They were heading away from the palace and the mansions that Branwyn had visited, but in a different direction than that which led to the Porpoise and the city gates. The buildings were large and bright, but the gardens had disappeared. People passed in groups, often laughing, often at least tipsy.
“Have you been to many plays?”
“A few,” said Branwyn, “but never in a theater. We had traveling players through a few times a year when I was a girl, and the temples put on the religious ones now and again.” She recognized the change of topic, but let it go and gave him an impish look. “I was Jyllan for the midsummer festival when I was eight. I’m told I changed into a very credible hawk, though I think most ofthatcredit goes to the man working the curtains. And the hawk.”
Zelen laughed. “Trained?”
“Stuffed and on a stick. But a marvel of taxidermy.”
“An honor for any girl to transform into, I’m sure.”
“Oh yes.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go on the stage for life.”
Branwyn supposed she could have, technically: at thirteen, the children that the Sentinels raised and trained could leave the order and take up other lives, though always standing ready to assist in other ways if needed. She’d never even considered it. “It’s not as much of a living in the Northern Kingdoms,” she said, “and besides, I have other talents.”
The Falcon loomed up ahead of them, a round stone building that took up the whole street, with its insignia not just on a sign but on banners outside the front doors. Every window shone with magical light, and voices within rose and fell in a vast hubbub.
Inside, she got to sit next to Zelen on the cushioned bench, his thigh hard and warm against hers and his nearness turning her skin extraordinarily sensate, so that each brush of their shoulders made her heart leap. A few times she heard a hitch in his breathing, too, and once or twice he shifted his weight in a way that made Branwyn sure he wasn’t a stranger to her feelings.
It was a mark of the play’s quality that she remembered any of it.
The story was a lighthearted one. A merchant’s three identical daughters kept getting mistaken for one another. One was secretly marrying the gardener, another was joining the army against her father’s wishes, and a third was studying magic. There was another pair of wizards, rivals, one of whom was in love with the merchant, and their familiar spirits who kept bungling matters through not understanding mortals.
Branwyn laughed a good deal, as, silently, so did Yathana, and the end came almost too soon for her.
“I don’t know much about wizards in private employment,” she said as they walked back. “How much of that was exaggeration?”
“Not very much, given the right wizards—and the right employers,” said Zelen. “Plenty of people compete through them, you see, like they do with tailors or cooks.”
“Do you have one?”
“No,” he said. Their steps against the stone blended, and his arm was firm in her grasp. “My family was never much for luxury, and I have other ways of getting in over my head, as I mentioned.”
That might have led to an advantage, except that Branwyn suspected he didn’t mean gambling, women, or intoxicants. She tried another path, one likely to be more fruitful. “They don’t strike me as much use in, say, combat.”
Zelen blinked. “No, they rather aren’t, not that I’ve gone to any effort to test the matter. I suppose the guard does employ some, but most private magicians are there for heat, light, amusing illusions, and all that sort of thing. You’ve mostly known them in the army?”
“Yes. A few of them were extremely valuable at Oakford.” One, Tebengri, had been her lover for a few nights, before they’d gone back to Criwath to study the ramifications of what they’d seen and done in the battle. “They had to adjust fast—but all of us did.”
“One hears rumors,” said Zelen. “But I never knew how much to believe. Creatures that would make you their puppets if you looked in their eyes, for instance—”
“Their mouths,” said Branwyn. “But yes, they exist. A mage I know said that Gizath not only governs treachery, but can turn any bond against the things it joins. Slavery, or turning your will against itself…could have been either in that case. I don’t know how far they’ve gotten in studying it.”
The brown hedges of Rognozi’s garden hulked up around them, strange shapes in the twilight. Branwyn looked away from them and from her memories and up at Zelen, who was grimacing. “Forgive me,” he said. “Not much of a subject for a pleasant night out.”
“It won’t be one it’s easy to avoid in the days to come,” Branwyn said, “and I brought it up as much as you did.” She took a long breath, smelling the night air, rich with woodsmoke, and the warmer, smokier scent of Zelen. They were here, at this moment, and alive, without any immediate threat to either status. If it was important to remember the war, it was also vital not to forget that.
“But,” she went on, sliding her hand down to grab his, “if you are feeling remorseful, you could always make up for it.”
She sensed Yathana departing for the place between worlds where she went on such occasions.
“Ah?” Zelen stepped forward, taking hold of her shoulders lightly. “And how might I do that?”
“Distract me,” said Branwyn, and pulled him into a kiss.
* * *
