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

her clinging heat. Branwyn’s moans in his ear became deeper, quicker, and her whole frame tensed around him. They were chasing each other around the spiral, retreat or delay impossible, unthinkable.

All the same, when Branwyn threw her head back and cried out at her peak, Zelen knew a satisfaction that went past the rippling pleasure and rush of warmth. As he arched and groaned, as Branwyn shuddered beneath him, pulling him closer, he felt for the first time in a long while that he wasn’t alone.

Chapter 31

Afterward, Branwyn had even less desire to move than was usual following bed sport.

Actually being in a bed, and a fairly luxurious one, was no small factor there—most of her previous encounters had been, at best, on lumpy mattresses in dubious inns—but it wasn’t that alone. Zelen’s warmth, the clean smell of his sweat and their mutual satisfaction, and even the weight that he managed to keep mostly on the elbows were all far more welcome than such things had been with previous lovers.

If she’d had her way, they’d have curled up together under the blankets to doze, broken by talking and more vigorous activities, while the cold late-autumn rain fell outside.

Branwyn sighed, mostly in resignation, though she appreciated how Zelen shivered at her breath on his neck. “I’m afraid,” she said, “that you’ll have to find me another, more complete set of clothing before Altiensarn returns with the knight.”

“You mean he won’t take our oaths like this? We could simply pull up the blankets…” Zelen teased, and it heartened Branwyn to hear him capable of joking again.

“Depends on the knight, I suppose,” she said. They weren’t a celibate order, but they tended to be more romantic than the Blades. Certainly the ones Branwyn had met were more restrained than the Sentinels. “You’d know better than I would.”

“True,” said Zelen, and rose from her with a wordless grumble, stopping at the edge of the bed to run his fingers down her cheek. “The word ‘splendid’ rather comes to mind again.”

“Takes one to know one,” said Branwyn. She watched him leave, looking more rumpled and more alive by far than when he’d come in the door.

He came back with hot water and cloths later, as well as a new shirt and a pair of gray trousers. “No need to hurry yet,” Zelen said, as Branwyn started to clean up. “We’ve got ten minutes at least, and that’s if Altien had an audience right off.”

“You know the timing very well,” she said, lifting her eyebrows.

Zelen laughed. “I wasn’t taking it into account at all when I threw myself at you, I swear. But I do often go to the temple district.” That was a trifle more serious. Branwyn was silent in respect, pulling on the trousers carefully and searching for the right words.

“I feel the same,” Zelen said, surprising her. “About you, that is, as you said you felt about me before. I suppose that might have been a bit obvious, but I wanted to say it.”

“I’d hoped,” said Branwyn, “and I thought I might have reason to hope. But it’s good to hear it for certain.”

She pulled the shirt on and crossed the room, kissing him warmly enough that his newly donned doublet was disheveled again before she was done.

“Despite,” Zelen added when he stepped back, “the disastrous effect you have on my wardrobe.”

“I do owe you half a tailor’s shop by now, don’t I?”

“Something like. I’ll let you consult with my valet on the specifics—oh.” He frowned. “Speaking of, it might be best if he witnessed the oathtaking, and the rest of the servants as well, particularly if you’re going to stay here…”

His voice trailed off. Both of them knew there was no point in trying to follow up with more specifics. Branwyn had the duty she was made for. She’d stay until her mission was done—and how that would react with Zelen’s own duties, or how either of them would want it to, was a discussion too sharp and definite for that moment. “For a while,” she finished. “It’s a good idea.”

“I’ll go have an entirely awkward conversation then,” Zelen said, and added quietly, “though it’ll probably be the easiest of what I need to tell them in the next few days.”

In other circumstances, Branwyn would have offered to go with him, but she didn’t think her presence would be an asset, to say the least. At worst, one of the servants, doubting, might decide to try to avenge the Rognozis with a paring knife. Branwyn met Zelen’s eyes and knew he realized the same thing.

“Good luck,” she said. “I’ll be here.”

He kissed her, lightly and softly. “Knowing that will make it much better.”

* * *

It did. So did the better part of a bottle of brandy. Zelen, who had a decent head for drink, was still glad Altien had brought up cakes as well. That way he was only feeling insulated, not actually slurring his speech.

There weren’t many servants assembled in his little-used parlor. Idriel and Feyher stood at one end, authoritative in dark clothing. Three maids, two grooms, and Barthani, his cook, fanned out around them in a semicircle facing Zelen. Despite the drink, he knew that they were trying not to gape at him. A few minutes of pleasure with Branwyn had lightened the weight on his shoulders, and their conversation afterward had made him more able to bear it, but none of that erased the marks of strain and sleepless nights, particularly to people who already knew he had a mysterious announcement to make.

At least one of them likely thought he was dying. Another probably leaned more toward an announcement of marriage, or had until they’d seen Zelen. He wondered if they’d had a chance to place wagers.

Blunt was better, he decided, and cleared his throat. “Hello. Altiensarn will be here soon with one of Tinival’s knights. Then Branwyn of Criwath will come downstairs and join us.” He’d expected the gasps and murmurs, and raised his hand before