Until he reached the room, carrying the day’s letters, and heard Branwyn’s prayer, he still hadn’t been sure whether or not to tell her. There was still plenty he didn’t know. Shecouldhave killed the Rognozis and met with an accident or a fight later. She could even have been in league with the demon, then turned on it.
Then her voice had reached him, hoarse with injury and cracked with grief and regret, in the words of a prayer Zelen had once learned but never had cause to use.
He could have kept his silence as easily as he could have stopped breathing.
When Zelen closed the prayer, Branwyn turned to look at him. Most of the bruising had faded from her face, leaving only a faint shadow around one eye. With her grave expression and his white shirt for clothing, she had an almost holy air about her, and a very solitary one.
“Nobody’s seen anything,” he blurted out. It was all he could offer in the face of her somber regard. “No fights. No injuries. One disappearance, but hardly the sort who’d give you trouble. And you’re not the sort to fall down stairs. I’ve seen you move.”
“That argues for a few possibilities,” Branwyn said, “and only one of them is entirely good, even as little asgoodis possible in the situation. Icouldhave killed the demon and staggered away blindly, either to escape the authorities or because”—she shrugged—“blows to the skull don’t exactly inspire clear thinking. But I might not have.”
“True. I’ve set up wards around here in case.” The paraphernalia in the trunks had been carefully packed away, oiled and censed by an unknown hand but one that appeared expert to Zelen’s decidedly inexpert judgment. Sigils in twisted silver and copper wire, set with gems, now hung from the doors and windows in each room, and braziers burned in the front hall.
Visitors would be nonplussed. Zelen suspected the servants already were, though, as he’d told Branwyn, the ball provided more than adequate justification. “I haven’t heard stories about a demon either. People would notice that, wouldn’t they?”
“If it were independent and the mindless rampage sort, yes. It could be controlled, or smart enough to scheme and hide, though the Rognozis’ death argues somewhat against the latter.” She sat back on the bed with a grimace of pain.
That drew Zelen’s notice. “I’d like to check how disturbingly fast you’re mending, if I may.”
“Yes, thank you.” She arranged the shirt carefully to expose the knee while maintaining modesty, and her expression became, briefly, both wry and a touch sad.
Zelen understood. Above the shirt was nothing he hadn’t touched, licked, gotten to know quite thoroughly—but that had beenbefore. The last few days were a gulf like the western sea. He perched on the bed, placing the sealed papers to one side, and turned his attention strictly to Branwyn’s knee.
The improvement got a low whistle from him, and that made her chuckle. “I’d give my right eye to study how you do that,” Zelen said.
“Oh, don’t. You’re much better off with both, and I’m certain we have copious notes in one of our chapter houses. About how long do you think I’ll still be incapacitated?”
“If the current rate of healing continues?” He prodded gently, feeling heat and swelling but not the break that had been there the previous night. “You’ll be able to walk in a day, if you’re careful. Run, or fight, in three or four. It’s bloody amazing.”
“Our makers do good work,” said Branwyn. That called Zelen’s attention to a part of her leg he hadn’t noticed before—it had always been too dark, or he’d been too concerned with her wounds. A thin bronze line, perhaps the width of her fingertip, ran up from her anklebone on each side.
He had to check, and yes, the lines were on her other leg too, like welded seams in metal.
“And they sign their masterpieces,” she added from above him.
“I’m sorry—” Zelen said, sitting up quickly, but Branwyn was grinning faintly. She pushed back a sleeve to show him the same pattern on her arm, starting close to her wrist.
“I’d have had the same curiosity in your place, and given that you’ve healed me and let me stay in your house, I don’t have much grounds for complaint. Besides, I don’t hide them as a rule—only when I’m playing spy, which I didn’t do until a few weeks back.”
The lines were astoundingly straight, the contrast with her skin subtle and fascinating. Zelen wished he’d had paper and pen handy, but he wasn’t sure any oils could have come close to the shift in color or the metallic gleam. The healer in him took over from the artist, then, and he asked, “Do they feel different?”
“Not from the inside, not usually. I can turn to metal—could, with Yathana.” Her expression was briefly very controlled. “It ripples out from those lines, and when I was first reforged I was much more aware of the process. I’m used to it now. As for the outside, somewhat. Would you like to—”
Awareness hit them both as she held out her wrist, Zelen thought, in what he even then knew was a spectacular display of rationalizing, that turning down the offer would only make the moment more awkward. He set his fingers lightly on Branwyn’s arm.
The line did feel precisely like polished metal, slightly cooler than the rest of her skin. Zelen thought it thrummed faintly with her pulse, but that might have been his own heartbeat suddenly picking up speed and volume.
You’ve already had your hands all over her, fool, he told himself,no more than a day ago.
But this was different. This was exploration rather than duty, pleasure rather than simply relief of pain. Was the pulse beneath his fingers, if he did feel it, speeding up like his own?
She’s possibly a murderer, but she likely wasn’t.
Zelen lifted his gaze. Branwyn’s eyes were dark, her lips faintly parted, and her breasts rose and fell quickly, making his shirt far more interesting than it had ever been. He envied the fabric, sliding against her firm body like that.
She’s injured, and she’s trapped in your house.
That got through, cold water enough for the moment. “Thank you,” Zelen managed. By force of will, he laid her hand gently back in her lap. “I shouldn’t pry.”
