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

being turned and lifted slightly. The world was all mist now, but she was clean and the pain, though present, was remote. Relaxation stole over her, and a set of blankets settled more concretely about her. “Sleep is called for now. We can address the matter of your clothing later, with less awkwardness.”

Branwyn made what she meant as a noise of assent, and then asked, “Zlen?”

“I’m certain he’s well, but I’ll make sure of it. Sleep.”

She’d never obeyed orders so readily.

Chapter 26

Waking, Branwyn was again unsure where she was. This time she was in a bed, though: warmth above her, softness beneath, and a pale-blue canopy before her slowly focusing eyes. She could focus her eyes, which was an excellent sign. She remembered why that pleased her, which brought the rest of the immediate past back, though her memory of those crucial few hours remained a blank.

She inhaled slowly, evaluated, and exhaled again. Pain was still in residence around her knee and one side of her head, and was a fainter presence along her backbone, but it was maybe a quarter of what it had been. She could reason around it. She could simply live with it, as long as she had to, the way she lived with the silence in her mind and the worry, beneath her conscious thoughts, about whether that would ever end.

Moving was still difficult. Branwyn sat up gradually, with an occasional hiss of pain when her knee became too involved in the process. The bruises she could see—she was still naked beneath the blankets—were faint purple-yellow, and the places where her skin had split from the impact had healed over to pink lines. A few of her muscles, particularly those in her back, were still healing, and her knee was swollen and disinclined to flex.

Judging from what she knew of her healing rate, and the faint light through the windows, she’d slept at least twelve hours. She wondered how badly her reputation had suffered in the process.

There was nothing she could do about that.

A small table by her bed drew her attention before she could start earnestly brooding. Branwyn saw a clear flask of wine, its pale color likely a sign that it was heavily watered. A plate beside it held sliced brown bread, pears, and a wedge of pale-violet cheese. Next to that sat a heap of folded white cloth with a note on top.

I didn’t want to wake you just to have you dress. The shirt should fit until one of us finds better clothes. I should be back within a few hours of whenever you read this. Please don’t leave the room, for everyone’s safety. The servants won’t come in, but I can’t keep them out of the house without rumors starting.

There was a blotchy mark, where the writer had clearly considered adding more, but then only a signature: Zelen Verengir.

“Gods love you, Zelen,” she muttered to the empty room, “for thinking I could even try.”

All the same, she smiled, the first time she’d done so out of anything but the darkest of mirth since she’d woken up in the alleyway. Zelen was alive and well enough to write: that was good news.

He also trusted her enough to leave her unrestrained. Logically, Branwyn wasn’t sure whether that was good or not, but it was pleasant to know.

All three of the occasions when Branwyn had put her faith in him had been out of her control: the assassins and the demons had attacked them both, he’d guessed about her being a Sentinel, and she hadn’t been in any state to try to escape, or to fight, when he’d found her in the burned-out house.

None of that weighed on her as heavily, or as uncomfortably, as she suspected it should have. Zelen was almost certainly her friend, definitely not her enemy, but neither a Sentinel, a priest militant, nor part of her mission. His aims might be different than hers, and if they weren’t, he still might give the game away through lack of training. Officially, the man was a useful liability.

All of Branwyn’s teaching said that she should have been dismayed by having to rely on him, and by having him know so much about her, but she felt no inclination to worry. Perhaps she had enough to worry about as it was.

Yathana would have been a source of reason, one way or another. She would also have been another person to trust, one that Branwyn wouldn’t have even theoretical doubts about. The soulsword was buried in the rubble of another abandoned building, maybe, or on the belt of a half-skilled brute who’d spotted a good blade on the ground, or being sold cheap in some secondhand weaponsmith’s.

Those were the pleasant options.

Branwyn ate. She dressed, with a moderate amount of cursing. Zelen was near her height, so the tunic he’d left only fell to midthigh, but she wouldn’t be walking around scandalizing people in the very near future.

She considered the room.

Exits were the door opposite her, a smaller one in the side wall that Branwyn guessed led either to a closet or to quarters for a personal servant, and a set of large windows, not entirely hidden by thick silver drapes. An enemy might be able to come down through the chimney of the small fireplace, too, but Branwyn certainly couldn’t get up it.

Potential weapons were scarce. The lights were magical, which meant there were no candlesticks. A small eating knife went with the food. Branwyn supposed she could damage a foe not made of bread with it if she used her entire strength and went for an eye. There weren’t even tongs near the fireplace. She wondered if the servants carried them from room to room, if stirring up fires without touching them was another of the prodigious ways people used magic in Heliodar or if Zelen had removed the tongs while she slept.

If he had, Branwyn couldn’t fault him.

She sat back and inspected her hands. They were by no means