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

admirably. The weight was very different from that of Yathana, of course, but Zelen doubted that any of his family was going to try to wield the thing. He held it close to his chest as he crept back into the hallway. The crash as one end knocked into a pitcher, or he tripped over a table leg, echoed endlessly in his mind but never actually came.

The library door sounded like an avalanche when he closed it. Zelen froze shortly beyond, listened for footsteps, and for a moment couldn’t make himself believe he heard none, or shake himself into action when he was sure. The enormity of what he was going to do, of what it all meant, descended on him. He was only glad that dinner had been hours in the past.

His feet felt too large as he headed toward the bookshelf. His hands were blocky, clumsy as they’d never been when healing, but he withdrew Yathana without breaking anything and quickly substituted the broom handle, wrapped in one of the old cloaks that had still been in his wardrobe. It looked enough like the sword’s wrappings to fool a casual glance. A more-than-casual one… He hoped to be well away before that happened.

Back, said the sword in his mind. Good.

If that’s the word for it, Zelen thought in return, and left the library.

The servants’ staircase was unlit, and without any carpet to soften the wood, the stairs were inclined to creak. Zelen descended one careful, measured step at a time, in dark silence bound by narrow walls. When he heard voices near the first-floor landing, he nearly jumped.

“…contained…Hanyi,” Gedomir was saying. Dim light came through the wall from where he spoke, so Zelen sidled carefully closer, making sure that Yathana didn’t bump into any of the surrounding wood, and peered through the minute crack. The view was too restricted for him to be certain, but from the direction, he thought Gedomir was on the first floor in the east wing. Voices did carry; that went with the drafts, particularly in the servants’ quarters.

“She knows what she’s about,” Mother replied calmly.

“But refreshing the wards is going to take another expedition.”

“And? There’s no shortage of supply.”

“It’ll draw attention.” Gedomir sighed. “Damn Sentinels, and damn Zelen. If he’d done his task competently—”

Zelen’s immediate wince, ridiculous given what he knew about Gedomir but as inevitable as his next breath, turned into startled paralysis at the sound of a hard slap.

“Watch how you speak of family.” Mother pronounced every letter in every word, and all of them were ice-edged. Behind the wall, Zelen blinked, and his grip on the sword tightened. He hadn’t anticipated hearing any of them take his part. Then Mother continued. “Furthermore, this is the second time you’ve forgotten your brother’s place in our plans. I might begin to believe it willful.”

“I assure you, Mother, I know his role.”

“Do you? Perhaps we were insufficiently clear in your youth. The youngest is a necessary distraction. In case you don’t comprehend both words, ‘distraction’ means he’s ill-suited to be your spy, and ‘necessary’ means he’s not collateral damage when you want somebody dead. We’d have to call up your tiresome cousin to fill his place, for one thing, since Hanyi’s far past being able to take on the role. There’s no end to the disruption that would cause. Particularly now.”

“Yes, madam,” Gedomir said, contrite or putting on a reasonable show of it.

“Seek your bed, Gedomir. The god has laid many tasks ahead of us for the next few days, and we must all remember our rightful positions.”

There was a silent moment. Zelen thought Gedomir was nodding and possibly bowing. “Good night, madam,” he heard again, and then footsteps.

Zelen started down the stairs again. The effort of it, the care involved in moving so that no step creaked under his weight, wasn’t exactly soothing, but it was a place to put his attention, which was almost as good. He wished it had taken more work.

Distraction.

The god.

The air of the stable yard was cool against Zelen’s face when he opened the door. That and the solid weight of Yathana were all that convinced him that he was solid and material, that all of the last few hours had really happened.

It had. He had to act on it.

As he made his quick, covert way across the yard to the coach house, Zelen felt the sword in his mind. There were no words this time, but he got a general sense of encouragement: a rough clap on his mental shoulder. It made the stones steadier beneath his feet.

Grooms and stable hands slept close to their charges, but the coach house was set off a little way in the stable yard and offered no half-comfortable bed of hay. Zelen was fairly certain that nobody saw him approach his carriage. The seat took some effort to pull up, and the ripping noise when it did come loose made Zelen hiss, but he created enough of a gap between the cushions and the wood to slide Yathana into. Fortunately, winter was coming on, and carriages weren’t overly warm. Furs hid a multitude of defects.

He was reluctant to leave the sword, not only because of fear that it—she, he supposed—would be discovered, or because she was the first sympathetic presence he’d encountered in the house. Power lingered about Yathana in a way that Zelen, no mage, could sense once he’d touched her. It was a refreshingly hot, clean force.

His mother’s words came back to him as he snuck back to his room. They hurt, but pain was familiar, even if not in that particular form, and secondary. She’d said Zelen was a distraction. He was afraid that he knew what he’d been distracting people from.

Chapter 29

“I’ve heard of the ‘Sundered Soul’ before, I believe,” said Altien. He closed the door behind him and took his seat, fur golden-brown in the afternoon light. “The memory occurred to me while I was putting the clinic in order. If I’m correct, it’s