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

“That view is common in Criwath,” said Branwyn, amused, “though I’ve found Heliodar delightful so far, and I’ve never been overly fond of hunting.” Having to survive that way had taken much of the charm off the experience, though she knew plenty of Sentinels for whom that wasn’t true. “I’m sorry to hear he’s known loss.”

“I wouldn’t think Zelen himself remembers—he couldn’t have been more than three—but I’m sure the family was affected.”

“If I may ask, what happened? I wouldn’t want to step on any sore spots unknowingly.”

“There was a fire, and five or six of the family were killed. Lord Verengir’s sister had just given birth, and neither she nor the babe… Well, it was all very sad.” The lady sighed. “I remember one of their most trusted servants ran off with valuables afterward too. Adding insult to injury, we all thought, and what a horrible man to take advantage of those circumstances.”

Silver will get you gold he played a part in them. I’d like to know what these valuables were too.

Branwyn wouldn’t have objected to knowing that either. The man could really have just been opportunistic, as Lady Rognozi said, but Lady Rognozi hadn’t spent twenty-odd years dealing with monsters and sorcerers, or lived her life fighting Gizath and his followers. She also hadn’t heard Yathana talk about sensing corruption. “I’ll tread carefully,” she said aloud.

“Do,” said Lady Rognozi, and Branwyn knew she was earnest. “I’m certain he feels more deeply than he lets on, you know.”

You could say that about most people with rank or money in this city, Yathana weighed in, and probably half without either. The place is a maze of knives. You don’t get through it without armor.

Chapter 9

“I considered hiring a carriage,” Zelen said, “but then I recalled you saying you’d spent too much time sitting, and you hadn’t even begun talking with my fellow councillors at length. Still, if you’d like—”

“No,” Branwyn said. “Thank you. You’re entirely right.”

She smiled as she took his arm and they walked down the steps together. When her liaisons had been longer than a drunken night or two, they’d been smooth, businesslike affairs, where all parties knew the score well in advance. Men rarely tried to impress her—she had no influence over their rank or pay, and Sentinels were uncanny enough that their admiration didn’t give most people any particular pride. Having one try to do so romantically sent a bit of fresh energy through a mind weary from negotiation.

So did the way Zelen had regarded her when she’d come to meet him. On Lady Rognozi’s guidance, she hadn’t dressed as elaborately as she’d done at court—no skirts or jewelry, and she bore Yathana on a silver-buckled belt—but the white doublet and hose of doeskin clung to her figure in a way Branwyn knew was flattering, and the dark-purple shirt set both off to good contrast. She knew the light in Zelen’s whiskey-brown eyes when she’d appeared, and enjoyed it.

He was worth admiring, too, in dark blue-green, black, and white. His arms were bare again, a convention that Branwyn was coming to appreciate more and more, and his head was unornamented, as it had been when he’d come to call the day before, but large pearl buttons floated on the winter sea of his doublet. A ring on one hand shone with blue fire in the sunset, and a topaz winked from the opposite ear.

“I constantly feel,” Branwyn said, “as though I’m walking through a jewel box.”

“I can’t imagine that’s a complaint.”

“Only envy, I suppose, and feeling a little like a country cousin. Which I am, in most respects.”

“Don’t let the shine overawe you too much. Jewels are cheap here. We still deal with the waterfolk and the stonekin, and there are some advantages to that. This”—he gestured to the topaz in his ear—“might bring as much as a good set of boots, if I found a dealer who felt generous.”

“You sound as though you’ve tried.”

“Oh, well. A man gets in over his head now and again.”

Even if his family could buy and sell armies? I don’t believe it, said Yathana.

Branwyn might not have either, except that there was the clinic. She’d recognized washed and reused bandages and well-scrubbed walls with paint starting to peel. The furniture in the office had been sturdy and cushioned but scuffed, and there’d been a yellowish tinge to the lighting there, not the pure white of the palace or the Rognozis’ house.

“I hope you found a way back to shallower water,” she said.

“I excel at finding the shallows. A lecture or two from my father isn’t so much of a price in the end.”

They were heading away from the palace and the mansions that Branwyn had visited, but in a different direction than that which led to the Porpoise and the city gates. The buildings were large and bright, but the gardens had disappeared. People passed in groups, often laughing, often at least tipsy.

“Have you been to many plays?”

“A few,” said Branwyn, “but never in a theater. We had traveling players through a few times a year when I was a girl, and the temples put on the religious ones now and again.” She recognized the change of topic, but let it go and gave him an impish look. “I was Jyllan for the midsummer festival when I was eight. I’m told I changed into a very credible hawk, though I think most of that credit goes to the man working the curtains. And the hawk.”

Zelen laughed. “Trained?”

“Stuffed and on a stick. But a marvel of taxidermy.”

“An honor for any girl to transform into, I’m sure.”

“Oh yes.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go on the stage for life.”

Branwyn supposed she could have, technically: at thirteen, the children that the Sentinels raised and trained could leave the order and take up other lives, though always standing ready to assist in other ways if needed. She’d never even considered it. “It’s not as much of