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

them, then. And gods help us all, because I’m not the one you have to worry about. You knew the Rognozis better than I did, Verengir—do you think they’d have fought back this hard? Against me?”

With that, she dragged herself into the dim light from the boarded window. Zelen forgot Tanya’s presence and muttered an oath.

One entire side of Branwyn’s face was swollen and purple-black, the skin scraped away in places. Her nose was indisputably broken, and one of her cheekbones might have been too. Dried blood covered much of her skin, so Zelen couldn’t tell for certain, but he was fairly confident that her lips had been badly split. Above the ruin of her ball gown, huge black bruises spread down her neck and shoulders.

Someone, probably Branwyn herself, had wrapped pink silk roughly around one of her knees, but the fabric didn’t disguise the swelling there or the joint’s unnatural angle.

He rushed to her side. “Gods, don’t move. What happened?”

“Don’t know.” Closer, Zelen could see bruises along her temple and her jaw. It took very little force to kill people with blows there. Branwyn was a Sentinel, of course, and that was said to help, but… Zelen dropped to his knees, immediately beginning a gentle investigation as Branwyn went on. “I got back after the ball. The house felt…off. I went for Yathana. Then I woke up in an alley. Your friend brought me here.”

“Yathana?” asked Tanya, who’d remained where she was and was watching avidly. Zelen considered telling her to go home but suspected it’d do no good. “Who’s that?”

Only brief hesitation betrayed what was likely Branwyn’s silent profanity. “My sword,” she said, outwardly casual. Her quick inhalation as Zelen touched her cheek was good camouflage too.

“You’ve got a fracture here,” he said, retreating as far as he could into the abstract. “Not as bad as it could be. Your nose too.”

“I’d thought as much.” She lay still beneath his inspection, gathering strength for her next question. “The Rognozis…how did they die?”

“A blade,” Zelen said carefully, mindful of Tanya. “Or blades.”

“They say there was blood everywhere,” Tanya added helpfully, “and Lady Rognozi was practically cut in half, an’ the lord’s head was just about clean off.”

Zelen swallowed. He kept on with the task at hand, passing his fingers lightly over Branwyn’s scalp. There were several sticky places, and one lump behind her right ear that made her wince.

“Stupid,” she hissed, quickly shook her head, and then just as quickly cursed. “As was that. And I didn’t mean either of you, but why would anybody use such force or be so obvious? They were practically beyond the Veil of Fire as it was.”

“Hatred,” said Zelen, “or madness. You may have been hit very hard right here.”

“Most likely, but I won’t fall over dead from it,” she said, and although the bruises made it hard to tell, Zelen thought she gave him a significant look.

She had a mystical Sentinel sense of her own physique, then, or a mystical Sentinel assurance that she wouldn’t die from a swollen brain. Either way, Zelen was glad of it, particularly as he’d have no way of telling how badly the blow had hurt her. He’d learned to be alert for bruised eyes and bleeding from the nose, but external forces had already given Branwyn both. As for lack of coordination, a broken knee was more than sufficient.

“So maybe you went crazy and did it, and now you don’t remember it?” Tanya suggested. “Or you say you don’t. That’s what I’d say if I got mad and killed people.”

“It’s possible. I’d say my state argues against it, but…nnnngh”—she broke off as Zelen examined her knee—“I know the counter…sssss…the counterarguments too. I could have killed them and then…fallen down the stairs, or fought a troop of guards while making my escape.”

“None of the guard have mentioned fighting a woman of your description, and I’m sure they would have,” said Zelen. “Robbers, on the other hand, are possible. Either way, my family is inclined to believe that you weren’t under your own control. I’ll take you to Letar’s temple, send word to them, and we can start—”

“No.” She grasped Zelen’s wrist. “It’s not safe to tell anyone.”

* * *

This was the part Branwyn had feared. She’d hoped to heal enough to walk and fight, then to find a disguise and start searching for clues to what had truly happened. In a day or so, she likely could have left the abandoned house, stolen clothing, and blended into the street. It would have been a start, and it wouldn’t have put others in danger.

Now her mission and her life depended on convincing Zelen. She was in no condition to run or fight if she didn’t get through to him—she wasn’t in much condition to talk, which didn’t help—and she’d likely be putting him in more danger whether or not he listened.

He and the child were both silent. Branwyn’s vision was too hazy for her to read Zelen’s expression. She went on. “Assassins, remember? The person who sent them had money.” She stopped, got her bruised windpipe to work again, and kept going. “Power. Temple will make sure I don’t die, then turn me over to the guard. Easy to bribe jailers to look the other way, send a thug with a knife. Or use the knife themselves.”

“But the priests—” said the child.

“Are busy,” said Zelen slowly. “If there were enough of them to take care of everybody in the city, there’d be no need of the clinic.”

“Mortal too. Think I’m a killer. Know there’s a system. Probably will trust it, unless the Dark Lady sends a vision.” Branwyn smiled, which made her lips start bleeding again. “Wouldn’t count on that. So…they follow rules. Like they should. Mostly.”

“‘He makes treachery of bonds, and bonds of treachery,’” Zelen quoted.

“Gizath?” Branwyn said, though she’d never heard the line.

“Yes. A poem by… It doesn’t matter.” He sat back. “Go home,” he said to the child, “and don’t mention this to a