The Nightborn by Isabel Cooper (howl and other poems TXT) 📗

Damn Gedomir, he thought uselessly, and damn Father too.

“Zelen Verengir,” said Lady Rognozi, sweeping into the parlor in a cloud of rose scent and bouncing gray curls. “Dear boy, you grow more handsome each time I see you.”

Zelen, who’d made the lethal mistake of sitting in one of the upholstered chairs, struggled to free himself from its all-enveloping yellow cushions. “It’s joy in seeing you, my lady, of course,” he said, and finally won his liberty enough to stand and bow.

“That’s a well-polished turn of phrase if I’ve ever heard one,” she responded, “but I’ll take it, with thanks, nonetheless.” A toss of her head set the pearl drops in her ears swinging. Then, theatrics over, she descended into a chair, arranging lilac skirts around her. “Make a well-preserved woman happy and tell me this visit isn’t about council matters. Petrus is at the Golden Lady’s temple and likely to be there for hours yet.”

That was good news for Zelen, but he was sincere in his reply. “I hope all is well.”

“As it ever is. At our age”—she spread her hands, rings flashing—“one gives considerable thought to the gods.”

“My nurse said we should do that at any age,” he replied, “but I’m afraid I’m as bad about that as about following most of her teachings.” That wasn’t sincere, quite, or it didn’t get at the whole truth, but the rest of it wasn’t suitable for light conversation. He moved on. “In any case, I’m here on a purely frivolous matter. A friend tells me that Elena Drazen is tremendous in Spirits of the Air, and I’d thought to ask you both, and your charming guest, to join me at the Falcon tomorrow.”

Lady Rognozi lifted perfectly groomed eyebrows. “And should my lord and I be unable to attend, will your heart be broken?”

“Of course.”

“You’re a dreadful liar,” she said cheerfully. “But given the motive for it, I’ll forgive you and summon the real reason you’re here.”

“Ah.” Hearing her deduction felt like missing a step in the dark. “I don’t… That is…”

Lady Rognozi pulled a silk rope next to her chair. A young woman, her dark clothing plain but in good condition, opened the door. “Please tell Madam Alanive that Master Verengir is calling on her,” she said. “In the Yellow Parlor.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and left, leaving Zelen in the jaws of peril.

“Sitha bless us, Master Verengir,” the lady said with a charming giggle that took at least another twenty years off her age, “you’ll be blushing next. There’s nothing to be ashamed of—she’s a lovely young woman.”

That was slightly less insight than he’d feared. In theory, having Heliodar’s most blatant matchmaker on his side was an advantage.

“She’ll be returning to Criwath before long, remember,” he finally said. It was the only objection he could muster, short of revealing what Gedomir had asked him to do.

“How very star-crossed. But she’ll be here for Irinyev’s festival and the ball.”

“Is she going?”

That would be an opening. Dancing naturally led to conversation and there were always plenty of places in the ballroom, or in the gardens outside, for exchanging confidences—or other activities. One could easily lead to the other.

“Of course. I’ve made her an appointment with my dressmaker already. I’m sure the results will be breathtaking—not that what she has currently isn’t quite striking, but she wasn’t expecting to dance.”

“I imagine she won’t lack partners,” Zelen said, trying for neutrality.

“Imagine indeed!” The lady laughed. “I’m only glad that… Well, she could do much worse than you for a…let’s say a friend in the city, you know.”

There was that missing step again. “I’ll do my best,” he said, and reminded himself of what he’d told Gedomir: Branwyn would doubtless keep any real secrets hidden, no matter how friendly the two of them got.

Zelen toyed with the embroidery on the chair’s arm, tracing the outline of a bluebird.

Lady Rognozi added softly, “And there’s always after the war. Four grant that it be soon.”

“She’s raised the subject with you then?” Zelen looked up.

“More so with Petrus, but a trifle, as much as was in good taste over dinner. That was sufficient.” Lady Rognozi closed her lips tightly.

“I’m probably risking the same sort of conversation,” Zelen said, “though I’d be in for it regardless, since I’m on the council. Do you think we should throw in with them?”

“My dear, I wish I knew,” she replied. “Petrus wants to help, I know, but he fears that we’re all falling for a ruse—not that Madam Alanive or even Criwath is deceiving us, necessarily, but that they’re being deceived. Or all might be as Madam Alanive says, but sending our army may still be unwise tactically.”

“In which case, he wants us to wait and see what happens?”

It was the most neutral way he could phrase the question.

Lady Rognozi had been in the city’s highest circles nearly as long as her husband, though, and her understanding was obvious. “He might. Or—there may not be a wise path. War is very much beyond me, and I am very glad these decisions aren’t mine to make.”

“I don’t know if I’d want them,” Zelen said.

For once, Lady Rognozi didn’t even try the polite reassurance: oh, his family certainly listened to him, and clearly he had their trust, and so forth. She was paler than usual that day, Zelen noticed, and the lines on her face lay very lightly. Behind them, she looked young and frightened.

Zelen thought he more than likely did too.

They were still staring at each other when Branwyn walked in.

* * *

So they have sense enough to be afraid, Yathana observed. Speaks well of them.

Branwyn couldn’t respond to the sword, which Yathana knew very well and took shameless advantage of, but she agreed on both counts. The subject Lady Rognozi and Zelen had been talking about was obvious, unless there was another dire threat Branwyn hadn’t heard of or an assassin was after them both. The older woman was fully as grave as she’d been at the dinner when