do anything like that. He can’t even run on his twisted ankle, let alone fight.” Kellian crossed his arms. Exhaustion deepened his angry scowl. “This is ridiculous, Diel. You might be able to pull enough strings to get him out of prison, but you’ll have the entire city against you. What good is this rescue mission if we lose all our allies?”

Diel closed his eyes, his throat tight. He knew that. Lord Allastam would consider it a betrayal and say he’d sided with the enemy, with his wife’s killer. The wrath he had directed at Lord Freitz for years would fall upon House Dathirii at a time when another powerful player was trying to take them down. Not to mention that if Arathiel succeeded, Master Avenazar would only become more aggressive. He needed Lord Allastam as a proactive ally, not his enemy. Approaching Arathiel as anything other than a criminal would be a horrible strategy. There was no rationale that justified it.

“What is the point of running the Myrians out if we allow them to torture whomever they please? I started this conflict to protect a teenager from undeserved pain. I can’t ignore the man who defended Branwen from a worse fate. I promised her I would try—that if I had a solution, I would do it. Arathiel is our solution.”

Kellian fell silent. Branwen had been sullen and irritable these last few days. She had refused to speak with either of them, except to follow Diel at the second Coalition meeting, and her eyes were often red from crying. Diel missed hearing her laugh and tease everyone, or having her burst into an important dinner to show off the last dress she had modified with Camilla’s help. She had grown serious and angry, and without her energy, he felt empty.

“You’ll ruin our family to save one man,” Kellian said. “Even if we make it through, we’ll never have the same political strength.”

“We won’t,” Diel agreed. “But if it lets me rescue Varden and return Branwen’s smile, then I’ll be content.”

Saying it out loud made it concrete. He would do it. It was the right thing to do, and he could feel it to the core of his bones. As the decision sank in, the sun vanished. Bioluminescent flowers lit up the city, wrapped around railings or hanging from balconies. As usual, lively colours covered the Upper City while the Lower City was plunged into darkness. He wondered where in those shadows Hasryan had hidden.

“I guess you were right, Kellian. I am this family’s greatest peril.”

Kellian’s strong hand landed on Diel’s shoulder, and he squeezed. Their gazes met, and though Kellian was still frowning, Diel knew the guard would have his back. Family sticks together, he thought. Every Dathirii would stand behind him in this decision, and so would Jaeger. They would always be there for one another.

“No, Diel. You’re our greatest challenge.”