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

The cold was fine. Poram and Letar had both blessed her at her reforging. Now Vivian could face the blizzard with no more than mild discomfort, just as she could hold her hand in a fire for an hour and come away with no worse than a nasty sunburn. The monotony of the watch itself was the danger, and the weather made it worse. Snow clouded the sharpest vision after a while. Visions appeared in the cold. Voices rode the wind. It would have been easy to lose herself.

She did lose track of the time, until another figure approached her position on the walls.

Only the Sentinels and the knights had the endurance to be sentries for very long in the storm, and not many of those had blessings to match Vivian’s. Katrine was wrapped in wool and fur until she looked twice her size, and only the amethyst-hilted sword at her waist would have given her identity away if Vivian hadn’t known who else was out there with her.

“All calm on your circuit?” Vivian asked.

“All calm. You make an excellent landmark, Commander.”

“I do my best.” She peered at the other Sentinel, observing what she could between fur hood, wool scarf, and bonemask. Katrine was pale, but she’d always been pale. The droop in her shoulders was more indicative. “You’ve reached your limit.”

“So have you,” said a voice from the stairs behind them.

Vivian didn’t turn when she recognized the speaker. Nor was she surprised that she hadn’t heard the approach: Emeth was the most silent-moving of the Sentinels she knew, particularly when snow muffled her steps. “Well—” she began.

“Well, you’ve been out here two shifts, and you’ll be no damn good if you fall asleep on your feet. Katrine, love, you’re damned near blue. Alyan’s about ten steps behind me. We’ll be fine while you two get some blood into your fingers.”

“I’ll ignore the insubordination, then,” said Vivian.

“Good. Kat, Olvir said his tent’d have stew ready in a couple minutes if you want to stop in. I’m sure nobody’d mind if you brought our gracious leader.”

Nor would I trust your fingers near a carving knife just now, Ulamir put in.

Vivian’s aide was skilled in many things. Cooking was not one. “I’m told I make illustrious company,” she said, and let Katrine take the lead.

Wizards took care of the inside of the camp as well as the outside. Down off the walls, the wind was already less fierce, but a faintly yellow transparent shield a foot or so in, anchored by glowing yellow crystals every few yards, blocked the rest of it, leaving only adequate air to keep everyone breathing. A significantly larger transparent sphere sat further in, radiating heat to two circles of tents.

The wounded and those who cared for them got the closest spots. The healthy soldiers took the outside, supplementing magic with braziers, fires, and body heat.

Olvir’s tent was large, with a glow from inside that hinted at the brazier. Those inside were singing as Vivian and Katrine approached. The smell of cooking food drifted out along with the music, making Vivian’s stomach growl. It had been a long watch.

“Come in, please!”

She’d always admired Olvir’s voice, which had the clear depth of a great horn. It was perfect for shouting orders across noisy battlefields. Now it cut cleanly through the wind. In its own way, it was as much welcome—as much shelter—as the light and the scent of stew.

* * *

Swords always gave Sentinels away, even when they were swathed in furs and wearing bonemasks. The amethyst in Katrine’s Lothelas glinted in the brazier’s light, and Olvir only took a moment longer to connect the sapphire with Vivian.

He’d seen her here and there since they’d talked, but both of them had always been very occupied with their duties as the camp prepared itself for the storm. As she pushed back her hood and unstrapped the bonemask, leaving her charcoal-rimmed eyes bare, Olvir found himself at a loss for words. Having spoken of weighty matters, it was hard to find his way to the lighter ones.

Fortunately, singing took care of it. There were five others in the tent, and two of them were silent, but Morgan and the two baritones with her were vigorously making up for the lack.

“O that my love were in my arms,” the verse wound to a conclusion, the singers’ low tones providing a comforting counter to the high shrieking of the wind beyond the walls, “and I in my bed again.”

“Not that I’d insist on a bed,” said one of the men, tipping Morgan a wink.

Vivian laughed. “That’s the difference between twenty and forty, good man,” she said. “I’d take the bed in a heartbeat right now, with love or without.”

“So would I, if I’d been standing out for a day,” said the other man who’d been singing. He dipped the ladle into the stew and held it up, offering the handle. “Come get ’round a bit of turnip and let’s-call-it-bacon.”

The two women stepped forward, but then Katrine stopped and turned, peeling off her bonemask in the meantime. She tilted her head slightly, in the manner of a hunting hawk, and looked at the men who hadn’t been singing. “I’m afraid I need to ask who you are.”

Olvir hadn’t recognized them either. They’d come in with the others, back from refreshing the lights. Their faces looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place them, particularly as they’d kept their hoods up and were half-buried in piles of fur. He’d thought the cold must have lingered for them—some felt it more easily than others—and hoped they’d feel better after stew.

“Why?” asked one. He had a strange voice, low and clotted. That might have been his wrappings, or an earlier injury, but given the way Katrine was acting… Olvir rose to his feet.

“I’m Jan,” the other said quickly, his voice similar. “He’s Bres.”

Morgan and the soldiers around the stewpot had been watching quietly, but now the man who’d winked at Morgan placed the ladle in the stew,