“Sister,” said Marc. Branwen twisted back toward the king. “I haven’t let you say hello to your cousin properly.” He pushed to his feet. Eseult wrapped a blond strand around her pinkie, taut.
“Branny,” she said. “The Old Ones are watching over you. I’m so grateful.” The queen’s gaze darted toward Branwen’s hand. The one she now knew could produce fire.
“As am I, Lady Queen.” She embraced her cousin because she knew it was what Marc would expect, but her hold was limp.
“Branwen told me that your birthday was this week,” King Marc said to his wife.
“She did?”
“When we return to Monwiku we can celebrate however you wish.”
“Thank you,” the queen said in a small voice.
Walking over to the fire pit, Marc said, “We left the castle at sunset. Let us sleep awhile before we return. It’s not quite light yet.”
“An excellent idea, sire,” Ruan enthused. “Cousin,” he said to Tristan. “You won’t mind giving the king your place in the bed?” His smile was halfway between vicious and rakish.
“Of course not.” Tristan exhaled through his nose. “I’ve had more than enough rest. I’ll stand watch.”
“Ah well, you were sleeping on duty when we arrived.”
“Ruan,” King Marc barked. Ruan’s shoulder blades snapped together. “Your lack of sleep has sharpened your tongue too much.”
The King’s Champion worked his jaw; Branwen saw a true wound in his expression.
“Branwen will share the bed with her cousin. Ruan, you will share the floor with me.” Marc tugged at his beard. “Goron, I hate to put you out of your own bed,” he said to his former teacher.
“Nonsense. Hay makes a man go soft.” Again, Goron didn’t smile, yet Branwen heard a grin in his voice.
“Are you certain?” Branwen said to the king. Lying next to her cousin would be the furthest thing from restful.
“Quite certain.”
She nodded. “Mormerkti.”
Tristan retreated outside the cottage and the other men lay down beside the fire pit. Ruan and Sir Goron positioned themselves defensively on either side of the king.
Eseult pulled the curtain closed, giving her and Branwen privacy that Branwen didn’t want. Nevertheless, fatigue overwhelmed her and she flopped against the hay-filled mattress. The queen lay down next to her, draping a coarse woolen blanket on top of them. Sir Goron had served King Merchion for years. Branwen wondered why his home was so modest, his belongings utilitarian.
Her eyelids drooped. Eseult pressed in closer, whispering, “I would never hurt you, Branny. I wouldn’t. No matter what else you think of me, I didn’t send those men after you. Somehow I’m going to prove it.”
Branwen turned onto her side, facing her cousin. Eseult possessed the same Rigani-stone green eyes as Branwen’s mother. They used to fill her with affection—now nothing remained but scorn, hot and desperate.
“Nobody is worth a war,” Branwen told the queen low. Vindictive. “Including you. Including me. I’ll keep your secrets for that reason—and that reason only.”
Eseult grabbed her hand. “I won’t let you forget.” She traced her finger atop Branwen’s bandage. Angry strokes. Frantic. “Not you without me, not me—”
“Stop it.” Branwen yanked her hand away. “I don’t know why you keep doing that—it means nothing to me.”
She rolled over, showing the queen her back. She blocked out her cousin’s sniveling.
Maybe Eseult regretted her actions. Branwen didn’t care. Her cousin had always placed her own heart above all others.
Marc was too selfless to be king, and Eseult was too selfish to be queen.
Branwen bit down on her fist and released a silent scream.
THE DIFFICULT KIND
THE SCENT OF SMOKE STILL clung to the salty breeze at Monwiku. Branwen wended her way down the hill to the castle cellars, late afternoon light illuminating the canopy of leaves. She carried a lacquered box filled with oils to clean and anoint the body of the man she’d killed. A tally that was steadily increasing.
Slayer.
Who would be next? Who would Branwen sacrifice to the Dark One?
Lanterns creaked from the spike-leafed trees. She heard other signs of bustling. The residents of Monwiku were starting to resume their regular duties. It had been a week since the attack, and the cows needed to be milked, chickens fed, weapons forged. Duty didn’t wait on grief. Branwen had learned when her parents died that sometimes duty was the only way through it.
Since they’d returned from Sir Goron’s cottage, she’d spent the past few days tending to the wounded with Andred, avoiding Tristan, Eseult, and Ruan. Weariness had kept conversation to a minimum on the homeward journey. Branwen could tell that Marc was sad to have said goodbye to his former sword master.
Much to Branwen’s astonishment, Endelyn had been visiting injured servants whenever her duties as the queen’s lady’s maid allowed. Branwen taught her how to change a bandage and to check for signs of infection. The attack seemed to have shifted something profound in the Kernyvak princess.
As the trail led Branwen closer to the Royal Guards’ barracks, she spotted the face she’d once dreamed about. Her grip tightened on the box in her arms.
The white sash that cut a diagonal against Tristan’s black tunic was too bright. Because he was the Queen’s Champion, the silk was embroidered with the insignias of both Kernyv and Iveriu. He pulled at it when he saw Branwen, equally awkward.
“Dymatis, Lady Branwen,” Tristan said as he stepped onto the flagstone path.
Her gaze caught on the small scar above his right eyebrow. When he’d first washed up on the beach below Castle Rigani, Branwen had found the imperfection endearing. Later, she’d learned that he’d received the scar from Ruan. Tristan had witnessed Prince Edern whipping Ruan as a boy, and Ruan had convinced him to stay quiet.
Branwen flicked her eyes to the ground. “Dymatis, Prince Tristan.” She continued past him.
“Marc told me,” Tristan said. Branwen stopped, turning on her heel to face him. “Marc told me you killed Kahedrin to save him.”
Their eyes locked. Branwen made no reply.
“Thank you,” he told her. “I should have been here.”
“Yes. You should have.” Branwen stepped in closer; Tristan flinched. “Where were you? What happened?” she demanded.
He raked a hand through his mop of inky curls. She’d once found that irritated gesture endearing, too. Tristan exhaled a hot breath and Branwen felt it on her brow.
“After our … argument, I set off for Liones. I needed to be alone,” he began. “Eventually, I realized I was being followed.”
“Eseult.” Branwen made her cousin’s name a hiss. Tristan ducked his head.
“I insisted we return to the castle but as we rounded the bend on the coastal path from Marghas, we saw Monwiku in flames.” He swallowed, thumb circling the pommel of the sword at his waist. “I knew Marc would want me to get Eseult—the True Queen—somewhere safe.”
He lifted his gaze to meet Branwen’s. “Not returning to fight for my king was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Tristan said.
“Also the most suspicious,” Branwen retorted. “Don’t underestimate Ruan. He sees far too much.”
“You certainly don’t underestimate him.”
“You have no right to jealousy.”
“Don’t I?” Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what to feel—how I really feel about anyone. Anything. You took that away from me, Branwen.” He gripped his sword. “When I look at the queen, when I look at you … all I see are lies!”
I’m sorry. But Branwen couldn’t say the words aloud. She had once loved this man enough to siphon the poison from his body into hers. Tristan had been the first man to capture Branwen’s heart, and to show her the starless tide.
“I’ve been protecting both of you as best I can,” she said instead. “You don’t make it easy!”
> His posture straightened. “I won’t fail Marc again. I’d exile myself to Liones if I could and never come back. He wants me here.”
Branwen raised her chin. “I’ll do my utmost to stay out of your way, Tristan. Just keep your queen out of mine.”
“You don’t really believe she sent the guardsmen after you?” he whispered, glancing around them.
“Who else?”
“She loves you, Branwen.” Tristan paused. “Still.”
“Not as much as she loves herself.”
“She’s not capable of murder!”
“I’ve known Eseult my whole life. She’s capable of more than you think.”
Tristan’s expression darkened. “As are you.” He pointed at Branwen’s bandaged hand. She had no injury; she just wanted to avoid questions.
“I’m told Shades landed at Monwiku. That they fought for us.” He leaned in closer. “What did you do?”
“What no one else could.” Branwen clutched the box between them like a shield.
Worry rearranged his features. “What did it cost you?” He tilted his chin at the white curls tucked behind her ears. She’d given up trying to disguise them.
“I am nothing to you, Tristan—that’s what you said. Don’t show me false concern.”
Branwen barged past him and practically ran the rest of the way to the cellars. He didn’t call after her.
Two guardsmen were posted outside the entrance. Princess Alba was a royal hostage, but she was still a hostage. She was the only bargaining chip that King Marc had left. After the barons and Countess Kensa had welcomed the True Queen back to court, they had gone home disgruntled that the king had yet to make a decision about Armorica.
Oil lamps hung from the walls. The last time Branwen had been in the castle cellars was to prepare Queen Verica for burial. They were cool enough to delay the body’s decomposition. All of the rulers of Kernyv were interred in a tomb on the northern coast. One day, Tristan and Eseult would lie there side by side. But not Branwen.
Alba swung around at the sound of Branwen’s footsteps, reaching instinctively for a weapon at her hip that wasn’t there.
Her movements were liquid, nearly as startling as the Wise Damsel’s. The princess wrinkled her nose at Branwen. Lamplight revealed her golden-brown cheeks were damp with tears.
“You,” Alba practically spat. “Have you come to gloat?”
She thrust an angry hand at the body of Prince Kahedrin who’d been laid out on a stone table behind her.
The words landed like a punch. The guilt Branwen had been denying ate at her ironclad heart.
“No, Lady Princess. In Iveriu we prepare our dead for the journey to the Otherworld as you do in Armorica.” Although the Iverni did not burn their bodies. Branwen extended the lacquered box toward Alba. “I have brought the Oils of Passage.”
The princess’s bottom lip quivered. “I told you I prefer Captain.”
Her voice cracked, and Branwen felt her own throat constrict. Branwen had killed Keane. She had killed Tutir and Bledros. As well as other Armoricans in battle whose names she’d never know. Those deaths were justified. As was Prince Kahedrin’s.
And yet, Branwen had never been confronted by the grief-stricken loved one of a man she’d felled. She recognized the other woman’s pain, felt it keenly—the same pain she’d been forced to nurse when she was six years old.
“I’ll leave the oils here,” Branwen said, taking a step toward the stone slab. “Captain,” she added. She would afford Alba the respect of calling her by her chosen title. There was little else she could do for her.
Alba regarded Branwen warily. She set the box beside Prince Kahedrin’s head. His eyes had been open when he died. Summer blue. Someone had closed them. The prince’s build was stocky and his skin pale. He and Alba were half siblings but that clearly mattered not at all.
“He doesn’t look like himself,” said Alba, coming to stand next to Branwen. She touched a hand to the crown of Kahedrin’s flaming red hair. It had grown dull.
The first time Branwen had met Kahedrin, they’d been hunting the rixula before the wedding. Whoever caught the red-feathered bird was meant to be gifted a year without death. Branwen glanced at his sister.
“Kahedrin saw Ankou. Right before he died.”
Armoricans believed that Ankou was the Old One who trafficked in death. She shepherded souls to the Otherworld. They burned their dead to make their souls easier for her to collect. Branwen had intended to console Alba with the knowledge, but the other woman recoiled.
“You shouldn’t have been with him—it should have been me!” Alba shouted as a sob racked her body. Without thinking, Branwen wrapped an arm around Alba as she began to weep. After a minute, she pushed Branwen away violently.
“I understand why you hate me,” Branwen said. “I’ve spent most of my life hating the Kernyveu who killed my parents.”
“I will never stop hating you.” Alba wiped her nose with the sleeve of her tunic. Branwen was glad there was no knife attached to her breeches.
“But I hate myself more,” said the captain. Misery stained her tongue. “Kahedrin wasn’t even supposed to be here.” She choked back another sob.
“He thought my plan was reckless.” Her gaze swept over her brother’s waxy visage. “Impulsive.” She laid her hand atop his lifeless one. “He refused to back me, and I gathered my most loyal men anyway.” Alba snorted in disgust. “At the last minute, just as we were pushing from the dock, Kahedrin jumped in my boat. He said he was coming along to make sure his little sister didn’t get herself killed.”
Branwen clasped her hands together.
“Kahedrin always said I’d grow up to be the difficult kind of woman—he meant it as a compliment.” Alba pierced Branwen with a look. “And I got him killed.” Her lips curled. “I have no more right to prepare his body than you do. We both killed him.”
The younger woman’s chest heaved. Branwen remained quiet as Alba struggled to regain her composure.
“It would be my honor to assist you, Captain,” Branwen said. “If you would permit me.”
Alba inhaled a long breath through her nose.
“Now that the True Queen has been found alive—and not kidnapped by Armoricans,” she said, “will King Marc let me go home?”
“I don’t know.” Branwen turned to leave.
“Yes,” Alba said tentatively. “Yes, I would like your help.”
With a minuscule smile, Branwen removed the oils and linen cloths from the lacquered box. Alba murmured something in Armorican, perhaps a prayer to Ankou, as they began. Working together in silence, the two women cleansed Kahedrin’s body with wild mint and garlic, masked the stench of death with lavender.
Branwen would not ask forgiveness from the sister of the man before her, and she would not receive it. Yet Branwen felt unforeseen affinity with the Armorican captain. Both she and Alba had chosen what they thought was the right fight.
And both of them had failed.
Still, a strange warmth spread through Branwen. For a fleeting moment, she felt something akin to peace.
* * *
Crickets filled the castle gardens with their night song as Crown Prince Kahedrin’s body was carried down to the pyre.
Alba followed behind her brother to the first level of the terraced gardens. More blood than petals had now showered the earth.
Branwen lingered on the terrace above, watching Tristan, Ruan, Endelyn, and Andred stand solemnly around the pyre. They had all known Kahedrin for years. They had been friends once. Childhood playmates.
Someone wanted them to become enemies. Someone had succeeded.
Above the Dreaming Sea, westward toward Iveriu, the sun sank into the depths. Golden highlights streaked somber clouds. Branwen smelled rain in the air.
Marc noticed her lurking at the edge of the second terrace as he escorted Queen Eseult down the stone steps that led to the bottom of the garden. He bade his wife continue without him.
“Sis
ter,” he said to Branwen. “I’ve been looking for you.” The king’s eyes were tired and the circles beneath them distinct.
“I was helping Alba prepare Kahedrin’s body.”
Lips pursed, Marc nodded. “I hope this is the last funeral we attend for a long time,” he said. Branwen drew in a breath, raising her brow in agreement.
“Sister,” he said again. “I remember this day every year. I remember what I did.”
Today was the anniversary of her parents’ deaths. Fourteen years ago, and a year to the day that Branwen had rescued Tristan. There was a terrible symmetry to it all. As if she were a puppet and the Old Ones were pulling her strings.
Marc reached a hand toward the brooch on Branwen’s cloak. Her mother’s brooch.
“Every year, I pray at the temple. I ask mercy from my god.” He met Branwen’s stare. “Is there a tradition you keep?”
Involuntarily, her gaze sought the queen. Her cousin had always been the one to soothe Branwen, with her silliness and her love stories and her elderberry wine. This Branwen knew. But she could no more grasp the memories than shadows upon a wall. They had no warmth. No substance.
Branwen shook her head. “I’ve always felt closest to my parents by the sea,” she said.
Marc offered her a hand. “Join me.” He indicated the mourners below.
“I’ll stay here.” She inhaled. “I have no right to mourn the man I murdered.”
He embraced her and kissed Branwen’s brow. “I love you because you mourn him, sister.”
She let a tear glide down her cheek as King Marc took his place beside his wife.
Alba sang a lament. Branwen didn’t understand the words but she felt the other woman’s heart-wound. Alba’s voice was a sweet alto. Raw. Branwen could hear Lady Alana’s harp accompanying her on the wind.
The sweetness of Alba’s voice would seem at odds with the young, brazen captain who had defied her father and besieged a castle thought to be impermeable.
When the song was finished, a torch was lit.
Bright Raven Skies Page 9