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

Branwyn had explained a little of her mission, and Zelen’s jaw was set.

It was to both of their credit. Fear had shadowed all who’d been at Oakford ever since Amris and Darya had come with the news of Thyran’s return. Branwyn couldn’t remember a day since that she’d gone without feeling that twist in her stomach. Often it came in ambush from nowhere, when she’d managed to distract herself for a while from the matters she couldn’t yet change.

She’d had a couple months to accustom herself. The blisters, so to speak, had burst and healed and calluses had mostly formed in their place. To everyone in Heliodar, Branwyn knew, her news would be a fresh wound.

“My apologies,” she said. “I was told—”

Both of the room’s occupants turned toward her with undisguised relief. Zelen bowed, though with far fewer flourishes than he’d done on their first meeting, and Lady Rognozi forced a smile. “No, no, you’re quite welcome. It’s I who should… I fear I’m in a bit of a brown study today.”

“I’d be surprised if any of you weren’t,” said Branwyn, “and I’m sorry for that.”

“Please,” said the lady, “come and have a seat, and think nothing of it. In the end, it’s likely better to know.” She did a better job of smiling the second time.

Branwyn perched on the edge of an extensively cushioned yellow chair, mate to the one Zelen was sitting back down in. She met his eyes and was pleased to find them steady and clear.

“And,” he said, with enough cheer to further increase Branwyn’s opinion of him, even if it obviously took him some effort, “you’ve sent the fellow packing once already, haven’t you? Army and all.”

Branwyn spotted an opening. She struck, balancing her words carefully. “We did, yes.” See, you’d be allying yourself with a competent force. “But we still need help. We used a few maneuvers he wasn’t prepared for, and he’ll be more wary in the future. My superiors believe we should strike as hard as we can as soon as we can, so that we give him no chance to recover, or to…acquire…more troops.”

The process by which Thyran’s greater creatures, mortals transformed by hosting demons within them, created the twistedmen and the other foot soldiers of his army was singularly unpleasant. Branwyn thought she’d disturbed Lady Rognozi’s life enough for a few days.

Zelen appeared curious but, perhaps for the same reason, didn’t inquire. “Of course, he could be expecting you to do just that.”

“That’s possible,” said Branwyn, “though I wish I could say otherwise. But surprise isn’t the only element in war. I’m given to understand that there are circumstances when the most obvious move is still the correct one.”

“You’re more versed in the subject than I am,” Zelen said. “And I fear we’re in grave danger of boring our hostess.”

“Not at all,” said Lady Rognozi, who’d regained some of her composure while Zelen and Branwyn talked. “But I’m given to understand that Zelen came on a considerably less serious mission. Are you free tomorrow, or must you meet with that tedious Marton?”

“Not until eight,” Branwyn said, “and thank you for the warning, my lady.”

“Oh, he means well, I’m certain.”

“I’m not,” said Zelen. “Would you care to join me at the sort of play he’ll most definitely not approve of?”

“Yes—but would that affect my chances of convincing him?”

Lady Rognozi and Zelen laughed. “He’ll only think I’m a bad influence,” said Zelen.

“And it will delight him to try and save you,” the lady added. “Particularly as it’s overly late for Petrus and me to lend an air of respectability, I fear.”

Zelen narrowed his eyes at her, and she looked completely innocent in return. Once again they shared a mannered world of safety and scandal, a world Branwyn could only half grasp: a tune where half the instruments were strange. If it was hard to play, it was easy to listen and admire.

Promising, said Yathana.

The sword wasn’t wrong. Even if Zelen was, from what he’d said, unlikely to know vast diplomatic or military secrets, he might be able to tell her about a scandal or two. Advantage was advantage, and all knowledge was useful in the end.

“That sounds wonderful,” Branwyn replied.

“Then, by your leave,” Zelen said, standing up, “I’ll take mine, and call for you at four. My lady, a pleasure as always, and please give my best to your husband.”

He did better with the bowing that time. Branwyn and Lady Rognozi both watched as he left. It didn’t seem entirely likely that the lady paid as much attention to his taut backside as Branwyn did, but then again, maybe so. She was elderly, not dead or blind.

“He’s a charming young man,” said Lady Rognozi, which could have been evidence either for or against Branwyn’s assumptions. “I’m glad that you’ve caught his eye. Petrus and I are beyond the age when we can entertain you as you deserve, I fear.”

“Oh, surely not,” said Branwyn.

Now there’s a line with a few meanings, said Yathana. Pity we didn’t come here twenty years ago.

Branwyn would have had to be ten years older, too, she thought, and tried not to imagine the possibilities, particularly when Lady Rognozi spoke again. “You’re very kind, and I know you’re not here for pleasure, but I would hope that you can find the liberty to enjoy yourself. I certainly would argue that you’ve earned it.”

This is where she puts a hand on your knee.

The lady did no such thing. “And I believe it does Zelen good to hear perspectives from outside the city,” she added, while Branwyn thought profanities at her sword.

“His family has him here most of the time, don’t they?”

“Oh, yes. The older ones keep to themselves, out in the country. There was a bit of a tragedy when Zelen was a child, and some credit that for their reclusiveness, but they weren’t fond of the city even then.” Lady Rognozi shrugged, clearly mystified by any such preference. “There are a few of the best families who feel that