Wild Savage Stars

by Kristina Perez

  The baron’s flush deepened to purple.

  “I see why Princess Eseult chose you as her Champion, Prince Tristan,” he said. Looking at the king’s crossed arms, Baron Dynyon bowed his head. “Forgive my impertinence, my Lord King.”

  “It isn’t my forgiveness you need,” King Marc told him.

  The baron angled his shoulders toward the princess and bowed from the waist. “I apologize for my rash words, Princess Eseult,” he said, although a vein thrummed near his temple.

  “I accept your apology, Baron Dynyon,” Eseult said. Her voice was chilly. “Prince Tristan has saved me from pirates and will always defend my interests. That is why I have chosen him as my Champion.”

  For the first time since their arrival in Kernyv, the princess resembled Queen Eseult. She sounded like a True Queen. Branwen looked between her cousin and Tristan. If Eseult’s interests ran counter to those of Kernyv, of peace—which would Tristan defend?

  “And now, I would ask my Champion to perform another service,” said Eseult.

  “Of course, Lady Princess.” Tristan ducked his head.

  “A dance?”

  He glanced at Marc. “With my blessing,” said the king.

  Fire flickered beneath Branwen’s flesh as Tristan escorted Eseult onto the dance floor. How could her cousin be so foolish?

  The princess wrapped her hand around Tristan’s shoulders with none of the hesitation with which she’d allowed herself to be held by her future husband. She showed Tristan the delighted, tempestuous smile that mesmerized so many. He maintained an appropriate distance between them, but there was an ease between the pair that all could see. The same ease Branwen had once felt in Tristan’s arms, by Eseult’s side.

  “Prince Tristan seems to be much beloved of the Iverni,” remarked Countess Kensa, creeping closer to Branwen. “He and the princess look well together.”

  The warmth between the couple as they danced wasn’t real, but the lovers believed it was. Did the truth make any difference?

  “As a queen and her Champion should look,” Branwen told the countess.

  “The Iverni must be equally beloved by the prince. The entire court was astounded to learn Tristan had relinquished his position as King’s Champion. He and the king have been inseparable since they were boys,” Countess Kensa said, flicking a glance at Marc, before returning her gaze to Branwen.

  Branwen took a breath. “Prince Tristan does his queen—and all of Iveriu—a great honor.”

  “Of course. He also parted with profitable lands for you, Lady Branwen. Lands teeming with white lead.” The countess pricked her with a glance. “Tristan must have been made to feel extremely welcome in Iveriu.”

  “I hope so. The prince is very generous.”

  “Very.”

  “In fact, I should go thank him,” Branwen said, deciding to put an end to Eseult’s folly, and strode toward the couple.

  “Mind if I cut in?”

  “Branny, we’re just dancing—”

  “Dance with your betrothed,” she said in a warning tone.

  The cousins stared at each other; Branwen recalled a thousand childhood struggles between them, but there had never been this—this friction, like whetting a blade against a stone, until the day Tristan had washed up on the Ivernic coast.

  “Or would you like the entire Kernyvak fleet to assault our homeland after they learn the truth?”

  “I—I’m sorry,” Eseult whispered. “I needed a moment away from the others.” Branwen didn’t—couldn’t—respond. Hanging her head, the princess told Tristan, “Mormerkti,” and retreated toward the king’s side.

  The music transitioned into a song with a strong, insistent tempo. Tristan proffered a hand. “I thought you were cutting in,” he said. Circling his gaze around the Great Hall, he added, “The nobles are watching.” Not just the noblemen and noblewomen, but also Seer Casek.

  Branwen painted on a smile and seized Tristan’s hand. He slid his arm around her waist, and she tried to ignore the feelings his touch fomented. This man who had once been her refuge.

  They began to dance. “Have you lost all sense?” she scolded under her breath.

  “I couldn’t refuse my queen’s request.”

  “You’re never to blame, are you, Tristan?” You know who’s to blame, snarled a voice in Branwen’s mind.

  Tristan twirled Branwen farther into the dance floor. “I do blame myself. I blame myself for everything.” His voice was mixed with sand. “I was supposed to protect the princess and I disgraced myself. I’m responsible for what happened. But I will protect Eseult now. However unworthy I am. I owe her that, and so much more.”

  Branwen’s hands trembled in his. His self-loathing made her sick. Hate me, she nearly said. Hate me instead.

  But she only demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me Eseult would be a True Queen?”

  “Your aunt and uncle insisted I tell no one before Marc. I gave them my word.” Tristan’s palm was warm on her back.

  “You’re very good at keeping secrets.”

  “I think we both are.”

  Branwen felt the beat of the drum in her bones. Her body followed Tristan’s lead. She didn’t know the steps, but it was as if she had been performing this dance her entire life, as if there were no beginning and no end, as if it were a dance that would be performed again and again. Sweat trickled from Tristan’s temple; it glistened in the mellow light of the oil lamps.

  The compulsion to wipe it away, to stroke his face nearly shattered her.

  “What about the lands?” she said. “You couldn’t have told me about that?”

  Tristan dipped Branwen low, his chest pressing against hers. “I wanted them to be a wedding present. I thought we would share them.”

  Tears stung her eyes.

  “Take the lands back. Take them back, Tristan. I don’t want—I don’t want to share anything with you.”

  He raised her up from the dip, their chests still pressed together. “I can’t. I’ve signed the deeds. They’re yours. And I don’t want to.” He dragged down a breath and Branwen could feel it on her lips. “The lands are yours—and so am I.”

  She wanted to feel more than his breath.

  No. Branwen broke his embrace and rushed for the exit. The heady, nutty smell of the oil was nauseating.

  She was almost out the door when Ruan stepped in her way.

  “I thought you didn’t know how to dance?” he said. Branwen was too overwrought to come up with a witty retort. Her face fractured from the effort of holding back her tears.

  For a moment, Ruan’s façade crumbled. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and he actually sounded like he wanted to know.

  “Nothing.” Everything.

  Branwen raced through the courtyard and down the passageway toward the gardens. Tristan might want to belong to Branwen, but he was fighting the urge, the pull he felt toward Eseult. She could see it. Countess Kensa could see it.

  How could she protect Iveriu, protect the princess, when Eseult flaunted her affection for Tristan before King Marc’s entire court?

  Branwen could only hope Marc loved Tristan too much to sense the betrayal.

  Her feet skidded over the stone steps, descending along the tree-lined path. She wanted to run far, far away from this island.

  Reaching the second terraced garden, Branwen let her tears flow. She had loved her cousin before she had loved herself; now she felt enmity like venom eating it away. She had put a naive, childlike faith in the Loving Cup—and in the Queen of Iveriu. She had trusted too much. She had loved too hard. She’d delayed her own happiness until it turned to ash.

  Branwen lifted the Hand of Bríga, allowing the spark she’d suppressed all evening to surface. Her fire warmed her. Her sigh became a strangled laugh.

  The flame continued to grow, climbing like a vine against the sky until it competed with the brightest star.

  Odai eti ama. Branwen was starting to hate more than she loved.

  She wanted to jump
from her skin, throw herself into the sea, become the flame.

  Ecstasy streamed through her. She could feel this way all the time—if only she let herself. This power was hers.

  Gazing out onto the moon-glazed waters that surrounded Monwiku, Branwen saw flames erupt and dance upon the waves. In the distance, sails winked as the wind chimes moaned. The sails were there, then gone: a whisper of silver against an ebony sky.

  Branwen only knew of one kind of ship with tattered sails like broken promises. Ships that didn’t exist wholly in this world.

  They were coming. The Shades were coming for her. She had to warn the princess, Tristan, the king … everyone.

  She looked back at the castle, and it was already on fire. Let them burn.

  Branwen let out a hoarse scream. She squeezed her eyes tight as the Dark One’s laughter filled the cavern of her mind.

  When she opened them again, the Shades were gone. The sea was calm.

  There was no fire save the flame in Branwen’s hand.

  A WAR IN THE OTHERWORLD

  BRANWEN ANSWERED THE KNOCK AT the door with impatience.

  “Dymat—”

  Tristan stood in the doorway, morning light slicing the corridor behind him in two. Branwen had managed to avoid him for three days since the feast.

  “It doesn’t seem right for me to keep it,” he said, and her gaze dropped from Tristan’s face, sleepless circles beneath his eyes, to the krotto in his arms: the harp that had once belonged to her mother.

  Branwen could almost see Lady Alana’s fingers plucking its silver strings.

  “Queen Eseult gave it to you,” she said tonelessly.

  Her aunt had known how Branwen and Tristan felt about each other. When she presented the harp to him at Castle Rigani, the queen had been giving them her blessing.

  “Your aunt wanted it to stay in the family,” Tristan said as he extended the krotto across the threshold. “If—if that’s no longer possible, then the harp should be yours.” Their eyes met; his gleamed with sadness, dark wells into which Branwen could let herself fall.

  “You know I don’t play well,” she said.

  He stepped into the chamber. “Does that mean there’s a chance Emer will let Tantris sing for her again?”

  The weakness in Branwen wanted to let him more than she wanted her next breath.

  “Emer never existed.”

  “She did.” Tristan drew closer until only the harp lay between them. “She does. And the Hound is still devoted.” His hand grazed her cheek, and something in her core quivered.

  “Share a song with me, Branwen.” It was a plea.

  His lips brushed hers, and Branwen drove her fingers through Tristan’s curls as if clinging to a precipice. He kissed her more ardently. A moan escaped her lips.

  But when Tristan closed his eyes, Branwen couldn’t help but wonder if it was Eseult he pictured. She broke the embrace, pushing on the krotto, sending him staggering backward.

  “You can’t share a song with me and with my cousin, Tristan!”

  “I don’t want to share a song with anyone else, Branwen. What can I do to make you believe me?”

  “You can’t.”

  “Then take it.” He offered her the harp with more vehemence, his voice thin, near breaking.

  “No. Unlike you, I don’t disobey my sovereign’s wishes.”

  “Branwen.” Tristan’s fingers flexed on the bend of the harp. “Your heart has never been cruel.” He brimmed with the sadness of the seas.

  “You don’t know my heart.” The thrill of the flame, vibrant and delicious, wavered in her breast even now. It frightened her. Excited her.

  Branwen sidestepped Tristan and shimmied past him through the opened door.

  “My patients are waiting.”

  “You have time to heal everything except us.” He spoke to her back.

  “I can’t raise the dead,” she said, and walked away.

  * * *

  Branwen made haste for the royal stables, which were located near the base of Monwiku island, close to the granary and some of the servants’ dwellings. She clutched her cloak against the gusts of wind that came off the water, fighting the memory of the kiss. Foolish. Impulsive.

  She picked up her pace. The causeway would be closing soon. Andred and Ruan were waiting at the stables to accompany Branwen to the temple where the injured miners had been taken.

  The younger prince from House Whel knew the name of each of the groomsmen and appeared to be well liked by all of the castle inhabitants. Andred possessed the same charm as his older brother but it was tempered with a dose of humility and kindness. Somehow his company always cheered Branwen.

  She heard footsteps from behind as she followed the path that wound beneath the covering of trees.

  “Branny! Branny, wait!”

  The princess’s voice carried over the rustling leaves. The lanterns squeaked as they swayed on the branches. A hand grabbed Branwen’s elbow from behind, jolting her to a stop.

  “Branny, would you please wait!” Incensed, Branwen turned toward her cousin. The princess’s shoulders heaved from her sprint, blond hairs escaping the plaits that Endelyn had arranged atop her head.

  “I’m in a hurry, Lady Princess. I’m sure Endelyn can provide you with whatever you require.”

  “No, she can’t.” Eseult threw her hands to her sides. “Please, Branny. I know you’re furious with me. But on the ship, you made me promise that I would tell you—that if I was feeling … desperate, I would tell you.” Her voice was strangled. “This is me telling you.”

  The image of her cousin bleeding in her cabin aboard the Dragon Rising immediately surfaced in her mind. When the princess had stabbed herself, Branwen had felt the blade pierce her own heart. The Hand of Bríga had saved the princess—but it could only heal her physical wounds.

  “What are you saying?” she asked.

  “I’m scared, Branny. I’m so scared.” Eseult tugged at a loose strand of hair. “I didn’t want any of this—and now I’m supposed to be a True Queen? I can’t.”

  Branwen opened and closed her mouth, frustration and fear stealing her words. Wasn’t that why she had created the Loving Cup in the first place?

  At last she said, “This isn’t about what you want, Essy. It’s about what Iveriu needs.” The Wise Damsel had told Branwen the same thing about her magic, and yet it was Branwen’s magic that had ruined everything.

  “But I’m not what Iveriu needs,” Eseult countered. “I never have been. I’m not talented. Or especially clever. I wasn’t born to rule. My mother has overplayed her hand.” The princess gave Branwen a plaintive stare. “We both know it was her.”

  “The Old Ones chose you,” she said, softening her tone somewhat. “They believe in you.”

  “How can they? I don’t believe in myself.” Eseult clutched at her chest. Her breaths grew shallower, tiny wheezes. “I can’t do this without you.”

  Instinct, or habit, propelled Branwen to gently drop a hand on her cousin’s back. She drew soothing circles between Eseult’s shoulder blades. After a minute or two, the princess’s posture relaxed, and she blew out a deep breath.

  Swiping at her tears, Eseult said, “Not you without me. Forgive me, Branny. I’m so alone.”

  So am I. “All I ever wanted was for someone to love me for me,” her cousin went on. “Not for my titles. But not like this, not by hurting the only sister I’ve ever known. Tristan won’t even look at me, either.”

  “That’s not how it seemed when you asked him to dance.”

  “It was the only way I could get him to say more than two words to me. I’m sorry—I didn’t think.” Eseult’s face crumpled. “He told me to forget what happened between us. But I can’t.”

  “Neither can I.”

  The princess dropped her gaze to the cobblestones. If Branwen told Eseult that Tristan didn’t really love her for her, she would devastate her cousin. She would start a war. And it wouldn’t change anything. Countless people wou
ld perish for nothing.

  The lanterns overhead squeaked, reminding Branwen of the kretarvs’ caw.

  “When I was recuperating after my … accident,” Eseult said in a hush, “Tristan told me I was brave. That marrying for peace required a hero’s sacrifice.”

  Branwen dug her fingernails into the pads of her palms as if they were talons. She remembered the morning when she’d encouraged Tristan to play the harp for her cousin.

  “No one had ever called me brave before. A hero. More like you, Branny.”

  I’m not a hero. Each word was a sword running her through.

  “The only thing special about me is my royal blood, I’ve always known that.” The princess raked a hand through her plaits. “But Tristan saw the best in me. Someone worth admiring—loving, even. I think that’s when my feelings began to change. I didn’t mean for it to happen, I swear I didn’t.”

  A breath shuddered through Branwen, magic stirring. The night the Shades attacked, Eseult stole the golden vial from Branwen, unaware it was anything more than a special liqueur prepared by the head royal cook. Yet she had still brought it to Tristan’s cabin. She had still sought solace from him.

  What if the Loving Cup had merely incited them to act on impulses they’d already harbored? Tristan asked Branwen to be handfasted aboard the Dragon Rising because he felt the distance growing between them. She had thought it was her secrets driving them apart.

  Had Tristan only kissed Branwen this morning to make himself forget the princess?

  Her pity for her cousin turned to smoke.

  Searching the trees, making sure they weren’t being overheard, Branwen stepped in close to Eseult. “Then be the hero Tristan sees in you. Be brave.” Her voice was somewhere between a growl and a rasp. “Make the sacrifice and be the hero Iveriu needs. As a True Queen, you have the power to ensure a better life for the Iverni—and the Kernyveu. A peaceful life.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of duty, Branny? Don’t you want anything for yourself?” Eseult said. Her words were whispered, ragged around the edges.

  “Tristan was the one thing I ever wanted for myself,” Branwen said.