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

“She said it would be dangerous. If I talked.”

“She’s right. One way or another, this is nothing you should be part of.” He turned and fished some coins out of his pockets. “But you did right to help her, and right to get me. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” said the child. They pocketed the coins quickly but didn’t leave right away. “And I hope you didn’t kill the high lord and lady, and I hope people don’t kill either of you.”

Then they darted off, or at least Branwyn didn’t see their shape beyond Zelen’s shoulder any longer.

“I don’t want to leave you here until nightfall,” said Zelen. Branwyn could read the consternation about him even when she could barely see straight. A portion, she knew, was his calling as a healer, a portion suspicion of what she might do, given the stories about Sentinels, and a third portion might be personal fondness, but Branwyn didn’t want to make any assumptions. “But there’s no damned way of moving you until then without standing out, and if I come back with supplies, I’m as likely to be followed as not.”

“How long?”

“Five hours or so. Thank all the gods that it’s autumn.”

“Go,” said Branwyn. “I’ll be all right. And I won’t be in any state to escape. You can bind me if you want.”

“No!” He actually drew back at the idea, a supple motion she’d have appreciated more if she hadn’t been a bloody mess. “With your knee as it is?”

“It’ll heal. And you have no reason to take my word.”

“The offer is a fair reason,” he said. Then he took off his cloak. Bronze gleamed from his torso in the weak light, and Branwyn noticed the embroidery on his doublet as he leaned over to slip the folded wool under her head. “I’d give you more, but the aim is not to attract attention, and a shirtless man near winter would do plenty of that.”

“Wouldn’t ask for more,” Branwyn said. She felt a dim urge to object even to the cloak, but her sore head overruled pride. “Thanks.”

“Don’t move more than you have to,” said Zelen, “and for the sake of…everything…don’t die.”

Chapter 24

Branwyn didn’t die, though there were intervals throughout the next few hours when it would have seemed like a reasonable option, if not for her mission, her larger duty as a Sentinel, and, surprisingly, the knowledge of how shaken Zelen would be if she did.

She slipped in and out of consciousness. Out was better, far better, but the pain kept waking her up. She fought back screams at those times, aware enough of her surroundings to hold back, and stared mindlessly at the ceiling, practically unable to breathe from the agony. Pain that severe meant she was healing, she knew: life was returning to the broken parts of her. The knowledge was no comfort. She endured in a white haze until exhaustion took over and she passed out again.

The Forging had hurt, maybe even as much, but that had been in a clean, shining room, with the Adept to help with the worst of the pain and Sentinels-in-training bathing her brow with cool cloths. She’d been able to scream when she needed to.

Now all the world was pain and filth and the smell of her own dried blood. And the Rognozis’, possibly.

She’d been an honored candidate during the Forging, a weapon-to-be against the darkness, not a possible murderer. That had been different too.

And there’d been Yathana at the end. Branwyn hadn’t known the soulsword, then, of course. She hadn’t known what she was missing.

Nobody had ever been able to destroy the blades or the spirits in them.

That didn’t mean nobody could figure it out.

Branwyn would have wept, but she couldn’t manage tears, and she was already taking the kind of gasping breaths that went with sobbing when she tried not to scream. The ceiling swam in front of her, faded to blackness, appeared again, and vanished in turn.

Eventually, it was no longer duty or consideration keeping her alive, only her inability to act. Ending her life was not even a question. The magic of her reforging would heal her as long as she did nothing drastic, and she couldn’t have moved enough to manage that. She became pain itself, pain and shapes and light that slowly faded.

“Poram’s blood, Branwyn.”

Zelen was her fourth or fifth thought. First she had to recall concepts like words and voices and other people—like herself as a person, separate from pain.

Slowly his features became clearer. So did the worry.

“No,” Branwyn choked out. “Mostly mine.”

How badly off was she? Zelen had seen people die. She wasn’t dying; she knew that much. She’d never thought to ask what it looked like when she healed. Perhaps it was disgusting beyond measure.

His expression softened when she spoke, and Branwyn read relief there. Her vision was getting better. “Do you know who I am?”

“Zelen.”

Relief grew stronger. Then he was holding something cool and metallic against her mouth. “Drink. Slowly.”

She recognized the strong, pine-sap taste of dragon-eye syrup, and the knowledge itself made the pain seem fainter—a little. It didn’t take the edge off, but that edge wasn’t rusty and jagged any longer.

Zelen removed the flask after a while. His face disappeared, and she felt his touch on her ankle.

“You were bloody far away when I came in,” he said from the vicinity of her feet. “I’m afraid this will hurt, but try and stay with me.”

New pain swept over her leg when Zelen lifted it. Branwyn went rigid to contain her scream. Her hands clawed at the stone beneath her, which didn’t help, as they hurt too, but then her leg was straight and resting on a board. As the fresh pain ebbed, she recognized that this was a better state of affairs. There was pressure around her ankle, then her thigh, as Zelen bound board and leg together. The immobility was soothing.

“Still here,” she whispered when she could talk again.

“Good. Good.”

The darkness beyond him spoke in cultured tones and a