Wild Savage Stars

by Kristina Perez

  When Endelyn escorted Eseult to the Great Hall half an hour ago, Branwen was grateful for a few moments alone in the Queen’s Tower.

  A cot had been hastily installed in the cupboard of a room that adjoined Eseult’s bedchamber which, Branwen had to admit, was better than the alternative of sharing quarters with Endelyn. Her most precious possessions were laid out on a small table: the miniature fidkwelsa set that had belonged to her father, the moon-catcher gifted to her by Queen Eseult, and the wooden practice sword that Uncle Morholt had fashioned for her when she was girl. Reminders of home that reminded Branwen how very far she had come.

  Tiptoeing along one side of the Great Hall, Branwen surveyed the throng of courtiers. At the back of the hall, she glimpsed a long table on a raised dais. The king’s table. Honeysuckles were out of season, but the table had been draped in yellow silk of a similar shade. King Marc’s attention to detail was impressive.

  Would he ever be able to win the princess over? Or had the Loving Cup destroyed any chance of that?

  Branwen’s gaze continued traveling over the tapestries that decorated the walls; it wended up the ornate capitals of the pillars and climbed toward the vaulted ceiling. The interior stonework was carved from the same material as the Aquilan water bridge. Florid stone shimmered in the light of the oil lamps that dotted the chandeliers and sconces.

  Ruan had explained to Branwen that lamps fueled by oil were another Aquilan invention. The Kernyvak prince enjoyed explaining things to Branwen—and she didn’t mind nearly as much as her frequent scoffs implied. The oil for the lamps in the castle was pressed from nuts foraged from the Morrois Forest, he’d told her. The scent filling the Great Hall was toasted, inviting.

  Branwen raised her guard.

  Growing up as the niece of the King and Queen of Iveriu, she’d attended many formal banquets, of course, and was well versed in the habits and customs of a royal court. Branwen had always understood what was expected of her. And yet, everyone at Castle Rigani had also known Branwen her entire life. It was easy to float in the background.

  Here, there was no place to hide.

  Branwen’s heart hiccupped as her eyes landed on Tristan. He stood near the king’s table, in between Marc and Eseult, together with a cluster of other guests. He was dressed in a turquoise tunic and black leather trousers, the white sash that indicated his status in the king’s service proudly displayed across his chest. He must have felt Branwen’s gaze on him, because Tristan lifted his eyes to hers.

  He had moved into the apartment at the bottom of the Queen’s Tower, his duties requiring him to be near Eseult at all times. Still, Branwen had managed to exchange as few words with him as possible. She’d also absented herself from the pair’s presence whenever she could. The fact that Endelyn was permanently welded to the princess’s side allayed Branwen’s fears that the couple might succumb to the power of the Loving Cup again.

  She had no idea how long the effects might last. A night? A year? A lifetime?

  “Might I offer you a drink, Lady Branwen?” a flirtatious voice whispered into her ear.

  Even if she hadn’t recognized it, the scowl that immediately creased Tristan’s features would have revealed the voice’s owner.

  “Thank you, Prince Ruan.” Branwen pivoted toward him, showing Tristan her back.

  Ruan took a sip, smiling, and handed her a silver goblet. “With Lugmarch’s blessing,” he said, holding Branwen’s gaze, then took a drink from his own.

  The saffron-dyed piping of his black tunic complemented his dirty-blond hair. Branwen tasted the mead prudently. There were no vats of red ale, the Ivernic drink of kingship, being offered by King Marc to his guests. This mead was sweeter than what was served at Castle Rigani—and spicier. She coughed.

  “I recommend that you develop a tolerance, my lady,” Ruan told her. “I find that mead makes these gatherings…” He circled his gaze around the hall. “Well, more tolerable.”

  “I prefer to keep my wits about me. Besides, I thought you enjoyed life at court. Especially the ladies, from what your sister tells me.”

  “Ah, Endelyn is a tad possessive.”

  “I can’t fathom why.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “What’s a shame?” asked an elegant woman as she joined them. She was dressed in a gown of cherry velvet, and she wore her caramel-hued locks long. Heavily jeweled combs held it back from her face. Branwen recognized the pattern: a red hand made of precious stones. The same sigil she’d seen as on the discarded banner at the mining site.

  “Lady Branwen,” said Ruan, “it’s my singular pleasure to introduce you to my mother, Countess Kensa Whel of Illogan.” Something in the enunciation of his consonants conveyed the opposite sentiment.

  Looking from Ruan to his mother, Branwen could see the resemblance not only in the matching dark blond hair, but also the set of their eyes and the slope of his mouth. Branwen forced her eyes not to fixate on his mouth.

  “Pleased to meet you, Countess Kensa.” Branwen curtsied.

  “So you are the famous Lady Branwen.” The countess observed Branwen like a hawk does its prey. She had the same cold blue eyes as her daughter. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  Branwen’s hand tightened on the stem of her goblet. “It does?”

  “Rumors have reached me across the peninsula that an Ivernic lady has been visiting the miners—my miners. Is such a thing common in Iveriu? Do noblewomen do the work of peasants?” The countess’s smile was harder than the granite upon which the castle had been built. Ruan cut his mother a cautioning glance.

  Temper flaring, Branwen pressed her right palm against her skirt and prayed she wouldn’t set herself on fire in the middle of the feasting hall.

  “Healing work is done by whoever has the skill,” she informed Countess Kensa as civilly as she could. “Queen Eseult is renowned throughout our island for her healing abilities. My aunt cares for her subjects as the Goddess Ériu protects the Land.”

  “How peculiar.” The countess cast a look toward King Marc and Eseult. “My nephew will learn many new traditions from his bride, I suppose.”

  She pinched the end of Branwen’s shawl between her fingers. “Ivernic lace? So quaint, just charming.” She let the fabric fall. “Just think what your weavers could produce with modern, Aquilan technology.”

  Branwen counted to ten before speaking. She had anticipated that not all the Kernyveu would welcome the Iverwomen with open arms.

  After a moment, Branwen told the countess, “With peace between our kingdoms, there will be many opportunities for Iveriu and Kernyv to improve each other.” Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

  Countess Kensa laughed. “Ruan, I can see why you find Lady Branwen so … diverting. Oh look, there’s Baron Dynyon.” She glanced diagonally at a mustached man. “Excuse me, I must greet him.” Cupping Ruan’s cheek, Kensa told her son, “We’ll speak later,” and sauntered away.

  Branwen blinked several times. Humiliation scalded her. Ruan touched her elbow, speaking low. “Don’t mind Mother. Now that we have Ivernic noblewomen at court, she’s hoping the great Kernyvak Houses will forget that she comes from a family of wreckers.”

  “Wreckers?”

  “The Whels got their start by luring ships onto the rocks near Illogan. My forebearers used their ill-gotten gains to purchase land that turned out to be mineral rich. We were the first to trade with the Aquilan legions.” Ruan grinned. “Pragmatic, my ancestors. The red hand on my family crest is even said to represent the hand that the first Whel cut off and threw onto the site of Villa Illogan—in order to keep it from being claimed by a rival.”

  Branwen wrinkled her nose. The Kernyveu were overly fond of fanciful stories.

  “Mother was also hoping to make Endelyn queen,” the prince said, an afterthought, and sipped his mead. “Don’t look so shocked,” he said, reading Branwen’s face. “Cousins marry all the time.”

  At least now she understood Endelyn’s animosity. Being lady-in-w
aiting to a queen was a far cry from being queen herself. Did Endelyn harbor feelings for Marc? Or merely covet the title?

  “Why are you spilling all of your family secrets to me, Prince Ruan?” Branwen asked.

  “There are very few secrets at court.” He clinked his goblet against hers and leaned forward. “How about a dance?” Ruan smiled broadly, and Branwen could see how many women might be enticed by that smile like flies to honey. A reckless part of her, a caged part, wanted to dance like it was Belotnia, the Festival of Lovers; whirl her body around bonfires, laugh long into the night.

  “I’m afraid I’m a quaint, backward Iverwoman, Prince Ruan,” Branwen replied instead. “I don’t know how to dance.” She foisted her goblet into the prince’s free hand. “But I suspect you excel at dancing with yourself.”

  Ruan let out an enormous sigh as Branwen strode in the direction of the king’s table. Much as she might want to, she couldn’t avoid Tristan or Eseult forever, and there no longer seemed to be nearly enough room between her and Ruan, either.

  The Princess of Iveriu was swathed in an emerald-green gown. Its trim had been embroidered with freshwater pearls by a seamstress at Castle Rigani who was also the mother of their childhood playmate, Dubthach. As a girl, Eseult had adored playing practical jokes on poor Dubthach. She’d been quite the terror.

  Tonight, standing beside King Marc, her cousin didn’t look like she knew how to smile, much less pull pranks. She was pallid; demeanor careworn.

  Branwen resented the ache that it caused in her chest.

  “Dymatis, my king,” she said, sinking into a curtsy. Endelyn glared at Branwen from the corner of her eye. Like her mother, she too wore red.

  Beside the king stood another man whom Branwen hadn’t yet met. He had a shaven head, and he was cloaked in dark brown robes. She judged that the man had seen fifty summers.

  King Marc inclined his head at her. “Dymatis, Lady Branwen.”

  Neither Branwen nor Eseult had seen much of Marc this week. He was constantly cloistered in the King’s Tower, meeting with his advisers.

  “Lady Branwen,” Tristan greeted her.

  “Prince Tristan.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she nodded her response. Endelyn watched them with more than idle interest. Perhaps she was a tad possessive of Tristan, too.

  “Oh, Branny,” Eseult said breathily, in Ivernic. “Thank goodness you’re here. Everyone’s speaking Aquilan and it’s making my head hurt.” Her cousin never had been Master Bécc’s most diligent student. She’d preferred vexing Dubthach to conjugating Aquilan verbs. Taking Branwen’s hand, she murmured, “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you, Lady Princess.”

  “Lady Branwen, this is Seer Casek.” King Marc motioned toward the man with the shaven head. “He is the chief kordweyd at the temple in Marghas.”

  The man fiddled with an antler shard that hung around his neck. Branwen knew that followers of the Horned One used it to invoke his protection, that it represented his sacrifice: leaping in front of an enraged stag to save his father’s life. Captain Morgawr wore such an amulet and had called upon the Horned One when the Shades attacked.

  The fragment that rested against Casek’s robe, however, was ornamented with diamonds and dangled from a golden chain.

  “Dymatis, Seer Casek,” Branwen said.

  “It is evening, Lady Branwen,” Casek replied in Aquilan. “Therefore I should bid you Nosmatis.” He smiled pleasantly, light from oil lamps reflecting off his bald head.

  His greeting set her teeth on edge. The king didn’t see fit to correct her but apparently this man did.

  “Nosmatis, Seer Casek,” she told him.

  “Nos-ma-tis,” he repeated, emphasizing the second syllable. “The pronunciation of Kernyvak can be tricky.” Casek smiled another terribly pleasant smile. “When I first arrived from the southern continent, it took me several years to master it.”

  “Mormerkti, Seer Casek. I’m a quick study.”

  Marc interrupted smoothly. “How do your patients fare, Lady Branwen? Do you have all the supplies you need?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” Branwen replied. “My patients are mostly improving. Some will require a few more weeks to fully heal.”

  Lowenek and Talorc, thankfully, had survived their injuries. Others—including Talorc’s son, Ném—were not so fortunate. Branwen had watched the old man cry as he drank his son’s Final Toast.

  King Marc angled his body toward Casek, saying, “I didn’t realize so many were injured so grievously,” in a leading way.

  “The kordweyd have the situation well in hand,” he assured the king, slanting a less than friendly glance at Branwen.

  “I was curious,” Branwen said to Marc. “Are there no royal infirmaries in Kernyv?”

  Casek was the one to reply. “The temples care for the sick in Kernyv, my lady.” His tone was intended to silence. “We are men of learning.”

  “In Iveriu, healers are men—and women—of learning,” Branwen countered, trying to imagine what Queen Eseult would say to this man. “But our king and queen are also responsible for providing aid to those in need.”

  “Lady Branwen,” Casek charged, “you insult the king.”

  The wind rushed from her lungs. Had she gone too far? Marc’s expression was inscrutable.

  After what felt like an eon, during which Branwen counted each heartbeat, King Marc announced, “The lady has caused no offense. I am grateful for her help and her counsel. Perhaps, Lady Branwen, you can share your Ivernic learning with Casek and the other kordweyd?”

  “Of course.”

  “A wonderful suggestion, sire,” Casek agreed through a thin-lipped smile. Branwen clutched the sleeve of her dress. She would need to be careful around this man.

  A boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen approached the king from behind. He was clothed in royal colors, and he hobbled slightly, favoring his left leg. The foot was curved partially inward.

  “The boar is ready to be served,” said the boy.

  Marc’s face brightened. “Thank you, Andred.” He mussed the boy’s hair. “Princess Eseult, Lady Branwen. This is my cousin, Prince Andred. Ruan and Endelyn’s brother.” Andred shared the same nose as his brother, but, unlike his mother or siblings, he had thick, curly dark hair.

  “Also the king’s cupbearer,” the young prince piped up, pride in his voice. He smiled shyly at the Ivernic ladies, reminding Branwen of Cadan.

  “Also my cupbearer,” Marc corrected himself with a laugh. “Fill it high tonight, Andred. We have much to celebrate. Now, let’s eat!”

  As they took their seats for the meal, Branwen was shown to a chair between Tristan and Ruan. Immediately, she lost her appetite.

  Eseult, as Marc’s future queen, was seated on his right, and next to her sat the Queen’s Champion. Branwen would have expected the King’s Champion to sit on Marc’s left, as her uncle Morholt had always done for King Óengus. Instead that honor went to Countess Kensa. She was the king’s aunt and the oldest member of the royal family present, Branwen supposed. The countess smiled like a snake as she assumed her seat next to the king. Casek and Endelyn took their places beside her.

  “Miss me?” Ruan asked, coming up behind Branwen, then pulled out her chair.

  “Hardly.”

  He laughed, taking his own seat. “Hello, scamp,” he said to Andred, and his brother blushed. Andred gripped the table and swung his lower body into the chair beside Ruan. Ruan’s face was full of warmth as he looked at his brother, and it was the first genuine emotion Branwen had seen from the prince all night.

  There was much fanfare as the boar was presented and Branwen spent the rest of the meal concentrating on cutting her meat into bite-size pieces and not on the proximity of the men on either side of her.

  Most definitely not on how much Tristan’s vivid tunic reminded her of the iridescent seaweed known as mermaid’s hair, which she’d been collecting on the day they met. She had saved a single, dried strand. It was in her room even now.
She hadn’t yet been able to discard it.

  Branwen did not recall the feel of the finely packed muscles she knew lay beneath his tunic, how they were at once hard and soft.

  Nor did she remember how she had once looked into Tristan’s eyes and seen her best self reflected.

  * * *

  When the platters of honeyed fruits and dates were passed throughout the Great Hall, King Marc stood and commanded the attention of all those present.

  A respectful quiet slowly descended over the assembled guests.

  Branwen was seated close enough to see a muscle flicker in his neck. At twenty-seven, Marc was a young king. He didn’t yet wear his mantle of power with the same ease as King Óengus did. “Friends,” Marc began, speech stilted. “Tonight, I have invited you here to celebrate the beginning of a new era for Kernyv.”

  He waved a hand at Andred. The boy collected something from a sideboard behind the king’s table and limped toward him. In her peripheral vision, Branwen saw Countess Kensa’s face pinch.

  King Marc lifted a scroll from Andred’s hand into the air. He held it high so that all could see. “With this Seal of Alliance, hostilities between Kernyv and Iveriu are at end.” He took a breath. “All prisoners of war in both kingdoms are to be freed.”

  Silence.

  Tristan was the first to clap.

  He grabbed Branwen’s gaze as she put her hands together. Was this his doing?

  From what she had seen at the mine, Ruan’s family—and undoubtedly many others—depended on the prisoners’ labor. Only polite applause followed from around the hall, and a chill skittered down Branwen’s spine. The king had said the Iverni and Kernyveu were to become one people, but not everyone would benefit from the peace.

  King Marc directed his attention at Tristan, his affection unguarded.

  “I owe a debt I can never repay to my nephew, Prince Tristan of Kernyv and Liones, for bringing us this Seal of Alliance. He has served me and Kernyv with loyalty and honor.” Marc rested a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. Branwen saw color rise in his cheeks at the compliment. Not in a thousand lifetimes would Tristan have willingly dishonored his king.