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

from murderous at the best of times had been one, and Well, they have to satisfy their urges, don’t they? Gods know they’re useful, but…

But.

The man on her back was a dull pain, deadweight despite not technically being dead. The streets were dark, but those people in them stopped to stare regardless, and most backed away.

Have you killed people before?

Not people.

The twistedmen and the rest of Thyran’s creatures were buds from greater beings, fusions of demons and the people who’d gone over to the Worldbreaker’s banner of their own will, spawned with all their progenitors’ hatred. Branwyn had slain other things in her life—outright demons and creatures transformed by sorcery—and she’d never regretted it. She’d wondered, at times, whether they were as irredeemable as the Adeptas said, but she’d always met them when they were preying on her charges, and they were too dangerous for her to even consider being less than lethal.

More to the point, she’d simply never considered it. Twistedmen and monsters were more trouble than they were worth where interrogation was concerned. Gizath’s human forces were more often the business of the Blades, and letting them talk was usually deadly. If you came face-to-face with an enemy, you struck to kill. So Branwyn had been trained, and so she had lived, and until she’d seen Zelen fight, any alternate path had never been more than a vague philosophical concept.

That had made her good at what she did, and what she did was the life she’d chosen. Branwyn couldn’t regret it. All the same, she kept the memory of Zelen’s face when he said You were splendid close, and the remembered feeling of his arm around her made a strengthening contrast to the weight of the unconscious man on her back.

The streets were darker than they had been before, and Branwyn had learned to treasure light where she found it.

* * *

“You bring strange gifts, Master Verengir,” said the knight on duty. He was one of the stonekin, tall and lean with glittering sky-blue streaks in his dark hair.

Zelen knew him slightly, partly from holy days but mostly from occasions when their separate business had taken both of them to the Temple of Letar at the same time. “Well, I was passing a dark alley, Lycellias, and I thought of you,” he said.

Walking had given him some composure back. It had helped more to have a quartet of squires take the wounded away, back into the interior of Tinival’s temple. Zelen knew a Mourner was stationed there: the assassins would live, if divine might could aid them.

“Had they your murder in mind, or did you prevent another’s death?” Lycellias asked.

“I’m fairly sure we were the targets,” said Branwyn, “but how did you know?”

“Had they been footpads, they’d have gone to the guards. Had it been a brawl, you’d have involved no authorities. Therefore…” He spread his hands. “How did it come to pass?”

They told him. Lycellias listened with complete, attentive calm, and as always, Zelen wondered how he managed such stillness while wearing plate mail. He couldn’t have done it, and while he was on the slender side for a human, the stonekin was far narrower in the shoulders and hips. Perhaps it was a blessing of Tinival.

“Some few days may pass before they can speak, if they wish to buy their lives in such a manner,” he said when Zelen and Branwyn had finished their story. “Should that be the case, I assume you’ll wish to know what they say.”

“You assume well,” said Zelen. “Send a note to my house and I’ll come hear from you. If you think I should hear the story direct from the assassins, I’m willing, but the day I start doubting a knight’s accuracy is the day I take to the wilderness and grow a beard.”

Branwyn snickered at the image, and even Lycellias’s thin lips curved up. “And you, lady?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind fetching me,” she said, glancing at Zelen, “it might be better to go through you. I’d rather my hosts not know about this.”

“A courteous guest,” said Lycellias. “Or a suspicious one. The first quality is kind, and the second likely wise.”

“I suppose so.” Branwyn’s chuckle was only an exhalation and had no real humor in it. “I wish I could say that the Rognozis would have no motive to kill me, but I suspect every noble family here could have reason. Granted, if they did want me dead, I’m not sure why they’d hire outside help. They could simply poison my dinner and say I’d fallen ill.”

“That would still make people suspicious,” Zelen said reluctantly, “and a run-in with a lot of thugs might not. Or not as much. There’d be rumors either way, but if I wanted you dead, a few assassins could be a better option, on the balance.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Branwyn said. A smile flickered on her face, appearing and disappearing in a heartbeat. “Lady Rognozi was the one who suggested the dressmaker’s. It’s likely we were followed from there, if not before, assuming I was the target.”

“She made no secret of where you were, though. Granted, she knows me”—Zelen decided not to mention the lady’s matchmaking agenda—“but she doesn’t have a very suspicious nature, and the servants might have told a caller where you’d gone. Unless you’d told them not to.”

“No,” said Branwyn.

Lycellias cleared his throat. “Speculation may serve little purpose now,” he said, “when more knowledge will likely emerge within a few days and may counteract any conclusions you reach. Your homes would serve you well in the meantime. Rest may provide new avenues of speculation.”

And he had his duties to attend to, Zelen read between the lines, and didn’t need two outsiders cluttering up the temple.

“Excellent points,” said Branwyn, apparently reaching the same conclusion. She bowed. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“The Silver Wind calls, and I rejoice in answering. Do either of you feel the need of an escort?”

“Not for me, thank you,” said Zelen. “How many squads of