“Badly done magic makes the world weaker,” said the wizard with them, a pale-haired youth, either uncertain of themselves or of speaking up. They gulped and went on when Mezannith jerked her chin at them impatiently. “Maybe an apprentice tried a thing they didn’t ought to have.”
“Right,” said Branwyn. She’d been called out to handle one of those incidents. It had ended even worse for the wizard in question than it had done for those around her, and that was saying a great deal. “Nastier spells bring them forward too, even when cast properly, and those who cast them generally don’t care. And specifically, if somebody summons a large demon, the small ones can slip through behind it.”
The mage winced. “So—”
“It’s possible that there’s a major demon roaming Heliodar, yes.” Mezannith gave Branwyn a hard bit of scrutiny. “Should I hold out hope, Madam Alanive, that one day you’ll bring us a piece or five of cheerful news?”
“The world is large,” said Branwyn, “and life hard to predict, and hope is always valuable.”
“No, then.”
“No, not really.”
Chapter 19
“You’ve done well here,” said the Mourner, magic glowing reddish-orange as her chair lifted her up and away from her final patient, the young mage who’d spent so much of her strength stopping time for the worst of the wounded. Now the badly injured lay, asleep but stable, on makeshift beds, and the wizard was slowly sipping a goblet of heated, watered wine.
City guards, wearing more severe uniforms and carrying less ornamental swords than the ones who’d been at the palace, checked the gardens. A Blade went with them, vast in their black clothing, and a knight in polished armor.
Zelen couldn’t feel glad about it; he didn’t have the strength to feel much except a dull relief. The night was over. Nobody had died.
Nobody in the ballroom had died, he corrected himself, and that did spur him to approach the Mourner. “Pardon, but do you know if the people who left here are all safe?”
“The people who left here?” She raised coppery eyebrows.
“The ones who went to get help, I mean. I don’t think any of us bolted for it.”
The correction helped. “I would hope not. I didn’t witness the rescue party myself, but this is the only place where the temple has received an unexpected summons tonight. I expect, if any of themhadbeen badly injured, we would’ve known of that before I was sent here.”
“Thank you,” said Zelen.
It had been foolish to worry, he thought. Branwyn would naturally be all right. Sentinels were more than human, weapons of the gods. If the stories were right, they were practically unkillable—though the stories had never really mentioned what happened when they didn’t have soulswords, and “practically” wasn’t “entirely.”
Still: Branwyn was all right, and he’d been an idiot to worry. He suspected he’d been an idiot about quite a bit.
He watched the Mourner turn her chair, skimming across the floor as if she were sailing a boat over a very smooth lake, and move off. All of it seemed a long way away.
“Here,” said a youth in undyed robes, one of the Mourner’s apprentices. They pushed a goblet into one of Zelen’s hands and a slice of bread into the other. “Sit down, eat, and drink. Just because the demons didn’t get you doesn’t mean the evening didn’t leave a mark.”
Zelen managed a smile. “I’ve said the same thing myself a few times. Or similar. Without the demons.”
“Then you know it’s true,” said the apprentice, and disappeared into the crowd again.
The stairs were empty. Zelen sat on them and obeyed orders. The wine was good—not high-quality, but well-spiced—and combined with a few bites of bread, it took away a bit of the numbness.
He’d expected the evening to go differently. He’d very muchwantedit to go differently. But it could have been worse.
The voices around him merged into a soothing, low hubbub. Zelen closed his eyes. Soon, once the wounded had been moved to more comfortable surroundings, he’d get up and seek his home. A bath would be good if he could stay awake long enough—the demons’ nature meant that he hadn’t gotten bloody, though he was conscious of dirt now, and sweat—but otherwise he’d fall gratefully into his own bed.
Talking with Branwyn would have to come soon. He’d go to the Rognozis’ house in the morning, or whenever he woke, and seek a private meeting, and not only to discuss her identity. Perhaps her mission was really no more than she’d said, and she’d only kept her true nature silent because she didn’t want it to be a distraction.
If the person behind the assassins had known they were targeting a Sentinel, did that make matters worse? Zelen wasn’t sure, but he could hardly see how it would improve the situation.
The bread was almost gone, the goblet nearly empty. Most of the unwounded guests, save the guards and those with some experience at healing, had left the palace. Word of the night would spread quickly—hells, half the city likely knew by now—and there’d probably be no few guesses about Branwyn’s involvement, since she was an outsider as well as the one who’d known how to fight the demons. Zelen might not be the only one to work out the truth.
The truth was probably the precise sort of thing Gedomir had asked him to watch for.
Zelen was too tired to think much about that.
