“I know,” he said, “I just…didn’t know, if that doesn’t sound too idiotic.”
“No.” Branwyn put an arm around his shoulders again. “Some ties are assumed when you work closely enough with another person. Neither of you feel the need to speak of it until you realize the other might not always be there.”
Zelen’s eyes were on a level with hers, and light had begun to come back into them. “The situation’s one you know, hmm?”
“It’s happened a few times. Teachers, comrades-in-arms.” Branwyn hesitated.
Hell, girl, there’s a war on, said Yathana.
“And you,” she finished.
She caught a flash of joy on Zelen’s face, not banishing the shock but lightening it until it was only a shadow, and her own heart lifted in response. Then he wrapped his arms around her and brought his lips to hers, seeking urgently what she gladly gave.
Just as Branwyn leaned in, her mouth opening at the touch of Zelen’s tongue, he pulled back, panting. “You can tell me to stop. I won’t take it amiss… You still have a place here if I’ve misinterpreted—”
“No,” said Branwyn and took him by the shoulders, guiding him back toward her. “You have it exactly right.”
And now I’ll take my leave for a bit.
* * *
Desire was an avalanche this time, abrupt and completely overwhelming.
What intellect Zelen had left recognized the response in part—the body’s way of celebrating survival and releasing tension—but that wasn’t all of it with Branwyn. Kissing her, slipping his hands under her borrowed shirt to fondle her breasts, hearing her breath quicken, he could completely let go. There were occasions for wit and seduction, but this wasn’t one, and it didn’t need to be.
She was as eager as he was, and as ready to be lost in the moment. When Zelen brushed his fingers over her stiff nipples, Branwyn made a sound between a gasp and a growl low in her throat. Her own hands moved quickly, deftly busy with his belt buckle, then the buttons of his trousers. At the pressure of her fingers on his erection, Zelen gasped, thrusting up into her touch, and when she freed his cock, closing her palm around the rigid heat of it, he groaned her name, desperate and broken.
“Yes,” she said, breathless, and started to swing a leg over his lap.
“No.” Zelen was amazed that he’d said it—that he caught her hips and actually postponed their union. He was aching, lust pulsing through every vein, but stronger than that were duty and caring. “Your leg,” he explained.
“Damn my leg.”
“Branwyn,” he managed again, despite her hand stroking up his shaft, then over the head, in a way that made him choke on the second syllable. “Let me…” He nudged at her shoulders, not quite pushing, only offering suggestion and guidance. “This way. If—”
“Ah. Yes.”
Branwyn stretched herself backwards to the bed and pulled Zelen down with her. Her soft breasts nudged up against him, even through the layers of their clothing, her neck curved beneath his mouth, and his erection slid against the junction of her thighs, rubbing against smooth skin and silky hair.
Zelen was sure he spoke then, but what he said didn’t pass anywhere near his brain. It might not have been words. When he slid a hand between them and found her wet and ready, he was sure words didn’t enter into his reaction at all.
Branwyn wrapped her legs around his hips as Zelen guided himself in, and the first thrust made his vision go white around the edges. The heat of her was overwhelming—the hunger—and beyond all else unexpected, the feeling again of solid ground, of sense in a world that made none. He raised his head and looked down, rearing above her.
In all his life, surrounded by art and making an amateur effort at some himself, he’d seen nothing as lovely as Branwyn was at that instant. Her gold hair made a corona around her flushed face and her eyes were wide, showing more black than blue.
Her gaze went straight through Zelen. Every inch of his body flared into almost-unbearable sensation. At the same time he had the feeling that he could let go, that a fall with Branwyn would only be a dive, or even flight.
That was when she started moving, rocking her hips up and back with short, quick motions that spoke of desperate need. Her thighs were tight around Zelen’s, and he could feel her nails digging into his back even through his shirt and doublet. If he hadn’t been clothed, he’d have borne her marks for days. The notion of that aroused him even more.
Against all those things, he couldn’t have controlled himself on his best day, and this was far from that. There was no question of holding back. He was surging to meet her immediately, burying himself in 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 disastr
ous 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 they could get too loud. “She didn’t kill the Rognozis. She and I have discovered who did, and we’ll swear to that. I’d like you to hear the oaths. In return, you’ll swear those that the knight asks of you. They’ll likely want you to keep silent about this for a few days.”
“Of course, my lord,” said Feyher. He looked startled, which Zelen had almost never seen from him, but there was neither hesitation nor question in his answer.
“Will she be staying here, m’lord?” asked Barthani.
“Yes. Do you object?”
“If her word’s good enough for Tinival, it’s good enough for us,” said Idriel.
Zelen nodded his appreciation, then added, “If you hear what we swear to and feel you can’t stay here any longer, I’ll understand. You’ll have a good character and two weeks’ pay.”
They all exchanged glances at that, even Feyher, but there was no time for questions. A quick knock came on the study door, followed by Altien’s voice. “Is everyone prepared?”
“As much as possible,” Zelen said, opening the door.
Altien stepped quickly into the room and to the side, taking up a place by the youngest housemaid. Behind him came Branwyn, as respectable as she could be in bare feet and what all the servants would recognize as Zelen’s clothing, and Lycellias behind her. His silver breastplate shone in the light, and the silver work on the sheath of his sword put Yathana’s ornamentation to shame, more so because it was genuine.
He tilted his head a little when he saw the assembled servants. “Good afternoon to you all,” he said. “I am Lycellias. How many are swearing?”
“Only me,” said Zelen, “and Sentinel Branwyn.”
A third murmur went around the circle. Zelen knew it wouldn’t be the last.
“Well enough. Sit as you feel comfortable.” When Branwyn and Zelen had taken chairs, and Altien and the servants had dispersed themselves as well as they would fit on couches, Lycellias walked over to stand in front of Branwyn. “The lady first,” he said, barely hinting that he recognized the person the city’d spent the last few days searching for. “Do you know how this proceeds?”
“I do.”
Lycellias nodded. One long-fingered hand went to his brow, then out to the east, first two fingers upright and the others folded down. “Tinival, you hear and see past all artifice. Yours is the wind that scours away falsehood, yours the knowledge of justice, yours the eyes that pierce every veil. Grant that I, your servant, may share in your gift, for the good of your world.”
A small breeze blew through the closed study, bringing with it the smell of roses and rain.
The knight touched his fingers lightly to Branwyn’s lips. “Speak your piece to me and to the gods, child of creation.”
Her story left out most of the gory details, but it was bad enough. One of the grooms covered her mouth at the description of Lady Rognozi’s death, and when Branwyn described the demon, the immovable Feyher shuddered. Lycellias himself grew graver and graver as he listened.
“You tell no lies,” he said at the end, “though I could almost wish you did, Sentinel. My temple, and the Healer’s, will have much work to do tonight.”
“More than that, I’m afraid,” said Zelen.
His story, once he’d taken the oath, wasn’t even really a story. “I found Branwyn’s soulsword, with a bloody handprint on it, yesterday,” he began, “behind a bookcase in my family’s country house.” There wasn’t much else to say about that, save to describe the conversation that he’d overheard while he was smuggling Yathana out, and the sword’s secondhand statement about Hanyi. “So,” he finished, “it seems that the rest of my family worship the Traitor. I don’t. I can take further vows along those lines, if that would help.”
“No,” said Lycellias, “that won’t be necessary.” He regarded the servants, who had moved on to looking different versions of stunned. “I’ll take all of your oaths, good people, that you’ll let four days and nights pass before speaking of this matter. After that”—he glanced back to Zelen, Branwyn, and Altien—“the four of us must hold conversation.”
* * *
It was a relief when the oath taking was done, the servants went about their business, and Branwyn was left in the study with Zelen, Altiensarn, and the knight. She was eager to learn what would happen to the Verengirs for the sake of her mission as well as Zelen’s peace of mind. She was also tired of being stared at.
The servants were likely quite nice people, particularly the valet, who’d taken Zelen aside to ask if he was all right, and the cook, who’d given all of them a keen glance and then declared that dinner for four would be ready before very long, assuming none of them minded a simple meal. Branwyn couldn’t even blame them for being curious. Sentinels were rare and strange. A Sentinel who had also been a suspected murderer, but now wasn’t, and had come face-to-face with a greater demon… Yes, Branwyn would likely have stared, and not done half as good a job hiding it as even the younger of the grooms.
Still, they and Lycellias were the first people other than Zelen and Altien she’d seen in days, and their regard was wearying. When the door closed behind the last of them, she was glad to be in a room with only familiar people and the preoccupied knight.
“How many armed guards do you believe your family has?” he asked Zelen, exactly as Branwyn had an hour or so before.
“And what do you estimate their training and disposition to be?”
“A half-dozen professional guards,” said Zelen, seating himself on the couch next to Branwyn. “I’d say they’re about as well trained as any of the patrolmen in the city. Two watch each of the outer doors every night, and when I was growing up, they changed every four hours. The grooms and the coach drivers can likely pick up clubs if they need to, so that’s another half dozen, and Gedomir’s decent with a sword.”
Lycellias, who’d kept his feet, paced as he thought. His armor flashed in the light. For the first time in a while, Branwyn remembered Olvir. The two men were different in almost every way, but they were both knights, and preparing for battle made everyone kin. “And he, as well as at least one of your sisters, is a wizard,” the stonekin went on.
“I’m fairly sure.” Zelen spoke without inflection. “Could easily be all the rest.”
“That could be so,” said Lycellias. “We aren’t without defenses in such matters, but we might do well to involve the Blades. You mentioned that the others are coming to the city in the next few days?”
“For the burnings, yes. It’d look damned odd if they didn’t. Unless they find out what I’ve done with Yathana…” Zelen frowned. “And you know, I think they’d still come and try to brazen it out. Could always claim I’d taken leave of my senses, after all, or misinterpreted matters. They don’t know I’d met up with Branwyn again, or what I overheard.”
“If they do decide otherwise,” Lycellias said, “they won’t meet with clear passage. There’s only one road from your family’s estates, and I sent messages to the Temple just now. It will be blocked.”
“What should we do then?” Branwyn asked.
“Only what you’ve been doing. You’ve given us your knowledge, and the Sentinel has fought one dire foe already. Until the traitors are in our grasp, or that of the Shadow Queen, the duty is ours. But you”—Lycellias turned to Altien, his blue-and-black eyebrows slanting inward—“asked for me by name. Why?”
The Nightborn Page 20