The Nightborn

by Isabel Cooper

  Zelen tugged her backwards, his breath hot in her ear. “Careful! That place is even worse than this house, hard as that is to imagine.”

  “Thank you,” said Branwyn. She couldn’t let herself rest against him, much as she would’ve liked to, but snapped her eyes open and shook the demon’s gore off Yathana. “We should move back more.”

  “Why—oh.” A few more stones had fallen into the hole in the world, eaten away by the power there. “Silly me. I’d assumed it would close when the demon died.”

  “I doubt if it’s really dead, just licking its wounds. Discouraged if we’re lucky. But it didn’t make the hole; it was only first in line. I hope the next one will be smaller.”

  “What’s our task then?” he asked, as steady as any comrade-in-arms she’d ever had.

  Branwyn wished she had better news.

  “The knights should get here eventually, particularly if we don’t return for a while,” she said. The tip of a dead-white tendril wavered above the rift, not out enough to strike yet. “They’ll bring one of Letar’s priests if they have any sense. Mourners and Blades both know how to fix these rips. The longer we hold out, the easier they’ll find their job.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “We all die one day,” said Zelen. “You’re the best company I could’ve hoped for.”

  She blinked away tears—clear vision was important—and smiled. “Love and death, hmm? You’d have done the Dark Lady proud, from what I can tell thirdhand.”

  Other tendrils were winding their way to the rift’s edge now, wide but oddly flat in the same way that the demons at the ball had been. Finding her balance again in the few seconds they had, Branwyn suddenly heard Yathana.

  Switch weapons, said the sword, faint but distinct. Quickly. There might still be time.

  Chapter 40

  Zelen didn’t catch the words, but the sense of what Yathana was saying filled his mind. He switched his grip so that he could offer Branwyn his sword hilt-first, and took the soulsword in return.

  All swords were different in small ways, matters of weight and balance. Yathana was as unlike them as one of the knights’ great warhorses was unlike Jester, and Zelen couldn’t have reduced the difference to one physical aspect. Like the steeds, she gave off an overwhelming feeling of being able to destroy without effort, even completely by accident. He had a second to wonder if the Sentinels ever sparred using their swords, and if so, how any of them survived.

  Then the voice was in his head again, still with the sense of shouting from a long way off or over other noise.

  Are you still hers?

  In shock, he looked to Branwyn, utterly confused that the sword would pick that moment to ask about their affairs, and that either Yathana or Branwyn would have chosen the language of possession.

  You didn’t have the choice. Now you do. Are you hers? The sword went on, and as the white things crawled over the rim of the pit, Zelen realized that he’d heard the pronoun wrong: not hers but Hers. No mortal woman, not even Branwyn, was the subject of discussion here.

  Once he’d worked that out, the answer was easy. “Of course.”

  Say your full name. Hold on as well as you can.

  Not understanding, not needing to understand, Zelen began, “Zelen Sienatav Catalzin Verengir—” and it felt as though he should go on, say more, but first there was no more to say and then there was no him to say it with.

  It was as though Yathana had pulled aside a set of drapes, spilling radiant midday light into the dark room that had been Zelen’s entire being. The speck that remained of his consciousness cringed, but marveled too: pain was only a small part of what he sensed, even of the fraction that any mortal could have put into words.

  There was a presence and a pattern.

  They emerged from each other and became each other again. Maybe they were never different. Was a flame different from the fire?

  They were flame and fire. They were blood, tears, seed, and sweat, purification and destruction and birth, all the tides of rage and pain and desire that ran bone-deep in most mortal life.

  Letar was the name he knew. Any name or gender seemed inadequate in the face of that flood, though—a lantern to contain a midsummer bonfire—even if the being overwhelming him had once put on both. There were traces of that self in the presence, as there were flashes of the features Zelen had seen on stained-glass windows, but traces were all they were.

  The pattern was all that lived, from Branwyn to the moss on the outside of the wall to a scuttling creature far beneath the ocean. Zelen couldn’t approach that understanding, but he sensed for a second the depth of the god’s knowledge. It encompassed all lives—their choices, their changes, their deaths, all winding around one another and shaping each other, even from leagues and years away.

  There was a beauty to that pattern that would’ve blinded any mortal. There was, within and around Zelen, an utterly shattering love for that creation and each part of it, for every bit of life that did the best it could in its own way and thus took part in the great, ever-shifting splendor of the world. The god could only make a few adjustments, minor in the scheme of things, but they did what they could to heal, to protect, and to shelter at the end. They always, eternally, loved.

  With that love came hatred, unbounded and implacable, for whatever would harm any part of that creation—whether a segment that turned against the whole or a force from outside. Life could make many choices. Most balanced. Some did not. Some splintered the beings who’d made them, destroyed their better selves, and rotted their surroundings. For those decisions, for those threats, there was no mercy.

  In that awareness, Gedomir and Hanyi were scabbed wounds, loathsome but already closing.

  The rift was different. The rift was abomination.

  The god didn’t use Zelen’s vision to view it. He doubted his eyes could’ve handled such use. Instead he was an anchor, an opening, a lens. He felt awareness move through him, or around him, in the direction of the pit, and knew the dim echo of anger that could split the world in half.

  If there had been words, they would’ve been in a voice like the crackle of flames and the gush of blood, even-toned but with each syllable carrying a mountain of hatred.

  That should not be would have been the closest a mortal could come.

  It was speech, thought, and action all at once.

  * * *

  The rift wavered.

  Branwyn wasn’t sure what that meant. Her initial response was to take a step back and raise her sword, or Zelen’s sword—not Yathana, but a decent blade for all that—in case the hole was growing again. She nearly grabbed Zelen’s shoulder to pull him backwards as well.

  A finger’s width away, her hand stopped, as if she’d reached unknowingly for new-forged steel and felt the heat. This sensation wasn’t quite heat, though, or pain. Branwyn couldn’t name it. She knew it was nothing to meddle with.

  The tendrils acted then. One whipped down toward Branwyn, while another lashed at Zelen’s head. Branwyn lunged, striking the white filament out of the air in front of Zelen. It fell smoking to the floor. The other one snapped across her right shoulder and down her side, leaving a long trail of stinging venom.

  She choked off a scream, wanting neither to distract Zelen nor to give the creatures in the pit any satisfaction.

  In pain, she reverted to the routines she’d practiced: strike and retreat. Branwyn’s weight fell back onto her rear foot, her shoulders rose, and she turned again to the rift, ready for the next enemy to emerge.

  The hole in the world was shrinking.

  Gray-orange light above a small part of the rift lost the gray. The orange then deepened to red, then winked out, leaving solid stone behind it. The change spread from there, one patch of radiance shifting and shrinking at a time, forcing the remaining tendrils backwards,
closing the gap.

  She dared to glance at Zelen for more than the second she’d spared to establish his whereabouts before. He was standing perfectly still, holding Yathana before him in a trembling grip, although he was more than strong enough for the sword’s weight.

  A faint glow came from the opal in the hilt. At first Branwyn thought it was reflected in Zelen’s eyes, but when she looked closer, she saw it was no mere reflection. His dark irises gleamed with sparks, like the night air above a campfire.

  That light felt a thousand times better than the other: where Gizath’s power had left Branwyn nauseous, viewing the brighter radiance stiffened her back and put new life into her weary muscles. She sensed that watching too long would be a bad idea, though. There was a difference between warming her hands at a fire and sticking them into the flame—and the power coming off of Zelen was a conflagration.

  It wasn’t familiar, exactly. Still, Branwyn hadn’t been reforged or spent years with Yathana for nothing. She raised her sword in a salute.

  The Deathmistress wouldn’t want her to kneel, then.

  It seemed as though the rift closed slowly, while Branwyn kept an eye on it, but she knew not how much time passed. The tendrils retreated, back, then below the surface. That surface rippled, red light flowing and swirling around the gray-orange patches. Branwyn saw Zelen clench his jaw, the muscles in his arms standing out as he gripped Yathana’s hilt.

  She wanted to embrace him, but she suspected that would be a distraction—and thus a disaster—rather than a source of strength. It was always a delicate balance when mortals dealt with the gods. Without knowing precisely what another weight on the scales would do, it was far better not to risk it.

  The pit closed inch by inch, the orange light struggling with the red but always pushed into a smaller and smaller space, until finally Branwyn heard a cheated, bubbling roar and Letar’s power lit the room like a sunset. Green and pink specks danced in front of Branwyn’s vision when it faded, but through them she saw smooth rock where the rift had been.

  She let her sword fall at that instant, ignoring all the irate shouting of past teachers, and spun sideways with a speed she hadn’t known she was still capable of. Before Zelen had done more than sag to his knees, she was down on the ground beside him, one arm around his shoulders and the other catching Yathana as his grip loosened.

  Red specks still shone in his eyes when he looked up at her. Those eyes were practically the only color in his face: he’d gone the shade of old parchment. “Thank you,” he said, and smiled, utterly weary and completely serene. “That was a very timely loan.”

  Chapter 41

  For a very little while, Zelen had all he could imagine wanting, partly because he was too tired to imagine much. The demon was gone, the rift was sealed, and Branwyn’s arm was tight around him. He could’ve stayed there for quite a while, given a chance. He let himself indulge for a few heartbeats.

  Letar had vanished with the rift, which was just as well for Zelen’s capacity to live as any sort of thinking being. The world had mostly taken on its normal proportions again. A shade of Her—the name and pronouns came back now, out of habit, though they’d never fit quite as well again—lingered in the back of his mind, though. Perhaps it always would—perhaps that was how devotion worked. He’d have to ask the priests.

  Yathana had gone silent. That didn’t worry him, and not only because Branwyn acted calm. Zelen could feel part of the soul still residing in the fire opal. His wounds hurt no more than they would’ve otherwise, or troubled him more, but he could’ve named each one, and when he touched Branwyn’s arm, he could’ve done the same for hers, from the cut down her side to the aching soles of her feet.

  Had he not been so exhausted, he could’ve healed either of them.

  That brought duty to mind, and he groaned. “Your side,” he began. “I’m afraid we’ve no bandages here, but if we can get back to the house—” Zelen tried to remember. “The stillroom.”

  “It’ll be fine before then. Can you walk?” Branwyn used the arm around his shoulders to help him up as she rose herself.

  “As much as I need to.”

  One of the footmen was dead when they got to him. The one with the wounded side was still breathing, though, and Zelen bound his wounds while Branwyn checked the other two injured men. He was going to have no sleeves at all if this sort of thing went on. He ardently hoped it didn’t.

  “He alive?”

  An unfamiliar voice slurred the words. Zelen turned, reaching for his sword as he did so but not very quickly. For one thing, speed was beyond him. For another, the speaker sounded as tired as he felt—and far more human than any of the guards or the servants had before.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The man who’d tried to hit Branwyn with the poker was pulling himself up to a sitting position against the wall. There was a hell of a lump coming up on his forehead. Branwyn stood over him, Yathana bare but not leveled at him.

  “Is that…good?” The footman was more coherent than Hidath had been, gods knew, but his eyes had a trace of the same horror, and his hands were shaking. “He… They…they told me to do things, and I couldn’t not. I tried. Forgive me. Forgive me.”

  “I know,” said Branwyn, standing bloody in the darkness and speaking lullaby-gentle. “You were their prey as much as the rest of us. There’s nothing to forgive. Do you know if everyone who served here was afflicted in the same way?”

  “I think so, mistress,” said the footman. “We…couldn’t talk about it.”

  “I understand.”

  Zelen finished with the sliced-up guard and got to his feet. “At least one of them was,” he said, “and he took it badly when the spell was broken. Finding the rest might be a good idea, and I’ll gladly…” That was a lie. He wanted nothing more than to leave the house and never see it again, but that wouldn’t help. “Gladly go with you for assistance.”

  “I’ll go,” said Branwyn. “You find Tanya. Gods willing, she’s made it to the horses but not ridden off yet. Will you be all right to search?”

  “Better than, thank you,” he said, and didn’t try to conceal how much he meant his gratitude. “Nothing’s broken, I just have to remember how to move.”

  “That was… What was that, my lord? What you did? I didn’t see very much, was getting my breath when all hell broke loose—really so, I guess,” the footman added with a nervous laugh, “but then…what happened?”

  “We stopped it,” said Zelen, “and I might be a priest.”

  Saying that, feeling the shadow of Letar within him, and remembering the moments when he’d been overshadowed by Her presence seemed to push the walls further apart and let light into the hallway. He took Branwyn quickly in his arms and gave her a light kiss. That helped, too.

  They were both here, even if “here” was still a wretched place. They were both alive.

  He might wish for more—a large floating bed, for example—but it would have been greedy to ask. Zelen knew the gifts he’d been given.

  * * *

  It was a long journey through the house. The place itself was oppressive, more rigidly bare than half the peasants’ huts Branwyn had seen, despite the Verengirs’ wealth. What ornament existed seemed designed to show off money and emphasize virtue. Comfort wasn’t only an afterthought; it was as widely avoided as possible.

  Branwyn, who had little to do with children, pictured four growing up in that atmosphere and found her lip curling up like an angry dog’s. She could almost feel sorry for Gedomir and Hanyi. The idea of Zelen’s youth made her want to take Yathana to the furnishings, particularly to a series of cold and disapproving portraits in one of the hallways.

  There had never been much cheer in that house, but there was far worse now.

  Two other guards were in the study, as Zelen had said there’d be. One was in a corner. He’d stopped screaming when his thro
at had given out, then curled into a ball and stared blankly into space. The other lay on his side with shoddy bandages around his arm and leg, cloth he’d slashed off the curtains. He struggled to get up when Branwyn and the footman—Mandyl—came in, but only managed to raise his head.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “They’re done for,” Mandyl replied.

  “The child?” The man was pale with more than blood loss.

  “She’s alive,” Branwyn answered. “And well, I’m guessing.”

  It was really more of a hope at that point, since she wasn’t disposed to count on either trees or horses, but Tanya had acted like a capable girl, and Zelen was nothing if not diligent. “Don’t try to move,” she advised the man, glad to see the worst of the dread leave him. “Help’s on its way.”

  Similar scenes played out in other rooms, though with no wounded in those cases. There was a death, though: in the kitchen, the cook had deliberately fallen on one of his own knives. Branwyn shut his eyelids and muttered a prayer to Letar, asking that the man find healing in death for the horror that must have been his last moments of life.

  Three of the newer, younger maids and grooms were in better condition, though still shaken. Branwyn deputized them to take care of the others. That group included two more huddled, speechless figures, a constantly weeping butler, and the senior housemaid, who had clawed raw lines down her cheeks but otherwise was coherent enough.

  “The others will have gone back to the city with Lord and Lady Verengir,” said Mandyl. “Their personal servants. I don’t know if… Do you think they got free when we did?”

  “I don’t know,” said Branwyn. “If they aren’t now, they’ll be so soon. There are plenty of people in Heliodar who can take off that spell, once they know what to look for. It won’t be as sudden or dramatic as it was with you, that’s all. And maybe it did vanish on all of you at once.”