The Nightborn

by Isabel Cooper

  “No.” Zelen stopped, so that Branwyn had to as well, and turned to face her. The crowds flowed around them, but for a moment they were both as still as temple pillars.

  Then Zelen raised one hand to touch the side of Branwyn’s face, gloved fingertips light behind her jaw. “You’re my third reason.”

  There was no light answer to make now, no way to dismiss his regard as a passing fancy, and she was too much Tinival’s creature to pretend under such circumstances. “Zelen—”

  “I’m not asking for anything.” The smile appeared again, softer and rueful. “Gods, I don’t even know that I’m saying anything. There’s been no time, and neither of us are our own creature, are we?”

  “No,” said Branwyn.

  “But you’re a bloody sight more than a temporary distraction. I know that much.” His eyes shone. “I’m not a young idiot. If I’d woken up tomorrow and heard you were dead, I’d have lived, but it would’ve left quite a scar. The sort that never quite stops hurting.”

  The breath she let out was a feeble thing. It left a great weight in her chest, good and bad mixed. “I wouldn’t have precisely walked away unmarked if you’d been killed back there,” Branwyn said. “The choice is yours, but I know things I can’t tell you. And I don’t want to draw you in, unwilling, to a matter that doesn’t concern you.”

  “You and I both know it does. Or it will.”

  “You aren’t wrong,” she admitted, and considered practicality even as she took comfort in Zelen’s palm against her chin. “I have another meeting with Yansyak tonight. I doubt there’ll be much information there, but the job remains, assassins or not.”

  “I’ll make some discreet inquiries,” said Zelen. “My patients might know a few facts the upper crust doesn’t. Are you free tomorrow night?”

  “Kolovat, I’m afraid.” The older man wasn’t bad company: he kept a good table, his husband had an excellent sense of humor, and their three heirs were youths of boundless and refreshing enthusiasm. Still, it didn’t compare to the possibilities of an evening with Zelen.

  “Then I’ll see you at the ball.” He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. The kiss, light as it was, made Branwyn’s body hum with sensation, but the gentleness of it caught at her as well because there was nothing patronizing in it, no assumption that she needed protection or reassurance. We’re in this together, it said. We have meaning to each other. “Save a few dances for me.”

  “You can depend on that.”

  Chapter 15

  The Star Palace glowed with light, and for that one evening, none of it was magical. The legends said that Irinyev had carried only a torch to the mountains and back when he’d brought the cure for the summer plague. In his honor, the only light within any well-to-do house that evening would be flame.

  Candles burned in colored-glass sconces in the hallways and in the gold-and-crystal chandeliers hanging over the ballroom. Beeswax and smoke mingled their scents with those of perfume and humanity. Flames stretched out shadows, hid faces, and picked out a sparkling eye to illuminate one moment, a lock of silky hair the next, a sly grin the second after.

  Zelen was already beaming as Andras announced him, and there was nothing sly about it. As the tune from the harpists and pipers in the corner swirled into his ears, he moved into the crowd around the dance floor, greeting those he knew and being introduced to those he didn’t. There was nobody he dreaded meeting: Gedomir would no more make an appearance at a ball than would Marton and his brood. A few among the others might be tedious or awkward, but all were amiable, and all were there to enjoy the evening—and with that in mind, it was easy for Zelen to overlook other faults.

  He knew Branwyn before she turned toward him. There was a particular set to her shoulders and a slow, generous curve of her mouth when she smiled that Zelen was beginning to think he would’ve recognized even if she’d worn a mask.

  Formal dress was quite nearly enough to test the case. The simply dressed woman who’d presented herself in court, or the one in doublet and breeches who’d joined Zelen in the streets, was a very different image from the vision greeting him in the ballroom.

  Her dress was dark gold, embroidered all over with deep-pink roses. Long-sleeved, with a long, straight skirt, it was nonetheless far from modest: barely far enough past Branwyn’s shoulders to keep the dress on, the neckline plunged down to her stomach. Thick rose-colored ribbons that laced the dress tightly to her waist, revealing shimmering pale skin in the spaces between them. A line of roses bordered each side and curved up around her breasts. Zelen was instantly sure that only a petal or two concealed her nipples, and instantly very desirous of testing his theory.

  Politeness and a vast effort of will brought his gaze upward again, past the bare column of her neck and back to her amused face. “Madam Alanive,” he said, and sank into a deep bow. “I’m very glad to see you.”

  “It’s a pleasure to hear it,” said Branwyn, the pins in her braided and upswept hair sparkling as she stepped forward. For a dizzying moment, she was only an inch from him, and her breath was hot against his ear. “But I have to wonder which part.”

  * * *

  “Don’t ask me to choose,” Zelen whispered back. “Hardly a fair question for a stunned man.”

  “Why, thank you,” she said. “It’s good to see you too.”

  It truly was.

  Zelen was wearing brown—fawn-colored for his trousers and darker above—and there was nothing plain about his clothing. The doublet was high-collared in back, cut low in front to expose the firm, flat muscles of his upper chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. Gold trim ran the length of the collar, around the hem, and circled the armholes, while buttons of polished amber fastened the garment tightly against Zelen’s slim waist and hips. The velvet of his doublet was thick, but the silk trousers clung to every line of his thighs and calves. The topaz was back in one ear, and his rings were cat’s-eye and amber, not overwhelming his hands but enough to catch the light with every gesture.

  His smile said that he knew exactly what Branwyn was looking at and how much she appreciated it.

  “Do you dance?” he asked.

  “Possibly.” She looked around for a place to set down her goblet. A passing servant made a signal, and Branwyn handed it over with relief. “You may have to inform me of the specifics.”

  “Gladly,” he said. The musicians ended one song. In the pause before another began, the two of them walked out onto the crowded floor.

  * * *

  Only a very little explanation turned out to be necessary, and almost none for the basic steps. Branwyn mirrored Zelen’s movements with a skill that would have surprised him if he hadn’t witnessed her fighting. That glimpse hadn’t foretold the light grace with which she moved across the floor, though, nor had battle conveyed her ready, fluid response to him.

  “Have you done this before?” he asked.

  “Once or twice, somewhat,” said Branwyn, passing under his arm and coming back to settle her hands at bicep and shoulder. “There’s a form in Silane, but it’s slower and without as many of the flourishes.”

  “Ah, you’ve spent time in Silane?”

  “A little. My duties take me on the road often.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “For the most part,” she said. “There are always rainy evenings where I’m outdoors more than I’d like, or bad food, or”—silk rustled as she shrugged—“unpleasantness, but I suppose that happens in many lives, wandering or still.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” he said. Even he’d encountered his share of wet feet and dubious dinners, and he had some idea of how those who came to his clinic lived.

  “Do you enjoy this?”

  “The festival, yes. Very much so.” The hint of a question in her eyes prompted him to go on—or perhaps he just made up an invitation to do so. “Irinyev was one of my heroes w
hen I was young.”

  “He is an inspiring figure, if…” Branwyn paused, clearly searching for the tactful word.

  Zelen chuckled. “A bit mortification-of-the-flesh for my tastes, yes. That was part of the appeal, though: he wasn’t always. Before the plague, before he had the vision of the healing spring, he was a Mourner, but a young one who liked his comforts.” The Dark Lady’s more common priests, the ones who healed the sick and burned the dead, didn’t have nearly the strictures or the frighteningly single-minded purpose that her Blades did. “He gave all of that up to save his people, and when bandits took all his belongings at the foot of the mountain, he kept going.”

  “And you always wondered if you could do the same?”

  “Oh, I always knew I couldn’t,” Zelen said, letting more laughter flow around the old bitterness. “That made him even more admirable, you see. The unattainable always looks best from here on the ground.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Branwyn said, “but you underestimate yourself. I’ve seen many people do what they’d never prepared for when the time came.”

  They turned a corner on the floor, and Zelen spun her around again, watching her shine. “Do you like it?” he asked when she was back in his arms. “The festival, I mean. Are you liking it, I suppose, since you haven’t experienced the whole yet?”

  “Oh, yes. Like most of my stay here, it’s been considerably more luxurious than I’m used to, and I do like the new experience. More than I should, some would say,” she added, but without any hint of serious concern. “More than that, I’ve always enjoyed holidays, even the ones that are no more than a honey cake with dinner and a song in the evening, even when I wasn’t in a position to have either. They…they’re like points that the year can hold to, as though they’re different enough that everyday life can mold around them.”

  “You make them sound like temple rites.”

  “Rituals,” Branwyn agreed, mouth tilting in a contemplative half smile. “But distributed among everybody, without the stakes that they have in the temple and with more license.”

  “I’m fond of license too,” said Zelen.

  Branwyn’s laugh made the tops of her breasts tremble above her gown. Desire, held at arm’s length by the music and the need to remember steps, advanced in a rush. Zelen didn’t stumble, but dancing, or indeed walking, was going to present certain difficulties before long.

  It was still early in the evening; nobody had likely snuck off to the garden or up to the private rooms yet, and it wouldn’t have been wise if Zelen and Branwyn had been the first pair to do so. Given that, it was technically fortunate that the music drew to an end, but it was no kind of good fortune that Zelen welcomed.

  * * *

  Duty called, and it was hardly arduous. Drinking wine and eating small savory pastries in a warm room, dry and well dressed, while making mostly interesting conversation with people who weren’t immediately trying to kill her, was physically an immense improvement on all of Branwyn’s previous tasks. True, at least one of them might want her dead, but they weren’t trying to accomplish the goal then.

  She admired the clothing of other people, including Lady Galcian’s shimmering gown of sea-blue taffeta and the yellow-and-orange medley that Starovna’s eldest son wore. That admiration, expressed as slightly envious praise—“we have no such clothes where I’m from, particularly now”—was a seed. She planted it early and let it grow, allowing the others to ask about the war, then making a point or two and changing the subject. This was a night for nibbling around the edges, and charging ahead would do more harm than good.

  With her dance partners, she took the same approach. General Mezannith, the leader of Heliodar’s mostly idle army, joined her on the floor, and so did Kolovat in time. Both admired her dancing, and Mezannith actually speculated on how akin the skill might be to fighting, which saved Branwyn the better part of a segue. Between them came a wide assortment of well-dressed men, from a couple barely out of their teens to one nearly Lord Rognozi’s age, and a few in between who were quite attractive.

  None held Branwyn’s attention as Zelen did, though. What had already passed between them—not only pleasure, but fighting at each other’s side—made a foundation that raised him far above any other man in the room. While discussing wine with Lady Yansyak or dancing with one of the young guardsmen, even while she kept her attention politely on the subject and the partner, she was aware of Zelen as long as she could see him. When she could manage it without being rude, she scanned the room for dark hair and amber buttons.

  It was later in the evening, after the Rognozis and many of the older guests had departed, that Branwyn had no pressing engagements and saw a clear path. Zelen was standing by one of the long banquet tables at the edges of the room.

  “Dance with me again?” she asked, slipping up to his side.

  “I’d like nothing better.”

  Branwyn believed him, and not only out of vanity. Proof was in the glow in his eyes as he turned toward her and the closeness with which he held her when they danced, not very much more than was customary but enough that she noticed. She doubted she was the only one.

  “I’m not sure assassins are my worry tonight,” she said. “At least five women and two men may simply try to throw me out of a window after this.”

  Zelen laughed, clear and melodious. “You’ll make me blush.”

  “I can try.”

  The hand at her waist tightened.

  “I know you have your mission, and I wouldn’t want to interfere,” Zelen murmured, “and if the setting’s wrong for you I’ll understand, but after this, there are places we could go. It’s almost a tradition.”

  Branwyn drew in a long breath, and even that motion felt sensual, making her aware of the slide of silk against her skin. “I think it’s practically mandatory,” she said, “that I experience the local customs.”

  Chapter 16

  “I could think,” said Branwyn, in a tone of speculative amusement that ran straight from Zelen’s ears to his swelling cock, “that you’ve done this before.”

  Lanterns behind polished glass cast pools of colored light around the gardens, illuminating bare trees, giving color to statuary, and picking out the occasional couple—or group—who weren’t guarded enough in their desire. Zelen had led Branwyn past the blue-tinged rosebushes, which were discreet but hazardous to tender regions, and a spot in back of a hedge where interruptions were frequent. The next trysting place they encountered was in back of a statue portraying the wizard Gerant, one of the heroes from Thyran’s War. The ground there, Zelen recalled, tended to be damp.

  “Knowledge is the most valuable treasure a man can possess, my nurse told me,” he said, as they passed the wizard.

  Branwyn brought Zelen to a dead stop by dropping her hand to the front of his trousers and squeezing the bulge there—lightly, but more than enough to get his attention. “At the moment, I might disagree.”

  “Ah—” Zelen exhaled sharply. “If you’d prefer this place, I’m rapidly becoming very fond of it.”

  Peering up at the statue, Branwyn shook her head with a laugh that Zelen didn’t understand and she didn’t explain. “No,” she said, “I’d rather he wasn’t so close. Lead on.”

  Around a corner, near the back of the palace, yellow light illuminated the marble features of a woman on a horse. Fewer people made the journey back there, and since the horse only had one leg off the ground, the earth behind it had been sheltered from rain. Zelen started toward it, then hesitated. “Do you object to statues as a general rule,” he asked, “or—”

  Branwyn leaned in far enough to kiss his neck. He felt the light imprint of her teeth before she pulled back, and he shivered pleasantly. “No objection at all,” she whispered into his ear.

  * * *

  The night air carried harpsong out from the palace across the gardens, the shoulders Branw
yn gripped were covered in velvet, and Zelen’s fingers brushed over silk as he cupped her breasts. Although they were outside, she thought that she might be having the most high-class assignation of her life.

  It was also shaping up to be one of the most enjoyable ones. Zelen’s mouth and hands were as skilled as they’d been outside of the Rognozis’ house, and if more urgency animated him now, the same was true for her. Deliberate exploration was all well and good, but desire had been building for days, not to mention thwarted several times. Branwyn arched into Zelen’s touch with no particular need for leisure. They could go slowly later.

  Zelen slid his hands into the neckline of her dress—thank the gods that was low—and teased the stiff peaks of her nipples. His breath was quick and hot against her neck, but he never fumbled. As Branwyn moaned and rocked her hips against the ridge of his cock, he deftly stroked, lightly pinched, and managed to pull the dress aside enough to free one breast.

  The sheer hunger on his face was arousing by itself. “Gods,” he said hoarsely, “I could look at you like this all night.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” Branwyn panted. Now that she had room, she began to address his shirt. The buttons were harder to work than the neckline of her gown, but as she captured one, she employed her other hand well, cupping the firm muscle of Zelen’s arse beneath his doublet and pressing him toward her again. “But I’d really rather you took a different path.”

  “All sorts of them,” he said. “Starting with this one.”

  Dropping gracefully to his knees, he closed his mouth around her exposed nipple, and Branwyn went molten with pleasure. She leaned back against the statue’s marble, only managing not to close her eyes with the sheer sensation because the sight of Zelen’s dark head at her breast was too much to pass up. As he used his tongue in warm swirls and little tantalizing flicks, gasps worked their way up her throat, then rapidly became moans, and not subtle ones either.