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

law,” said Branwyn. “Ruthless people.” By shifting her weight carefully to her good leg and putting a hand on the wall, she was able to claw her way up to a standing position. She stood there briefly, panting.

“What’s ‘ruthless’?”

“It’s—” She thought, which was not the easiest task in her current state. “People who don’t care who they hurt if it gets them what they want. Or what they think is best,” she added, not wanting to define the word too narrowly to include herself.

“Huh,” said the child. “You want me to show you that place?”

Branwyn’s head swam. Were she the only one at stake, she would’ve refused—or so she liked to think—but her death or captivity would likely mean her would-be killer went unhindered. That in turn had a decent chance of endangering the world, which included Heliodar and the child waiting for an answer.

“Please,” she said.

“All right,” said the child. “Wait here. I’ll be back as soon as I can get you a cloak. Maybe you shouldn’t have stood up.”

“No,” said Branwyn, leaning against a wall, “no, it’s better I get used to it now.”

She watched her would-be rescuer depart and thought the thing she hadn’t said: that if the child brought back lawmen rather than a garment, she’d need to be on her feet. It wouldn’t do her very much good, but at times like that, the principle counted. It was really the only thing she had left.

* * *

“You’ve…heard, m’lord?” said the Rognozis’ butler, looking more mortal and less certain than Zelen had ever seen him.

“I have. My deepest sympathies.” Zelen eyed the half-open doors with no great enthusiasm. “I’ve come to see if I might be able to find out more than the guard,” he went on. “Different perspective, you know.”

The butler nodded. “If you can help find that…woman,” he said, clearly longing to finish on an obscenity but brought up short by his training, even in such circumstances, “then gods bless you.”

The house was a strange shell of a place. Zelen’s footsteps didn’t echo, but he felt as though they should have. “Are you expecting…” he started, and then hesitated, consulting a mental chart to try and remember the Rognozis’ heir. Their marriage hadn’t produced children, he knew that much.

“His lordship’s niece,” said the butler. “Within a matter of days. Certainly she’ll be here for the burning.”

“Yes,” said Zelen, a memory coming back to him. Marior: a short, dark woman, fond of horses. He’d seen her off and on, but they’d never talked much. She seemed an unlikely choice to secretly be the actual murderer, even were he grasping at straws.

He couldn’t allow himself to do so.

The floor was gleaming. “You’ve cleaned up the tracks, I’m sure.”

“There weren’t any, m’lord,” said the butler. “It’s quite likely the creature went out the window after committing her…deeds…or simply took great care to clean her boots.”

Either was possible: Branwyn was careful, and a Sentinel could manage the climb from a second-floor window easily, particularly when there were trees outside. “I don’t want to keep you,” said Zelen.

“No, no, but—well, I’d as soon not see it again, m’lord, if it’s all the same to you. We’ll clean the bedchambers out properly tomorrow, and we’ve gotten the…the worst of it away, but otherwise we’ve kept things as they were. Her room included. It’s the second door on the right, upstairs. My lord’s was at the end of the hall, my lady’s next to him.”

“Much obliged,” said Zelen, and began his trek through the house.

Branwyn’s room was neatly arranged, the bedclothes smoothed, all curtains and chests closed. Nothing there gave any sign of a murderous rampage or indeed of any other use. Zelen found clothing, two pairs of boots, and three books: The Triumphs of Aeliona, a small volume of poems about the seasons from a Criwathi-sounding name he didn’t recognize, and a philosophical treatise that he did, albeit from many years ago.

The belongings spoke of an active mind and a woman who traveled light, who never really settled in any one place—but Zelen had known as much already. He searched the boots for concealed keys or knives or messages, but discovered only leather.

One of the maids was watching him. “Sorry,” said Zelen, “but nobody found a ball gown in here, did they?”

“No, m’lord.”

“No. She’s likely still wearing it, then. Or was.” That argued, strongly, for the theories Gedomir had suggested and Zelen wanted to believe—or at any rate against cold-blooded, deliberate murder. Nobody, much less a warrior, would of her own volition go kill people in a floor-length gown, then climb out a window to get away, not when she had plenty of time to change clothing. “What about a sword?”

The maid shook her head. “Must’ve taken it with her.”

“Yes, just so,” said Zelen absently.

She’d gone to the trouble of getting her sword but not of changing her clothing.

Nobody would have needed a sword, let alone a mystical one, to kill the Rognozis. Branwyn could have done it barehanded. Half the servants probably could’ve managed as much.

Barehanded murder would probably have been considerably less brutal than what had happened. The servants had, as the butler said, done their best to remove the worst remnants of the crime, but a certain sense of events was still very, very obvious from the Rognozis’ chambers.

The human body held a great deal of blood. In Lady Rognozi’s room, the stain spread not only across the floor near the threshold but up the walls as well. One small, distinct handprint stood out from the rest, clear against the gold-figured paper.

In Lord Rognozi’s room, the gore was more contained: a darkness that spread over the sides of the bed and trailed in rivulets down to the floor.

Zelen closed his eyes there and braced himself against the doorframe. He’d seen people die, yes, and blood itself had long ceased to unnerve him, but this was too close to showing the exact circumstances of their deaths, their helplessness and terror.

They’d been his friends.

His heart was hot iron, shrieking