The Nightborn by Isabel Cooper (good english books to read .TXT) 📕

“Of course. Can I help?”

“No,” Gedomir said, and vanished out the door.

Zelen closed it behind his brother. Later, he would say that the hallway was drafty, which wasn’t entirely a lie. He stood in front of it, listened to the footsteps as they receded down the hall, and, for lack of other ideas, opened his mind the way he did in prayer.

Bookcase, said the voice. It was clearer, but still not nearly conversational. Zelen got the impression that every word took effort.

More words weren’t really necessary, though, because he knew what the speaker meant. He’d seen the shape, the way the shadow of the bookcase had changed from what he remembered. Zelen darted over to the spot he’d seen, where a gap of a few inches ran on two sides between the case and the walls.

An object was changing the shadow, a long, thin object that someone had wrapped in dark cloth and shoved behind the bookcase. Whoever it was had done a decent job of hiding it back there—even the shadow wouldn’t have made Zelen catch on if not for the voice—and had wrapped it well.

He knew what it was all the same. The words wouldn’t come, but his stomach roiled when he saw the shape, his body recognizing what his mind couldn’t yet. Listening for returning footsteps, Zelen only had the nerve to unwrap the top of the object, but that was all he needed.

Dark blood had dried on gilt, leaving the outline of three fingers clear, though slightly distorted. Above it, the magelight shone off a huge fire opal, the same one that Zelen had seen over and over again in the hilt of Branwyn’s sword.

Chapter 28

Part of him had known. Part of him must have known, Zelen realized, because he didn’t collapse from shock, or vomit, or shout in rage. He didn’t so much as pause before wrapping the sword back up again, as tightly as Gedomir or Alize—it would have been one of the family, no point going through names—had concealed it before.

I’ll come back later, he thought at it, and stumbled to his seat. There was the shock, manifesting after the initial urgency had pushed it aside. He knew such things. He’d read the books and trained with the priests, even when his father had forbidden him to actually enter the Dark Lady’s service.

He would come back to that fact later too.

At first he toyed with the idea that his family might have been framed for the attack, thinking, They’re my blood. I owe them at least the same courtesy I gave to a Sentinel, but it wouldn’t wash. None of the household had been staying with the Rognozis. Except for Zelen, none of them had been in the city.

If, by whatever freak chance, they’d come across the sword innocently, it wouldn’t have hurt them at all to take it to the guard or one of the temples. They’d even have been praised for it, perhaps, as providing a valuable clue.

Why hadn’t they?

Because their story would raise questions, and they couldn’t swear to the truth of it in front of Tinival’s altar. Because at least one of the Verengirs had been involved in killing the Rognozis, and possibly in framing Branwyn for the murder.

And why had they done that? What would they get out of it?

Thinking even briefly of that question was like taking the bandage off a wound where blood poisoning had set in completely. There was nothing to find in any direction but putrescence.

If Zelen flubbed what came next, there would be no chance to discover how far the rot went or to heal whatever was left.

He sat upright in the chair and thought hard at himself: Nothing happened, you’re bored, you’re talking about the succession, you want wine and dinner. You want wine and dinner, nothing happened, you’re talking about the succession, and you’re bored.

By the time Gedomir came back in, Zelen had almost managed to make himself believe it.

“House not on fire, I hope,” he drawled.

“Hardly,” said Gedomir, in the same we-take-care-of-ourselves-better-than-that manner that had always irritated his brother.

Now Zelen just hoped he’d go on being superior. Superior might let him overlook enough.

* * *

“Do you know much about the wards Zelen put up?” Branwyn asked.

The morning had dragged into afternoon. Interesting as her book was, the urge to be taking action had crept back up after the exercises. She supposed talking magical theory could serve as a stopgap.

“Not a great deal,” Altien said. “Zelen mentioned that his ancestors had left belongings in the cellars here, and that a few of those had been warding disks.” He closed his notes and made a thoughtful purring noise. “He did mention a few more complicated ones that he hadn’t been sure how to activate. Do you believe you might know?”

“Maybe.” She’d never been a wizard, but the basic magical principles had been part of all Sentinels’ training. Branwyn had been interested enough to study more now and again. “It’s worth a look, at least, if you don’t think he’d object.”

“I doubt very much that you could do a great deal he’d object to,” said Altien, and went on before Branwyn could react in any way aside from an embarrassing blush that her bruises no longer camouflaged. “And he’s never been particularly sensitive about his family’s belongings. I’ll see if his servants will allow me access.”

Ten pages of poetry later, he returned with a small armful of metal and wood, and set it down on the table where Branwyn’s food had been.

“A few of these resemble the protections our mages use,” he said, “but not many, and not a great deal. Then again, it was never my area of expertise, and we have different symbols for the gods.”

“Sitha is a tower for you, not a spider, yes?” Branwyn picked up the first ward, a glyph formed of delicate silver links, and tried to remember what Vemigira had told her about waterfolk religion, as