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.
* * *
Shadows of his past and devils far away fled from Zelen’s awareness, having begun their retreat as soon as Branwyn took his hand. There, in the shelter of autumn-blighted plants and evening shade, he stood with a beautiful woman in his arms, and all moments except that one could go to hell.
Branwyn had a patient nature, he discovered. The sweet pressure of her lips was insistent, but unhurried, seeking rather than forceful. She explored, she learned, not with the cautious daring of an innocent but with the interest of a master jeweler examining a likely purchase, or a smith testing the balance of a sword.
The object of her scrutiny couldn’t match jewels or metal for impassivity. It was mere heartbeats before Zelen was groaning into Branwyn’s mouth. He fought back the urge to pull her lush body against his or to return her kiss with bruising force, because he sensed a challenge in her slow investigation, some balance of power that would shift if his control broke.
Also, it was damnably, torturously erotic.
If slow was what the lady wanted, he could manage slow. There were his hands on her shoulders, for instance, and he could slide them down, taking in soft doeskin and hard muscle and then the even softer roundness of her breasts. He could cup, there, and skim his fingers back and forth, until Branwyn made a husky, wordless noise. Layers made it harder to navigate by feel, but he traced small circles with his thumbs and felt her nipples stiffen.
Her grip on the back of his head tightened, becoming almost painful before she seemed to realize she was pulling his hair and let go. The hand in question moved down his back, leaving a trail of sensation that spread through Zelen like fire on flash paper, and
