“We didn’t quite get to explaining this,” said Altien to Zelen, and produced the folded sheaf of notes that Branwyn had found.
The story was simple there as well, though it baffled Zelen when he heard it. “Judging by the date, R would’ve been Roslina, my aunt. She died when I was three. A number of the family did—there was a fire in one of the old wings. All damned suspicious now, of course, but I’ve no idea exactly what I should be suspecting.”
“I do, somewhat,” said the knight, and moved from the window to perch on one of the chairs. He sat lightly—even in plate mail, the stonekin couldn’t really sit any other way—but he passed a hand over his brow wearily before he began. “The story is old, mark you, and not one that I have ever heard as other than a legend, but in simple terms it is this: when the Traitor killed his sister’s beloved, out of spite and pride and unbrotherly jealousy, a piece of his essence split. There are tales that say it fell to the ground, unnoticed, when he struck the blow, and those that have it cut off by Lethiannar later, in the greatest of battles. One seems as likely as the other.”
“And my family was trying to incarnate it,” said Zelen. “Why? What would that…fragment…be, really?”
“That, too, depends on the story. It could be the power Gazathar needs to reach his full might, in which case he might be able to treat the Veil of Fire as a courtesy and manifest fully in this world. It could be all that was still good in him—the god he once was, and still could have been, up until his final decision. Or it could simply be power, and the one who took that into themselves would make Thyran look like a child kicking over toy blocks.”
They sat silent, contemplating that possibility, as night came on outside.
Chapter 32
Despite everything, they managed a decent dinner. Barthani served up spiced rice cooked with sausage and squash, and dried fruit in syrup to follow—as simple as they’d promised, but a satisfying meal all the same—and Feyher brought around a hearty red wine with it. Zelen enjoyed it but didn’t drink much, mindful of the earlier brandy.
Thus fortified, though, they turned the conversation to relatively lighter matters. Branwyn told funny stories from her travels, including one about overhearing an arguing couple in a shoddy inn.
“…and as I was lying there right on the other side of the wall, she threw the water jug across the room and yelled ‘How many times must you stab me in the heart, Brendan?’ I felt my professional opinion was relevant at that point, so I called back: ‘If it takes more than one, get a priest!’ They were quieter after that.”
Lycellias compared notes with her about their early training and mentioned that the blue streaks in his hair were how he’d known that his destiny lay with the gods. “It’s ever been so among my people,” he’d explained, when the other three looked curious. “Blue for the divine, red for a warrior’s life—though I admit there’s some common ground there—white for magic or scholarship, green for hunting or farming, and so on.”
“It would make missions like mine difficult,” Branwyn said, “but then, so does the Forging for most of us,” and she pulled back one sleeve to display her wrist.
The evening went on in that fashion, and while the darkness gathered beyond the windows and the rain pattered against the glass, the room was warm and bright. For a few minutes at a time, Zelen managed to forget what he’d learned over the last few days and what still lay ahead.
Lycellias was the first to leave, headed back to his temple with a bow and a return to his solemn demeanor of the afternoon. “Be sure that I’ll send word of any developments,” he said.
Not much later, Altien departed. “You both should make an early night of it. And, Zelen, if you’d rather—”
“I’ll be at the clinic tomorrow,” Zelen said, “as usual.”
“It seems rather pointless to argue. Get some sleep, then.”
Sleep did sound like a wise idea, but Altien’s departure left Zelen alone with Branwyn, standing next to her in the hall and noticing how much better she looked in his clothing than he’d ever done. Her hair fell loosely over the shoulders of his shirt, which clung to her breasts in a most diverting way, and the firm curves of her hips and thighs greatly enhanced his trousers.
“Ah,” he said, suddenly uncertain how to start when before he’d simply acted.
“Your valet mentioned a bath to me before we came in to dinner,” said Branwyn, “and I believe I’ll take him up on that. Afterward, um.” She didn’t look away, but Zelen could tell that she wanted to, and was surprised by her reticence until she spoke again. “I don’t want to impose, but if you’d… I’d rather not sleep alone, if you’re inclined toward company. I understand if not. It’s been a day.”
“It has,” said Zelen. He took both of her hands in his and kissed her gently. “And I believe my bed would feel empty without you there, since you mention it. We can even actually sleep, if you’d rather.”
She chuckled, self-assured once more. “Eventually,” Branwyn said, with a gleam in her eye that took his breath away.
* * *
You’ve chosen well, said Yathana, as Branwyn was scrubbing away the last traces of her wounds.
“Thank you, but it wasn’t only my choice.” She sank down in the tub and groaned with satisfaction. Quarters were a little more cramped than in the bathhouses she’d been used to, but she had the basin to herself—and a full bath for the first time since she’d woken up in the alley. “Given the circumstances, it might even have been his wretched family’s doing.”
They didn’t ask him to seduce you.
“He didn’t.”
There you are then, Yathana said.
“I’m not sure what you mean, but I’ve missed you.” Branwyn hesitated. “If you’d rather stay around, we really can sleep. I’ll let him know.”
Don’t be an idiot. I’ll be here when you’re done, and you’re not likely to have many chances like this once you go back on the road, you know.
“I know,” said Branwyn. It was another matter she preferred not to give very much thought. “And thank you.”
She took Yathana’s physical form with her regardless, caring little for how she looked carrying the sword while wrapped in one of Zelen’s velvet dressing gowns. The servants knew what she was, and despite the wards, Branwyn didn’t want to take chances.
Then, too, she was oddly nervous as she approached Zelen’s room, just as she’d been in the hall. Falling asleep by chance next to a lover was no new experience, though it hadn’t been terribly common for her, but deliberately choosing to spend the night was a different matter entirely. It was good to feel the weight of Yathana, to be reminded of who and what she was, of what she’d done and mastered and was capable of now.
She pushed open the door to find Zelen sitting on his bed, wet hair and dressing gown a mirror to hers, though he wore plum-colored velvet rather than her black. He looked up from his book, and the welcome on his face banished Branwyn’s nerves instantly.
“The robe suits you,” he said, “and I should’ve offered it before. My apologies.”
“No need. You had a number of things on your mind.” She laid Yathana down gently by the door. “It’s very comfortable,” Branwyn added, crossing the room until she stood by the bed, only a few inches from Zelen, “but I admit I don’t plan to wear it very long tonight.”
His gaze, already intent, sharpened further as he looked up the line of her frame. “I’d better be a gentleman then,” he said, reaching for the knot in her sash, “and help you with that.”
Kissing him didn’t make the untying process easier, but Branwyn did it regardless, gently tangling her hands in his hair as she bent toward him. It was languid at first, teasing, and the distance between their bodies became pleasurably frustrating as Zelen worked at the knot. Branwyn caught his oaths in her mouth, and his short cry of triumph when the sash parted as well.
&n
bsp; She pulled back reluctantly so that Zelen could push the robe off her shoulders. The path his hands took tingled in their wake. Branwyn felt no cold when she finally stood naked, especially not when she saw the light in Zelen’s eyes.
“Gods, you’re perfect,” he breathed.
“Thank you,” she said, without enough modesty to argue the point. It wasn’t objectively true—but perfect for Zelen was the only sort Branwyn was interested in being just then. She placed her hand in his and let him pull her onto the bed.
Even there he was careful, not only watching the way her breasts bobbed or her thighs flexed, but studying her face, alert for signs that her injuries still pained her. Stretching herself out beside him, Branwyn smiled at his concern and stroked his cheek before kissing him again.
This time she could try and melt into him, bare breasts crushing the plush fabric of his robe, arse tense in his cupped hands, the ridge of his arousal hard against her thigh. For a while, Branwyn held mostly still, letting the sensations spiral outward to run through her whole frame, learning Zelen’s body as she’d never the chance to do before.
Then she pushed him away. He retreated promptly, though with a curious expression that verged on worried until Branwyn sat up and started undoing his robe. “You should hold still for a while,” she told him, slipping her hand down from the undone sash to trace over the substantial tent in the fabric.
“That’ll be a challenge,” he half gasped.
“Yes, but you enjoy those.” Branwyn parted the robe and sat back, taking in the view.
It was a magnificent one. Zelen was all lithe firmness, long and compact and without a spare inch of flesh. His chest was thickly covered with dark hair, which became a narrow trail, crisp under Branwyn’s trailing fingers while the muscles beneath tensed and Zelen made a choked noise. She followed it down to the point where it widened, becoming a backdrop to the erection that arched, straining and flushed red, to almost meet his flat stomach.
She didn’t touch that yet. Branwyn let her hands wander instead, stroking up Zelen’s chest and making small circles over his nipples, then down over his thighs, in, and up—but not too far.
The way he looked, fighting not to writhe or grab for her, was a caress in itself. The way he groaned as her fingers approached the top of his thighs was another. When Branwyn finally did wrap her fingers around his cock, lightly squeezing the hot, hard shaft, Zelen said her name in a breathless plea that went straight between her legs.
“That’s me,” she said, and bent, touching her tongue to the head, licking at the moisture there, and finally taking his cock into her mouth.
For a while Branwyn teased him, pulling away whenever Zelen got too tense, her hands firm on his thighs while her lips and tongue were busy. Her hair fell around them. Branwyn felt it brushing her breasts as she moved, adding to her excitement, just as she was a thousand times more aware than normal of the feel of the coverlet against her wet center when she shifted position.
“Branwyn,” Zelen said again, deeper than before and even more ragged. “Please—”
She lifted her head. “You could mean two things by that,” she said, meeting his wild eyes. “Which one would you prefer?”
“Cruel woman,” said Zelen. “Come back here, I think. I want you with me this time.”
“On account then,” said Branwyn, and gave his erection one lingering swirl of her tongue around the head before sliding up beside Zelen.
He turned on his side to meet her, kissing her deeply while he parted her legs with one hand, stroking her aching sex until Branwyn was squirming against him, showing as little hurry as she’d done with him. Then, when she was arching her back and moaning, Zelen guided her good leg over his hips and slid inside her.
It felt even better than it had before, and that without even the fuel of pent-up fear and grief. This was pure pleasure, delight in each other, with no urgency save what gradually built between them as they rocked in rhythm.
“I could stay here for a year or two,” she said, even as Zelen’s fingers on her nipples were quickening her pulse.
“Medically unwise,” he said, the words hot against her earlobe, “but I’d do it with you regardless.”
And Branwyn laughed and let herself flow toward him: toward his touch, toward the pleasure of his cock thrusting deep inside her, and in due course, toward a climax as overwhelming and as inevitable as the summer sun at midday. She basked in it, and in Zelen’s answering release, rejoicing in every line of his arching body and every pulse of heat inside her.
Eventually, in the morning, the rest of the world would exist again. It could take its damn time.
Chapter 33
“Sir.”
Idriel’s voice was quiet but insistent, reaching through exhaustion and satiation both. Zelen’s instinct was still to ignore it. The bed was soft. He felt less dead than he had on his return to the city, but he wasn’t ready to bound out and greet the day yet. Moreover, Branwyn was tucked neatly against his side, her breath light on his neck. If he was going to rise for any reason, it would be because of her, and in the more anatomical sense.
But a matter that sent Idriel in to wake him, especially when Zelen had company, was not trivial. Events of the last few days made it even more likely to be urgent. Zelen opened his eyes and grunted.
It wasn’t dawn yet. Idriel carried a candle rather than activating the magical lights, and the flame picked out shadows in his craggy, lined face. “Sir,” he said, seeing Zelen awake, “we’ve caught a boy breaking into the house.”
“Lgh.”
“He was armed, sir, if you can call it that, and seems to be seeking other children. I wondered if you wanted to speak with him before I summon the guards.”
“Oh gods,” said Zelen, managing actual words with considerable effort, “what’s happened now? Yes, put him in the study and give him a hot drink and a tea cake. I’ll be in directly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why in the world,” Branwyn muttered as Idriel closed the door, “would you have one child here, much less a number?” She slid away to let Zelen get up.
“I’ve no idea. I helped look for that one earlier. Maybe the boy came to ask for my aid again? Or demand it, given how he arrived.”
“Or he suspects you, though I don’t know why he would.” Branwyn sat up, lithe in the moonlight, and swung her long legs over the side of the bed.
“You should stay here,” said Zelen, wrapping his robe around him. “Not that I wouldn’t be glad of your company, but it’d likely make the conversation more tricky, so there’s no reason you have to get up.”
“You never know,” she said. “Two sets of ears—three in this case—can pick up on details that one might miss. I won’t come in, but I’ll lurk outside and listen, unless you object.”
“Not at all.”
Only two of the servants were awake at that hour, which proved to be four after midnight: Idriel and the maid who’d collared the boy as he’d broken in through the kitchen. She clearly noticed Branwyn’s presence, and the fact that she was wearing Zelen’s robe, but showed neither surprise nor any other emotion. Their sleeping arrangements, Zelen reflected, were probably no secret, and other events had taken their place as the latest excitement.
He left both of them and Branwyn behind at the study door and slipped past it without letting the boy who sat on the couch see who was in the hall.
The boy was rigid, the tea and cake untouched before him. Zelen thought he was between eight and twelve, but poverty made that hard to tell, as did the boy’s too-large black clothing and the soot he’d smeared liberally on his face and neck. Either Idriel or the maid had scrubbed him as best they could before sending him into the study, but mortal power only went so far.
“You bastard!” He was on his feet as soon as he recognized Zelen, then running forward headfirst with tiny fists upraised. “You
lying son of a whore, you—”
Zelen caught him by the shoulders, breaking the charge. The force as the boy struggled spoke of his desperation, but even his flailing arms couldn’t do much damage. “Easy now. I don’t doubt you’ve got a good reason for thinking I’m everything you claim, but I swear I haven’t knowingly hurt anybody. Tell me what’s wrong, and let’s see if we can’t sort it out.”
The flood of expletives cut off. The boy froze, staring at Zelen as tears of rage made cleaner lines down his cheeks. “Sort it out? Like you did before? With my brother, Jaron, and Cynric, and pretending to help us? Acting like you were a friend to our sort, like—” He choked off whatever he was going to say next and lunged for Zelen again. “Where’s Tanya, you godsdamn liar?”
* * *
Branwyn didn’t know who the boy was talking about. Her mind immediately leapt to the child who’d found her in the alley, but she couldn’t trust her judgment on that. There were more than a few street urchins in the city. The disappearance of one might have nothing to do with another’s inclination to help strange wounded women.
She kept listening, not bothering to hide that fact. The valet had waved the maid back to her bed and was standing a discreet, or plausibly deniable, distance from the door. Branwyn had tried to wave him back in turn, but he’d simply shaken his head. Branwyn couldn’t blame him. Oath or not, she was an unknown quantity with a sword.
There was silence for a while, and Branwyn’s lesser gift enabled her to truly know that it was silence, not whispering.
Likely Tanya’s name took your boy by shock, said Yathana, and likely the child observed as much. Wasn’t what he was expecting. Children like that get good at reading people.
“I don’t know,” Zelen eventually said. “I had no idea she was gone until you spoke. I’ll take any oath you want on that, in front of any priest you want.”
“You… But…she…” The torrent of rage had turned into confusion and despair.
“Sit down, won’t you? Have a sip of that tea and a bite to eat.” Branwyn heard footsteps, then Zelen opened the door a crack. “Bran—Oh, Idriel, good. Get me clothes and a sword, would you? And rouse Jander and Lena. This might take a bit of force.”
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