The Nightborn

by Isabel Cooper

  “Fair night to you,” said Zelen, and opened the outer door.

  Five youths of various ages and degrees of grime were gathered there, watching in wide-eyed suspense. They weren’t watching him or the door any longer, though, whatever they might have been doing when Altien had spoken to them. A shining black carriage across the street, harnessed to a pair of immaculately groomed gray horses, had commanded all their attention.

  Zelen knew the driver’s russet-and-gold livery. He knew the coat of arms on the door. If he hadn’t recognized those, he would have known the three men who emerged, and particularly the figure in the center: tall, slim, dressed in unornamented black and gray clothes that cost a month’s wages in this part of the city. His hair was platinum blond, but his face was otherwise very similar to Zelen’s own.

  The children didn’t miss the resemblance. They stared at Gedomir and the guards, then back to Zelen. The coach and the liveried, armed men were clearly the more fascinating picture, but the knowledge that one of the clinic healers had a relative his age, likely a brother, and a rich brother at that, was clearly striking a few of the older ones as interesting.

  “Gedomir,” said Zelen. “I hadn’t known you were coming to the city.”

  It took all of his self-control to keep from swearing.

  * * *

  It seems you played a few cards right, a familiar mental voice said as the butler opened the door to Branwyn’s room. I can’t enjoy a room like this as I once did, but it’s a much finer view than the inn.

  Yathana was lying across the foot of Branwyn’s bed, three feet of straight, razor-edged steel in a scabbard covered with midnight-blue silk, with thin golden chains connecting small amethysts and garnets. Her hilt appeared gold too—a thin layer of gilt did wonders—and the eye-sized fire opal in the center of her guard was now flanked by two chunks of amber on the quillons and another on the pommel.

  Seventeen years of partnership had given Yathana’s normal form time to sink very deeply into Branwyn’s consciousness, and even after two months of practice, the additions stood out whenever she had occasion to examine the soulsword. Adapting to the shifts in balance had come more easily, praise the Four.

  “It looks wonderful,” she said to the butler, though she really hadn’t even noticed the room save for marking a window opposite the door—real glass, not shuttered, and framed by heavy rose-pink curtains. “Thank you.”

  “The maids will have put your clothing away”—he gestured to a tall oak chest in the corner—“and there’s a rune by the window. Trace it, should you need anything.”

  “Thank you,” Branwyn said again, and hesitated, not certain if she needed to give him a more formal sort of dismissal. While she was considering the matter, he bowed and left her.

  You aren’t doing too badly, said Yathana, as usual speaking with a crispness that suggested autumn leaves underfoot. He thinks you’re a country bumpkin, of course, but then, they all will.

  “I noticed,” muttered Branwyn. “Though I’d have thought carrying you around—”

  You could be a rich hayseed. Many are. And we’re not being observed. The maids did search your clothing, but no more than I’d have expected.

  “I suppose I’d do the same, in their place.”

  I’d bloody well hope so.

  Branwyn sat down on the bed, which was covered in a snowdrift of white cloth, surrounded by thick red curtains, and big enough for a small scouting party, if not a full army. A small crystal orb on a low table beside it gave off faintly pink light as well as heat, though most of the latter came from a fireplace opposite the wardrobe.

  It was a nice room, certainly the best she’d ever been in. Branwyn yielded to impulse and threw herself backwards onto the excessive mattress.

  They will, however, probably get suspicious if you start jumping on it.

  “I haven’t done that since I was twelve.”

  I never know when one of the living will revert. How did things go?

  “They’re understandably reluctant to believe, and I suspect there’s no common opinion among them. They haven’t decided.” The canopy was a solid wash of red above her. Branwyn focused on it. “It’s not a refusal,” she added, as much to herself as to Yathana.

  How long are they going to make us wait?

  “Two weeks.”

  Sitha’s arse, they haven’t gotten a shade less self-interested since I died, have they? If Yathana had still had teeth, she clearly would have been grinding them.

  “Olwin said they’d be slow to act,” Branwyn pointed out, forcing herself to try to agree with the arguments she was making. She’d need patience. It was best to start developing it now. “So did you, if I recall correctly. Two weeks might give me a chance to make our case more thoroughly, and perhaps Thyran won’t move in that time.”

  Or the time it’ll take them to move the armies out, if they do see reason? It’d serve them right if the Twisted were crawling up their backs by the start of winter. Dark Flame, why have you and your family decreed that we always need the most inconvenient, irritating bastards to help us get anything done?

  “That’s a fair amount of railing at the gods for a priestess.”

  The Blades can’t expel me. I’m dead.

  “I never would have expected the dead to gloat so much.”

  Yathana chuckled, reluctantly. Ah well. We have the opportunity we have, I suppose, and with the gods’ favor, Thyran’s still nursing his wounds from that odd knight you befriended. Do we have any likely targets here?

  “Rognozi, though he could’ve offered his house out of simple politeness. Starovna,” she added hesitantly, still trying to attach names to faces, “the one with spectacles, gave us credit for good judgment, which was flattering, but then spoke in favor of caution. Verengir made a good point on my behalf—that Thyran’s identity was second to the threat of an army and a sorcerer—and escorted me home, but he doesn’t hold the lordship, and I don’t know precisely how much influence he has.”

  That family was always a reclusive lot. Simple country purity and healthy living. Very tedious.

  “This one doesn’t seem to be. Healthy, yes,” she added, remembering the muscles on his bare arms.

  You don’t need me to caution you, said Yathana, who could read Branwyn easily. Seducing him might not be a bad idea, though, tactically.

  “A bit obvious, isn’t it?” She sat up and began to unlace her boots. “Do you think any of the nobility would spill secrets in bed, particularly to an unknown quantity from Criwath?”

  One never knows.

  The first boot came off, and Branwyn found herself eager to change the subject. “How much have things changed?”

  Not as much as elsewhere, from what I’ve seen. Ironic, I know. But—

  The sword’s inner speech took on a serious, thoughtful aspect. Branwyn didn’t pause while she took her second boot off; she’d long since learned to listen while taking care of mundane tasks. She sharpened her inner awareness, though, and prepared a special place in her memory for whatever came next.

  There’s something wrong in this city, Yathana said. Possibly across the entire region. I don’t know whether it’s a change or not, but it’s there. It’s not very blatant, as far as I can tell, but it’s extremely wrong.

  Chapter 6

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” said Gedomir.

  He stood in the office and, as usual, stood out in the office. Every detail of his appearance said that he didn’t belong there, and his countenance emphasized it. The plain wooden desk and cheerful red cushions on the chairs, the similarly colored wooden shelves of books and scrolls, and the thick curtains, fashioned from leftover and garish gold-and-blue velvet—all might as well have been new forms of insect, for all that Gedo had seen them before.

  Altien, a new arrival since Gedomir’s previous visit to the clinic three years ago,
had gotten a startled look, then a barely polite nod, from the Verengir heir. The two had responded with equal practiced politeness to Zelen’s introduction before Altien had excused himself for the evening.

  “No,” said Zelen, “I was just finishing. I can’t say I expected you, of course.”

  “There were a few business affairs to manage—nothing that you need to be concerned about, naturally. I’d been intending to return to the house, but I know that you allow the servants a remarkable degree of latitude and employ very few,” Gedomir said, “so when your butler said that you were occupied here, I feared that they might not be prepared to receive a guest.”

  “Considerate of you,” said Zelen, trying to make himself believe that it actually might have been. “But I’m sure they’d manage. You don’t exactly demand luxury.”

  “Luxury, no. Correctness, yes. You appear…well,” Gedomir said, glancing between Zelen’s smock and the folded doublet on the desk. “And keeping interesting company.”

  “I must have written about Altien. Can’t easily match his skill, or his dedication.”

  “If that’s your judgment, of course you know these matters better than I do. I suppose it would be good to have an assistant with your tasks here—one without other duties to occupy him.”

  “Altien’s a partner, not an assistant. Fully as good as I am in most areas, and better in a few others. We do get a few nonhumans in here from time to time, you know.” Zelen stacked up his final paper and pulled his tunic over his head, ignoring the way Gedomir dramatically turned his back. “Remarkably insightful about the dangers of the sea too. Literally lifesaving, when the fishing boats or the ships are out.”

  “I’m sure,” said Gedomir.

  “How are the family?” Zelen asked, rather than pressing the issue.

  “Well.” Gedomir sounded far more approving. “Mother and Father are aging, of course, but still strong, and Hanyi’s taking her place as a help to them.”

  “Alize settling into married life?”

  “Yes, to the best of my knowledge. No word of issue yet, alas.”

  “It’s only been a year. Besides,” Zelen said, “getting an heir or three is really your responsibility, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes. Mother’s spoken of a few appropriate candidates, though I haven’t heard any names.”

  “Better you than me, though I’ll look about for you if you’d like. Kolovat and Yansyak both have single daughters, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Mother has it under control. And not Yansyak. That line—”

  “Tinival’s…justice, Gedo.” He caught the oath at the last second, made a quick substitute for the anatomical term that he’d been going to use, and still knew without seeing the man his brother had grimaced. “That was a hundred years ago.”

  “And we’re still paying.”

  “Not for Yansyak’s part in the affair. Infidelity’s common enough. Most people don’t kill in response, much less murder an entire household and try to destroy the world. Speaking of Thyran…” In conversation with anyone else, Zelen would’ve been surprised it had taken him so long to think of the day’s news. His brother had a way of diverting his mind.

  “I heard as much this evening,” Gedomir said. “The woman’s story—the woman herself—seems interesting. She came alone?”

  “From the sound of it, Criwath’s forces are pretty well occupied at present.”

  “If her tale’s reliable.”

  “We could easily demand that she swear it to one of Tinival’s knights. She has sense enough to know that.”

  “I heard she offered, yes,” said Gedomir. “I also heard that you talked with her a fair amount and provided her with an escort back to the high lord’s estate.”

  “You have very accurate sources,” Zelen said, and opened a desk drawer. He kept a set of ruby-colored glasses in there and a bottle of half-decent wine. Usually he drank with Altien after a hard day, but now he knew he’d need help keeping the conversation from turning into the sort of flaming row he and Gedomir had often had in their younger days. “I’m surprised you even need my report. Drink?”

  “I haven’t started indulging, no. What do you know about this Alanive creature?”

  Zelen poured and sipped. “Very little so far. She’s clearly done service in the army, or as a warrior, even if she’s stuck in diplomacy now. Smart, well spoken, from what I’ve seen, but a king would hardly send an envoy who wasn’t.”

  Rather lovely, he added, but silently.

  “You could likely find out more,” said his brother. “That might be quite useful.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll use my astounding seductive abilities to uncover all Criwath’s state secrets, shall I?”

  The burst of sarcasm got only a raised eyebrow from Gedomir. “Nothing like that, I’m sure. Only cultivate an acquaintance, form impressions, and add what you discover to your letters. Father and Mother would be grateful for the knowledge.”

  He didn’t have to say that it was barely any effort compared with what a younger son owed his family, or remind Zelen whose funds kept him fed, clothed, and housed, the clinic running, and wine in the glass he was holding. Those lectures had taken place years ago and hadn’t only come from Gedomir.

  “Getting to know her won’t be a chore,” Zelen admitted, “and I doubt she’d share knowledge with me if it was truly secret. Very well.” He tossed back the last of the wine. “And now perhaps I’ll make an early night of it. One of the children here went missing, and I’ve offered to help search tomorrow.”

  “Ah,” Gedomir said. He paused in consideration, brow furrowed, then added, “Take Nislar along when you go. I won’t need two bodyguards before I leave, I’m certain, and he might be of some assistance.”

  Gratitude warred with shame for his former thoughts. “That’s kind of you, Gedo.”

  “Oh,” Gedomir said, “we each serve in our proper place.”

  * * *

  A low table held a small white bowl and pitcher, with enameled pink roses and blue dragon-eyes twining across both, as well as a towel and a cake of soap. Branwyn crossed to the table, poured out water, and silently began to wash.

  Action helped to settle the mind, so long as the action itself wasn’t thoughtless or impulsive. So Branwyn’s teachers had said, and she’d found it to be true before. This was no exception. By the time she shook off the last water droplets, the first question was on her tongue.

  “Why haven’t the priests sensed it?”

  The Four Gods’ servants had powers themselves. Priests of the elder gods Poram and Sitha served in a more peaceful capacity, for the most part, but Tinival’s knights could tell lies from truth when they had the chance to administer an oath. Letar’s Mourners mostly sensed wounds and disease, but the Blades, her extremely militant order, were generally fairly sensitive to Gizath’s power. Given that Yathana had been one before, Branwyn assumed that Gizath was the source of the wrongness.

  I don’t know, said Yathana. I’ve been wondering that myself. Death gives us perspective that even the Threadcutter’s priests don’t have while they’re alive. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe having lived in the city so long makes them blind to the wrongness.

  “Or,” said Branwyn, sitting back on the bed, “it could be that they’re aware but can’t change matters? Heliodar was the site of the greatest betrayal since Gizath’s. That might echo, without any way to stop it.”

  More a missing limb than a bleeding wound? Branwyn could feel the soulsword contemplating the possibility. It could make sense. I’d rather not assume.

  “Neither would I.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “If this were any other mission, I’d go and ask. Maybe I should—they certainly wouldn’t willingly give us away.” It probably wouldn’t be the end of the world if they did either. Being a Sentinel wasn’t illegal, nor did it change her mission or her status as Criwath’s
military envoy. Marton wasn’t the only one to find the Order off-putting, though. Branwyn’s job would be easier if the people she spoke to didn’t worry that she was one bad day away from cannibalism.

  A known Sentinel would also be a target, whether from active corruption within the city, if it did exist, or from people worried that she’d get in the way of more mundane agendas. That might happen regardless, but Branwyn would far rather her enemies underestimated her if so.

  Not deliberately, said Yathana, but priests are mortal and temples are human organizations. An acolyte who hasn’t learned discretion or discipline, or someone whose mind isn’t always what it should be, overhears, a patient sees you entering and leaving and puts the pieces together… there are no guarantees. I could tell you stories.

  She had, a few times, though not specifically to that end. Branwyn, who’d known priests only from a distance and from the Forging until she was fifteen, had once been shocked by the realization that the temples weren’t smoothly functioning monoliths any more than the Order was.

  Not worth the risk, I’d say, or not worth seeking out. If you end up having a private moment to speak with one of the Dark Lady’s servants, do it, but don’t go to the temples without an excuse. Besides, if they’re blind from a life here, there’s not much they can do to help us.

  “I’ll be sending out messages tomorrow,” Branwyn said, “setting up meetings, but I doubt I’ll be called on to meet people immediately. I could go out and learn more about the city, especially the parts that I won’t see while I’m drinking wine with the council members.”

  That, said Yathana, sounds like an excellent place to start.

  Chapter 7

  Descending from the hill toward the bay that flanked Heliodar in the east was, in a way, familiar to Branwyn. Most of the fortresses where she’d been quartered had themselves been the center of fortified towns. Concentric circles were common, with farms outside the town walls in places where the countryside was safe or people were bold. Heliodar was constructed along the same basic lines.