To the guardsman, King Marc said, “Arrest Countess Kensa and Seer Casek.”
Branwen watched as true fear gripped the other woman’s features.
“Wait,” said the countess. Her voice trembled. She pressed a hand to the bodice of her dress. “My Lord King,” the countess began again. “My son is only guilty of trying to protect me.”
Kensa looked from Ruan to Andred. Her expression was not soft, yet something akin to love tinted her eyes.
“Neither of my sons was involved in my schemes.”
King Marc folded his arms. “Who were your co-conspirators?”
“Seer Casek,” she replied. “And Baron Gwyk.”
To Branwen’s surprise, much as she disliked him, it seemed Baron Dynyon was not a traitor.
“Duplicitous whore!” the kordweyd burst out, at the same time as Baron Gwyk shouted, “She’s a wrecker! She’s just trying to save her own hide!”
“Prince Ruan isn’t even a prince!” Seer Casek yelled, continuing his rant. “Kensa spread her legs for some Ivernic prisoner!”
Marc startled at the rebuke. A few gasps were emitted from around the hall. Branwen saw a flush crawl down Ruan’s neck as Casek revealed the secret he’d concealed his entire life. She was no supporter of the countess, but she would not shame her for finding kindness where she could.
Baron Gwyk rounded on Kensa. “You would put half-Ivernic scum on the throne of Kernyv?” He spat at her feet.
“Arrest him as well,” the king instructed his guards tonelessly.
There were no tears in Countess Kensa’s eyes, only steel, as she told Baron Gwyk, “Ruan is the son of a man who loved me. Andred is the son of Prince Edern.”
She raised her head, undaunted, meeting the king with a leveling gaze.
“I suffered Edern’s attacks and humiliations for years while the entire court pretended not to notice. Why shouldn’t my son wear the crown?” she charged. “Are you so much more deserving because you were born to King Merchion?”
The countess screwed up her lips like she might spit. “Edern whipped Ruan to punish me—because he enjoyed seeing him in pain. For years. Seer Casek treated his wounds in secret, and we decided that one day Ruan would sit on the throne.”
“Did Prince Edern know of your plan?” asked King Marc.
Countess Kensa laughed scornfully. “Edern wanted the crown for himself. When he died,” she said, shifting her gaze to Ruan, “it was a simple matter to continue his arrangement with the pirates.”
“You wanted me eliminated because I was next in line,” Tristan said to the Countess.
She turned to him. “Yes. And Baron Gwyk was easy enough to convince with the promise of land, and his hatred of anyone who isn’t of pure Kernyvak blood.”
The baron made to spit at the countess again, when one of the guards pulled him back, pressing a sword to his middle.
“Those who hate are easily manipulated,” she added.
Nostrils flaring, Alba said, “Why attack Karaez?”
“Peace is an illusion. Power is what matters.” Countess Kensa drew in a heavy breath. “My nephew has always been too tenderhearted to rule.”
Ruan shook his head. He had once told Branwen that Marc was the kindest ruler Kernyv was ever likely to know.
“Why should we believe that Ruan was unaware of your plots?” Baron Kerdu said, impaling the countess with his gaze.
“Because Ruan has always been too loyal to Marc for his own good.”
Alba released an incredulous laugh. “By accusing the True Queen of treason with Prince Tristan?”
Before the countess could reply, Eseult stood and walked to the end of the dais. Her blond hair shimmered around her, and her wrath was magnificent.
“You had Endelyn steal my seal ring, and then tried to frame me for ordering my cousin’s murder,” she asserted, words growing shrill.
“Bledros was loyal to me, but Tutir was loyal to the crown. He needed proof he was on the queen’s orders,” Kensa told her, unrepentant. “If they had succeeded in their mission, they would have been able to testify that you’d had Branwen killed.”
“To jeopardize the alliance.”
“Precisely.”
“And you chose Ériu’s Comfort to poison the Armorican assassin to frame Lady Branwen. To make me think she wanted to harm me.”
The countess nodded. “Why?” Eseult demanded.
“Because your cousin is far cleverer than you, Lady Queen. Without her at your side, you would never have held the throne on your own.”
“Insulting the True Queen is no way to obtain leniency!” roared King Marc.
“I don’t expect any for myself,” she said. “I’m only being honest.” Countess Kensa clasped her hands together as if she were praying. “My Lord King, please believe me that neither Andred nor Ruan had knowledge of my plans.”
“Why should we believe a word that comes out of your mouth?” said Baron Chyanhal, his eyes wide, stunned.
The pirate king watched the drama play out with an amused smile. Branwen wished that Marc hadn’t given Remus his word to let him live. Most avidly.
“I have already lost one of my children, Baron Chyanhal,” stated the countess. “I do not want to lose another. My sons are innocent.”
Ruan tilted his head toward her. “Mother,” he said. A ragged word.
“I’m sorry, Ruan.”
At Branwen’s side, she heard Andred gulp. Kensa didn’t look at her younger son.
“Baron Gwyk and Seer Casek,” said King Marc, stepping down from the dais. “I sentence you both to death.”
“You aren’t half the king your father was,” said the baron, disgust filling the edges of his words.
Seer Casek sneered. “The Horned One will embrace me. Resurrect me. What I did was for him—to bring his truth to the people of Kernyv.”
He looked between Marc and Xandru. “You are too weak to know his mercy, my Lord King.” The seer spoke his title with disdain. “You are not pure of heart, or strong of flesh. You are corrupted. I pity your kingdom.”
Xandru’s hand grazed the hilt of his dagger, his expression serene and eyes murderous.
“My kingdom does not need your pity,” said King Marc, his voice dangerously reserved. “You have no authority over my faith. You have allowed your desire for power to corrupt you, Seer Casek. My god and yours are not the same.”
“At the moment of your death, you will know I’m right,” countered the seer.
“Take him away,” the king told his guards. The Royal Guardsmen marched Seer Casek and Baron Gwyk toward the side exit.
Marc returned his attention to Countess Kensa. He sighed and glanced sideways at Eseult.
“You have admitted your treason, Countess Kensa. Kernyvak law says you should die by fire. And yet, I find that my heart rails against the idea of executing a woman—my own aunt.”
Branwen exchanged a quick look with Xandru. Clemency now would be a mistake. No doubt Marc was recalling a different noblewoman whose death he’d failed to prevent, but Branwen believed even her mother would have seen the countess executed.
“I believe in the Horned One’s compassion.” Marc paused. “Which is why I will allow you to live out the remainder of your days as a prisoner at Villa Illogan. The territory that House Whel received as a blood price for the death of Princess Endelyn will be returned to the crown.”
The countess bowed her head as the king pronounced her sentence.
“Furthermore, the other lands and holdings belonging to House Whel will be transferred to Prince Andred, true heir of Prince Edern,” King Marc continued. “House Whel was created by my grandfather when he elevated the status of your family.”
Another pause. “Today, I unmake it.”
Baron Dynyon couldn’t suppress a shocked intake of breath.
“You are a countess no more,” the king intoned. A bleak look crossed Kensa’s face, and Branwen wondered if she wouldn’t have preferred death.
To Ruan, Marc
said, “I do not believe that you sought my throne or that you were party to your mother’s crimes. However, you did attempt to assassinate the pirate king to protect your mother, and to obstruct justice.”
“Yes, my Lord King,” rasped Ruan. The sadness in his eyes was fathomless.
“I trusted you with my life,” Marc told him. “I loved you.”
Ruan could only make a rumbling noise at the back of his throat. His eyes shone.
“You are banished from Kernyv from this day forward,” the king pronounced. “I will allow you a horse and the clothes on your back. If you ever set foot in my kingdom again, your life will be forfeit.”
“Mormerkti.” Ruan bowed from the waist. “I am indebted to your mercy, Rix.”
“Xandru,” said King Marc. “You will escort Countess Kensa to Villa Illogan.” He said the words like a command, but Branwen saw the look that passed between the men. The trust. The supplication.
With feline stealth, Alba crossed toward Kensa and smacked her, open palmed, across the face.
“Be glad I’m not your queen,” she said.
“Be glad you were born with power,” spat the countess.
Kensa’s cheek beamed a vibrant red, nearly as scarlet as her combs, but she made no move to soothe herself.
Tristan walked to his wife, touching Alba gently on the elbow.
“She’s not worth your anger,” he said.
“King Marc,” said Branwen. “I would be happy to ensure Ruan is escorted to the causeway.”
Their eyes met in understanding. He nodded. Xandru unlocked Ruan’s manacles, and he shook his wrists free. Andred hurried toward his older brother.
“Hello there, scamp,” said Ruan. Andred’s shoulders heaved, and Branwen could tell the boy was trying not to sob.
Branwen retreated toward the front of the hall, giving the brothers space for their goodbyes. She knew Ruan would follow. He had no other choice. She turned toward the gathering dusk in the courtyard as Ruan embraced his mother. He would never see her again.
The chimes tinkled in the hot air. Eventually another shoulder pressed against Branwen’s, familiar and warm. Guards walked behind them as Ruan and Branwen strolled toward the stables in silence. His stallion neighed at him in greeting.
Branwen’s heart thudded in her throat. Ruan scarcely looked at her as he led the horse by the reins down the hill of Monwiku for the last time.
They stopped at the edge of the causeway, the tide beginning to rush in. Branwen motioned the guardsmen back with her hand.
“You had time to think,” she said.
“I did.”
Ruan unpinned Lady Alana’s brooch and offered it back to Branwen. She looked from the brilliant silver to his muted, honeyed eyes.
“Endelyn’s death was my fault,” he said. “I couldn’t watch my mother die, too.”
She understood. She did. In the end, Ruan had chosen the right fight for him—his family. Yet they were now on opposite sides of an impassable ravine.
Branwen nodded, crouching down, and retrieved his father’s knife from his boot. She held it out to him.
“You could go to Iveriu,” she suggested. “Find Conchobar’s family.”
“Iveriu isn’t my home.” Ruan lifted his gaze from the knife to Branwen’s eyes. “I once thought it might be you.”
Her heart wrenched violently. “I’m sorry.” She offered him the knife again. “Take it.”
“You’re the only woman I’d ever want to have it.”
“And I don’t want you to be without it,” Branwen insisted.
After a beat, reluctantly, Ruan traded her mother’s brooch for his father’s knife.
“Knife or no knife, you will always have my heart,” he said. “Remember that. Comnaide.”
He tucked the knife into the waistband of his breeches and swung one leg over his stallion. Gripping the mane with two hands, he hoisted himself up.
“Take care of Andred for me.”
“Comnaide,” she echoed.
Ruan quirked his lips. “Farewell, karid.”
He kicked his horse into a gallop, and Branwen watched until he was nothing more than a speck against the evenfall. Black against mauve.
She fastened her mother’s brooch to her collar, and exhaled.
A SECOND SUN
THE EYES OF THE RED owl pierced Branwen as the sail billowed in the breeze.
Alba stood at the helm, speaking with the captain of the Armorican vessel, although Branwen had little doubt who would truly be captaining the ship back to Karaez. The crew lugged the final crates, filled with bottles of Kernyvak wine, up the gangway—a wedding present from King Marc.
Branwen proceeded slowly down the pier toward the ship, her eyes roaming the port. Marghas was bustling once more. After dismounting from Senara, she’d dawdled in the marketplace. Her heart was restless, and she’d already said too many goodbyes.
She spied Eseult speaking with King Marc and Tristan, the king clasping his nephew’s hands. Branwen wasn’t close enough to hear the words they exchanged, but the emotion was written on their faces.
With the revelation that his own nobles had plotted against him, King Marc’s alliance with Armorica and Iveriu was essential to the stability of his kingdom. Tristan would serve Kernyv, and his uncle, because he loved him. Glancing back at Alba, her feelings muddled, Branwen stroked the fingerless leather glove she’d fashioned to cover her palm.
From nowhere, Xandru appeared at Branwen’s side, moving with catlike precision. She acknowledged him with a tight smile.
“Back from Illogan already?” she said, slowing her pace further.
“Yesterday.” The wind teased the dark hair tied at the nape of his neck. He waited a beat before saying, “I wouldn’t think you’d expect an apology.”
Branwen snorted, tilting her gaze at him sidelong. “No.”
“No,” Xandru repeated. One corner of his mouth lifted. “We needed a confession. Marc needed to be certain all of the conspirators were ferreted out.”
“And you reasoned that if anyone could lead Ruan into a trap, it would be me.”
“For Marc’s sake, I had hoped he wouldn’t come,” said Xandru. “The other traitors will be executed tomorrow at dawn, and the kingdom can begin to heal.”
“I fear that Remus will only return to the Veneti Isles and rile up the pirates, bide his time, and take up arms against us again,” Branwen said. “He’s a dangerous man. Cunning.”
She traced the outline of Dhusnos’s mark on her disguised palm, a new habit, and Xandru’s gaze followed her forefinger.
“King Marc promised Remus that he would leave Monwiku alive, and he left last night.” Xandru gave Branwen a long look. “He will not be returning to the Veneti Isles.”
She nodded, relief loosening her shoulders even as coldness oozed into her belly. Death was a currency in which she now traded too easily.
“You could have left with Ruan,” said Xandru.
“My place isn’t with him.” She gave a shake of the head. “And you, Captain, will you be staying at Monwiku now that the pirates have been quelled?”
His lips twitched. Eseult waved at Branwen as she neared. “My place isn’t here, either,” said Xandru so only Branwen could hear. “He needs peace more.”
King Marc squeezed Branwen’s shoulder with affection as she came to stand beside him, and Xandru melted into the busy port.
Tristan coughed. “Dymatis, Lady Branwen,” he said, stilted.
She met his gaze, and the hazel flecks in his eyes intensified. Her chest constricted. Branwen had avoided him for the past few days since the plot was exposed. She had thought it would be better to grow accustomed to his absence, and now she regretted it.
“Dymatis, Prince Tristan,” she choked out.
“We will leave you to say your farewells,” Eseult told Tristan. She embraced him warmly, as old friends might. Drawing back, she said, “You served me faithfully as my Champion, and I will always be grateful. I will never fo
rget.”
Tristan bowed from the waist.
“It was my honor.”
King Marc pulled in a labored breath. He placed a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, staring at him with a severe expression, mastering his grief.
“We will see each other again, brother.”
Tristan responded with a determined nod. The queen tugged discreetly at her husband’s arm and, as they brushed past Branwen, the din of the docks faded away.
“I regret what happened with Ruan,” Tristan started, a roughness to his voice. “Although you may not believe me.”
“We have peace now.” Branwen swallowed. “For now.”
“We do.” Tristan reached for her gloved hand and she let him take it, his fingers gentle on her skin, on the leather. “I will send for you. Before Samonios. I won’t let you face Dhusnos alone.”
Her mouth grew dry. Their fingers intertwined.
“But you must, Tristan. You have made enough hero’s sacrifices,” she told him. “I stitched this back together once.” With her other hand, Branwen traced the line of love-knots just beneath his tunic, across his heart.
Tristan shuddered a breath.
“More than once,” he said.
“Branwen!” called Alba as she raced down the gangway. Branwen released Tristan’s hand, an ache in her chest. The princess was dressed in black leather trousers and an olive-colored tunic. Her short black hair was iridescent in the sunlight; the one gray streak tucked behind her ear.
She glanced from Branwen to Tristan, eyebrow quirked, not unaware she’d interrupted something. To her husband Alba said, “We’re ready to hoist anchor.”
Tristan wet his lips. “Until we meet again,” he said to Branwen. He turned toward the ship, and Branwen studied his profile for the last time.
The surf sprayed the dock. “The weather is fair,” Branwen said, forcing herself to look at Alba. “You must be eager to return home.”
“I am, and I’m not. I have a lot to answer for.”
“We all do.” She couldn’t prevent her eyes from drifting in Tristan’s direction as he reached the deck of the ship. “I wish you happiness,” Branwen told Alba, and she meant it. “Both of you.”
Bright Raven Skies Page 26