Bright Raven Skies

by Kristina Perez

  Alba made a noise in the back of her throat, then showed herself to the armchair. Branwen was aware of the other woman’s gaze following her movements as she filled a shallow basin with water from a pitcher on the court cupboard and laid it on a small table near the hearth. She dipped a linen cloth into the water and raised it toward Alba’s face.

  She jerked back. “What are you doing?”

  “I need to clean the wounds. If I were going to kill you, I’d have done it in the forest.”

  “You’re not going to kill me.” Enmity glittered in her sable brown eyes. The princess knew her own value.

  “Glad we’re in agreement,” Branwen said, and began wiping the grime and soot from Alba’s forehead. The princess closed her eyes. Branwen noticed faint tracks through the dirt on her cheeks, tracks left by tears.

  Alba hissed when Branwen dabbed around the fracture. “I saw your brother Havelin last year,” she said to distract her. “At Castle Rigani, during the Champions Tournament.”

  The princess curled her lip. “I’m glad he didn’t win. The Iverni are too eager to lie down with sea-wolves.”

  Branwen forced her hand not to slap the other woman. For years she’d also thought of the Kernyveu as the wolves of the sea, the sea-wolf being the royal insignia, but King Marc had sacrificed much for a chance at peace. The part of Branwen’s heart that was not yet shadow-stung told her that Alba was only a girl of sixteen or seventeen who had just lost her brother, and she was a hostage in a hostile land. But that part of her heart was diminishing.

  “I’m sorry for the loss of your brothers.” Branwen’s tone was formal, distant. “My own parents were killed in a raid.” She didn’t mention that, as a boy, Marc had taken part in that raid.

  “Then what would your parents think of you now?” Alba sneered. “At the beck and call of a pirate?”

  Rage spiked inside Branwen, her heartbeat deafening. She would make an excellent Shade, said a teasing voice. Branwen struggled to catch her breath. Marc needed the Princess of Armorica alive.

  Blood dripped from Alba’s nostril. She wiped it away, muttering what Branwen presumed was an Armorican curse.

  “May I?” she asked. The princess nodded. Dusky smudges were forming beneath both of Alba’s eyes. Branwen pinched the bridge of her nose, testing the bone. She heard a crackling sound. “Is your vision at all blurry?” Branwen said, sensing that her own fatigue would soon hamper her eyesight.

  “No.”

  She clucked her tongue at Alba’s half-spat response. “Take a deep breath through your nose.” Alba did as she was bade. “Now, exhale.” The princess’s breath was harsh. “Any difficulties?” Branwen asked.

  “No.”

  Branwen turned to the leather satchel containing her supplies, rummaging around until her hand grasped a jar of lichen and garlic paste. Andred, her apprentice, and Ruan’s younger brother, was very skilled at making salves.

  “This is to prevent infection,” she explained to Alba who eyed the ceramic pot askance. She rubbed it into the cuts on Alba’s nose and cheek. “Any other sword wounds?” Branwen said mildly. Alba shook her head.

  “Only a few pulled muscles.”

  “Fine. After I leave, wash yourself thoroughly and I’ll have clean clothes sent.” Branwen scanned the twigs in Alba’s haphazard plaits. “And a comb.”

  “I don’t like dresses.” Alba’s chest lifted, imperious. For a moment, she reminded Branwen of her cousin. She noted Alba’s calfskin trousers and filthy yellow tunic—deep Armorican yellow. “No use for dresses on a ship,” Alba said. “They only slow you down when you need to make a quick escape.” Defiance lit her eyes and her mouth hinted at a smirk.

  Branwen heard the threat, but she didn’t take the bait. “I’ll let the laundress know.” She retrieved a glass vial from her satchel and held it out to the princess. “A few drops in water will relieve any discomfort from your injury. Sleep upright, propped against the pillows. If you develop a fever or begin to bleed profusely from your nose, tell the guards to send for me.”

  Alba narrowed her eyes. “You’re quite comfortable giving commands to royalty.”

  “I am the Royal Healer.”

  The princess released a reluctant laugh that became a grimace. “Keep the vial. I won’t lose my wits around my enemies.”

  “As you like.” Branwen dropped the vial back into her bag. “You’re lucky, the bone isn’t fractured too badly. It should heal of its own accord.”

  “If I were lucky, Kahedrin would be alive and you’d be mourning your king.”

  “Rest well, Lady Princess.” Branwen enunciated each syllable crisply as she slung the satchel over her shoulder and proceeded toward the door.

  “How did you know?” Alba called from the other end of the room. “How did you know who I was?”

  Branwen turned. “Kahedrin told me his sister Alba preferred sailing to parties. And that you had the attitude of a giantess.”

  Her lower lip trembled once, a sheen to her eyes.

  “He didn’t deserve to die,” she said. Guilt flooded Branwen. She had been the one to heft the ax. But then she imagined blood trickling from Marc’s mouth.

  “Neither did my king.”

  Branwen exited. The sound of the porcelain pitcher smashing against the stone floor echoed down the corridor.

  * * *

  Branwen’s gaze strayed to the Queen’s Tower as she crossed the inner bailey. Torchlight illuminated the granite and malice surged in her chest.

  Where were Tristan and Eseult tonight?

  The only occupant of the tower at present was Endelyn, Ruan’s younger sister and the queen’s lady’s maid. Branwen’s knowledge of how Prince Edern had terrorized his household made her sympathetic to Endelyn, especially since she knew that Endelyn was also the daughter of the Ivernic prisoner.

  Andred was the sole natural son of Prince Edern, his hair dark and curly, whereas Endelyn and Ruan were fair like their mother Countess Kensa. Branwen circled her injured wrist. She’d ask Andred to help her wrap it later.

  Andred and Endelyn had spent all day tending to the wounded in the barracks and servants’ quarters. Branwen could barely conceal her surprise that the snobbish princess—who wasn’t truly a princess at all—was willing to get her hands dirty. Perhaps Branwen should be more charitable. She knew how hard it was to live a lie.

  The smell of smoke lingered in the air. Smoke and death.

  Fire and sea and fighting men. Branwen’s childhood nightmares were made manifest last night.

  She exchanged a nosmatis with the guard at the entrance to the King’s Tower. There was a haunted look in his eyes. How many of his friends had died in the attack? How would he explain the appearance of the Shades to himself?

  Branwen followed the twisty staircase to the second landing. Her thighs ached, her legs growing weak beneath her, as she fought her dizziness. She heard the rumble of Marc’s and Ruan’s voices from behind the door to the king’s study.

  She knocked once as she entered. “Branwen, please, join us,” said Marc.

  He offered her a worn smile. By the light of the Aquilan oil lamps, the few red bristles in his beard were more pronounced against the brown. He sat at the head of the large, oblong table used for council meetings.

  Branwen’s gaze swept around the room, skimming the fidkwelsa board in the far corner. She and Marc had yet to play her favorite game of strategy.

  Ruan was seated to his right, and he greeted Branwen with considerably more apprehension. “Lady Branwen,” he said.

  “Prince Ruan.”

  Marc’s eyebrows lifted. Branwen pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table from Ruan and rested her leather satchel atop it like a barricade. Ignoring the tension, the king angled his shoulders toward her.

  “How is Princess Alba?” he asked.

  “Furious.” Ruan made a scoffing noise. “But her nose will heal,” Branwen said, directing her answer at Marc. “Her other wounds are superficial. She’ll make a
full recovery.”

  “Good. That’s very good. Mormerkti.”

  Marc touched the antler shard that Branwen knew lay beneath his tunic. The king was a follower of the Horned One: Carnonos was a man from the Aquilan Empire who had given his life to save his father, was impaled on the antlers of a great stag, and reborn as a god. His followers wore the antler to honor his sacrifice.

  But neither the Horned One nor the Old Ones had intervened to save the king last night.

  Only the Dark One.

  “I am sending a messenger to King Faramon with news that his daughter is our guest at Monwiku,” Marc said. “I trust that if he has knowledge of my wife’s whereabouts he’ll divulge it.” Steel tipped his diplomatic words.

  As part of the Seal of Alliance with Iveriu, Marc had agreed to make Eseult not merely his Queen Consort but a True Queen: a full sovereign in her own right. She would continue to rule in the event of his death. The possibility that she had fallen into enemy hands was intolerable.

  Branwen and Ruan shared an involuntary glance. The suspicion in his eyes sent her heart reeling, her mind scrambling. Neither of them believed that King Faramon had the slightest inkling where the True Queen was to be found. But, for Iveriu, Branwen needed to maintain the fiction.

  Desperation parted her lips. “We could interrogate Alba,” she suggested to Marc, hating herself a little bit more.

  Ruan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s a woman, and a princess.” His tone was indignant. Ruan had confided in Branwen that he’d killed his own father when he’d changed the target of his beatings from Ruan to Endelyn. He would never lift a hand against a woman.

  “She’s an enemy warrior,” Branwen countered, shocked by her own vehemence. “And a skilled one.”

  True, very true, teased a scornful voice in her mind. She rubbed her brow, nearly scratching herself. When you stop lying to yourself, it’s my voice you hear, the Dark One had told her.

  Marc leaned over the table, placing a hand on Branwen’s shoulder. “I know how much you want your cousin back,” he said gently. He looked worried—for her. “I do, too. But we must treat Alba as her rank demands and trust that Faramon will do the same for Eseult.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “Certainly.” Branwen flattened her right hand against the table, quelling her lethal impulses.

  The king returned his attention to Ruan. “What news of Captain Morgawr?”

  Morgawr had captained the Dragon Rising that brought Branwen and Eseult from Iveriu. They had fought the Shades together.

  “I sent my fastest rider to Captain Bryok at Illogan. When Morgawr reaches him, he has orders to return his convoy to Monwiku,” Ruan reported. The morning before the attack, Morgawr had sailed a contingent of the Royal Fleet southward to form a defensive ring around the peninsula, to guard it from an Armorican offensive. The shallow waters around Monwiku had always protected it from an assault by sea. No one had anticipated a stealth attack from fishing boats.

  The king nodded at Ruan. “A message was also sent to my mother and the other barons to come to the castle as soon as they are able—and to bring soldiers to supplement the Royal Guard.” Another nod.

  “And Xan—Captain Xandru?” There was an almost undetectable catch in Marc’s voice. He darted a sideways glance at Branwen. Xandru Manduca came from a prominent mercantile family in the Melita Isles. But he wasn’t merely a merchant. He was a spy, and the king’s former lover.

  Ruan shook his head. “The scouts couldn’t sight his ship from land. He must have caught a good wind.”

  Marc ground his teeth. Xandru was a distant cousin to Queen Yedra of Armorica and he’d volunteered to act as Kernyv’s ambassador. He’d also set out from Monwiku immediately after Queen Verica’s funeral. His attempts to persuade King Faramon that Marc hadn’t authorized the pirate attack that killed his eldest son, Havelin, would come too late, however.

  “I pray he won’t become another hostage when he lands in Karaez.” The king touched the antler shard again.

  “He’s a Manduca,” Branwen said. “And he’s very capable of taking care of himself.” Xandru was both charming and skilled with a blade. She’d already found herself on the wrong end of it.

  Marc inhaled, attempting another smile, but there was no crinkling at the corners of his eyes. The stained glass rattled in its casing as a gale blew off the sea.

  Sliding her gaze to Ruan, Branwen said, “Have you sent riders to Liones? When I last saw Tristan he told me he’d be heading there in the morning. Perhaps he left early?”

  Liones was a protectorate of Kernyv, located on the peninsula’s southern tip. Queen Verica had gifted the land to Tristan’s mother. Tristan could be its king if he hadn’t pledged fealty to Marc. Save for the Loving Cup, Tristan had always been loyal to his uncle, but his status posed the threat of civil war.

  “I have sent a messenger to Castle Wragh, yes. If that’s indeed where he went.” Doubt dripped from Ruan’s response. “My Lord King,” he began, choosing his words carefully, and Branwen felt a snake coil around her heart. Marc lifted his chin.

  “My Lord King, Tristan’s horse is missing from the stables. As is the True Queen’s.”

  Branwen skewered him with a look. “And what of it?”

  “It would suggest that the True Queen was not taken from the castle against her will.”

  Branwen felt as if she were being tossed overboard into a sea of nightmares.

  “Are any other horses missing?” King Marc asked, detached.

  “No, sire.”

  Marc tugged at his beard. “There are many reasons why that might be, Ruan,” Branwen said. Her agitation bled through her voice.

  “There are,” Ruan agreed. “But I discovered something else in the Morrois Forest.”

  “Go on,” said the king.

  “Tutir and Bledros. They didn’t report for watch before the attack. I found their bodies in the wood. They’d been burned—to disguise their identities, almost as if it was premeditated. But I recognized their weapons.”

  King Marc’s shoulders grew taut, the muscle in his jaw flickered.

  “What do you suspect, Ruan?” he said in a level tone.

  “My Lord King, the evidence indicates that neither Tristan nor Eseult were present at the time of the attack. Why would they leave the castle in the middle of the night? It suggests foreknowledge.” Ruan cleared his throat. “We have to at least entertain the possibility that Tristan delivered Queen Eseult to the Armoricans. Or that he wanted to keep her safe because he’s planning on claiming the throne and making her his bride.”

  Marc’s fist hammered the table. The wood reverberated like a thunderclap.

  “I will entertain no such thing!” The king rarely lost his temper, and Branwen held her breath. “Tristan is my blood. My brother in the truest sense. I know you see each other as rivals, but to accuse him of treason? I didn’t think your jealousy ran so deep.”

  Ruan blanched; his nostrils flared. “Tristan is your brother, but I am your Champion. I defend your crown first. My duty is to keep you on the throne.” He leaned forward, pleading, avoiding Branwen’s glare. “If Tristan isn’t working with the Armoricans, then why else would he and the queen disappear together?”

  Branwen held on to the table as phantom waves buffeted her.

  “Unless it was because they’d arranged a tryst,” charged the King’s Champion.

  “That’s enough, Ruan.” Marc pounded the table again. “I won’t sit here and listen to you slander my queen.”

  “I’m not the only one at the castle who’s noticed how much time Tristan and Eseult have been spending together since her accident. How many serenades he gives her. How many harp lessons.”

  “Leave me,” Marc snarled. “I refuse to discuss this further. You’re dismissed.”

  Exasperation gripping Ruan’s face, the chair skidded against the stone as he pushed to his feet. He bowed from the waist.

  “Nosmatis, my Lord King.”

  Marc didn�
�t reply. Ruan shot Branwen a pained glance. She too remained silent. When Ruan strode from the room, back as straight as he could manage, King Marc hung his head in his hands.

  Branwen said nothing. She listened to the king’s steadying breaths and the laments of the sea. His hands still blinkered his eyes and his head remained bowed as he said, “Ruan won’t be the only one to harbor such suspicions. Many nobles seek to discredit Tristan after the alliance with Iveriu, but they won’t be honest enough to tell me to my face.”

  Unfortunately, Marc spoke the truth. Several of the barons looked down on Tristan because his father had been a commoner and his ancestors had come to Kernyv from Kartago with the Aquilan legions. They also bore a grudge against King Marc and the High King of Iveriu for agreeing to free the prisoners of war from both kingdoms. The Kernyvak nobility had grown used to free labor for their fields and mines.

  Marc gave his head a shake. “Besides you and Ruan, I don’t know who I can trust.” He lifted his gaze at last to meet Branwen’s.

  “I’m sorry, brother.”

  Marc trusted her implicitly, and yet she had used magic on him, on Tristan and Eseult. Her throat grew scratchy. Branwen didn’t deserve Marc’s trust, or his love, but she took it greedily.

  “May I inspect your wound?” she said, trying to rein in her emotions. “I noticed you beginning to limp.”

  Marc released a soft laugh. “I can’t hide anything from you.”

  “It’s my healer’s eye.”

  The king pushed his chair back from the table. Branwen stood and pressed her fingers around the wound. The tan material of his left trouser was stained nearly black. Kahedrin’s sword had pierced Marc just above the knee.

  “I need to remove the pant leg,” she said. Marc nodded. Branwen retrieved a scalpel and cut away the fabric. The gash was the length of her forefinger.

  “It’s barely a scratch,” Marc said.

  “If you don’t want to lose the use of your leg, you’ll follow my instructions.” He laughed again at the severity of Branwen’s tone. “This scratch needs stitches.”