The Nightborn

by Isabel Cooper

  “Ah. Yes. It gets a bit complicated,” she said. “Too much so, I thought, to explain at the end of the council session, with all of you eager to go about your business. It seems that Amris var Faina didn’t precisely die either.”

  “General Faina?” Military history had never been one of Zelen’s strong points, but he’d read enough. The man had stopped Thyran at the end and supposedly died in the process.

  “I can swear to that too.”

  She spoke with a patience that embarrassed Zelen. “I trust your account,” he said hastily, though he hadn’t been sure he did before. “But you have to allow a man a bit of shock. Has Letar gotten tired of visitors?”

  Branwyn laughed. It was a quiet, smooth sound and incongruous with the sharp, dark humor in her face. “I wouldn’t blame Her for it, but no. Faina’s lover became a soulsword after he died. The soulsword and his Sentinel found Faina and brought him back to the present day. Faina was the one to recognize Thyran.”

  “And the, er, soulsword recognized Faina?”

  “Just so. It’s a strange story, I’ll grant.”

  “Certainly not what I was expecting to hear today.”

  “Nor any of your fellows, I noticed.” She gazed ahead of them, to where green-painted roofs sprouted over another set of gardens: the first signs of the high lord’s mansion. “I don’t blame them for not believing, or not wanting to. Nobody did at Oakford either.”

  “You may find it worse here,” said Zelen gently. “This is where Thyran came from, after all, and where he learned to dedicate himself, and we’ve never been able to find out how. Bit of an old wound, you understand.”

  “And nobody did? Find anything out?” Branwyn kept surveying the landscape.

  “I’m sure the priests tried to learn more when it happened, but the city’s largely spent the last hundred years trying to forget he ever existed. Particularly the nobility.”

  “You seem to be one of the exceptions,” she said, directing that sharp scrutiny at him once more.

  They’d come to the gates to Rognozi’s gardens, and a pair of footmen stood there, giving Zelen no excuse to provide an escort further. “Well,” said Zelen, “I’m not precisely a paragon of my house and position. Ask the rest of my family.”

  The evaluation she was giving him took on a hint of curiosity, maybe even confusion. “But you’re their representative on the council?”

  “Ah, well, they don’t think highly of that either.” He bowed with the skill he’d learned along with walking, but more attention than he usually bothered putting in. “Welcome to Heliodar, Branwyn. I hope we meet again soon, and outside the court.”

  Chapter 4

  “Well,” said Branwyn under her breath, and then caught herself. She’d waited until she was on the path between the footman-guarded gate and the mansion ahead of her, and she’d declined the aid of Rognozi’s servants to walk all of five minutes, but still there was no point maintaining telling habits, particularly when they served no purpose: she didn’t yet have a soulsword to hear her.

  Well, she thought silently instead, he seems fascinating.

  The intrigue was tactical as well, not just the allure of Zelen’s lithe physique and big brown eyes, though as she’d stood facing him by the gate, she’d been keenly alive to his proximity. His expression when he’d spoken of his family, one of pain that long custom had polished into amusement, had made Branwyn wince for him.

  She wondered at his motives for providing information: a bored lordling’s excuse to spend more time with a comely woman? Tweaking the noses of a family he clearly wasn’t fond of? A genuine desire to be helpful? Gods knew, Thyran was threat enough to scare any who believed, but assuming good intentions too easily was precisely the sort of amateur mistake Branwyn wanted to avoid, even if she was, in truth, an amateur at court politics.

  Her thoughts took her through a hedge-crowded garden and up a set of broad stairs to the entrance of a wide three-story house, painted a silvery gray and sprouting peaked green roofs at every possible angle. All of it was wood, suggesting that it had been destroyed, or partly so, in the great storms after Thyran’s first defeat, then rebuilt to be warmer than stone. That spoke of some practicality, roofs aside.

  A short man in elaborate pale-green livery answered Branwyn’s knock and inclined his head respectfully. “Madam Alanive?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Welcome to Rognozi. Please follow me to your rooms.” He glanced past her, then added, “We have quarters for any attendants, if…” His voice trailed off, both polite and expectant.

  “That’s very thoughtful, but I have none.”

  “Very good, madam.” He didn’t let on if it wasn’t, precisely, but his expression went tellingly blank. At a guess, the man was some thirty years younger than his employer, but unescorted travelers were still not the norm, particularly those from as far off as Criwath.

  Branwyn followed him into a hall full of radiance, despite the dark walls: magical lights reflected off of tall mirrors every few feet. The floor was bare wood, relatively unpolished, which she thought was likely another concession to Rognozi’s age.

  “What a lovely house,” she said, and earned a smile from the footman or butler or whoever he was.

  “My lord’s family was fortunate enough to save much of what they had before the storms,” he said, “and he and my lady spared no effort or expense in restoring much of the rest.”

  “A noble endeavor,” said Branwyn. “A friend of mine has made quite a study of life before, particularly of the art and comforts of that era.” Darya mostly did that by dragging jeweled goblets and gold candlesticks out of ruined cities, but there was no need to go into detail. “Now that you mention Lady Rognozi, should I make my presence known to her?”

  “There’s no need. My lord and lady will meet you at dinner, but that won’t be for a few hours yet.”

  He wasn’t trying to condescend, but Branwyn heard the unspoken of course sprinkled liberally through his speech. She couldn’t really object. Chances were good that she’d have ended up sounding the same, had he asked her to explain half her duties. Besides, she was too relieved that she’d have an hour or two to herself, with no need to try to remember the manners she’d learned in the far past and brushed up on in extreme haste. The meeting, and speaking to Zelen, had given her information. She wanted a chance to consider it and put it into what order she could manage.

  She thought she’d gotten the councillors connected to the names Olwin had provided. Rognozi and Verengir had distinguished themselves. Yansyak was the red-haired woman, Starovna wore spectacles, Kolovat had the mustache, and Marton dressed plainly for reasons that Branwyn wasn’t certain she understood yet. There was a great deal that she wasn’t sure she understood.

  The Order had sent her because of her gifts, because of all those who’d seen Thyran face-to-face, she was the easiest to spare, and because she was calmer and a touch more polished than many other Sentinels.

  Branwyn still thought she made a poor diplomat and an even worse spy.

  * * *

  “You give the impression of being less desperate to reach sanctuary than usual,” said Altiensarn, the upper four of his copper-furred tentacles lifting and lowering in a polite greeting. “Did the meeting go so well, or has healing lost its charm?”

  “I wouldn’t say well, exactly. Interestingly. The world might be ending.” Zelen hung his cloak on a peg by his office door, where it looked amusingly ornate against the plain gray stone. As was usual when he arrived after a council meeting, he suspected that he did too.

  Altiensarn blinked, third eyelids sliding smoothly back and forth over gold eyes. “More so than usual?”

  “That sounds dangerously philosophical.” Zelen ran his hand through his hair, mentally lifting off the weight of the circlet. “The rumors are true. Thyran’s back.”

  Over the
years, Zelen had gotten to know his partner in healing decently well and had developed more of a sense for waterfolk moods than the average human. Altiensarn didn’t obviously panic, whether that was natural or a habit learned by being a large furred being with a tentacled face among humans who tended to misinterpret sudden movements. All of his tentacles went still, though, and beneath them his voice, deeper than the usual chirping rumble, clicked out a series of sounds that Zelen would’ve wagered were prayer or profanity.

  “More or less, yes,” he said. “There was a woman—military envoy from Criwath. She didn’t get much chance to describe the situation, but it sounds as though things there are in a damned bad state.”

  “As would only be natural,” said Altien. The outer two of his tentacles waved slowly, and then he said, “But you and I can only tend our own sections of the reef. Does this news put different tasks in front of us?”

  “No.” Zelen gave his partner a nod of acknowledgment as he sank into his chair and started taking off his doublet. “How has the afternoon been?”

  “Relatively calm. We had one elderly man with a cut leg, three pregnancies to inspect and one to end—”

  “Ourselves, or did we have to send them to the Mourners?”

  “The woman wasn’t far advanced. Herbs and supervision sufficed.”

  “Thank the gods.” Letar’s power could stop growth in the womb, but, as when it stopped any other growth, it was difficult for the host to endure—and ending a pregnancy so far gone was usually an emotional affair. That day, of all days, Zelen didn’t want to make the journey to the Threadcutter’s Temple to check on a patient. “Sorry, please continue.”

  “A young man had a stomach illness that might easily have been bad meat or good wine, and there’s a child with a fractured arm in the chamber of rest. She came in perhaps ten minutes ago. I gave her dragon-eye syrup and was waiting on you, as you know my opinion regarding human bones.”

  “Ludicrous unbendy mysteries, yes.” Zelen undid the final button of his doublet and pulled on a plain linen smock to match Altien’s, the thick fabric blessedly warm. He did what he could for the clinic, with fires and the help of an elderly wizard who could be bribed with court gossip, but it was always colder than the palace, which said much.

  “I believe ‘inflexible’ was my term.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll take better notes next time,” said Zelen. Passing his partner, who’d poured his entire seven feet into a too-small chair, he took the left door out of their shared study.

  The little room he entered was the warmest in the building, and he shut the door hastily behind him so it would stay that way. Inside, a narrow cot in front of a fire held a girl nine or ten years old, one arm in a neat sling. Despite his protests, Altien could manage some basic principles of human skeletons. She opened glassy hazel eyes at the sound of the door, but didn’t move.

  “You,” said Zelen, “look like you’ve had a damnable time of it.”

  She giggled, a good sign. It was hard to laugh when you were in overwhelming pain, and if she sounded a bit less than fully present, it meant the syrup was doing its work. “Mitri dared me to walk the roof,” she said, and wrinkled her nose. “And I can’t even get him back for it proper.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Zelen said, sitting down at his worktable. Altien had prepared all the essentials: straight lengths of wood, wide bandages, and a bowl of plaster. “My sisters would say, so long as you have your wits, you can take as much vengeance as you want. This next bit might hurt, I’m afraid—yell if you want. Altien’s heard worse, half of it from me.”

  The arm was small and the break a thin one, the sort common in children. Zelen pressed, then pulled, picturing the lines that he knew by heart. The coiled muscles stretched, letting him draw the bones beneath straight and true. The girl gave several sobbing yelps, almost hiccups.

  “That’s the worst of it,” he finally said, reaching for splints and bandages, “and you did sterling work. Here.” He passed a handkerchief toward her.

  The child made a delighted sound—bright-red kerchiefs went excellently well with painkillers, Zelen had found—and mopped her eyes. “Really?”

  “Mm-hmm. I’ve heard grown men yell like hunting dogs in full tongue for much less.”

  “Huh!” she said, sounding obviously satisfied. Then, with the careless backtracking of children and those not quite with their wits about them, she added, “It’s not because of my arm I can’t get back at him; it’s because of his brother.”

  “What about his brother?”

  “Not around no more,” she said, the remnants of tears gradually leaving her voice as the memory of pain vanished and distraction occupied her. “Mitri’s mam thinks he was stolen away. My mam thinks he tumbled down a well someplace.”

  Either was possible, Zelen absently thought, dipping and then wrapping cloth. The streets at Heliodar’s border were hazardous places for children, though accident was more likely than kidnapping. “I take it they’ve searched.”

  “Oh, yes. My mam and da were out half last night.”

  “Was that when he vanished?”

  “So people noticed. When he didn’t come back for dinner,” said the girl. “Mitri says he bets Jaron ran off to sea, but who’d take him? He’s not but eleven and skinnier than me. But I don’t want to say it. Even if he did dare me. He didn’t mean for me to fall.”

  “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” Zelen said, “whatever your arm might be doing just now. What’s your name?”

  “Tanya. M’da’s Jan the Wheelwright, lives at the corner of Old King’s Road and Snakebend,” she said, with as much confidence as any baroness Zelen had ever heard announce herself.

  “I’m sorry about your friend, Tanya, and your current misfortune.”

  “Thanks,” she said. Zelen, absorbed in his work, couldn’t see her face, but there was a preparatory sort of silence about her. He half anticipated her next subject. “You know a lot about the gods?”

  “I’ve studied a little,” he said. “I’m no priest.”

  “Nah. Priests are always busy. I guess you are too, but—”

  “But I can talk while I’m busy.”

  “Do you think Letar will let him look back at Mitri and his mam sometimes? If he’s dead, I mean.”

  “I don’t know the Dark Lady’s will,” Zelen said slowly, pulling a curtain over old pain for the sake of his patient, who asked earnestly and innocently, “but all I’ve heard makes me believe She would, if he wanted to. She’s kind, in Her way.”

  “Oh,” said Tanya, and closed her eyes again. “That’s good.”

  Chapter 5

  Tanya was still sleeping when the bandages turned firm enough that Zelen could release her arm. As usual, he had to admire the young’s ability to sleep in whatever situation they found themselves. The syrup doubtless helped, but Zelen had taken a bit of it himself now and again, and he doubted he would’ve been able to drift off with one arm held in the air.

  He rose and started to reroll the leftover bandages while he walked toward the office. There was always another use for them. The stiffening mixture didn’t keep well, sad to say, but the ingredients didn’t cost too much, and with luck there wouldn’t be a rash of broken bones in the next week.

  Altien was still seated behind the desk, making notes. His handwriting was careful, small, and scratchy, better than Zelen’s, although his diagrams were inevitably round where they should be straight and vice versa. “The girl’s father is in the receiving room waiting for word,” he said, “and there’s a small crowd of young people outside the clinic. I invited them in, but I surmise they fear being given tonics or possibly washed.”

  “I’m constantly tempted, I admit. Sticky creatures, children.”

  “Humans’ are, yes. But I suppose you can’t help it.”

  Zelen was chuckling when he went out into the
receiving area, which itself relaxed the man sitting there: a dockworker, broad shouldered and large bellied, with dark skin like his daughter’s and gray-specked hair. “It was a terribly boring sort of an injury,” Zelen told him. “Tiny fracture, young bones, should be back at all her old mischief in a few weeks. Try to be more complicated in the future.”

  Jan the Wheelwright actually laughed then, as Zelen had intended, and a few more worry lines disappeared from his forehead. “Forgive me, sir, but I don’t think we will. Though I’ve no doubt Tanya could manage it, if any of ’em could.”

  “She seems the sort. Brave girl, likely more than is good for her,” he added sympathetically. “You can take her home now if you’re up to carrying her, or wait a bit for her to wake up.”

  “She’s not so heavy,” said Jan, rising from the long bench that rested along one wall.

  “No.” Zelen dithered briefly between concern and respect for privacy, then came down on the side of the former. “She mentioned that a friend of hers was giving you all a bad time of it.”

  “Jaron. Mmm.” Tanya’s father sighed. “No trace of him. He’d reached the age to argue with his mother a bit, so he could’ve run off, but…”

  There was no need to finish. Heliodar had no shortage of abandoned buildings and old wells, nor of predators. Being forcibly taken aboard a merchant ship or a fishing boat as a dogsbody was the most pleasant possibility.

  “Would another set or three of eyes help?” he asked. “I’ve a bit of time on my hands.”

  “Might,” Jan said, slow and cautious. “And I’m sure the lad’s parents would thank you for it. As would I. Best tomorrow, though, when there’s light enough. You know where we’re at?”

  “Tanya mentioned.”

  “Then thank you twice, sir,” Jan said. Reaching into the battered pouch on his belt, he produced a small cloth sack of coins, likely copper swordfish, the smallest and most common currency. Zelen didn’t try to give it back but didn’t examine it either. If the payment covered the ingredients that went into Tanya’s cast, he’d feel fortunate. If not, it wouldn’t be the first such episode.