Two who’d been there before were simply absent. Marior Rognozi sat in her uncle’s place, though without his rank on the council, absorbing the goings-on.
Verengir’s spot had vanished, without even an empty chair to mark it.
“The rot went too far,” Zelen had explained a few nights before, as Branwyn lay beside him in bed. “I’m the only immediate heir who survived, and…well, I’ll be surrendering my title soon enough, won’t I? Hardly the sort to sit in judgment for the city. Best for the council to go down a member, until some other house works its way to prominence. It won’t be long.”
“You don’t sound as though you regret the loss of your position,” said Branwyn.
“I can come up with more enjoyable ones,” he’d replied, and kissed her.
Recovery, and delay, had had their benefits.
Now Branwyn waited with her hands clasped in front of her and tried not to speculate. The decision would be what it would be. She and Yathana—and the Sentinels, as a whole—would have to make their plans from the next moment onward, and she could do nothing until then.
High Lord Kolovat came forward to the edge of the dais, the circlet still a trifle small on his brow. “Madam—Sentinel Branwyn,” he said, “the council has heard your request, and that of your Order and Criwath behind you.”
“And I thank you, all of you, for so hearing,” Branwyn replied.
Winter light shone in from the stained-glass window behind the high lord, casting patches of green and yellow on his white robe. They were very faint, however. The sky outside was overcast.
In the corner, a scribe lifted their pen from parchment and waited. Now there would be notes. Later, perhaps, a formal proclamation.
“Given recent events,” said Kolovat, “we can’t deny that our ancient enemy is at work again, nor that the power behind him endangers us all. For that reason, and in retribution for the suborning of Heliodar’s nobility, we do here and now declare that we join Criwath and the Sentinels in the war against Thyran, against his reprehensible patron Gizath, and against the forces that seek to destroy what mortalkind has worked so hard to rebuild.”
Lady be praised, said Yathana.I could kiss the old walrus, if I had flesh.
Branwyn felt the floor grow more solid beneath her feet as a number of potential futures suddenly joined into one that she could count on. She was glad, but not joyous—given the sober, measured fear in Kolovat’s face and the red rims around Yansyak’s eyes, she didn’t think joy would have been right then. Even Yathana had spoken mostly in relief.
Martonlooked joyous, which made Branwyn briefly doubt the whole endeavor.
That didn’t matter. She knew her response and gave it: a low curtsy, skirts held out and leg drawn back, then the words she’d rehearsed. “Councillors, you have my thanks, those of the Order of the Dawn, and those of the Sentinels. When this business concludes, the world itself will owe you its gratitude.”
The sound of the pen began again. It filled the chamber, because nobody else wanted to make a noise. Perhaps they, like Branwyn, were afraid thatif the world surviveswould come out the instant one of them opened their mouth.
“It’s snowing,” said Starovna, who was standing by a clear part of the window.
They didn’t murmur, nor did they all go to see; there was discipline in nobility, at least in this part of it.
“It’s winter,” said Kolovat. “That’s all.”
Nobody argued because they wanted him to be right. Nobody spoke again for a long time because they couldn’t quite believe that he was.
* * *
Snow was falling when Zelen left Letar’s temple—not heavily, but steadily. The Mourner and Blade who’d been examining him had glanced out the window when it had started and said nothing. People outside weren’t nearly so composed, not with the tales going around the city.
“Been snow in the Oak Month before,” said a young man in brown laborer’s clothes, paused on the street corner with a cart of wood.
“Once in a while,” said his bearded friend. “It’s notcommon.”
“But it doesn’t mean—”
They didn’t even glance Zelen’s way as he passed. He wore no circlet of office now, nothing to distinguish him from the common man he was.
It was a pity, in a way. He could have done good on the council once, if he’d ever really been a member, but his family had prevented him in both life and death. Best to let the role go to someone who could truly act in the city’s interest, with no hereditary ties binding their hands.
He could serve better elsewhere.
“You know,” said Branwyn, suddenly at his side, “it takes a while for me to pick you out of a crowd without your finery.”
