Bright Raven Skies

by Kristina Perez

  Branwen stayed and watched the bonfire from her perch until long after the others had left. Wood and bone crackled. Orange and copper sparks drifted up toward the wandering stars. The soles of Branwen’s feet began to ache yet she scarcely noticed.

  “You’re still here.”

  The moon was waning and the light on Ruan’s face dim. He treaded softly on the scorched grasses. “I checked your room after I escorted Alba back to hers.”

  “How is she?” Branwen asked, although she knew it to be a useless question. One designed to make the asker feel better.

  “She adored Kahedrin. And Havelin,” Ruan replied. “Her loss is great. But Alba’s resilient. I remember once, when she was visiting Villa Illogan, she fell from a pony and broke her arm. She was too embarrassed to tell anyone.”

  He laughed. “It took two days before anyone realized—and she was only eight. Seer Casek was barely able to set it.”

  “Seer Casek?”

  “He used to be the kordweyd at the temple in Illogan.” Ruan sighed. “Anyway, Alba will recover.” He stopped beside Branwen, raising a hand to her jaw and stroking its length.

  “Maybe she will. She won’t be the same.”

  “I know you’re feeling guilty, Branwen. But I wouldn’t trade Kahedrin for Marc.”

  “Neither would I.” And that was perhaps the true source of her guilt. “I regret that Kahedrin put me in the position to choose,” Branwen said. Or maybe she had set herself on that course exactly one year ago today when she pulled Tristan from the raft?

  “I don’t want to have to choose,” she said. There was a hitch in her voice.

  Ruan took her bandaged hand in his, placing it against his cheek. “Kridyom.”

  “Please, Ruan. Don’t make me.”

  Regret fractured his face. “We both know that Tristan is lying about what happened on the night of the attack.”

  “If he and my cousin had decided to flee together, why would he send Sir Goron to tell Marc where to find them?” Ruan frowned at her words. “You know I’m right,” she pressed him.

  “I don’t know what I know, Branwen.”

  “No, you don’t.” She placed her other hand on his cheek, framing his face. “The queen is back. Marc believes Tristan. Keeping the peace is what he wants.”

  “What do you believe?” Ruan asked. “Truly?”

  Branwen’s stomach flipped over several times. “I—I believe that my kingdom needs peace. My parents were murdered fourteen years ago today by Kernyvak raiders.”

  “You never told me.”

  “I’m telling you now.” Branwen’s chest expanded. “Marc was on that raid. As was Xandru. And Sir Goron.”

  “Branwen.” Her name became an exclamation. Ruan’s eyes rounded. “If he weren’t my king, I would avenge your family.” He shook his head. “But you’ve saved Marc’s life. His kingdom.”

  “That is how much I believe in peace, Ruan. Enough to forgive the man who killed my mother.”

  Ruan stared at Branwen dumbfounded. “I didn’t think I could be in more awe of you.”

  She made a noise at the back of her throat. “I’m a killer, Ruan. A cheat. A liar. I’m not selfless like your Horned One. What I know—what I believe is that no one needs to die if Tristan and Eseult have committed an indiscretion.”

  Ruan’s mouth became a tight line. “But, Branwen—”

  “No.” She cut him off, fury mounting. “Eseult is back at Marc’s side, which is where she’ll stay. We’re at war with Armorica. Do you want to resume war with Iveriu as well? With your father’s people? Your people?”

  Ruan opened his mouth to speak, and Branwen silenced him with a finger across his lips.

  “If you implicate my queen in treason, you implicate me as well. If you endanger Iveriu, you make me your enemy.”

  Her breath came in pants. “Do you love me, Ruan? Or do you want to be right?”

  He stepped back from her embrace, dragging his hands through the hair that hung about his shoulders.

  What would Branwen do if Ruan chose to pursue his suspicions? What wouldn’t Branwen do to keep the peace?

  Ruan dropped to his knees before her.

  “I love you, Branwen. Karid. Kridyom.” He stared up at her. He withdrew his father’s knife and offered it to her in supplication. “I believe in you.”

  Relief was intoxicating. Branwen fell to her knees beside him. She wrapped her hands around his neck, bit his lower lip, and kissed him as if she were the one who’d been rescued from a life raft.

  The bonfire continued to lick the sky.

  “Make love to me,” she told him.

  Ruan pulled back. “Here? In the garden?”

  “Here.”

  Starlight glimmered off her mother’s brooch. The right fight.

  For tonight, Branwen had won.

  DEATH STALKS US ALL

  WHENEVER BRANWEN ENTERED ALBA’S APARTMENT in the West Tower, she still half expected to find Queen Verica casting her dice. In the week since Kahedrin’s funeral, the southerly wind from the Mílesian peninsula had deepened the spring and Branwen hardly needed her cloak. This time last year, she’d been nursing Tristan back to health in her cave; this year she had a different royal patient in her care.

  “You seem distracted today,” Alba noted as Branwen dabbed a disinfectant ointment along the scab on the other woman’s cheek. Her gaze had strayed through the west-facing window to the gardens below. The only time she saw King Marc look at all peaceful was when he worked with Andred and Lowenek to clear the wreckage and begin to replant.

  Ignoring the remark, Branwen said, “Your nose is almost fully healed.” She finished applying the ointment. “You may have a scar here.”

  Alba shrugged. “The sea doesn’t care if I have scars.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t.” Branwen resealed the jar and placed it in her satchel.

  “My muscles are growing tight from being confined to my rooms. I need to exercise the ones I pulled during the … a couple of weeks ago.” The captain leaned forward in the armchair. “As Royal Healer, might you give me permission to train outside?”

  Branwen gave her a cagey look. “You expect me to put a sword in your hand?”

  “I don’t need a sword,” Alba replied, shaking her head. “My brothers taught me how to box and wrestle like they do in the Aquilan military.” With a wry smile, she added, “You could be my sparring partner.”

  Branwen snorted. From a healer’s perspective, she could see the benefit of allowing the other woman to exercise her muscles lest they atrophy. She was less enthusiastic about the prospect of being punched in the face. Still, the memory of Alba’s lament over Kahedrin’s pyre clung to her.

  “I will have to ask the king’s permission,” said Branwen.

  “I would appreciate that.” A pause. “Thank you.”

  Sunlight winked off a silver chain around the captain’s neck, a small charm dangling from it. Branwen squinted. It was a skeleton with its arms outstretched. Following Branwen’s gaze, Alba said, “This is Ankou.”

  “Does everyone in Armorica still practice the Old Ways?” she asked.

  “The Cult of the Horned One has its temples, but we Armoricans are stubborn.” Alba plucked the charm from her tunic and ran her forefinger along the skeleton’s silhouette. “On our thirteenth birthdays, we choose which of the seven Old Ones to make our patron.”

  Lowering an eyebrow, Branwen said, “And you chose your death goddess?”

  “Death stalks us all—I prefer to think of her as a friend.”

  Gooseflesh broke out across Branwen’s arms at her words. She suspected that if Alba came face-to-face with the Dark One, she might feel differently.

  “We embrace death so that we enjoy life more,” Alba continued. “Most Armorican warriors worship Ankou.”

  “Did Kahedrin feel the same?” Branwen asked. Alba balked and she shot her a dirty look. “I-I didn’t mean to offend you.” The other woman exhaled a harsh breath. “It’s only th
at in Iveriu we believe Dhusnos rules the Sea of the Dead, and we fear him,” Branwen said.

  Alba lowered her gaze to her talisman. “That seems strange to me. In Armorica, we believe that Ankou was the first of the Old Ones to be born from Kerwindos’s Cauldron. The mother of creation knew that all life must end—eventually,” she said. “If we spend our lives fearing death, we spend them fearing ourselves.”

  Branwen stroked the bandage wrapped around her right hand. She feared death and she feared herself, and she had good reason for both. But hadn’t Goddess Ériu banished Dhusnos to the waters that surrounded their island? Was his insult so grave? Branwen swallowed. Was not the Land also responsible for the starless tide?

  “Who is your patron?” Alba asked her, breaking into Branwen’s thoughts.

  “Bríga,” she replied after a moment, her voice near a whisper. Although she no longer knew if that was true.

  The captain nodded. “Our healers worship Bríga, too.”

  A knock came as a member of the Royal Guard opened the door. Branwen nearly jumped. “Pardon the intrusion, Lady Branwen,” said a young man with freckled skin. “The king is requesting your presence in his study.”

  “I’ll come right away.” She rummaged in her satchel and presented Alba with a jar of blue glass. “Massage the arnica paste into your sore muscles. I’ll ask the king about letting you train outside.”

  Alba accepted the jar. “Might I beg you another favor?” Branwen made an mmm noise as she slung the satchel over her shoulder. “A book?” Catching her eye, the other woman said, “I’m excellent company but there’s a limit to how entertaining I find myself.”

  Branwen couldn’t help but laugh. “Any subject in particular?”

  “History. If you can manage it?”

  The light filling her eyes reminded Branwen of Master Bécc, the royal tutor at Castle Rigani, and his enthusiasm as he regaled her and Eseult about ancient kings.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

  As Branwen reached the doorway, Alba called out, “And find yourself some trousers—I can teach you a thing or two about fighting.”

  Of that, Branwen had absolutely no doubt.

  * * *

  A scroll lay before King Marc on the table.

  “You four are my family and my most trusted friends,” he began. Ruan, Tristan, and the queen had also been summoned. Branwen sat beside the King’s Champion, body tensed. “We have received a response from King Faramon, and before I assemble my council I want to know your thoughts.”

  “What does Faramon say?” asked Tristan. He sat opposite from Branwen, and they avoided eye contact. Eseult was seated beside him, at the left hand of the king. She held herself like a deer with an arrow aimed at its throat.

  “He has offered a ransom for Princess Alba.” Marc looked from Tristan to Ruan. “Gold,” he elaborated. He tugged at his beard, which had grown even longer, the reddish bristles more prominent. “Faramon is aware that our treasury has been depleted by the fall in exports of our white lead.”

  Ruan cursed. “He’s aware because Armorica has started importing from the Kingdom of Míl instead!”

  Branwen shifted in her seat, feeling her lover’s restless energy. The mining disaster last year had been caused by pressuring the miners to dig faster. Before her arrival in Kernyv, she hadn’t realized how dependent the kingdom was on trading their minerals. House Whel had been most affected by the lack of demand for white lead.

  “Gold isn’t enough,” the king agreed.

  “We should demand land on Armorica’s northern coast. Perhaps a port,” suggested Ruan.

  “Has Xandru reached Karaez safely?” Branwen asked Marc. “Does King Faramon know you didn’t send the pirates?”

  The king lifted a leather pouch from beside the scroll, the size of a fist.

  “Seeds,” he replied. Xandru always sent Marc seeds for his garden. “He’s there—and safe. For now.” Branwen nodded, glad, as Marc took in another breath. “Faramon also knows that Kahedrin died in the assault on Monwiku.”

  Beneath the table, Ruan put a hand on Branwen’s knee. “Then I’m surprised he’s not offering more for Alba’s release,” said the King’s Champion.

  Marc squeezed the pouch. “I’ve been pondering what I can demand in exchange for the princess that will bring the hostilities to a swift conclusion.” He looked around the table, the corner of his mouth lifting as his gaze met Branwen’s.

  “What I want,” said the king, “is an alliance. A permanent alliance.”

  “What do you propose?” Tristan asked.

  “That we fight the pirates together. Take back control of the Veneti Isles once and for all. Bring them law and order, subjects of the Kernyvak crown.”

  Branwen had learned that the Aquilan Empire seized the islands and used them as a penal colony when they ruled Albion. The prisoners were abandoned when the Aquilan legions retreated to the southern continent. Those remaining had turned to piracy to survive.

  The afternoon grew unnaturally still. Then Ruan exclaimed, “You can’t be serious. The other councillors will never support your plan.”

  “I am very serious, Ruan. I am the king, and this is what I want.” An unusual roughness clipped the king’s words. “What I believe is best for my people.”

  “You also said you wanted our opinions,” his Champion countered. “And my opinion is that your proposal will make Kernyv seem weak to the rest of Albion. It will make you seem weak to the rest of the kingdom.”

  Marc slammed the bag of seeds on the table. “Thank you for your frankness.” To Eseult, he said, “What is your opinion, my queen? What would you counsel? This should be our decision.”

  The True Queen wet her lips. She looked pale in the afternoon light. Tristan had succeeded in keeping Eseult from Branwen’s path since her return. Or, perhaps, the queen had made herself invisible. Only now did Branwen notice her cousin’s sunken cheeks and how the bodice of her dress fit more loosely. A shadow of her former self.

  “I think we should do whatever will end the war,” said Eseult, hesitant. She dashed a glance at Branwen. “Before Armorica decides to attack Iveriu.”

  Marc nodded, his expression softening as he looked at his wife.

  “Thank you for your support. The True Queen and I are in agreement.” Shifting his gaze from Eseult to Branwen, he said, “I will also write to King Óengus. I fear that if the pirates were bold enough to attack Armorica, it won’t be long before they resume their raids on Iveriu.”

  Branwen’s stomach lurched at the possibility.

  “My intention is to propose a three-kingdom alliance,” Marc continued. “I will ask Óengus to send any ships he can spare to join our campaign against the pirates.”

  It was an ambitious plan. Branwen had never heard of a treaty between three kingdoms where each was on equal footing.

  “Ridding the Southern Channel and the Dreaming Sea of pirates will benefit us all,” Tristan said. Except for whoever sent the pirates to Karaez in the first place, thought Branwen.

  King Marc glowered at his Champion. “Do I have everyone’s support?”

  “You always have my support, Marc,” answered Ruan. “But I feel compelled to tell you that the barons and my mother won’t be happy.”

  “Then you will convince the countess to make her king happy.”

  The threat hung in the air. Ruan noticeably swallowed.

  “My Lord King,” said Eseult, regaining his focus. “I have been visiting the wounded with Endelyn.” Branwen coughed. That was news to her.

  “I’m sure your presence heartens them,” Marc told his wife.

  “Mormerkti.” Eseult’s lips curved into an uncertain smile. “The servants’ quarters are cramped. I was—I was hoping we could break ground on the Royal Infirmary immediately. We need more space to care for our—” She paused. “Our people. It’s the only birthday present I need.”

  Marc took his wife’s hand. Branwen slid her finger against the grain of the woo
den table. “Of course,” he said. “Our people are fortunate to have you as their queen.”

  The door squeaked open as Endelyn appeared. “Forgive me,” she said. “A woman is here for Ruan.” Branwen canted her head at her lover. “She says her business is urgent,” Endelyn told her brother.

  Almost snarling, he demanded, “Who is it?”

  “The wife of Tutir.”

  Ruan’s hand tightened around Branwen’s knee. They exchanged a panicked glance.

  “Show her to my rooms. Tell her I’ll be there soon.”

  “I’m not your lady’s maid, Ruan.”

  “Endelyn.”

  “Go,” said King Marc to his Champion. “Our discussion is at an end.”

  Ruan sketched a frustrated circle on Branwen’s thigh, then pushed to his feet. He darted her a backward glance before exiting. To the king, Branwen said, “Princess Alba asked if she might be able to exercise outdoors.”

  “Is that wise?” said Tristan, crossing his arms.

  Branwen afforded him a glare. “It would help her recover from her injuries.”

  “The injuries she sustained besieging the castle?”

  “Yes.”

  More than that, though, Branwen remembered how being outdoors had provided a respite from her own grief. Remaining cloistered in the West Tower would only serve to make Alba’s fester.

  Marc let out a sigh. “Very well,” he said. “These negotiations may take some time and if they’re successful, Alba will be our ally once more.”

  “Thank you, brother,” said Branwen.

  “Just be certain she’s well guarded.”

  The meeting at a close, Branwen was eager to excuse herself from her cousin’s presence. She found Andred skulking in the hallway. Suppressing her fear about what Tutir’s wife might want with Ruan, she greeted her apprentice.

  A grin spread over his face. “I did it!” Andred told Branwen excitedly. “The gods’ blood—I made it flower!” He beckoned her. “Let me show you.”

  Andred’s bedchamber was located down the corridor from the king’s study. Despite her nerves, she followed. At the far end of his room, beside the window, a translucent stone box glimmered. Basking in the rays of the sun, it reminded Branwen of snow. The stone was hot to the touch, however.