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

Talking with Branwyn would have to come soon. He’d go to the Rognozis’ house in the morning, or whenever he woke, and seek a private meeting, and not only to discuss her identity. Perhaps her mission was really no more than she’d said, and she’d only kept her true nature silent because she didn’t want it to be a distraction.

If the person behind the assassins had known they were targeting a Sentinel, did that make matters worse? Zelen wasn’t sure, but he could hardly see how it would improve the situation.

The bread was almost gone, the goblet nearly empty. Most of the unwounded guests, save the guards and those with some experience at healing, had left the palace. Word of the night would spread quickly—hells, half the city likely knew by now—and there’d probably be no few guesses about Branwyn’s involvement, since she was an outsider as well as the one who’d known how to fight the demons. Zelen might not be the only one to work out the truth.

The truth was probably the precise sort of thing Gedomir had asked him to watch for.

Zelen was too tired to think much about that.

He would figure out what to tell his brother after he spoke with Branwyn.

At twenty, that change in loyalties would have bothered him more. Twenty was many years gone.

* * *

Branwyn wasn’t sure when the Rognozis’ house had started to feel comfortably familiar rather than intimidating and alien, but she suspected that the aftermath of two attempts on her life had something to do with it. It also contained a bed, which was a significant asset then.

One of the guards, not the one who’d asked how she knew about demons, had offered to walk her home, but she’d declined. In the very unlikely event that another crew of assassins came after her, she didn’t want to get another civilian harmed, least of all one of Heliodar’s guards. She was reasonably sure that would be a diplomatic incident of some sort.

Thus, she dragged herself up the stairs alone and fumbled for the key Lady Rognozi had given her earlier that evening. “There’s no reason to keep the butler up late on a festival night,” she’d said, “and we certainly don’t want to make a young woman like you keep our early hours.” She hadn’t quite winked.

Branwyn cracked the door, slipped inside—and stopped.

At the bottom of her vision, the floor had looked out of place, an inch lower than it should have been. Branwyn blinked, and it was normal again.

Carefully, she closed the door, and the sound of it shutting echoed many times and too lightly. Clack became click-tick-tickticktick. Then that, too, was gone. The hallway was silent. The mirrors showed the dark shapes of shadows and her own form, wavering and unclear—but that might have just been mirrors, particularly those made more for ornament than accuracy.

The rest? It had been a long night, and she’d been fighting demons. Viewing them took a toll, even for her. They were not supposed to be in the world, and even reforged vision could only cope so much with their presence. Aftereffects might well have started to show up, in which case the cure would be a good night’s sleep.

Her shoes slid over the wood with serpentine sounds when she walked, and the skirts of her gown rustled. The material of both was unfamiliar, and the hall far quieter than usual. That might have been all.

There could be a major demon roaming the city. She’d said as much herself.

Weariness or warning? Branwyn didn’t bother trying to decide. Overthinking would be of no use at all. If her exhaustion was leading her astray, she’d feel foolish, but not for the first time, and she’d always survived before.

She didn’t bother picking up her skirts either. The night had given her plenty of experience moving with them at their full length, and she wanted to keep her hands free. Crossing the dark hallway quickly, she aimed herself like an arrow for the stairs, her room, and Yathana.

Part II

Call: What is justice?

Answer: A shield for those in peril. A wind that sweeps away deception. A sword against those who choose evil.

Call: What are its tools?

Answer: Patience, forswearing judgment until all is known. Proportion, that retribution may balance misdeed. Protection: above all else, to guard the weak against the strong.

—Litany of Tinival’s Knights

The mistake here is thinking that affection and preservation are one. Gizath once ruled over those forces that tie the world together. He does still, in many senses. Hate is as much a tie as love. In sparing Heliodar from the worst of the general destruction, I don’t necessarily suggest that Thyran acted out of fondness for the place. He may have had a far worse fate in mind for it.

—Gwyrn of the Red Tower, at the Midsummer Debates

Chapter 20

“Lord Gedomir’s here to see you, sir,” said Idriel.

Zelen tried to open his eyes, made it about halfway, and muttered a curse. “Later.” The bed was warm. His muscles ached. He saw no need to be conscious a minute sooner than he had to. Without any idea what hour it was, he knew nonetheless that it was too damned early.

“My apologies, sir,” the valet said, “but he’s most insistent about it. He says it’s urgent, and I’m afraid I couldn’t prevent him from entering.”

That was a polite way to say I can’t have the footmen throw the heir of Verengir out on the street as though he were a dishonest peddler. On that particular morning, Zelen would have loved to disagree, but thoughts of the clinic and of family surfaced before he could actually move his mouth enough to do so.

He managed to lift his eyelids on the second attempt. By the light that escaped his drapes, it was midmorning. “Show the plague in, by all means,” he said. “And bring some very strong tea, please.”

“Very good, sir,” said Idriel, and vanished. He’d known Zelen too long to suggest that