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

settled on one hip, letting Branwyn curve her fingers over his arse. A step forward on her part brought their bodies together. Her kiss demanded now, rather than seeking to learn, and Zelen was oh so eager to give her everything she would ask—and to suggest a few additions if her list ran short.

The top silver button on her doublet was between his fingers when the bell in the tower rang.

“Ohhell.” It was one word, almost a whisper, and the very frustration of it made Zelen’s cock pulse in response. “Eight?”

“I think,” he managed. He had to free his mouth to speak, and the side of her neck was long and golden, so Zelen started kissing his way down from her ear. “Seems—mmm—a reasonable hour to be.”

But then Branwyn was stepping back. “Then I have to go meet with Marton,” she said, “and come off as respectable when I do.” As if it would help, she tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and smoothed down the front of her tunic. “Pyres take the man.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Zelen. Gods, he ached.

Branwyn’s eyes gleamed blue in the fading light. “You could if you had to give him your attention after this,” she said. “We’ll meet again. Soon, I hope—and thank you.”

She leaned forward for a brief kiss. Then she turned and was gone, a graceful white figure that vanished into the shadows. Zelen leaned against a hedge and seriously considered performing indecent acts in the high lord’s garden.

Chapter 10

Duty had often been taxing and frequently dangerous, but Branwyn didn’t think it had ever been so thoroughly annoying.

Zelen’s kisses had left her thoroughly roused, and she’d had no chance even to satisfy herself. A hasty series of adjustments to her hair and tunic, and she’d gone back out again. For a while, every step she took, every brush of fabric against her thighs or breasts, every motion of the carriage, was a reminder of the too-short interlude in the garden.

Dining with Marton and his family did serve as a very effective cold bath.

They ate in an ostentatiously unornamented room: sober, dark walls and furniture, no mirrors or jewels, and far more space than any ten people needed, let alone the six at the table. The knives and spoons were silver, as was the candelabra. The plates were very thin bone-white porcelain—probably twice what precious metal would have cost, and far more breakable.

Marton, his wife, and his older daughter all wore heavy wool, with high collars, long sleeves, and no color brighter than gray. His younger daughter and her husband were slightly more daring, he in light brown and dusty green and she in a lilac dress that actually showed her arms to the shoulder. Her father kept glancing her way and shaking his head, making Branwyn feel sorry for the woman.

“How do you find the city?” Lady Marton asked as they sat down.

“Very pleasant, thank you. Everyone has been most hospitable, particularly Lord and Lady Rognozi, and the city itself is fascinating. I only wish I had more spare hours to spend exploring it.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” said Marton. “I’ve done my utmost to promote forms of pure and healthy occupation, and I allow myself to hope that such seeds have fallen on fertile soil. I’ll dare to take your sentiments as confirmation.”

Healthy, maybe, snickered Yathana. Plenty of fresh air and exercise.

Branwyn took a hasty sip of wine. It was heavily watered, but that was as well. She had the feeling she’d need to control her reactions. “That must have been quite the endeavor,” she managed.

Apparently it was. She learned more details of Marton’s promotion of virtue, over the next hour, than she ever could conceive of wanting to know, though that did free her from having to make conversation.

Even the food was…virtuous. The majority of it was bread and boiled vegetables, without spice or butter. There was also what Branwyn thought had been a chicken, though it too was boiled and flavorless. Lady Marton asked if she’d heard of Kalara Meraniv’s theory of food and consciousness, and when Branwyn admitted her ignorance, helpfully explained it. Meat, apparently, tended to—and here the lady actually dropped her voice—“excite the senses inappropriately, if eaten without moderation.”

Oh, said Yathana, so that’s what’s been wrong with you.

As meals went, Branwyn had eaten worse, but that had been in the field, where how long food lasted and whether or not she could find it at all had been much more important than how it tasted. She’d eaten better at cheap roadside inns and in the houses of peasants who lived mostly on bread and porridge and saw whole cuts of meat once a year. Expensively bad food was a new experience.

“And that,” Lord Marton said, branching off a rambling statement about the Temptations of Youth that Branwyn hadn’t really followed, “is why I welcome your news and the opportunity you bring us.”

* * *

“If you’ll pardon my asking,” Zelen said, moving a smooth piece of polished aventurine ahead three spaces on the marble board, “what do you think about this war in Criwath?”

Altien gave the question, and the board, a long evaluation. He sipped from his goblet of wine in the meantime, tentacles curling delicately around the brim. “For my people, if there’s any chance Thyran has returned—and it sounds from what you say as though that chance is very great—then we must begin preparing. There’s little we can do to assist directly. I’m no warrior, and we fare poorly when we go too far from the sea. But we can protect ourselves and supply a few needs, and with forewarning we can make a place for any who seek refuge, in case the worst does happen.”

“Do they know?” Zelen asked, startled by the immediate action in the answer. He’d expected depth—he’d never known the waterman to be shallow—but as a matter Altien would contemplate while he talked, not one he’d already fully thought through and come to conclusions on.

“I’ve written messages