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

leave,” he said, the first step in the closing rite. Servants began circling the room, putting out candles.

Kolovat stood, the amethysts in his circlet catching the light, and walked to stand at Rognozi’s right. “In the name of Poram’s might and the power of creation.”

“In the name of Sitha’s craft and the webs that uphold civilization,” Starovna chimed in, walking to the left-hand position.

Marton positioned himself beside Kolovat. “In the name of Tinival’s justice and the truth we all must seek.” As always, Zelen tried not to roll his eyes.

“In the name of Letar’s healing,” said Yansyak after a few quick steps to the furthest left of the room, “whether that be union, vengeance, or death.”

Zelen and Rognozi stood at the center, eldest and youngest, and finished in unison, “May the gods favor that which we’ve done here and guide us in the world outside.”

Chapter 3

There were certain difficulties, Branwyn was learning, with being an actual guest in a social sense, rather than a paying customer, seconded soldier, or half-welcome visitor boarding until she could kill the appropriate beast and move on. Chief among them just then was the fact that, while the rest of the court’s inhabitants seemed to know precisely where to go after the closing rite, she didn’t, thanks to Lord Rognozi’s generosity, and thus stood in the middle of the room like a lost duckling. Many of those present, councillors and servants alike, gave her a minute of scrutiny, but none approached.

If diplomacy hadn’t been involved, Branwyn would have found the nearest servant and made inquiries, but her briefing had been not only lengthy but foreboding. There are more layers in Heliodar’s etiquette, Adept Consus had said, than in a Silanese feast-day cake, and any of them can be a weapon for an enemy. Don’t provide it.

Branwyn surveyed the room, noting points of entry—official and less so—possible hiding places for traps or assassins, stained-glass windows in complex rose patterns that glowed red and blue even in the afternoon’s subdued light, thick tapestries with soaring dragons and dancing long-limbed stonekin, and furniture that appeared far too heavy to break over a foe’s head, even for her.

Yathana’s absence from her side left her off-balance. Branwyn thought—prayed, really—that she’d disguised the soulsword enough that the servants who moved her wouldn’t gossip, but there was no way of knowing—and she missed Yathana’s presence regardless. The spirit had grown up in Heliodar, for one thing, before she’d joined the Blades, the militant priests of the Dark Lady, and she might have had useful notions about the situation.

Gods knew Branwyn didn’t. She stood, tried not to look too lost, and examined the stained-glass windows. Their designs were the gods’ symbols, repeated and joined in patterns: a golden spider for Sitha, a green pine tree for Poram, a blue sword for Tinival, and, for Letar, red droplets that could be blood or tears, or both.

The craftsmanship was lovely, and the scenes on the tapestries were fascinating, but neither was likely to be any help. Perhaps, Branwyn thought, she should go assist the servants down at the Porpoise.

Then she saw Verengir turn from a diffident conversation with the mustached lord and head in her direction.

Standing and in motion, he confirmed her earlier impression. The doublet framed a figure narrow at shoulder and hip and fell just far enough on Verengir’s thighs to encourage speculation. What Branwyn could see of the man’s legs between the hem and the top of his dark-brown boots was clearly lean and well maintained: his burgundy hose left little room for concealment.

A belt with a bronze buckle in the shape of a topaz-eyed lion held a money pouch, a bronze-hilted knife, and a matching sword. The council got to go armed; Rognozi didn’t, likely for the same reasons he didn’t wear jewelry, and neither did Marton nor Starovna, but the others wore swords of various lengths.

“Madam Alanive,” he said with a sweeping, flourishing bow, one leg stretching back behind him. “Forgive me if I presume, but you look as though you’d welcome assistance.”

“I suspect I would, my lord Verengir,” Branwyn replied. “Am I meant to strike out on my own, or follow the high lord like a stray kitten, or—” Over his shoulder she saw Rognozi stroll out of the room, deep in conversation with a man she didn’t recognize. “Ah.” She bit back a curse. “I suppose that eliminates one possibility.”

Verengir glanced behind him and chuckled, but kindly. “I thought so. Rognozi means well, unless he has reason not to, but it’s probably been a generation since he’s had a guest who doesn’t know the way to his house. And it’s Master Verengir, or Zelen. I won’t be the heir except under truly unfortunate circumstances.”

“Branwyn, then,” she said, and held out a hand.

Habits died hard, and she wouldn’t have been sure what else to do in any case, but she was still a little startled when Zelen took her fingers lightly in his, bowed again, and touched his lips lightly to her knuckles. “A pleasure, Branwyn.”

Her hand tingled at the contact, and the rest of her body wasn’t far behind. “Likewise.”

“Would you care for an escort, or simply directions?”

“An escort,” she said, “if you have the leisure.”

“Oh,” Zelen replied, “I expect I can manage it. I didn’t come with a carriage, but I can hire one easily enough.”

“I’d prefer to walk, if you’ve no objection. It’d help me learn the city better, and I’ve spent about an aeon sitting lately.”

“A trouble I know well. Shall we?” He offered a crooked elbow, and Branwyn took it.

A pit of vipers, Yathana had said about the Heliodar court, never being averse to clichés. Branwyn wasn’t prepared to say that she was wrong, but a few of them did have lovely scales and hissed very prettily.

* * *

Impulsive gestures had their flaws, and the downside of offering his arm to Branwyn when they were still in the council chamber was that they had to part when they reached the Star Palace’s outer