She snatched back her hand. “Let’s go,” Branwen said, and kicked her stallion into a gallop. She reached the edge of the forest first, Ruan close behind, and entered a tunnel made from curved branches. Light fell across her in a lace-like pattern.
The day before the wedding, Branwen had taken part in a hunt for the rixula, a red-breasted bird whose name meant “little queen.” Ruan had been the one to catch her. This time, Branwen needed to catch the True Queen first.
Another cry echoed through the trees. “False alarm,” Ruan announced, aggravation clear. Hiding her relief, Branwen twisted in her saddle. “We should keep heading toward the castle. King Marc sustained injuries. I’ll need to check them and change the bandages.” This was true, of course, but Branwen also wanted Ruan to relinquish the hunt for the night, lest he find Tristan and Eseult in a compromising position.
Ruan worked his jaw. Marc’s welfare was his paramount concern. Not solely because he was Ruan’s king, but because he loved his cousin.
“You’re right. We’ll set out again at first light.”
Branwen nodded, turning back around, and made a clicking noise from the side of her mouth. She bounced as the stallion trotted, every muscle in her body tight. Her eyelids fought against the pull of sleep. An hour passed as she and Ruan rode in silence, listening to the harmony of birdcalls, the sun hanging ever lower in the sky.
Suddenly a shrill whinny broke into the birds’ evening song, discordant and nerve tingling. Branwen whipped her head toward the sound.
“Is that Senara?” Ruan said. Before she could respond, his mount was charging off the path. Branwen’s tongue took on a metallic taste. She had no choice but to follow him into the copse.
Branwen’s mare had bolted when she’d used the Hand of Bríga against the queen’s assassins. Her fire magic had startled Senara.
The horse stomped a hoof, tossing her head, a slightly wild look in her eye. As if she’d been waiting, impatient. Perhaps she had scented Branwen in the forest. Branwen was fond of the high-spirited mare named for the hero Lugmarch’s mother.
Ruan brought his mount alongside Senara. Her umber coat shone. He stretched a pacifying hand toward the mare and she allowed him to stroke her muzzle.
He looked to Branwen for an explanation. Her pulse raced.
“You said you’d been thrown from Senara. Not that you’d abandoned her in the forest,” he said. That had indeed been the excuse Branwen had invented for her disheveled appearance the night before. “I’d wondered why you’d chosen a different mount today.” A line appeared above Ruan’s nose. “How did you get back to the castle?”
“I walked.”
He screwed up his lips in annoyance. “Bran—” Ruan started and cut himself off. His eyes had latched onto something on the ground.
Bile rushed up Branwen’s throat. On the tenebrous forest floor, between Senara’s hooves, was something darker still.
A charred body.
Ruan leapt down from his horse, hand instinctively touching his sword. Branwen brushed her fingers over her mother’s brooch, which clasped her cloak closed. It was all that she had left of Lady Alana.
Branwen slid out of the saddle, feigning confusion. Ruan led Senara away so that he could inspect the body—what was left of it. The corpse’s mouth was frozen in a scream. Branwen suppressed one of her own, tasting her own disgust.
She had done that. The Hand of Bríga had burned him alive. She had defended herself with her most potent weapon when he attacked her. It was her life or his.
And yet, Branwen hoped her parents couldn’t see her from the Otherworld—couldn’t see the full brutality of her magic.
Ruan dropped to one knee beside the body. It was unidentifiable. His shoulders grew stiff as he withdrew a sword from beneath the corpse. Flakes of burned flesh clung to the steel. Revulsion passed over his features.
He didn’t look at Branwen. She stood stock-still. Her heart pounded, yet she didn’t tremble. Ruan pushed to the balls of his feet and stalked through the clearing. The air around them grew tauter than a bowstring just before an arrow is released.
Branwen knew what Ruan would find a few strides away. He knelt beside another body. She saw his chest rise and fall.
She felt as if she were stunned, caught in the lethal enchantment of a kretarv’s gaze. She could only watch as Ruan tried to unravel her lies.
Then something winked at Branwen. A flash of gold against the coming night. She staggered toward it, almost sleepwalking. The gold glinted again from a nest of leaves.
She didn’t notice Ruan was behind her until his chest was pressed to her back, and he snatched the golden object from the low-lying branch.
He spun Branwen around violently to face him.
“My father’s knife,” he said. The lion emblazoned on its handle was the royal standard of Iveriu and it looked ferocious indeed. But not half as ferocious as Ruan’s expression. “You told me you didn’t know where it was.” The knife was precious to Ruan and he had gifted it to Branwen. “You lied to me.”
Branwen had told Ruan more lies than she could count. Lies to protect her cousin, lies to protect Tristan, lies to protect Iveriu. And yet she found solace in Ruan’s arms. He knew parts of her nobody else did. He kissed her scars.
“Branwen, what happened here?” The words were rough.
As much as she wanted to punish her cousin for trying to have her killed, Iveriu needed Eseult to remain on the Kernyvak throne. Iveriu’s needs mattered more than her own. When Branwen didn’t reply, Ruan pressed her.
“The dead men were carrying swords forged from Kartagon steel,” he said. “I recognize the blacksmith’s mark. He makes the weapons for the Royal Guard. Tutir and Bledros never reported for their watch yesterday.” Ruan drew in a long breath. “Tell me why there are two dead guardsmen, my father’s knife, and your horse in the same copse, Branwen.”
She wet her lips, crafting a plausible story.
“I was thrown by Senara, like I told you. The knife must have slipped from my boot when I fell.” Branwen spoke slowly, deliberately. “I can’t say why the guardsmen were here. I didn’t see them.”
Conflict brimmed in Ruan’s eyes. He wanted to believe Branwen; she knew he did. He fidgeted the knife handle back and forth.
“Why did you walk back to the castle?” he asked.
“Night was falling and Senara had run off.”
His gaze locked with Branwen’s. “Why were you in the forest alone when we were on the brink of war?”
Because she’d wanted more than anything to make amends. Branwen had resolved to conjure an antidote to the Loving Cup—to release Tristan and Eseult from their false love, from the spell she had cast because she wanted her cousin to know happiness in her marriage to King Marc. The drink of peace that now promised more bloodshed.
But, why had Branwen cared so much for Eseult’s happiness? Why had she risked her life time and again for a woman as selfish as the queen?
No answer came.
She swallowed several more times. It was wrong to use Ruan’s feelings for her against him, but she saw no other option. Yet another thing her cousin had stolen from her. Softly, she said, “Remember when I told you I had a favorite cave in Iveriu where I liked to escape?”
Ruan nodded. “I know it was foolish, but I—sometimes I feel caged on Monwiku,” she continued. “I wanted to feel free. For an hour or two. Can you understand that?”
Ruan’s jaw slackened. “I can. But, Branwen, something grisly happened here. And I think Senara returned to the last place she knew you were.”
Branwen took a large step backward. “Is this when you accuse me of treason again, Prince Ruan?”
He inhaled shortly. She had intended to wound him with the use of his title—his fake title.
“Ruan!”
It was King Marc. Panic streaked across his Champion’s face. He tucked the knife into his waistband.
Branwen prayed the king wasn’t in danger but she couldn’t be mor
e appreciative for the distraction.
“You take Senara,” Ruan barked at her. “We’ll come back for the stallion.” In a blur of motion, Ruan tied the reins of the horse Branwen had been riding to a branch.
“Don’t leave my sight,” he said as Branwen flung a leg over her mare. Senara neighed.
“Treason it is, then,” Branwen concluded.
Ruan growled something that might have been her name or maybe a curse. He slapped Senara into a canter and jumped back into his own saddle. He kept Branwen’s mount in front of his, driving them both hard toward the direction where Marc’s voice had originated.
In a matter of minutes they joined a group of Royal Guardsmen, dressed in the black and white that indicated the king’s service, clustered around a tree.
Could it be Tristan or Eseult?
Marc stood with his guards, sword at his side. Normally the king didn’t bear arms, trusting his retainers to protect him. But Marc no longer knew whom he could trust.
Someone had provoked the war with Armorica—and it wasn’t the king.
“Ruan,” Marc said, glancing toward his Champion. He was a young king, only twenty-seven, but he looked completely haggard. His silver eyes were dull, and he tugged at his beard. He said something to Ruan rapidly in Kernyvak, and then switched to Aquilan for Branwen’s benefit. The Aquilan Empire had ruled the island of Albion, as well as much of the southern continent, until a century ago, and its language was still the common tongue among the nobility of many kingdoms.
“We’ve found an Armorican,” he told her. “We need a translator.”
Branwen released a heavy breath. Did the Armorican know where the True Queen was? Doubtful. But at least the discovery of her cousin’s betrayal had been delayed for another day.
Branwen dismounted and came to stand beside Marc. She heard Ruan grunt but he shouldn’t complain. She hadn’t left his sight. Branwen tilted her head at the king, asking for permission to approach the prisoner. He stepped aside, letting her into the circle.
The prisoner was slim. His knees were tucked into his chest, head bowed, leaning against the trunk of a tree. Eight sword tips were pointed at him.
Branwen’s eyes were drawn to the prisoner’s hands, folded over his knees. The fingers were tapered, his skin golden-brown. Elegant. She slid her gaze upward to the yellow knit cap on the Armorican’s head, then darted it back down to his hands.
Branwen stepped toward the prisoner. “Don’t get too close,” Ruan cautioned from behind her. She snorted.
“Sister,” King Marc said. Branwen’s heart clenched. He genuinely regarded her as such. She crouched in front of the prisoner. Gently, she touched a hand to the Armorican’s scraped knuckles.
The prisoner snapped his head up and Branwen saw that his nose was broken.
She also realized that the prisoner was a woman.
“I’m a healer. Are you in pain?” Branwen said in Ivernic, reaching toward her nose. She repeated the question in Aquilan, and recognition blazed in the woman’s eyes.
The captive had understood Branwen, which meant she was no common sailor. And there was no need for a translator.
The woman flinched as Branwen leaned closer and her cap skewed to one side, a messy braid falling against her shoulder. A few gasps rose up from the Royal Guardsmen.
Hatred shone in the woman’s eyes as she watched Branwen watching her.
Frenzied memories from last night rushed through Branwen. The lithe Armorican who had assaulted King Marc, the woman’s scream when Crown Prince Kahedrin was felled, and Kahedrin’s final words.
Now … you’ll deal …
“Princess Alba?” Branwen said.
The other woman bared her teeth and spat in Branwen’s face.
“Onward, Armorica.”
LAMENTS OF THE SEA
AN EERIE QUIET SETTLED OVER the rescue party as they returned to Monwiku, not with the True Queen or Prince Tristan, but with the Armorican princess.
Branwen watched Alba closely, wiping the spit from her cheek as Ruan bound the princess’s hands and saddled her on his mount, seating her in front of him as the stallion carried them along the coast.
Kernyv comprised the southwestern peninsula of the island of Albion, and they rode directly into the setting sun. As Branwen squinted, she could almost make herself believe that she glimpsed Iveriu’s silhouette across the water.
Alba rankled at Ruan’s touch, chafed against the ropes around her wrists. Branwen didn’t know whether women in Armorica could inherit the throne, but it didn’t matter. She was King Faramon’s last living child. Faramon would want—need Alba back. Branwen’s own mother had killed herself rather than give the late King of Kernyv a highborn hostage, and Lady Alana was the only sister to the Queen of Iveriu.
Branwen stayed close to King Marc throughout the journey, as vigilant as any of the Royal Guard. The wound on his thigh that he’d received from Prince Kahedrin leaked blood as dark as mead. She wanted to examine it as soon as they reached the castle, but Marc bade her attend Princess Alba’s injuries first. He was too noble to speak aloud what they both knew to be true: If Alba died, Kernyv lost significant leverage in any negotiations with Armorica.
Marc was perhaps too noble to be king.
The tide was out when Monwiku Castle came into view. Both the last rays of sunset and the first pale moonglow shimmered on the sand as the horses traversed the causeway. The rescue party left iridescent hoofprints behind them.
Kernyvak legend recounted how the small island had been carved by rampaging giants, and perhaps it had. When Branwen arrived in Kernyv a few months ago, she’d been awestruck at the castle rising from the summit of a hill upon an island, its five rounded towers scraping the sky. In the gloaming, the first precocious leaves now quivered on the trees that sprouted from its bedrock, heralding spring.
Monwiku seemed strangely like home to Branwen, even with the smoke billowing from King Marc’s savaged gardens.
Round stone dwellings were sprinkled along the shoreline, half of their thatched roofs charred. Anger scalded Branwen anew. Monwiku boasted its own brewery, granary, barracks, stables, and the hundreds of servants required to manage them—hundreds of innocents attacked while asleep in their beds. How many of the castle servants had perished in the assault?
Branwen guided Senara past the docks, up a cobblestone path that zigzagged the hill toward the castle. They passed beneath a foreboding granite archway guarded by two marble sea-wolves, jowls opened wide, baying at the tide. Chest tightening, Branwen blinked away the image of the assassin’s tortured corpse. The rescue party reached the stables, halfway up the hill, and only one stable hand was there to greet them.
She dearly hoped he wasn’t the only one left.
Princess Alba was to be confined, under armed guard, in the apartment in the West Tower just above Branwen’s own. The five towers of the castle where the royal family resided ringed the inner bailey, almost like a rose. Branwen retreated to her room first to collect her healing supplies. The bed was unmade, several garments tossed on the floor. She remembered Ruan beneath the sheets and shook her head, dismissing the thought.
Four Royal Guardsmen were posted outside the apartment that until recently had been occupied by Dowager Queen Verica, Marc’s mother and Tristan’s grandmother. Branwen ardently wished the old queen were here to offer sage counsel. Before she died, she’d asked Branwen to watch over her son and grandson, but last night Tristan had told Branwen she was nothing to him. And he was nothing to her but an obstacle to peace.
“Nosmatis,” said the guardsman closest to the door, and Branwen wished him a good evening in return. Her boots resounded against the polished stone.
Alba stood by the window, gazing down at the circular courtyard, cracking her knuckles. She was tall for a woman and she held herself with poise.
Wind chimes rang out from below. At a lower pitch, Branwen detected the surf crashing against the base of the island. The Kernyveu believed that the laments of the s
ea must be answered lest the lonely sea deluge the land. The Veneti Isles had once formed part of the Kernyvak peninsula, Marc had told her. Now they were a refuge for pirates.
Alba pivoted to face Branwen as the door clicked shut. Branwen didn’t expect a warm welcome, and she didn’t receive one.
“What do you want?” the princess demanded in Aquilan. She spoke brusquely, yet there was a melodic cadence to her voice. It rose toward the high ceiling.
“I am the Royal Healer,” Branwen said. “My name is Branwen. I’m here to treat your wounds.”
Alba canted her head, gaze shrewd. “You’re not from Kernyv.”
Branwen walked toward her slowly. She could almost hear the plink-plink of Queen Verica’s dice. The elderly queen had loved games of chance, and Branwen was playing one right now.
“No, Lady Princess. I’m from Iveriu.”
“Lady Princess?” Alba snorted. Candlelight accentuated her wry expression. “I prefer Captain.”
Branwen stopped when there were a few handsbreadths between them. She gestured at an armchair beside the hearth.
“Won’t you be seated so I can examine you?” she said matter-of-factly. Branwen surmised that this princess wasn’t partial to flattery, and she was in no mood to do any flattering. Alba folded one arm over the other.
“The sooner the nose is set after it’s broken, the better it will heal,” Branwen said.
“I’m not vain. My brother Havelin had a crooked nose, and it suited him.”
She believed Alba cared little for her looks, although not even the swelling around her nose could disguise the beautiful lines of her face. She was also younger than she’d appeared in the forest. Branwen recalled that King Faramon’s daughter had seen one summer less than Eseult. Tomorrow was Eseult’s birthday, she remembered with a start. Her cousin would be eighteen.
Alba set her teeth at Branwen’s scrutiny.
“There are other complications from a broken nose,” she informed the princess.
“Such as?”
“Would you like to be able to breathe properly or not? I’ve had a long day.” Her tone was tart and it required substantial willpower not to teeter on her feet.
Bright Raven Skies Page 2
