Wild Savage Stars

by Kristina Perez

  The truth stretched between the cousins, a fraying rope about to snap.

  Branwen turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Eseult asked.

  “To visit my patients.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  That was the last thing Branwen wanted. She squeezed the Hand of Bríga into a fist. “You can’t stand the sight of blood.” Ever since they were little girls, the princess had had no stomach for treating the war-wounded. She’d always avoided the infirmary at all costs.

  “I’ll be brave,” said the princess. Defiance rang from her words. Branwen no longer had the energy to fight her.

  “Fine. But hurry. The tide is coming in.”

  A few minutes later, the warm smell of hay wafted over Branwen.

  “You’re late,” Ruan admonished as she entered the stables. She raised her brows at the prince. “I have company,” she said.

  Ruan straightened. “Lady Princess.” He performed a swift bow. Andred, who was feeding an apple to his mount, did the same.

  “Good morning,” Eseult said. “I’m visiting the injured with Branwen today.” She looked around the stable, which had stalls for the horses on either side of the entrance. “Do you know where the mare is that the king gifted me?”

  Andred beamed a smile. “I do, Lady Princess. This way.” He pointed toward the end of the left-hand row of stalls.

  “Does the king know you’re leaving the castle?” Ruan asked the princess.

  “The king is in one of his many meetings. I don’t think he’ll even notice.”

  Ruan frowned as Eseult turned on her heel, following Andred. Although it was true that Marc had made himself scarce outside of official functions.

  Branwen and Ruan trailed a few paces behind. “If I told you that the blue of your cloak brings out the coppery tint of your eyes,” Ruan said, “would that make you less likely to wear it?”

  “No.” Branwen met his gaze. “Because I only brought one cloak with me from Iveriu, and I don’t fancy freezing to death on the moors.”

  Ruan hadn’t mentioned seeing her on the verge of tears the night of the feast, but it unnerved Branwen that he knew she’d been so upset.

  “It does seem like this winter will be colder than usual,” he noted.

  “Perhaps there’s a war in the Otherworld.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, nothing but a backward Ivernic superstition.” Branwen tilted one corner of her mouth upward.

  “You know, it’s funny, I’m finding myself quite enamored of all things backward and Ivernic these days.”

  Branwen could only laugh. “I see. Well, when there’s a particularly cold winter or a meager harvest, we Iverni say it must be due to a war in the Otherworld.” As she spoke, the tiny hairs on her forearms tingled. She wished she hadn’t mentioned it.

  The click of boots on stone resounded off the roof. Branwen turned to see Tristan rushing toward them. “There you are, Lady Princess,” he said, relief washing over him.

  The stable was suddenly much too crowded.

  Ruan barked a laugh. “Already lost our future queen, have you, cousin?” A line formed on the bridge of Tristan’s nose. “Fear not, I can provide a sufficient escort to the temple,” Ruan taunted. “Go back to whatever it was you were doing—”

  Endelyn entered the stables just behind Tristan and, looking between them, Ruan added, “With my sister.”

  Much, much too crowded.

  Endelyn’s cheeks erupted like wildfire. “Ruan,” Tristan said, a coarseness to the name. “Endelyn is practically my little sister as well.” At the proclamation, Endelyn’s face flamed brighter, and Branwen almost felt sorry for the snobbish Kernyvak princess. Apparently Tristan was the only one oblivious to Endelyn’s infatuation.

  “I’m going with Branwen to visit her patients,” Eseult said to Tristan, ignoring the others. Tristan looked toward Branwen, but she refused to meet his gaze.

  “As you wish, Lady Princess,” he said stiffly. “I’ll accompany you.”

  “Me too,” Endelyn said.

  “Endelyn tending the wounded? This I have to see,” Ruan said, earning himself a thorny look from his sister. To Tristan and Andred, he said, “Let’s saddle the horses before we need a boat.”

  Eseult stroked the muzzle of the stark white mare, which had popped her head out of the stall. “Lí Ban doesn’t need a boat. She can transform into a fish.”

  “Lí Ban?” said Tristan.

  “Yes, I decided on a name for my palfrey,” she replied. The princess gazed at her Champion a long moment.

  Branwen’s next breath cut her from the inside like broken glass. She had listened to Tristan sing the ballad of Lí Ban to her cousin on the day he’d called her a hero. Had Branwen always been a fool?

  “And how exactly will the mare transform into a fish?” Ruan asked, a roguish quality to his voice, breaking the tension.

  Eseult tousled the palfrey’s forelock. “Lí Ban is an Otherworld goddess of the sea—and a mermaid.”

  The prince laughed. “The Iverni believe in mermaids, too?” He directed the question at Branwen.

  “The Kernyveu believe in giants,” she replied.

  Ruan let out a whistle at the fierceness in her tone. “Fair enough.” Glancing at Tristan, he said, “Lady Branwen has been riding your stallion. But I’m happy to have her astride mine.”

  “Branny can ride with me,” Eseult said.

  Branwen darted her gaze from her cousin to Ruan and, fleetingly, at Tristan. Turning to Andred, she said, “King Marc offered me a horse of my own. Help me find a suitable mount?”

  “I know just the one.”

  “Mormerkti, Andred.” Speaking to everyone and no one, Branwen said, “I prefer to ride alone.”

  THE ONLY HOSTAGE

  ANDRED SELECTED A MARE WITH a lustrous, umber coat and a headstrong disposition for Branwen. The palfrey bolted out in front of the other horses as they crossed the causeway, which suited Branwen just fine.

  Her mount was named Senara, after a princess from the southern continent who had apparently been thrust into a barrel and cast onto the sea by an evil husband. She washed up on the coast of Kernyv, pregnant, and gave birth to none other than Lugmarch, who eventually defeated the giants. Branwen had smiled as Andred told her the tale, and she’d forced herself not to wonder how Tristan might recount it.

  A guard dog barked as soon as Branwen entered the village. The stone dwellings were arranged in a defensive ring. The settlement had been built on a hill somewhat elevated from the surrounding moors, and Branwen spied the rest of her traveling party below.

  The temple of the Horned One was positioned in the center of the village—a humble, horseshoe-shaped structure. Its walls were made from slabs of granite interspersed with the oxblood stone that supported the Great Hall, which, on closer inspection, was flecked with black. The Kernyveu called it snakestone because it resembled a serpent’s skin.

  The roof was thatched like the others in the village, and, from the outside, the only attribute that distinguished the temple was a finely carved statue of a man with horns above the entrance.

  Talorc spotted Branwen first and called out a greeting. Thanks to the Hand of Bríga, the elderly Iverman had sufficiently recovered to help with chores around the temple. As he raised himself from a stool, the ache in his joints was plain. Even without his newer injuries, his days as a miner should have been long since past.

  Branwen dismounted from Senara and tied the mare to the post of a wooden fence, which enclosed the temple’s pigs.

  “Good morning, Talorc,” said Branwen. She withdrew a satchel filled with salves and bandages from the saddlebags. Talorc released a phlegmy cough, and Branwen’s ears pricked at the sound. “There’s a chill in the air,” she chided him. “Be sure to keep warm.”

  “I will, Lady Branwen.” His smile was indulgent. “The Old Ones haven’t let me pass through the Veil to the Land of Youth yet but, when they do, I’ll see Né
m there.”

  Branwen nodded, slinging her satchel over her shoulder. The loss of his son anchored Talorc’s words. A parent shouldn’t have to drink the Final Toast for his child, but Branwen had seen many young men felled by raiders. She glanced back toward Eseult as the princess brought her mount to a stop, Tristan at her side. Her marriage to King Marc would save many fathers from Talorc’s grief.

  The Iverman bowed as Ruan walked over to them. “Penaxta,” Talorc said, which Branwen had learned meant “prince” in Kernyvak.

  Ruan launched himself from his stallion and bade Talorc good morning in Ivernic, provoking a skeptical look from Branwen. “There have always been Iverni on my family estates,” Ruan said to her in Aquilan. “I’ve picked up a bit of your language.”

  The guard dog barked again, racing toward Branwen and nipping at her ankles. She looked down, shooing it away, and saw that it was only a puppy. Its hair was a mottled white and brown, its ears floppy, and the skin crinkled around its flat nose. “Off, off,” she said.

  The puppy snorted and scampered behind Branwen. A moment later she heard a familiar, delighted squeal. Eseult leaned down to pet the puppy, stroking its saggy jowls, not minding the muddy paw prints it left on her finely embroidered gown.

  Endelyn observed the dog with considerably more displeasure.

  Tristan stood behind the princesses as he tied up the horses, posture wary. He glanced around the village for any threats to his future queen.

  “Andred!” Branwen called to the boy who was also admiring the puppy. “Let’s see to our patients.” She’d had enough delays for one morning.

  Andred straightened at her surly tone. He grabbed his own bag of herbs from his mount and moved toward her. The boy’s left leg lagged half a breath behind his right with each step, and Branwen could see the discomfort etched into his stride, but she’d noticed that Andred disliked when others offered sympathy. He never appreciated being treated as any less capable than he was. True to his word, his knowledge of the medicinal properties of the local plants and wildflowers was exhaustive.

  Eseult sprang up and rushed toward Branwen, too. “Wait for me.”

  Branwen exhaled a frustrated breath. “Another Iverwoman?” said Talorc.

  The princess dashed a glance at Branwen when she heard the man speaking Ivernic.

  “Talorc,” Branwen began, “may I introduce you to Princess Eseult of Iveriu. Lady Princess, this is Talorc. He comes from Laiginztir, near Castle Bodwa.”

  The elderly Iverman ran a hand over his white hair and sank into a bow.

  “May the Old Ones favor you, Lady Princess. It’s a great honor to meet you.” Raising himself upright, Talorc added, “You have brought us peace. One Iveriu.” He pressed a fist to his heart.

  Branwen heard her cousin inhale a startled breath. “One Iveriu,” Eseult said. Competing emotions crossed her features. “How did you come to be here?” she asked.

  From the corner of his eye, Talorc looked hurriedly at Ruan before answering. “I was captured by raiders when I was a much younger man, Lady Princess.”

  Branwen wondered how much Ivernic Ruan understood as the Iverman spoke.

  “I’ve been working the prince’s mines ever since,” Talorc explained. “But now the war between Kernyv and Iveriu is over. Thanks to you, Lady Princess, I will die a free man.”

  Talorc took Eseult’s hand and kissed it.

  “May the Old Ones protect you always,” he said.

  The princess turned her head toward Branwen, and she saw fury, sympathy, and helplessness in her cousin’s eyes.

  Eseult clasped her hands together. “I am glad you can go home now, Talorc.”

  “My son is in the Land of Youth, Lady Princess. As is my wife. I am too old for anyone in Iveriu to remember me,” Talorc replied. “I will stay in Kernyv.”

  The princess cut a glance at Ruan. “This man is too weak to work in your mines,” she told him in Aquilan, raising her voice.

  “That is entirely the man’s choice, Lady Princess. House Whel will abide by the king’s decree to pay the Iverni who remain for their labor. They may even remain dwelling on our lands in exchange for a small rent.”

  Eseult rested her hands on her hips, and Branwen tapped her mother’s brooch. If the Iverni paid rents to the noble Houses as well as working their mines and fields, she couldn’t help but wonder whether their lives would change at all?

  “I am the King’s Champion,” Ruan said, looking from Branwen to his future queen. “And I will enforce his laws without question.” Tristan walked to Eseult’s side, listening intently, but said nothing.

  “Talorc,” Eseult said to the Iverman. “Are there other injured Iverni here?”

  “There are, Lady Princess.”

  She threw her shoulders back. “I would very much like to meet them.”

  “They will hardly believe their eyes.” Talorc smiled. “Follow me.”

  The puppy chased after Eseult as Talorc led her through the temple courtyard and inside the low doorway. The Horned One was also known as the Lord of Wild Things, and animals were always welcome within the temple walls. Branwen had been alarmed the first time she noticed a hare caper in and out, but she’d grown used to it over the past few weeks.

  The entrance to the temple was situated at the midpoint of the horseshoe design, Aquilan oil lamps casting a warm light on an altar where offerings were left for the Horned One. Behind the altar, the wall had been plastered and decorated with ceramic tiles depicting scenes from the god’s life. Branwen averted her eyes from the fox in the corner of the mosaic—it made her stomach cramp. She no longer deserved any Otherworld messengers. The Wise Damsel had said she could help Branwen with her power, but Branwen just wanted it to disappear. She had seen what her magic could do.

  The infirmary lay on the left side of the temple, although patients had also been accommodated in the living quarters of the seer who resided here. Being a small, rural temple, there was normally only one who maintained it. Branwen let Talorc introduce Eseult to the Iverni housed in the infirmary while she and Andred began their rounds on the opposite side. Tristan and Ruan followed the princess, with Endelyn trailing behind, closest to the Queen’s Champion.

  “My brother is as good as his word, Lady Branwen,” Andred said to her. “You should know that. The Iverni who stay on our family lands will be well treated.”

  “We’re not here to talk about your brother.” Branwen gestured toward a middle-aged man with a poultice on his arm. “Check for infection and clean his wound. Use the lichen salve.” She began to root around her satchel.

  “I—I ground a new paste of lichen and garlic—the Aquilan treatises say it wards off fever.” Andred’s cheeks blazed.

  Nodding, she said, “Well done. Go on, then,” and returned to her own patient. Branwen changed bandages and inspected the stitches she’d made on several Ivernic and Kernyvak miners before she came to Lowenek.

  “Dymatis,” Branwen said to the girl.

  “Dymatis, Branwen.”

  The first time she’d visited Lowenek after the accident, the girl hadn’t remembered it was Branwen who had helped her at the mine, which was just as well. She was glad to see Lowenek’s pallor steadily growing rosier. Unfortunately, it would be at least another moon before the girl would be able to put her full weight on the ankle that had been trapped beneath the rock. Branwen pushed the end of Lowenek’s skirt up around her knees so she could inspect the flesh around the fracture.

  The tent pole splint had been replaced with a smoother piece of wood. With any luck, the bone would heal straight.

  Branwen pressed her fingers to different places on Lowenek’s calf to check for infection—the flesh was inflamed, but it wasn’t hot, which was a positive sign. Branwen spied Andred blush when Lowenek caught him staring. Andred turned his back, and Lowenek snuck a quick peek herself.

  “Healer Branwen, good afternoon.”

  Branwen glanced up from Lowenek as a jolly-faced man entered the room.


  “Good afternoon, Seer Ogrin,” she replied in Aquilan.

  His hair was shorn like Seer Casek’s but already gray and sparse, and his dark brown robes rustled as he walked toward Lowenek’s cot. A belt of wooden beads was secured around his waist, and he worried the antler shard that dangled from it.

  “Dymatis, Lowenek,” Ogrin said, placing a hand on the girl’s forehead, and a smile shone on her freckled face. “She’s been looking forward to your visits,” he said to Branwen. “Prince Ruan told me that Lowenek owes you her life.”

  Branwen shrugged as she massaged a pain-relieving ointment into the girl’s ankle. “Her parents were both lost in the disaster,” Ogrin continued. “I wondered if, perhaps, you could find an occupation for her at Monwiku?”

  “She can’t even stand.”

  “Once she’s recovered, Healer Branwen.” He possessed a childlike laugh.

  “Why do you insist on calling me Healer Branwen?”

  Ogrin simply smiled. “You are a healer, are you not?”

  The seer had been extremely friendly to Branwen and yet, knowing that women were not permitted to join the ranks of the kordweyd, made it difficult for her to drop her guard around him.

  “I’m sure we can find a place for her,” Andred interjected from across the room. “She could help me prepare remedies—for you, Lady Branwen.” Branwen lowered an eyebrow at the young prince. “I’ll ask King Marc,” he said to Ogrin.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” said the seer.

  Branwen sighed. “Go see to the patients in the infirmary,” she told the boy. Andred gave her an obedient nod and saw himself out.

  Lowenek was a watchful girl, Branwen had observed, and she was not unaware that she was being discussed—even if she didn’t understand Aquilan.

  Branwen finished massaging in the ointment. “Better? Dagos?” she asked.

  “Dagos,” Lowenek assured her. She took Branwen’s hand and squeezed. “Mormerkti.”

  “You’re very welcome. Sekrev.”

  Ogrin smiled and followed Branwen toward the infirmary. Tension crackled in the air as they entered.

  Eseult was perched on the edge of a cot where an Ivernic boy about the same age as Andred lay. He’d lost his right forearm in the avalanche. The princess stared daggers at Ruan. “It was an accident, Lady Princess,” he protested, and clearly not for the first time.