From The Ashes

Chapter Fourteen - Tragic Intrigue

Arvayn Bryvaris

"But why? Why must we nose into the Lady's doings? I doubt she'll be appreciative of it, should she find out." Blythe gasped, struggling to keep up with the strides of the three taller men on the stairs.

Locke wound his lanky arm around her waist and hauled her over the last three stairs, setting her down on the landing and crouching beside her, so that their faces were more or less level with one another.

"She's never really all that appreciative of any help we give her. Not outwardly, anyway. She's a proud and dignified woman, as required by her station. Whether or not she does thank us or be angered by us will still be worth it either way, once we know what Candleiene's intentions are, and combat them if needs be. I'd much rather she remained alive and be enraged with us than for her to be silent and dead. After all, if she dies heir-less, who will accommodate and pay us for our services?"

"That's awfully cold reasoning, Locke. It's not your true reasoning, either. We both know you care more about Naia's well being than you do about coin and room. I would say I am just as concerned as you are in regards to who this Candleiene is, and what her intent consists of, but don't you think that Naia knows better than to trust her? Don't you think Naia is capable of handling an attempt on her life should one occur? Don't you think she's competent in a fight? She isn't head of this guild for nothing, and not just because of her high status and wealth. We respect her and love her not out of bribery, but out of genuine admiration for her, and her brother."

Locke took to his feet again, walking beside Arvayn who had stopped to listen to Blythe's concerns as well, and towards Cassian, who had stopped reluctantly several doors ahead, fixing the trio with an expectant and unimpressed expression, clearly wishing to move on as fast as possible.

"Yes, I know. I have respect for money, but not bribery. Naia does, without a doubt, earn my complete and unwavering loyalty, don't ever doubt that fact. This is just a strange circumstance, which I myself, do not wish to give the chance to escalate. We care for her well being, and do not doubt her competence, nor her confidence in herself. I just need to indulge my creeping curiosity once more. I feel this time it will lead me to something more than a broken vase and heavy fine."

"Oh, alright!" Blythe snapped, "But why drag me into your fanciful pursuits of curiosity? To tell you the truth, I'd much rather have remained down in the hall still enjoying the feast than running after you lot and getting all caught up in your intrigue. Which will almost certainly get us all now in considerable bother!"

Locke grinned, "I'd have thought you'd have gotten used to my shenanigans by now. As well as the trouble they tend to bring."

Blythe simply shook her head and cut in front of him, not willing to speak with him further. He chuckled and turned to Arvayn, his smile falling slowly. Something akin to regret stirred in his eyes as he reached out and touched Arvayn's cheek, which had begun to gently drip with blood once more.

"I'm truly very sorry for cutting you, by the way. At least the cuts are shallow, I doubt there's even a glimpse of hope that you'll scar. I hope you can forgive me, it was by no means an intentional act." There was a quiet air of pleading to his voice, a subtle yet desperate inflection that practically dripped with sincerity.

Arvayn found himself hesitating. It was a genuine, heartfelt apology that he believed every word of without even a shadow of a doubt. Yet it also felt somewhat...awkward. He found himself oddly conflicted when faced with the expression of Locke's regrets. One part of him was ready to immediately shrug off the apology and forgive him without pause. The part of him that wanted to trust Locke, and acknowledged that he had listened to him ramble about his messy love life only mere moments ago, without even a sliver of judgment. Yet, there was still another part of him that wanted to be angry, to hold on to his hurt and ignore the imp's pleads for forgiveness. To not accept them and remain entrapped in his own indignation and red-hot ire. The part of him that, almost disgustingly, wanted to be pitied and thought of as unconditionally correct in it's standing. The part of him that remembered being held over the candle like an object in examination, held in scrutiny by an entire table of people, whose opinions had meant almost everything to him since Malarin's death.