The Nightborn

by Isabel Cooper

  High Lord Kolovat came forward to the edge of the dais, the circlet still a trifle small on his brow. “Madam—Sentinel Branwyn,” he said, “the council has heard your request, and that of your Order and Criwath behind you.”

  “And I thank you, all of you, for so hearing,” Branwyn replied.

  Winter light shone in from the stained-glass window behind the high lord, casting patches of green and yellow on his white robe. They were very faint, however. The sky outside was overcast.

  In the corner, a scribe lifted their pen from parchment and waited. Now there would be notes. Later, perhaps, a formal proclamation.

  “Given recent events,” said Kolovat, “we can’t deny that our ancient enemy is at work again, nor that the power behind him endangers us all. For that reason, and in retribution for the suborning of Heliodar’s nobility, we do here and now declare that we join Criwath and the Sentinels in the war against Thyran, against his reprehensible patron Gizath, and against the forces that seek to destroy what mortalkind has worked so hard to rebuild.”

  Lady be praised, said Yathana. I could kiss the old walrus, if I had flesh.

  Branwyn felt the floor grow more solid beneath her feet as a number of potential futures suddenly joined into one that she could count on. She was glad, but not joyous—given the sober, measured fear in Kolovat’s face and the red rims around Yansyak’s eyes, she didn’t think joy would have been right then. Even Yathana had spoken mostly in relief.

  Marton looked joyous, which made Branwyn briefly doubt the whole endeavor.

  That didn’t matter. She knew her response and gave it: a low curtsy, skirts held out and leg drawn back, then the words she’d rehearsed. “Councillors, you have my thanks, those of the Order of the Dawn, and those of the Sentinels. When this business concludes, the world itself will owe you its gratitude.”

  The sound of the pen began again. It filled the chamber, because nobody else wanted to make a noise. Perhaps they, like Branwyn, were afraid that if the world survives would come out the instant one of them opened their mouth.

  “It’s snowing,” said Starovna, who was standing by a clear part of the window.

  They didn’t murmur, nor did they all go to see; there was discipline in nobility, at least in this part of it.

  “It’s winter,” said Kolovat. “That’s all.”

  Nobody argued because they wanted him to be right. Nobody spoke again for a long time because they couldn’t quite believe that he was.

  * * *

  Snow was falling when Zelen left Letar’s temple—not heavily, but steadily. The Mourner and Blade who’d been examining him had glanced out the window when it had started and said nothing. People outside weren’t nearly so composed, not with the tales going around the city.

  “Been snow in the Oak Month before,” said a young man in brown laborer’s clothes, paused on the street corner with a cart of wood.

  “Once in a while,” said his bearded friend. “It’s not common.”

  “But it doesn’t mean—”

  They didn’t even glance Zelen’s way as he passed. He wore no circlet of office now, nothing to distinguish him from the common man he was.

  It was a pity, in a way. He could have done good on the council once, if he’d ever really been a member, but his family had prevented him in both life and death. Best to let the role go to someone who could truly act in the city’s interest, with no hereditary ties binding their hands.

  He could serve better elsewhere.

  “You know,” said Branwyn, suddenly at his side, “it takes a while for me to pick you out of a crowd without your finery.”

  “Altien said the same.” Zelen turned to face her, brown cloak flaring with the motion. “I think you’re both exaggerating. It’s not as though I’ve gone completely drab.”

  With Gedomir in his memory, Zelen doubted he could ever do that, even when he did put on the Mourners’ official regalia. He wore a scarlet wool tunic rather than velvet, though, with long sleeves and a high neck. It kept him warm, now that he’d abandoned most of the magical heat at his house, and it was less effort to take care of, freeing his servants to take over some light duties at the clinic.

  A few of those from his family’s estate had joined them. Nislar had a talent for setting bones, it turned out, and the senior housemaid had learned a bit of herbalism in her youth. The pay wasn’t wonderful, drawn as it was from Zelen’s own accounts and the proceeds of selling his jewels, but they didn’t give any indication of caring.

  “That would be physically impossible,” said Branwyn.

  “Much obliged, madam.” Zelen noticed that she was pale inside the hood of her cloak, but that her cheeks were flushed. “What news? Are we acting?”

  “We are… You are. Kolovat will announce it by sundown.”

  “Good,” he said, and then made a rueful face. “Well, better than the other options.”

  Don’t worry, said Yathana. Neither of us thought you were going to fling your hat in the air over it.

  “I’ll save that for when the war is over. When Thyran is gone. And when I have a hat to throw.”

  “Touch steel when you say that, and not about the hat,” Branwyn said. Her short laugh was underlaid with solemnity, and Zelen wasn’t entirely joking when he tapped the hilt of his knife.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “Kolovat said I’ll receive more information within a day or two, and then”—Branwyn hesitated, but not for long—“I’ll need to inform the Order.”

  “But that’s tomorrow, if not later,” Zelen said, and offered her his arm. “Now I’d say we both could use a meal.”

  “I can’t argue with your professional opinion.”

  Branwyn’s grip was light on his bicep, sure and easy now. She’d gotten used to him, if not the custom. Briefly, Zelen stood beside her, not yet walking, taking in the street he’d known most of his life.

  Half the young people around them would likely go to fight. The others might join the army as well, as scribes or laborers or healers, or know the agony of waiting at home for bad news. None of them knew yet. None of them had known, for all the past weeks, what fate was approaching through a series of small rooms.

  “If you don’t object,” he said, “let’s not head back to my house. I’d rather be out when the word gets around.”

  “No,” said Branwyn, turning the word over, “no, you’re right. Show me to that place you’d mentioned before, then, and let’s see if we can manage it without assassins this time. I’ll even pay.”

  “My circumstances aren’t that reduced.”

  They weren’t what they had been. Zelen had sold every stick and stone of the country house and given the proceeds, along with what his father and brother had left him, to the families of the sacrificed children. Idriel had delivered it: Zelen hadn’t wanted to see the reaction.

  That left him what he needed for the clinic, as well as enough for clothing, a few rooms of his city house, and food—much of which the Temple of Letar would provide him before too long.

  “How was the lesson?” Branwyn asked as they headed off into a moving curtain of snow.

  “Surprising for everyone, I’d wager.” Zelen grinned at the memory of the Blade’s expression of shock during the magical inspection and the Mourner’s pithy phrasing. “But they’ve begun to teach me a good deal already, and they say my training will help. I should be ready for the front lines in a week or two.”

  “The front lines?” Branwyn stared at him.

  Zelen nodded. “They’ll need healers. You know I’m decent with a sword. It seems the best choice.”

  “I don’t think the city’s armies will be ready to march in less than a month.”

  They won’t. Don’t ask for more than one miracle in a season.

  “Lucky for me, I have one decent horse left, and I won’t need to wait f
or the army.” Zelen didn’t stop walking. He felt as though he would’ve lost his balance if he had. He focused on Branwyn’s profile, and took the last mental step forward. “If you’d like me to come join you, that is. Wherever you end up.”

  Now Branwyn stopped walking. She turned, and the hood of her cloak fell back, letting snowflakes fall on her gold hair. “Zelen—”

  “If you don’t, I understand.”

  He’d try, at any rate.

  “No. Yes.” She flushed. “I would like that. Very much. But you’re aware of what I am, what I do, the risks I take… Are you certain?”

  Zelen put both arms around her and drew her off to the side, giving people room to pass. Some were pausing to observe the scene, he was sure, but he didn’t give a damn. “Nobody’s safe these days, and it wouldn’t matter if they were,” he said, looking down into the strong, noble face he’d come to love. “I still can’t think of anyone whose company I’d rather die in, and if we both end up living, I’d rather do that with you too.”

  “I—” Branwyn’s mouth was open for a minute, but no more words emerged. She didn’t need them. Her eyes told Zelen all he needed to know, and then she confirmed it by kissing him.

  They stood like that for a long time, not caring who saw: two tall figures clinging together in the midst of the first winter snow.

  Epilogue

  “It’s Katrine now, isn’t it? Bonded to the soulsword Coran? I’m Rolf… I don’t know if you remember me.”

  “From Silane,” Katrine said with an attempt to hide her shock. Rolf had been half her age in Silane, barely starting to learn the sword when she’d been reforged. In a properly made world, he wouldn’t have been remotely old enough to be a full Sentinel.

  Twelve years since then would make him nineteen, said Coran. One does get used to time eventually.

  “Yes!” Beaming, he showed small silver fangs that proved his status, along with the citrine-adorned rapier at his waist. Rolf also had big puppy-like eyes and came up a little higher than Katrine’s shoulder, neither of which helped mitigate the impression of youth. “You were very helpful about teaching me to ride. I was quite grateful on the way here, in fact.”

  “Was it a long trip?”

  That was a polite question. Getting north of Oakford, to the last set of fortifications that had been built in the mortal world’s few months of respite, was always a long trip. Still Katrine asked, just as she broke off a piece of the meat roll she’d been eating and offered it. Small politenesses had value, especially at the end of the world.

  Rolf nodded and accepted the food, eating with the blinding speed of the young. “I’ve come from the chapter house in Affiran,” he said, producing a sealed message from his belt, “but my news comes from beyond that—from Heliodar. They said I should take it to you or Vivian, though I wouldn’t know her on sight.”

  “There’s no time like the present for introductions,” said Katrine, and got to her feet.

  A short trip took them among the tents: the Sentinels, knights, and Blades all mingled, with the Mourners, Sitha’s priests, and the wounded in the protected center of the camp. Katrine pointed out what landmarks they had, while Rolf goggled.

  The camp was a bustling place at midday. Guards were changing shifts while warriors practiced or built up the earthworks with the help of Sitha’s priests. The smells of sweat and horses blended with the scent of herbs as the Mourners prepared remedies and the wizards got other concoctions ready for their hour of need. A few talked over the snow: the inch or so on the ground, the flakes that were falling. It wasn’t unusual, as late fall turned to early winter, but everyone was apt to see omens.

  Vivian’s tent was larger than most, a wood-ribbed circular structure made for meetings in foul weather as well as simple shelter. Like those of the other commanders, it was marked: the Sentinel sigil, a sun with an open eye inside, flew on a red pennant outside.

  The woman herself emerged while Katrine and Rolf approached.

  “Katrine,” she said, spotting her second, then noticed the young man. “Sentinel. Have reinforcements arrived?”

  “A few, Commander,” said Rolf. He bowed quickly, then offered his letter. He was too young to recognize the air of purpose about Vivian, or too eager to wait for her to read the message. “And more to come soon. Heliodar’s come in on our side!”

  “Good,” said Vivian, but her dark-skinned face was a mask. She took the folded paper and broke the seal with a flick of one thumb. “We’ll need them.”

  “The wards?” Katrine asked.

  “Crossed just now. In considerable force. I’m off to talk with the other commanders.”

  “I’ll get our forces ready.”

  “Thank you,” said Vivian. She focused on Rolf for the first time. “Welcome to the front lines. I’m afraid we won’t be able to send you back soon.”

  Rolf was young, but not stupid. “How long do we have until they arrive?” he asked, touching the hilt of his sword for reassurance.

  “Not nearly long enough.”

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  Part I

  The attacks resumed today. This first was only a test of our guard: a score of twistedmen and five of the trance-birds. We drove them off handily enough—the spell that Hanyi and your Gerant came up with at Oakford shields our minds well, and our mages have been diligent about applying the sigils. Injuries were light, comparatively, casualties nil, and the new fortifications hold well.

  Still, the air here has changed. None, not the Order nor the soldiers from Criwath nor even the reinforcements from Heliodar, fresh as they are, can mistake the meaning of this attack, or be in any doubt of what will follow.

  We have discussed, for eight months, what deviltry Thyran might be up to out in the forest, where we have no strength to reach. We have come to no conclusions.

  I suspect we’re about to find out.

  —In the Order’s Service,

  Vivian Bathari

  The Traitor, Gizath, murdered his sister’s lover, they say, because he thought it a disgrace that a goddess should lie with a mortal. Over the centuries, his hatred for mortal life has expanded far beyond that.

  Then one hundred years ago, Gizath’s servant Thyran slew his wife and her lover out of jealous rage, and then his own servants to seal a pact with Gizath. Jealousy swiftly became spite: anger that the world did not give him what he believed was his by birth and blood.

  In the north, when he called those of like mind to him and merged them with demons, perhaps they too wished to order the world by their standards. Perhaps even then Thyran did likewise.

  After a hundred years, and two losses, I suspect his desires may have shifted.

  He may strive still for conquest, if such a mild word can describe a world ruled by him and his twistedmen.

  If he is thwarted in that, I think he will turn his sights to annihilation. And he will do so quickly.

  —Lycellias, Knight of Tinival

  Chapter 1

  The dream left him cold in the darkness. Sweat coated his limbs, cooling rapidly in the spring night. He tasted blood in his mouth: he’d bitten his lip again.

  None of it was new, but it was worse this time. His heart was thudding between his ribs and his chin, the images danced evilly in front of his open eyes, and not even the sound of three other knights snoring could make the memories seem as unreal as Olvir knew they were.

  Dreams, he told himself, as Edda had told him when he was far younger. Nightmares had been different then: shapes outside the window, ghouls behind the house, the sort of stories youth repeated and parents could generally dispel with warm milk and a few words.

  Olvir doubted that soothing words would’ve helped completely. He’d long since grown to prefer whiskey to warm milk, too, and a liqu
or-mazed head was the last thing he’d need the next day, particularly considering the quality of whiskey that went around the front lines.

  It was a myth that Tinival’s knights never surrendered. The training was very clear about recognizing lost causes. Sleep, right now, was among them.

  He disentangled himself from his sweat-dampened bedroll as quickly and quietly as he could manage. None of his companions stirred. It was funny: their alertness was legendary, but a knight—or any trained warrior, Olvir suspected, though he hadn’t exactly asked—grew accustomed to certain sounds. In camp, these included both snoring that could shake the earth and the noises of a tentmate trying to make a stealthy exit in the middle of the night.

  Tinival hadn’t given them heroic bladders, after all.

  Putting on armor would be more likely to rouse his tentmates, so Olvir simply tugged on his breeches, then picked up his boots and tunic in one hand. He carried the belt with his sword on it in the other. The camp was relatively peaceful, no attack expected, but there was no point tempting fate.

  Edda had taught him that long before he’d entered the Silver Wind’s order as a page.

  He stumbled outside into a chilly gray predawn. The remains of fires made the camp a little brighter but, at that hour, mostly just added smoke to the air. A flash of Olvir’s dreams sprang from fading memory to vivid detail with the odor, and he sat down hard on a rock.

  Vomiting would only waste rations, and the army had a strictly limited number of those. Screaming would only wake soldiers who had too little rest as it was. Olvir scrubbed his hands hard across his face, wishing that he could do the same to his mind, trying not to look too long at his hands themselves. They had been the worst part, and that was new.

  If your thoughts are sour, turn to deeds. It was another of Edda’s sayings. And he was already sitting down.