Wild Savage Stars

by Kristina Perez

  Was it truly the king? Had it been recognition rather than affinity she’d felt a moment ago?

  Dull sunlight shimmered on Tristan’s warm brown skin as he halted before them, and Branwen couldn’t stop her eyes from seeking out the small scar above his right eyebrow, concealed by dark, messy curls. When she’d first rescued him, half-drowned from the waves, that tiny imperfection had endeared him to her.

  For a moment, Branwen was back on that beach.

  For a moment, he was all she could see.

  The moment passed.

  King Marc wrapped an arm around Tristan, clapping him on the back, pulling him into a hearty embrace. Although he’d called Tristan brother, the Prince of Kernyv was actually his nephew. He was the son of Marc’s older sister who had died in childbirth. With only seven years between them, the pair had grown up together, raised by Tristan’s grandparents. Tristan had always spoken fondly of Marc to Branwen—when she was still interested in hearing anything he had to say.

  Wind whipped her long black tresses across her face, the air instantly colder than the song of a Death-Teller, the Otherworld women whose laments foretold your end.

  Hugging his nephew, the raw affection on King Marc’s face didn’t tally in Branwen’s mind with the ruler who had sent raiders to decimate Ivernic villages; nor with the gangly pirate she’d seen ambush her parents.

  Tristan’s expression was uneasy as he broke his uncle’s embrace, the edges of his smile brittle. Marc didn’t appear to notice. Branwen could read Tristan only too well. She’d spent too long mastering the meaning of each different smile, dreaming of him, begging the Old Ones to keep him safe—learning to love her enemy.

  But that was done. He was a Kernyvak prince and she would accord him the respect that his status required. Nothing further.

  Glancing between Branwen and the king, Tristan wet his lips. “You’ve met Marc?” he asked her in Ivernic. There was a quaver in his voice.

  “I was just making his acquaintance.” Branwen’s answer came in Aquilan, and she struggled to keep her words from stinging like nettles.

  She no longer wanted to share her native tongue with Tristan. Angling her shoulders toward Marc, she commanded her lips to part in another polite smile. She pictured a wooden shield between them, protecting her from the past.

  Lowering her eyes deferentially, Branwen added, “Although I hadn’t realized he was the king,” and sank into a curtsy. She needed to ingratiate herself with the monarch for Iveriu’s sake, and yet, as her gaze flitted over her right palm, over the purple welt that ran the length of her heart line, rebellion stirred.

  To protect the Land, the Old Ones had imbued Branwen with terrifying power: the Hand of Bríga. Ancient magic. She could set Tristan alight with her fire where he stood. She could kill the king. It wouldn’t be the first time she had burned a man alive.

  Marc reached forward, resting a hand lightly on Branwen’s elbow. “There’s no need to bow before me, either,” he said. He sounded sincere. Drawing back, she tugged on the sleeve of her dress, covering her palm.

  “I’m not as fluent in Ivernic as I’d like to be,” Marc went on, apologetic. “Perhaps we can teach each other, Princess—”

  “Branwen,” she interrupted. “I am Branwen.”

  Confusion puckered his brow. “I—I thought you were named Eseult? Like your mother?” The king shot Tristan a quizzical look.

  “The princess is called Eseult.” Branwen was the one to reply. “But that’s not me.”

  Despite the bustling of the port, a strange silence descended on the three of them. Branwen wondered if Tristan’s mind had also darted back to the night when he returned to Iveriu for the Champions Tournament. He’d thought she was the princess at first, too.

  Memory was more dangerous than any quicksand.

  “There she is,” Tristan told the king, directing a glance toward the Dragon Rising.

  Eseult loitered at the end of the gangway, hesitant to leave the relative safety of the ship. Having felt Tristan’s gaze settle upon her, she canted her head. Her golden hair was gathered hastily into a braid tossed over one shoulder. Without Branwen’s expert fingers to tame her locks, they ran wild. And yet, it suited her.

  Branwen looked at Eseult and saw her own broken heart.

  Tristan raised his hand, beckoning.

  The princess began processing down the dock as if she were walking toward her own execution. Indeed, if anyone learned what had passed between Tristan and Eseult on the ship, it would mean death for them both. As well as untold numbers of Iverni and Kernyveu.

  When Branwen discovered Eseult in his bed, Tristan had offered to confess his crime, to die for the peace. Branwen had forbidden it. She wouldn’t allow anything to throw the alliance into question. Tristan would have to learn to endure his own disgrace. A clean conscience wasn’t worth a war.

  The awkward silence that cloaked Branwen, Marc, and Tristan as they watched Eseult approach was sheared by a booming voice.

  Rix was the only word Branwen could pick out. King. She wheeled around to face the speaker. The two men did likewise. A few of the hawkers and their customers shot curious looks in the king’s direction.

  “Rix!” called the newcomer again as he strutted from the market to meet them. He seemed closer to Branwen’s age than Marc, and he carried himself with confidence, shoulders back. He had donned a tunic and sash that matched the king’s, but his face was clean-shaven and his dirty-blond hair reached his shoulders. A guard, perhaps.

  He flashed Branwen a ready smile.

  The guard was undeniably attractive, but, unlike Marc, she surmised this man smiled too much. When he addressed Branwen, he took her aback by immediately speaking Aquilan.

  “You must be the reason why my king left me in the dust,” the guard said with a laugh. There was something haughty about the sound. Cutting Marc a look, he said, “He bolted from the stables like a colt as soon as the ship was sighted by the spyglass.” Another laugh. “It’s hard to protect the king when he’s nowhere to be found.”

  Marc shrugged at the mild chastisement, unbothered. Branwen bristled. None of the Royal Guard at Castle Rigani would take such a liberty, even in jest, with her uncle, King Óengus. Marc’s court at Monwiku must operate very differently.

  “Not that I blame him.” Sliding his gaze from the king to Tristan, the guard said, “I’m glad you’re back, cousin.” He squeezed Tristan’s shoulder. Cousin? Tristan had never mentioned this man to Branwen. “Otherwise,” he continued, “the ladies might start complaining that taking your place as King’s Champion is aging me prematurely.”

  Branwen restrained a snort. Pompous noblemen had never been to her liking, and this one had let his strong jaw, dazzling topaz eyes, and prominent dimple make him vain.

  “Bran—Lady Branwen,” Tristan said. “May I introduce my cousin, Ruan?”

  “Prince Ruan,” he corrected him, and his eyes danced as he met Branwen’s. “Delighted to meet you, Lady Branwen.”

  “And you,” she lied. Men impressed with their own titles didn’t impress her at all.

  Ruan’s smile twisted in question. “But, where is Princess Eseult?” he said, running his thumb along his lower lip.

  A small cough. Eseult had sidled next to them quietly, positioning herself halfway behind Tristan. Her creamy cheeks were splotchy, and she shifted her weight anxiously from one foot to another, skittish as a doe. She looked wretched.

  Up close, Branwen could see her cousin’s eyes were puffy from crying—those emerald eyes that glittered like Rigani stones; they always made Branwen think of her mother, Lady Alana. Essy. Her first impulse was still to kiss away her baby cousin’s tears. She had always felt the princess’s sadness as her own.

  Branwen clenched the hem of her shawl. She could no longer concern herself with her cousin’s wants or needs.

  The princess remained silent, worrying her hands together.

  Branwen forced herself to speak instead. “Princess Eseult is still reco
vering from the attack last night, my Lord King,” she said directly to Marc.

  She shuddered, and it wasn’t feigned. The Dragon Rising had been attacked by Shades: unclaimed souls of the dead transformed by Dhusnos into half-kretarv, half-human creatures. The ship was nearly lost.

  “It … it was horrible,” Eseult rasped.

  Alarm streaked King Marc’s face. “Attack?” He pivoted toward Tristan. “What happened?” he pressed his nephew.

  Branwen saw Ruan’s hand drop to the sword at his waist, posture becoming rigid as he leaned toward his king. Marc was unarmed. The King of Iveriu never bore arms, either, because his retainers were supposed to protect him. Carrying a weapon would indicate that he didn’t trust them. It would make him appear vulnerable, as if he had something to fear. They likely had a similar custom in Kernyv.

  “Pirates,” Tristan lied through gritted teeth.

  “Ours?” Fury underscored Marc’s question but not surprise.

  Had Kernyvak pirates grown so bold that they dared attack royal vessels?

  Tristan dashed a glance at Branwen. He had promised to keep knowledge of her magic to himself—of the fire that had sent the Shades fleeing back to the merciless depths. She had saved the ship, but something inside her had been unleashed that scared Branwen even more than the Shades.

  “Not ours,” Tristan said to Marc, holding Branwen’s gaze.

  The king nodded, jaw relaxing a fraction. Under his breath, he muttered a Kernyvak phrase often shouted by the crew of the Dragon Rising. A curse, to be sure.

  “When Captain Morgawr has finished unloading the ship,” Marc instructed Tristan, “tell him I expect a full report.”

  “Of course.”

  Would Marc even believe that they’d been lost in the Otherworld, that they’d crossed the Sea of the Dead and been set upon by its inhabitants?

  The king clasped Tristan’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re home, brother.” Tristan only ducked his head in response.

  Marc took a step toward Eseult, and the princess sucked in a breath.

  Branwen should have gone to her cousin on the ship, coaxed and cajoled her to play her part, to do her duty to Iveriu despite her indiscretion. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t push the image of Eseult’s legs wrapped around Tristan from her mind.

  Had either of them had a moment’s hesitation before they betrayed her?

  “It grieves me that your journey was so menaced,” Marc told the princess, searching for the words. “But you’re safe now in Kernyv. I swear it.”

  Eseult’s lips trembled. Gesturing at Ruan, Marc explained, “Prince Ruan is to be your Queen’s Champion. He won’t let any harm befall you.”

  “It will be my greatest honor to serve you, Rixani.” Then, “My queen,” Ruan translated, bowing before Eseult with a flourish of the hand.

  The princess swept her gaze from Ruan to Marc to Tristan.

  “I want … Tristan—Prince Tristan—to be my Champion.”

  The words punched Branwen in the gut. She pressed her mouth into a line as bile rushed up her throat. Rage obliterated any guilt or pity she had for her role in Eseult and Tristan’s treason.

  Consternation creased Tristan’s forehead, and Branwen prayed that nobody else could read the conflict in each line.

  Eyes widening, Ruan straightened to standing. He looked to the king.

  Marc rubbed his beard, glancing between his nephew and his future wife.

  “If Tristan is agreeable,” he said, a trace of reluctance in his voice. “I, of course, want you to feel welcome in your new homeland, Princess Eseult. You are very welcome here. You will be safe and…” He faltered. “Happy. I hope.”

  Tristan sought Branwen out once more with his gaze. She held her breath as she waited for him to give his answer.

  “Thank you,” Eseult said softly. She fidgeted with her braid, scratching at the base of her skull. “The prince saved me last night. He is my only friend in Kernyv—except for Branny.”

  When the princess had been thrown overboard wrestling with a Shade, as she vanished beneath the inky blackness, Branwen had thought her world would evanesce.

  Now the shadow-stung part of Branwen’s heart whispered that it might have been better for Iveriu if the Dark One had swallowed her cousin whole.

  “I understand,” Marc told his bride-to-be. “I trust Tristan with my life, too.”

  The edges of Tristan’s mouth went taut. Branwen willed him to decline the request. He simply stared at his boots.

  From the corner of her eye, Branwen saw Ruan grimace for less than the space of a breath. Laughing, he said, “Well, I’m happy to accept the permanent promotion to King’s Champion,” and slapped Tristan on the back, dispelling the renewed tension. “Thank you, cousin!”

  “What about the ladies at court?” Branwen said, playful and acerbic at once. “I thought you were afraid to disappoint them.” She knew she shouldn’t antagonize a member of the royal family, especially within her first hour in Kernyv. But it felt good.

  Ruan barked another laugh at her barb. It was fuller than the last, more open. “I think you’ll find I’m never a disappointment, Lady Branwen.”

  “That remains to be seen, Prince Ruan.” Branwen felt Tristan’s eyes on her, but she ignored him.

  “It’s decided, then,” Marc declared. “Tristan will be the Queen’s Champion and poor Ruan will go gray looking after me.” He peered at the nobleman sidelong, and his lips quirked. Ruan chuckled, then gave a swift nod of acquiescence.

  “Always, Rix.” The levity faded from his voice. “Kernyv forever.”

  After a stunned moment, Tristan bowed formally to Eseult.

  “I am your servant,” he said, and she blushed.

  “My Champion,” the princess said, a longing note to the title.

  As Branwen watched Ruan watching the future Queen of Kernyv and her Champion, narrowing his gaze, the tide surged against the dock, splashing Branwen’s feet.

  She had been naive to hope her nightmares might end with the voyage.

  They were just beginning.

  LAND OF GIANTS

  BRANWEN FOLLOWED THE OTHERS FROM the dock through the noisy marketplace. She heard a flute battle against the haggling vendors, its cheery tune utterly at odds with her mood. Passing by a baker’s stall, she caught a whiff of an unknown spice. It tickled Branwen’s nose, and she sneezed.

  The baker, a woman who had seen at least forty summers, laughed, smiling broadly. Her skin was a rich shade of brown. The Iverni were all pale like Branwen, but many different peoples had settled on the island of Albion during the Aquilan occupation. Tristan’s own father had descended from the legendary warriors of Kartago. She inhaled shortly and sneezed again.

  Branwen wouldn’t think of him; he was nothing to her. She mustered a lukewarm smile for the baker and continued wending her way through the stalls.

  Four horses waited at the edge of the market square. Their leather saddles had been finely crafted, the seats dyed white and the skirts black. Royal Kernyvak colors.

  Marc presented a gorgeous mare with a coat like starlight to the princess.

  “A first wedding gift,” he said.

  “What’s her name?” Eseult asked, voice shy.

  “I thought I’d let you choose.”

  “It’s nice to be able to choose,” she replied, looking forlornly at Branwen, but she would get no sympathy. Ice flowed in Branwen’s veins.

  “It is,” Marc agreed. He also shifted his gaze to Branwen. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring enough horses. I didn’t realize I would be welcoming two Ivernic ladies at my court.”

  “Branny is my only cousin and my most loyal companion,” Eseult informed him. “We’ve never been parted. I’d—I’d be lost without her.”

  Branwen could barely stand to look at the princess. She’d only just set foot in Kernyv and already she’d risked the peace by making Tristan her Champion.

  “I am indebted to you, Lady Branwen, for leaving your homeland to accompa
ny my bride,” King Marc said. He dipped his head.

  “I always do my duty,” Branwen replied. The king met her gaze and Branwen felt an understanding pass between them.

  “When we reach the castle, please take your pick of my horses from the stables. As a small token of my gratitude.”

  “You’re too generous.” Branwen broke eye contact. She didn’t want gifts from the man who had destroyed her family—if it really was him.

  “Well, I for one am beginning to regret not entering the Champions Tournament myself,” Ruan said, tone light. “Tristan, what’s your secret?”

  He startled. “Secret?”

  “To setting off for Iveriu to win one bride, and coming home with two!” Ruan exclaimed, arching a brow. Tristan merely shook his head at his cousin.

  “I am nobody’s bride, Prince Ruan.”

  Ruan winced at the ferocity of Branwen’s words, before releasing yet another laugh. This Kernyvak prince found life altogether too entertaining for Branwen’s liking.

  “Perhaps not, my lady,” he said. “But may I offer you a ride? Since we seem to be short a horse?”

  Tristan stepped between them. “Branwen will ride with me.” It was practically a growl. Eseult’s face pinched, and Marc pursed his lips, surveying the exchange.

  Tristan’s hands were curled in loose fists. Odd that a man who had remained unflappable while surrounded by enemy warriors should be rattled by his own cousin with such a little effort.

  “As you prefer,” Ruan relented with what Branwen assumed was characteristic nonchalance. He mounted his steed. “Make haste, cousin,” he told Tristan, “while the horses can cross the causeway.”

  If she and Tristan were still friends, Branwen would ask him the source of his rivalry with Ruan. As adversaries, she should also want to know it.

  She would not ask. She needed to become less than a stranger to him.

  Marc helped his future queen onto the nameless mare before swinging a leg over his own stallion. Ruan urged his horse forward, riding out first. He waved at the villagers entering the market—the young women, in particular. Otherworld protect them from his wiles, thought Branwen.