The Nightborn

by Isabel Cooper

  “Right away, sir,” said the valet, glancing past him toward the boy, who was holding his mug like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “Are you sure?”

  “He wouldn’t do this on a prank,” Zelen said, “and if it turns out to be all a misunderstanding, I’d rather look foolish than otherwise. Thank you.”

  He returned to the room.

  “What are you going to do?” Branwyn heard the boy ask.

  “Go and find her, of course. Any bit of information you can give me will help, but not until you’ve drunk at least half that and eaten three bites of the cake. You’ll be more harm than good talking until you get yourself steady. Gods help me, I know that.”

  Branwyn heard the muffled noises of eating and drinking, as well as footsteps. Zelen was pacing, she guessed.

  “When you’ve finished,” he said, “and not before, let’s start with the obvious question. Why did you think I was the one who’d kidnapped Tanya—or all of the missing, going by what you said earlier when you were trying to break my jaw with your head? By the way, old man, excellent effort, but I’d have thrown the tea at me first off, were I in your place.”

  The boy laughed nervously, but almost immediately began. “We were playing before dinner. In an alley. I wasn’t daring her to do nothing dangerous, not after she broke her arm, so we stuck to ground. I was hiding and she was looking for me, that was all. Except she didn’t find me by time, so I headed back to the start…and I saw her. She—” The flow of words sped up and became ragged. “There were two men dragging her into a carriage. One had his hand on her mouth so she couldn’t scream. The other was a man I’d seen before. With you. When you said you were trying to find my brother.”

  * * *

  No wonder we didn’t find a damned thing was Zelen’s first thought.

  His second thought wasn’t really a thought at all. It was pure rage, unfiltered by words. His family was the immediate target, but he himself wasn’t far behind. The connection between the missing children and the demon, not to mention Gedomir’s talk of “expeditions” and “supply,” was obvious in retrospect. If he’d reflected on it more…

  That didn’t matter. The boy—Mitri—was staring at him, waiting for a response. Tanya was in his family’s grasp, waiting for a response as well.

  “Well,” Zelen said, “trying to stab me was basically sound. Just a tad misdirected, and you weren’t to know.” Mitri blinked. “Never mind. I’ve found out a few things about my family recently. This is one more. Finish up the rest of the food. I don’t suppose you’ll wait quietly here while I take care of matters?”

  “Like Sitha’s arse I will!”

  “The right spirit, I must say.” Zelen went to the door again. “Idriel, if—”

  “He’s just coming back,” said Branwyn. “Get me a paper and pen. I’ll write a message to Lycellias while you’re getting dressed and having the horses saddled. I dress very quickly when I need to, and your grooms won’t listen to me quite as well as they will to you. You don’t think she’s in the city, do you?”

  “No,” he said. “They wouldn’t have brought a coach, and”—he glanced over his shoulder at Dimitri, who was staring past him at Branwyn—“the situation’s at the house in the country.”

  Zelen did the math as he turned to retrieve writing implements, calculating how long it would take to get out of the city earlier in the evening and the speed of a laden coach compared to that of fast horses. “We might make it,” he said quietly, handing parchment and pen to Branwyn, “but not if we wait for others—not even if they act at once.”

  Human sacrifice required specific times, didn’t it? Or was that merely a device of plays, which said that all murders must take place at midnight, preferably in thunderstorms? Zelen could only hope that the truth was in their favor, but he couldn’t count on it.

  “I know,” said Branwyn. She was writing quickly, steadying the paper against the wall and covering both wall and wrist with ink as a result. “Twelve guards might be a problem, even for both of us, and magic will be worse.”

  Idriel came back down the hall then, the two grooms trailing behind him. Zelen considered them as possible allies, then rejected the notion. Lena was strapping enough, and Jander nimble, but they had no real training in armed combat. They might have done for hunting down a few criminals, but he couldn’t in good conscience take them up against the guards of Verengir, let alone whatever magical tricks Hanyi might pull.

  “I’ll need Brandy and Jester ready to ride as soon as you can get them saddled,” he told the grooms. “Idriel, take this to Tinival’s temple as fast as you can.” Zelen passed over the folded message as soon as Branwyn handed it to him. “And bring the boy along. He’s an important witness.”

  That would make Dimitri less trouble, gods willing.

  He took Idriel’s armload—tunic, trousers, boots, and belt, complete with sword—and began changing then and there.

  “Come along, lady,” said Lena to Branwyn. “There’s a set of my clothes that’ll fit you.”

  Zelen only realized then that he’d either been expecting Branwyn to have clothing ready or to go fight armed men while wearing his dressing gown. He would have been embarrassed about that oversight as well, except that he had every confidence she could have done exactly that and triumphed under most circumstances.

  * * *

  “You’ve got two guards on the front,” Branwyn said, swinging up onto the roan mare that Lena had provided for her and looking to Zelen on his brown gelding, “and two at…what, the servants’ entrance?”

  “Outside the stable building, yes.”

  “Any chance we can catch the carriage and waylay that?”

  “Not much. Might catch them as they arrive.”

  “Tactically sticky.”

  Zelen, who knew the city better than Branwyn, nudged his horse into the rapid start that the young animal seemed eager for, and they were off as fast as they could go. Heliodar’s streets slowed them down, though, so they made plans while the horses jogged.

  “Could take two, even four guards on my own,” Branwyn said. “Would have to leave the horses and sneak up, I’m guessing. Or they’d all be ready.”

  “Right.” Zelen turned down an unexpected alley, and his words came back to her as they rode single file in the narrow gap between the houses. “Hoping some will have left for the city already, but can’t count on it.”

  Half of the force waiting for them wouldn’t be professional, and most of them wouldn’t have seen a Sentinel. That might help. The grooms and footmen—maybe the guards as well—might break and run when she turned metal. It had happened before.

  On the other side of the scales, the Verengirs had at least one wizard, maybe more, and maybe a demon. The possibilities were too wild to predict—and then there was the chance that, if pressed, the traitors would slit Tanya’s throat then and there.

  Only way a hostage situation can get worse, Yathana agreed. Bring the bloody mages into it.

  “I’d love a distraction,” Branwyn said. “Fire, maybe?”

  “Too wet to burn well.”

  They emerged from the alley practically at one of Heliodar’s lesser gates and slowed as the lone watchman there came forward to peer at them. “Name and business?”

  He was young and alone, but the halberd he held was sturdy, and Branwyn didn’t doubt that he had a companion with a crossbow covering him from a nearby building.

  “Zelen Verengir,” said Zelen, holding up the hand with his signet ring on it. “Urgent family matter.”

  The guard didn’t even examine Branwyn closely enough to make out her form under the cloak or her face under the hood. “Gods speed you, m’lord,” he said, and stepped aside.

  Amris would have had the man mending armor and chopping wood for a month for that, Branwyn thought, but Amris was commanding on the front lines, not in a rank-b
ound city. She followed Zelen through the gates and then drew alongside him on the narrow road beyond.

  “You know,” he said, “I have a notion of how we might do this.”

  Part III

  Call: Who are the children of Sitha and Poram?

  Response: They are three.

  Eldest is Letar, the Queen of Shadows, lady of desire and death, healing and vengeance. With her, the elder gods gave mortals the gift of fire.

  Second is Gizath, the Traitor, the Forger of Chains. Once he ruled over the ties between all things. Now he is the enemy of creation.

  Youngest is Tinival, the Silver Wind, the Lord of the Scales. He holds in his hands true justice, that to which high and low alike have a right—and that which low and high alike should fear.

  —Litany of Sitha, Part IV

  The question remaining is this: Where did Thyran get his knowledge? We grant that the slaughter of his household sealed his pact with Gizath. A chance does exist that he acted simply in murderous rage and that the blood so spilled weakened the Veil of Fire enough to allow a direct connection or a demonic intrusion. It’s far more likely that he knew precisely what he was contacting. That suggests a teacher. And that in eighty years, we haven’t identified a likely candidate for the role…that worries me greatly.

  —Letter from the Blade Caden to his superiors

  Chapter 34

  Rain started falling again as they were riding away from the city. It wasn’t a hard downpour, but the wind blew it past hoods and it kept the ground too wet to really push the horses. Zelen bent low over Jester’s back, wiped his brow with his sleeve until the skin chafed, and did his best to remind himself that they’d be later yet if an all-out gallop turned into a broken leg.

  Even the comfort of having Branwyn beside him, an anonymous shape in the darkness but one he could have picked instantly out of a crowd, was mixed. He was taking her into danger, not two days since she’d been unable to stand on both feet for more than a few minutes. Zelen’s mind could repeat endlessly that she was fully healed now, that a Sentinel was worth any four or five normal warriors, and that Branwyn had thrown in with the plan before he’d so much as hinted at her coming along.

  His gut, and his heart, were having none of it.

  The darkness was full of demons and magic, evil sorcerers wearing familiar faces, and foul pictures from his imagination and memory both. He remembered Branwyn lying huddled in the alley and knew too well that her powers didn’t protect her against all threats. He considered how fragile the human body was, especially a child’s, and thought of all the methods of human sacrifice he’d heard of in lurid tales.

  Zelen also thought of Hanyi, who’d occasionally looked the other way when she’d caught him sneaking back into the house, or brought him hot drinks when he was sick in bed, and who summoned demons now. No such memories of Gedomir came to mind. Perversely, that was itself painful—the man was his brother, and if there was nothing to mourn for on finding out where his allegiances lay, Zelen couldn’t believe the fault was all on one side.

  He wasn’t divinely inspired. He hadn’t preternaturally sensed that Gedomir worshipped the Traitor. They’d just never liked each other, and Zelen had never had quite enough family feeling to overcome that.

  The ride would’ve taken forever, even if they hadn’t been in a hurry.

  No lights shone from the house’s windows. It was a great black hulk in the darkness. Fans of white magelight shone from either side of the doors, though, giving the guards a good view of the road.

  Shortly before they’d come into view, they reined in the horses. Branwyn came close enough to lay a hand on Zelen’s arm and bent toward him, talking as softly as she could manage while making sure he could still hear her over the rain. “I’ll be as quiet as I can, but I’m not a Blade, and I’ll be noticed eventually. Be prepared.”

  “I will,” he said. “Come back to me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He kissed her with the rain falling around them, her lips the only warm part of the world. He couldn’t take her in his arms because of the horses, and they couldn’t linger.

  Letar, he prayed as she turned Brandy away from the road, you lost your lover to your brother’s evil. Have mercy on me.

  Then he rode hell-for-leather, or as close to it as the mud and any consideration for Jester would let him, toward the house. The hood of his cloak fell back, and the rain lashed his face, but Zelen didn’t bother to pull it up.

  He knew full well how he appeared as he crossed the edge of the magelight. The cloak was black, his hair black and straggling now that it was soaked, his eyes dark in a face that was pale by comparison. With Jester equally dark and wet, the pair of them could have come from a scene from a ballad about highwaymen.

  The men who stood guard in the nighttime, wielding axes and spears, were not romantic figures. They stepped forward in challenge before recognition dawned.

  “My lord Zelen?” asked Kostan.

  “I need to speak with my brother at once,” he said, trying to sound as arrogant as Gedomir ever had. “Is my family still here?”

  “Some, sir,” Otto replied. He was older and hadn’t come to “help” Zelen in his search for Dimitri’s brother. “Your lord father and lady mother have left for the city, as has your elder sister. The others depart tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Zelen lied, and swung down to the wet ground. “Give my horse to one of the grooms and see that he’s well tended. I’ve ridden hard tonight, and I may have to do as much tomorrow.”

  All but the most dedicated men, when told to leave what shelter they had and take care of a wet and likely out-of-temper horse, would hesitate. Verengir’s guards were mercenaries, not knights or Blades, and not the best of them at that. The long glance between them spoke of a complicated negotiation of seniority, favors, and potential blackmail, one that Zelen would’ve found deeply funny under other circumstances.

  “It’ll be done, sir,” said Otto, and took the reins.

  That would occupy his attention and then at least one groom’s. If Zelen and Branwyn were lucky, that groom might not be in a good mood on being woken. An argument would be a fine thing. Kostan, the lone guard left at the front, would be less likely to go investigate mysterious noises, or even respond to yelling.

  So far, so good. Zelen strode up to the doors and hammered on them. After six hard blows, he heard quick footsteps and muffled swearing from the hall beyond.

  Now he just had to make a scene.

  * * *

  There was a great deal to be said against the Verengirs. They were certainly traitors and, given the missing children, likely murderers as well. What little Branwyn had heard about the way they treated Zelen made her furious, even with her own limited experience of normal families, and at least one of them wrote excessively pretentious ritual notes.

  They did let trees grow fairly near the wings of their house. Branwyn considered it a significant point in their favor.

  She admitted that few people without a Sentinel’s gifts or other inhuman enhancements would have been able to perch in the highest branches of the ash tree nearest a second-story window. Fewer still would’ve been able to throw rocks from that position hard enough, and with enough accuracy, to take out the wooden separation between the panes and then the leaded glass itself. Branwyn did it in three throws, then leapt, grabbed the sill, and pulled herself in. Glass scraped her fingers and her back, but she’d had far worse injuries.

  One day, Yathana observed, you’ve got to stop jumping through windows.

  “I’m not jumping, I’m climbing,” Branwyn whispered, “and I’d love to. Furthermore, you’re the reason I can’t go in the normal way, you know.”

  They’d thought about trying to bring Branwyn in as Zelen’s “captive,” the reason he’d come back in such a hurry, but there’d be no way to keep Yathana with her, and the soulsword
gave her too many advantages to risk for the deception. Once Zelen had said his family likely conducted their rites in one of the disused wings, the window had struck her as the best choice. Branwyn could have wished for a quieter way, but perhaps distance and rain would be on her side.

  She’d landed in a room without distinguishing features. It had likely been a bedroom, and the windows suggested it had housed family or guests, not servants, but the furniture had been moved out long ago. Now it was dustless but anonymous, only a dark square of walls and floorboard.

  There was no obvious threat there either. Nothing any of the five senses could detect seemed off. The room was as bare of skulls or the smell of old blood as it was of furnishings. All the same, Branwyn felt her stomach start to coil, and a sour taste crept up the back of her throat. It might have been her mind, since she had a broad idea of what happened in the house, but she’d learned to trust her instincts, all the more so since the night at the Rognozis.

  Deathmistress, give us a good ending, said Yathana. If a sword had a stomach, she would have been three seconds from losing an entire week’s worth of meals. This is what I sensed all along.

  “It’s not just me then,” whispered Branwyn, drawing the sword slowly.

  If you feel like the entire building is made out of flyblown meat, then no, it’s not just you. Gods, how long have… How did we…

  “I know,” Branwyn said, “but speed is of the essence here.”

  Yes. The sword-spirit gathered herself together. Sorry, girl. I should be able to guide you to the worst of it, at any rate. That’s probably where they’re keeping the kid.

  “Silver lining, I suppose.”

  Branwyn opened the door slowly, which didn’t keep it from creaking, and stepped carefully out into a dark hallway. The walls held brackets, but no torches, and they were bare of any ornament that might provide either color or warmth.