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

They’d come to the gates to Rognozi’s gardens, and a pair of footmen stood there, giving Zelen no excuse to provide an escort further. “Well,” said Zelen, “I’m not precisely a paragon of my house and position. Ask the rest of my family.”

The evaluation she was giving him took on a hint of curiosity, maybe even confusion. “But you’re their representative on the council?”

“Ah, well, they don’t think highly of that either.” He bowed with the skill he’d learned along with walking, but more attention than he usually bothered putting in. “Welcome to Heliodar, Branwyn. I hope we meet again soon, and outside the court.”

Chapter 4

“Well,” said Branwyn under her breath, and then caught herself. She’d waited until she was on the path between the footman-guarded gate and the mansion ahead of her, and she’d declined the aid of Rognozi’s servants to walk all of five minutes, but still there was no point maintaining telling habits, particularly when they served no purpose: she didn’t yet have a soulsword to hear her.

Well, she thought silently instead, he seems fascinating.

The intrigue was tactical as well, not just the allure of Zelen’s lithe physique and big brown eyes, though as she’d stood facing him by the gate, she’d been keenly alive to his proximity. His expression when he’d spoken of his family, one of pain that long custom had polished into amusement, had made Branwyn wince for him.

She wondered at his motives for providing information: a bored lordling’s excuse to spend more time with a comely woman? Tweaking the noses of a family he clearly wasn’t fond of? A genuine desire to be helpful? Gods knew, Thyran was threat enough to scare any who believed, but assuming good intentions too easily was precisely the sort of amateur mistake Branwyn wanted to avoid, even if she was, in truth, an amateur at court politics.

Her thoughts took her through a hedge-crowded garden and up a set of broad stairs to the entrance of a wide three-story house, painted a silvery gray and sprouting peaked green roofs at every possible angle. All of it was wood, suggesting that it had been destroyed, or partly so, in the great storms after Thyran’s first defeat, then rebuilt to be warmer than stone. That spoke of some practicality, roofs aside.

A short man in elaborate pale-green livery answered Branwyn’s knock and inclined his head respectfully. “Madam Alanive?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Welcome to Rognozi. Please follow me to your rooms.” He glanced past her, then added, “We have quarters for any attendants, if…” His voice trailed off, both polite and expectant.

“That’s very thoughtful, but I have none.”

“Very good, madam.” He didn’t let on if it wasn’t, precisely, but his expression went tellingly blank. At a guess, the man was some thirty years younger than his employer, but unescorted travelers were still not the norm, particularly those from as far off as Criwath.

Branwyn followed him into a hall full of radiance, despite the dark walls: magical lights reflected off of tall mirrors every few feet. The floor was bare wood, relatively unpolished, which she thought was likely another concession to Rognozi’s age.

“What a lovely house,” she said, and earned a smile from the footman or butler or whoever he was.

“My lord’s family was fortunate enough to save much of what they had before the storms,” he said, “and he and my lady spared no effort or expense in restoring much of the rest.”

“A noble endeavor,” said Branwyn. “A friend of mine has made quite a study of life before, particularly of the art and comforts of that era.” Darya mostly did that by dragging jeweled goblets and gold candlesticks out of ruined cities, but there was no need to go into detail. “Now that you mention Lady Rognozi, should I make my presence known to her?”

“There’s no need. My lord and lady will meet you at dinner, but that won’t be for a few hours yet.”

He wasn’t trying to condescend, but Branwyn heard the unspoken of course sprinkled liberally through his speech. She couldn’t really object. Chances were good that she’d have ended up sounding the same, had he asked her to explain half her duties. Besides, she was too relieved that she’d have an hour or two to herself, with no need to try to remember the manners she’d learned in the far past and brushed up on in extreme haste. The meeting, and speaking to Zelen, had given her information. She wanted a chance to consider it and put it into what order she could manage.

She thought she’d gotten the councillors connected to the names Olwin had provided. Rognozi and Verengir had distinguished themselves. Yansyak was the red-haired woman, Starovna wore spectacles, Kolovat had the mustache, and Marton dressed plainly for reasons that Branwyn wasn’t certain she understood yet. There was a great deal that she wasn’t sure she understood.

The Order had sent her because of her gifts, because of all those who’d seen Thyran face-to-face, she was the easiest to spare, and because she was calmer and a touch more polished than many other Sentinels.

Branwyn still thought she made a poor diplomat and an even worse spy.

* * *

“You give the impression of being less desperate to reach sanctuary than usual,” said Altiensarn, the upper four of his copper-furred tentacles lifting and lowering in a polite greeting. “Did the meeting go so well, or has healing lost its charm?”

“I wouldn’t say well, exactly. Interestingly. The world might be ending.” Zelen hung his cloak on a peg by his office door, where it looked amusingly ornate against the plain gray stone. As was usual when he arrived after a council meeting, he suspected that he did too.

Altiensarn blinked, third eyelids sliding smoothly back and forth over gold eyes. “More so than usual?”

“That sounds dangerously philosophical.” Zelen ran his hand through his hair, mentally lifting off the weight of the circlet. “The rumors are true. Thyran’s back.”

Over the years, Zelen had gotten to know his partner in healing decently well