Bright Raven Skies

by Kristina Perez

  “Lady Branwen,” said the king. “You will see to Prince Ruan’s wounds before his departure.”

  “Yes, my Lord King.” With a curtsy, Branwen sidled next to Ruan. She suspected that Marc wanted to give them the chance to say goodbye.

  “Don’t pretend you’re sorry I lost,” Ruan said to Branwen under his breath.

  “I won’t.”

  Goodbyes wouldn’t be necessary.

  King Marc plunged the tip of the fálkr into the sand, deep enough for it to stand on its own, and extended his hand to Eseult.

  When she accepted, he raised hers to his lips and kissed it.

  “Prince Tristan,” the king began. “You have served your queen and your kingdom faithfully. The Horned One and the Old Ones have shown us all the truth.”

  Tristan bowed deeply. “Thank you, my Lord King.”

  A few hisses rose from the crowd as Captain Xandru escorted Princess Alba in the direction of the king. Ruan and Branwen exchanged a sideways glance. He seemed as curious as she was. The king had apparently confided in no one but Xandru about the terms of Alba’s elevated status.

  “My friends and subjects,” said King Marc. Branwen saw Countess Kensa and the other barons step out from the shadows of their tents.

  “King Faramon and I have reached an accord. Together with Iveriu, we will sign a mutual defense treaty and fight off the pirates who plague all of our shores.”

  Marc paused to let the news sink in. Branwen saw outrage on some faces, fear on others. A satisfied nod from Baron Julyan. Ruan ground his teeth. He believed this was a sign of weakness, but he no longer held any authority to speak on the matter.

  Looking from his wife to his nephew, King Marc went on.

  “King Faramon believes that the best way to ensure this alliance is with a blood tie, and he has offered the hand of his sole heir, Crown Princess Alba, in marriage.”

  At Xandru’s side, Alba made a face like she was chewing needles.

  “Prince Tristan,” said the king. “I must ask you to perform one last service for me and for your kingdom.”

  Dark laughter filled Branwen’s mind.

  “Will you consent to marry Princess Alba?” King Marc asked his nephew.

  Tristan lowered the kladiwos to the sand as he got down on one knee.

  “I pledged my fealty to you, my Lord King, upon becoming a man. I am yours to command.”

  Do not believe this life is what I wished. Tristan dashed his eyes toward Branwen; the hazel flecks were so many falling stars. A thousand years, sealed with a kiss.

  Pressing a fist to his chest, he pronounced, “Peace above all.”

  PART II

  THE BURNING TIDE

  TOO BOLD TO BE WISE

  PREPARATIONS FOR THE SECOND ROYAL wedding within the year and the campaign against the pirates in the Veneti Isles had consumed Monwiku Castle for the past month. The smell of roasted meats for the wedding feast this evening wafted through the courtyard as Branwen walked by the kitchens. Spring had passed in the blink of an eye and now the air was pure summer.

  The lace covering Branwen’s right palm itched in the heat. Eseult had surprised her by crocheting a fingerless glove. The stitches were sloppy but the intent, she believed, was sincere. Most people assumed that Branwen’s hand had been disfigured during the Armorican attack, and she let them believe it was vanity that led her to conceal her flesh.

  Tonight the fires of Belotnia, the Festival of Lovers, would be lit along the coasts of Iveriu and Kernyv. Armorica, as well. Master Bécc had taught his charges that the three peoples had once been a sole tribe before they left the Mílesian peninsula thousands of years ago. Tomorrow morning, the combined fleets of Kernyv, Armorica, and Iveriu would launch their joint assault, bringing the fight directly to the pirates on the Veneti Isles. The islands would provide the pirates a refuge no longer.

  Taking the stairs up the King’s Tower, Branwen hoped there was enough shared culture, enough shared purpose for the Three Kingdom Alliance to hold.

  She knocked on the door to the king’s study, her gaze landing first on Xandru. He showed Branwen a careless smile, which she knew to be well practiced. King Marc had yet to appoint himself a new Champion, although Xandru had scarcely left Marc’s side as he negotiated the details of the treaty and Tristan’s marriage contract.

  Branwen pushed thoughts of the former King’s Champion from her mind. Sometimes she missed him—the feel of him—in the night. Perhaps it was always this way with lovers. Ruan had been her first, and her desire was a field of briars.

  Stepping farther into the study, Branwen’s attention was drawn to an almost familiar face.

  “Diarmuid?” she said.

  “Lady Branwen,” he replied in Ivernic. “It’s good to see you again.” Lord Diarmuid inclined his head. He tapped the pale blue patch covering his left eye. “With my good eye, that is,” he added. Blue was the color of Uladztir, the province of Iveriu governed by his clan. Diarmuid gave a rueful laugh.

  Branwen stared blankly. Not because of the missing eye, but because the Lord Diarmuid she knew wasn’t prone to self-deprecation. Sunlight winked off the Rigani stone on the hilt of his kladiwos. Eseult had been willing to throw away the peace with Kernyv for this man, and he’d lost interest when she could no longer offer him a crown. She’d swooned over Diarmuid’s pleasing face, and the eye patch made him no less handsome, yet there was a careworn aspect to him now. His head, too, had been shorn of the golden curls that once ringed his face.

  Diarmuid’s square jaw tensed at Branwen’s silence. King Marc, who stood beside the Ivernic lord, darted her a look of confusion.

  “I bring gifts from home,” Diarmuid hastened to say, gesturing at the end of the table. “Elderberry wine from Treva. A new shawl from Dubthach’s mother.”

  “Thank you,” Branwen said at last. “That’s very kind. What news of Castle Rigani?”

  “Dubthach and Saoirse were handfasted after Samonios,” Diarmuid replied. “I believe they’re expecting their first child at the end of the summer.”

  The news provoked a genuine smile. When the villagers had brought Saoirse to Castle Rigani following a Kernyvak raid, her leg was shadow-stung, and she was close to death. The Queen of Iveriu had guided Branwen through purging the rotted flesh. After Saoirse recovered, she’d stayed on at the castle in the queen’s service.

  “And your parents,” Branwen said, stilted. “I trust Lord Rónán and Lady Fionnula are well.” Again, King Marc’s eyes widened in curiosity. Switching to Aquilan, she told him, “Lord Diarmuid’s father is the head of the Parthalán clan in the north of Iveriu.”

  “Was the head,” Lord Diarmuid corrected her, expression clouding. He also switched to Aquilan for the king’s benefit. “Talamu Castle—my family stronghold—was attacked just before Imbolgos. Lord Rónán was killed and I—” He pointed at the eye patch. “The north is mine to protect now.”

  Shock drenched Branwen. “Pirates have never sailed that far up the coast.”

  “Not pirates.” Diarmuid gave one shake of the head. “Reykir Islanders.”

  She was stunned. Reykir Island lay in the middle of the Winter Sea, far to the north, and they’d never had a quarrel with Iveriu.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, forgetting for a moment how much animosity she harbored toward the northern lord. “Truly sorry for your loss.”

  King Marc put a firm hand on Diarmuid’s shoulder. “My deepest condolences,” he said. “With the signing of this treaty, we will face our enemies together.”

  Diarmuid gave a half bow. “King Óengus is glad to contribute our best warships to the campaign, and I am honored to be leading the Ivernic forces.”

  “We are grateful for your aid,” said King Marc. “No one besides the pirates has set foot on the Veneti Isles for a hundred years. They won’t be expecting a direct assault.”

  Branwen would never condone the actions of the pirates, but if she’d been a prisoner abandoned to her fate, left stranded on a tiny is
land in the middle of the sea, she could no longer doubt she would have found a way—any way—to survive.

  Footsteps approached from down the corridor, and Diarmuid’s gaze fixed on something over Branwen’s shoulder.

  “One Iveriu,” he said solemnly, in Ivernic, and bowed from the waist.

  She turned as her cousin entered, followed by Sir Goron. With Tristan’s engagement to Alba, the old sword master had been convinced to temporarily serve as Queen’s Champion.

  Eseult’s lips parted at the sight of Diarmuid. Several emotions swept over her face. She had cried for weeks aboard the Dragon Rising when the arrogant lord had failed to even bid her farewell.

  “Lord Diarmuid,” said the True Queen. “I … I didn’t know you were coming.” Unconsciously, she lifted a hand to the base of her skull, fidgeting one of her plaits.

  “Your father sent me as emissary with his seal.” He indicated three sheaves of parchment in the center of the long table. Each of the three kingdoms would keep a copy of the treaty so that the terms could not be disputed.

  Eseult nodded. “Of course,” she said uncertainly. Branwen noticed Xandru observing the queen closely.

  “Saoirse and Dubthach are having a baby,” Branwen announced, in Aquilan, to dispel the tension. To King Marc, she explained, “Dubthach is the son of the head seamstress at Castle Rigani. We spent our childhoods together.”

  The queen’s eyes lit. “How wonderful.”

  She crossed toward her husband, touching the antler shard that she had recently started wearing. Branwen didn’t know why and she hadn’t asked. “We should send Dubthach’s baby a gift, my Lord King,” said Eseult with genuine excitement.

  “Send whatever you wish.” Marc gave her a kiss on the cheek in greeting. “How is the construction progressing?” he asked.

  “Well.” A satisfied smile curved her lips. “Very well.”

  The foundation stone for the Royal Infirmary had been laid after the Honor by Combat, and Eseult spent the majority of her time on the moor with Seer Ogrin and the builders. “Andred is a great help with the translation.”

  The king answered her smile. “Where is he this afternoon?”

  “I told him and Lowenek to enjoy themselves before the wedding.”

  “Just so,” agreed her husband. Andred had retreated into himself since his sister’s death, although Lowenek was his constant companion. Endelyn’s funeral had been held at Villa Illogan—a private family affair to which Branwen was not invited. Countess Kensa said she wanted to keep her daughter close, on family land, rather than in the royal tomb.

  Xandru exchanged a charged look with Marc. How did he feel watching his former lover and his wife? The king and queen didn’t act like a couple in love, but their interactions had grown less uncomfortable. On occasion, Branwen glimpsed the charm and mischief that her cousin had used to beguile so many.

  “Excuse our tardiness,” said Tristan, nearly out of breath, as he and Alba strode into the study.

  Branwen’s stomach clenched. For months she’d willed away any tender feelings she might have for him. Tomorrow, Tristan would leave for Armorica and she might never lay eyes on him again. Even when seeing his untouchable face tormented Branwen beyond measure, it hadn’t occurred to her she might spend her life without him.

  Alba surveyed the room as if assessing a battlefield. Following the betrothal announcement, she had lopped off all of her hair. Her smooth locks bobbed around her chin. Perhaps it was an act of rebellion, but the style flattered the Armorican princess.

  She tucked the gray streak behind her ear as she said, “Dymatis, King Marc. Tristan and I went for a ride.”

  “I will miss the view of Monwiku from the cliffs,” said Tristan. Longing thinned his voice.

  Branwen toyed with her glove. Tristan had once promised to show her his favorite vistas in Kernyv. Tristan and Alba made a most attractive pair, it was undeniable, and they’d spent the last few weeks getting to know each other. Regret gnawing at her, Branwen, like Eseult, had found reason to be everywhere but where they were. She didn’t let her thoughts linger on how her cousin felt seeing Tristan and Alba together; the newfound peace between her and Eseult was already as fragile as morning dew.

  “The final amendments to the marriage contract have been implemented,” Xandru informed Tristan, then turned his eyes toward Alba.

  Branwen’s gaze slid to the spy. King Marc had managed to simultaneously achieve the alliance he wanted and quiet the rumormongering as to the nature of Tristan and Eseult’s relationship. It was an unofficial exile. Instinct told Branwen it had been Xandru’s suggestion.

  “Excellent,” Tristan replied. He set his jaw. His eyes momentarily met Branwen’s before noticing Lord Diarmuid’s presence, surprise creasing his brow.

  “Hello, Prince Tristan. Congratulations on your wedding,” said Diarmuid. He extended a hand. “It seems the best man won our match at the Champions Tournament, after all. The Old Ones have brought us peace.”

  “Thank you,” Tristan replied with a swallow, and shook the Iverman’s hand. Branwen had divulged the truth about Eseult’s affair with Diarmuid to Tristan in anger. Now he glanced at Eseult, stance wary. The awkwardness of the reunion for all of them was palpable.

  King Marc cleared his throat. “Let us commence with signing the treaties so that the bride and groom may prepare for the ceremony—and the rest of us can begin celebrating!” His smile was mirthful, if contrived.

  “First, the marriage contract,” said Xandru. A smaller scroll lay beside the treaties on the table, as well as a pot of indigo ink and two quills.

  Alba nibbled her lip once before approaching the table. She lifted the quill as if it might bite her. Tristan placed a hand lightly on the shoulder of his betrothed. Branwen’s stomach turned over again.

  “Lady Branwen, Lord Diarmuid,” said Xandru. “Since you are both disinterested parties, I would ask you to witness the contract.” He held Branwen’s gaze, and she swore the spy could divine truths about her that she didn’t want to know. Or, more likely, his network of informants was vast.

  “It would be my honor to witness the marriage,” said Diarmuid without hesitation. The mantle of leadership had transformed his demeanor and, for once, Branwen thought it entirely for the better.

  Alba signed the contract first, and Branwen respected the other woman’s steely resolve. Tristan looked at Marc as he signed his name next to that of his future wife.

  “Kernyv bosta vyken,” he vowed. His uncle nodded.

  Diarmuid scrawled his name beneath the two future monarchs’, affirming their validity. Tristan’s stare bored into Branwen’s cheek as she wrote Lady Branwen Cualand of Laiginztir beside his name, but she couldn’t look at him. The ink blurred in her vision; she scrubbed her eye as if troubled by a speck of dust.

  Xandru clapped first, followed by King Marc. Diarmuid gave a hearty whoop. The ceremony was a public declaration, but Tristan and Alba were now legally bound.

  They couldn’t be unbound without a war.

  “Crown Princess Alba,” said Xandru. “As his sole heir, your father has authorized you to sign the Three Kingdom Alliance in his stead.” She visibly swallowed. If not for her brazen siege, this alliance would never have come to pass.

  Was it fate, her goddess Ankou, or something else completely that had guided her hand?

  Alba signed her name three times on each of the three copies of the treaty. Then Diarmuid handed King Óengus’s seal to Eseult.

  “You should be the one to act for Iveriu,” he said.

  Hesitant, the True Queen gripped the wooden handle. The rounded seal at the end was crafted from gold.

  Xandru retrieved an oil lamp from the sideboard at the other end of the study, and lit the wick. Diarmuid held a stick of green wax to the flame. He dripped a thumb-size dollop onto the vellum.

  “One Iveriu,” said Eseult as she pressed the seal into the sticky substance. Three times she imprinted the lion of Iveriu onto parchment, cementing the
alliance.

  King Marc was the last to sign. He raised his own seal. He admired the peace that had been won with so much blood, so much loss.

  “A new era begins for all of our kingdoms,” King Marc declared as he stamped a sea-wolf into wax.

  Applause followed and Xandru poured everyone a glass of Mílesian spirits. The spy drank from the king’s cup in Andred’s absence. Branwen trusted Xandru to protect Marc with his life—even if she trusted him in nothing else.

  She swallowed her spirits in one gulp and made her excuses, claiming she needed to tend to a patient. King Marc had asked Branwen to assist Alba before the ceremony, and she needed half an hour to herself. Overwrought, she collected the shawl and the elderberry wine, and hurried from the study.

  “Branwen! Lady Branwen!” called Diarmuid, chasing her down the stairwell.

  She stopped, inhaling an annoyed breath. Pivoting to face him, “Yes?” Branwen demanded.

  “I have a letter.” He reached into the pocket of his breeches. “Queen Eseult—that is, your aunt, asked that you open it in private.”

  Branwen’s pulse rose skyward. On today of all days, she didn’t know that she could bear to read her aunt’s words of reproach. What else could the letter say? Branwen deserved the censure, she knew she did. The Loving Cup, the trial—all of it was her fault.

  But she could not read it today.

  Diarmuid handed her the scroll, its seal unbroken: a krotto. A golden harp with silver strings was the symbol of Laiginztir. Her aunt would always be a proud Laiginztir woman, like Lady Alana. Her throat went dry.

  “Thank you, Diarmuid.”

  He rubbed a hand over his shaven head. “Branwen—”

  “Is there something else?”

  “I need to thank you and … to apologize.” Branwen held herself very straight, waiting. Diarmuid’s chest lifted as he said, “A lot has changed since you left for Kernyv.” He frowned. “I’ve been a horse’s ass. Thank you for not betraying my treason to King Óengus.”