“You keep me honest, sister.”
With a gulp, Branwen filched a decanter of Mílesian spirits from a sideboard at the far end of the room. She splashed some on Marc’s thigh to cleanse the wound.
“Either I’ll have to ask the King of Míl to send me another bottle of his finest spirits or I’ll have to stop being shot with arrows and stuck by swords.”
The king was attempting a joke but it was no laughing matter. Shortly after the royal wedding, an Armorican assassin had attacked King Marc in the forest. Branwen had never been convinced that he’d been sent by King Faramon, but nobody would share her doubts after the siege of Monwiku. The assassin had been poisoned in the castle dungeons before he could reveal who’d hired him.
“Branwen,” Marc said more seriously, as she returned to his side. “The magic you used last night. Are you … do you need anything? To recover?”
“I’m tired, but we all are.” In truth, Branwen didn’t know if she’d ever recover.
“I’m in your debt. Again. As is my kingdom.” He paused. “I’d like to know more about your magic.” His silver eyes were kind, yet Branwen’s stomach pinched. “When you’re ready,” Marc added.
She nodded, although she didn’t understand her magic herself.
Branwen poured a few drops from the vial Alba had rejected into a goblet of wine for the king.
“We call this Clíodhna’s dust in Iveriu,” she said. “She’s an Otherworld queen whose song heals the sick. Andred found it for me in the forest. It will ease your pain as I sew you up.”
The Kernyveu added a spice to their wine that never failed to tickle her nose. She sneezed as she handed Marc the goblet.
“Mormerkti.” He took a long sip. “Would you consider asking Andred to be your apprentice full time? I fear that being the king’s cupbearer is putting him in too much danger. I know he thinks he’s a man, but he’s only fourteen.”
Branwen heated the tip of a needle with the flame of the oil lamp.
“I think he would be devastated,” she said. “And I don’t know who else you could trust so completely?” She shook her head to clear the fog of exhaustion.
Marc pursed his lips. The king’s cupbearer was his only defense against poisons.
“You may be right.” He hissed as Branwen slid the needle through the flesh. Despite her weariness, she worked quickly and deftly. “Someone paid the pirates to make the attack on Karaez look like I’d sanctioned it. But who stands the most to gain?” Marc mused.
“Some would say Tristan,” Branwen said quietly.
The king glanced up. “Do you believe him capable?”
She pulled a stitch through and his flesh whimpered. “I don’t, Marc. I don’t think he’d betray you.” On purpose, Branwen added in her mind.
“Mormerkti. I value your opinion. If Tristan has spent more time with Eseult since the miscarriage than I have, then that is entirely my fault.”
The king didn’t know that the child his wife had lost wasn’t his, and Branwen could never tell him. She loved him as a brother, had forgiven him for his part in her parents’ deaths, and yet she couldn’t test their bond that far.
“I pray they’re together tonight,” he said. “Tristan would defend his queen to the death.” Marc swallowed. “I also pray it hasn’t come to that.”
His eyelids fluttered from the Clíodhna’s dust. “When you stepped off the ship from Iveriu, I thought that you and Tristan might be well suited,” said the king, and Branwen felt as if the needle in her hand were piercing her own heart. “But I can see why you and Ruan found each other. You both like to be right.”
“Courtship is hardly the most pressing subject at hand.”
Marc laughed, a tad more dreamily. “Fair enough. I’ll apologize to Ruan for shouting at him. He’s only trying to protect me.”
“A king doesn’t need to apologize.”
“No, but he should. When he’s in the wrong.” Marc sighed. “Your cousin told me something her father said—that a king’s subjects keep him in power. King Óengus is a wise man.”
Branwen nearly missed a stitch. It was Lord Caedmon, Branwen’s father, who had said that, and it had been Branwen who relayed his counsel to Marc when she came to his marriage bed disguised as her cousin.
To prevent the kordweyd from discovering Eseult was no longer a maiden—that she’d lain with Tristan on the voyage from Iveriu—Branwen had taken her cousin’s place on the wedding night. To keep the peace, Branwen had resolved to give the king her virginity instead. And yet, lying next to Marc who was good and kind, she couldn’t betray him so grievously.
Branwen had tricked him, Tristan, Eseult, the kordweyd—everyone—into believing the deed had taken place. She offered her blood to the Old Ones, bartering. Praying they would be appeased, satisfied. That her gods wouldn’t let war come to Iveriu because Branwen had been foolhardy enough to conjure the Loving Cup.
The weight of her many deceptions pressed more heavily than a mountain on Branwen’s chest.
“Tomorrow is Eseult’s birthday,” she said.
Marc scrubbed a hand over his face. “I won’t rest until she’s found. Until they’re both found.” He took Branwen’s hand, his movements less precise than normal. “When Eseult is back at Monwiku, I’ll fill her bedroom with every honeysuckle in Kernyv.”
“Why honeysuckle?” Branwen said. She finished suturing the wound and smeared some of Andred’s salve over the stitches.
“You said it was your cousin’s favorite flower.”
“Ah, of course. I must be more tired than I realized.”
“We both should rest.” Marc kissed Branwen on the cheek. “Sleep well, sister.”
“Nosmatis.”
Branwen collected her things and tidied them into her satchel, but she had no recollection of Eseult’s favorite flower or why her cousin might have chosen it.
WHITE RAVEN
A BROODING PRESENCE FILLED THE HALLWAY.
Ruan leaned against a tapestry that depicted the burning of Isca. When the Aquilan Empire had retreated from the island of Albion, Meonwara—Kernyv’s neighboring kingdom to the east—staged an invasion. The king known as Great King Katwaladrus repelled the Meonwarans from Kernyv’s borders, and then followed them home, setting their capital city of Isca alight.
Queen Verica had come from Meonwara. Branwen wondered what she’d thought every time she’d spied the destruction of her homeland preserved in silken thread. Wrath? Humiliation? Queens were taught to endure their resentments quietly. Branwen had been taught to endure. Her heart no longer wanted to be quiet.
“Are you spying on me, Prince Ruan?” she demanded.
He pushed away from the wall. “I was waiting for you, Lady Branwen. We need to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about. You’ve made your suspicions plain to the king.”
Ruan reached for Branwen. “What we haven’t talked about could fill the Dreaming Sea.” He took her right hand in his, and she winced. He gentled his grip and stroked her swollen wrist with his other hand.
“Ruan, I’m ready to collapse,” she said, letting her weariness bleed into her voice. “Can your accusations wait until the morning?”
He clenched his jaw. “You’re infuriating, Branwen,” he said, and she wished the mellow candlelight didn’t make his features so appealing. His shoulders heaved as he let out a breath, but he didn’t let go of her hand.
“I’m the King’s Champion,” Ruan said low. “It’s my duty to see the threats to his crown that Marc doesn’t see. Either because he can’t see them, or because he refuses to see them.”
He was right. Of course Ruan was right. Branwen’s stomach tightened. “I’ve never questioned your loyalty to the king,” she said. “But mine is to the True Queen. To Iveriu above all.” Branwen should be out looking for her cousin right now, in fact, but she didn’t know where to start or how much longer she could remain upright.
“Our loyalties are only in conflict if those we serve are in
conflict,” he said steadily, holding her gaze until it was nearly too much. Branwen didn’t dare look away.
Dim light undulated between them. Her hand grew clammy in his.
“Last night,” Ruan began. “I saw Tristan running from the Queen’s Tower. Moments later, I found you crying. Why were you fighting?”
Why were they fighting? Because after suffering alone with the burden of the Loving Cup for so long, Branwen had finally decided that the lovers should suffer with her.
Branwen snorted at Ruan, choking on a bitter laugh. “Do you think that I uncovered Tristan’s plot with Armoricans but failed to alert anyone?”
“No.” He stood close enough that his breath tickled the tiny hairs above her top lip. “But I think you are protecting someone.”
When had he learned to read her so well? Branwen had been foolish to let the King’s Champion past her barriers.
She offered Ruan a scrap of truth. “Tristan was angry with me. He shouted at me. That’s why I was crying.”
But Branwen had enjoyed his anger—her own anger. She had delighted in telling her cousin that Tristan’s love was the result of Branwen’s magic. Nothing more; nothing less. The Queen of Iveriu was insistent that no one could ever know of the existence of the Loving Cup. Especially not the lovers who imbibed it.
Branwen had been eager for Eseult to find happiness, but more than Eseult’s happiness, the Queen of Iveriu had wanted to ensure King Marc made her daughter a True Queen. Her aunt believed love would be stronger than any treaty.
This was the first promise to her aunt that Branwen had ever broken. It no longer seemed to matter. The Loving Cup had gone horribly wrong and Branwen wanted the lovers to know that their pain, their passion was nothing but an illusion.
Ruan studied Branwen hard, waiting for her to continue. Tears of loathing stung her eyes. She could tell him none of those things.
“Why was Tristan angry with you?” he prompted.
“Because of Queen Verica.” Another scrap. “Because I knew she was dying, but I didn’t tell him.” Ruan shifted his weight, interlaced the fingers of their right hands. “Tristan blames me for his goodbye being so brief.”
Ruan’s voice was soft as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell him?”
“Queen Verica didn’t want anyone to know. I’m a healer, and a healer must keep her patients’ confidences.” It had been the first rule of healing that her aunt had instilled in Branwen. “If they don’t trust me, I can’t help them.”
“I know how much you care for your patients. You treat them equally regardless of their station. It’s one of the things I admire most about you.” An almost wistful expression came over Ruan. “But, Branwen—” He took a breath, inhaling her name. “I still think there’s something you’re hiding from me. Someone you’re trying to shield. What really happened yesterday in the Morrois Forest?”
She stiffened. “If you think I’m one of the threats to Marc that he can’t see, why didn’t you tell him about Senara? Or the knife?”
Ruan shook his head. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said. “Because you’re my karid, Branwen.”
She took a small step backward. Karid. It was a Kernyvak word. King Marc had described Xandru that way. Beloved. Branwen and Ruan had shared their bodies, but not their feelings.
“Ruan.” She swallowed.
“You don’t have to say it back.” He lifted her injured hand to his lips. “I know you don’t think you can fall in love.”
Branwen’s knuckles were scraped, scabbed. He kissed them. “Is there a similar word in Ivernic?” Ruan asked in a hush. “My father never taught me.”
Branwen swallowed again. His true father had died badly when Prince Edern discovered the countess’s affair, but he’d given Ruan his language and he’d given him his knife.
“Kridyom,” she rasped. “Heart-companion.”
Ruan placed his left hand flush against Branwen’s heart.
“Kridyom,” he repeated.
She shivered. For a moment, she wanted to do nothing but melt into Ruan. To forget everyone and everything else—every vow she had ever made, every time she’d prayed that one day she’d make Lady Alana and Lord Caedmon proud.
“They attacked me,” Branwen told Ruan. “Tutir and Bledros.”
Alarm rounded his eyes. “Why would the Royal Guard attack you?” He dropped his hand from her chest. “What cause would they have?”
“What do men most often want when they attack women?” A coppery tang filled her mouth as she bit the inside of her cheek. She would not feel guilty for allowing Ruan to draw a false conclusion about men intent on murdering her.
Ruan swung his gaze up and down the corridor. “I’ve known them both for years, Branwen,” he said. “Bledros was first commissioned by House Whel, and I recommended Tutir for the Guard. His wife just had their second child. I was a witness at his daughter’s Anointment at the temple in Marghas.”
Branwen suppressed a pang of grief for Tutir’s children. Fathers could be murderers, too. She stared at Ruan blankly.
“Men don’t always see the same side of other men that women do. I feared for my life.” Her words were hard. “Do you doubt me?”
The grinding of his teeth said that he did. “You killed them?” Even though they were alone, Ruan spoke so that only Branwen could hear.
“I had your knife. It was self-defense.” She crossed her arms. His tormented gaze anchored her to the spot.
“Why wouldn’t you report the attack?” he said.
“Maybe I was terrified. Afraid of an interrogation like this one?” Branwen said, the pitch of her voice rising. “I’m still a foreigner here. And let’s not forget that your mother and Seer Casek accused me of murdering the Armorican assassin not so long ago!” Countess Kensa had deemed Branwen a threat from the moment she’d laid eyes on her, although Branwen couldn’t ascertain why. Seer Casek was the chief kordweyd—seer of the Horned One—and he disdained Branwen for her Ivernic gods.
Yet none of those were the reasons she’d hidden her crime. Although they were good ones. Branwen hugged herself against the changing winds.
Ruan worried his lower lip. “I can understand your fears,” he said. “But Tutir and Bledros weren’t stabbed, Branwen. They were burned. If they attacked you randomly, how were you able to burn their bodies? Why would you?” Each question became more urgent, more labored, as if Ruan didn’t want to ask it, but felt compelled by duty.
“It doesn’t make sense, and believe me I want it to make sense,” he told her, but the man who called Branwen his beloved might pose a greater danger to Iveriu than the Loving Cup ever had.
“Why don’t you tell me what you think happened?” Her words were vengeful darts.
“I think someone lured Tutir and Bledros to the forest, and that someone was lying in wait. That the murders were premeditated.”
“What reason could I have for wanting the guardsmen dead?”
“I don’t think you had motive, Branwen. Tutir was on duty when the Armorican assassin was found dead in the dungeon. Perhaps he was involved, and someone was covering their tracks.”
“Someone like Tristan, you mean.”
“Kridyom,” Ruan said. The word crashed over Branwen. “The only person you would lie to my face to protect is your cousin. Tell me what happened, and I promise to stand by you.”
Panic lanced her. He was close, so close, too close to the truth—to ruining the peace. She only had one choice.
Ruan took a step forward. “Stop,” Branwen said. “You can stop your wild conjecture. I need to show you something—in your room.” She would give him a truth. Just not the one he was expecting.
“Branwen, I don’t think we should let ourselves get distracted…” He trailed off.
“I’m not trying to distract you.” She laughed haughtily. “But I need total privacy.”
Ruan nodded, his neck glowing faintly red. Branwen followed him to the floor below, where the King’s Champion resided. The layout of each
tower was identical and Tristan’s empty apartment occupied the same location in the Queen’s Tower.
Ruan allowed Branwen to enter first. The oil lamps on the walls were already lit. The lamps were fueled by nuts foraged from the wood, and a heady aroma suffused the chamber. Ruan was habitually untidy. Tunics and britches were strewn over the backs of chairs, and a plate of half-eaten pickles lay next to a pile of maps. The servants had graver concerns today than cleaning up after the prince.
“Lock the door,” Branwen said. Ruan huffed a small breath. The latch clicked. He turned around to face her.
She pressed the Hand of Bríga to her middle. When the alarm was sounded last night, King Marc had sent Ruan to secure the True Queen. Ruan had seen the Shades prowling through the castle, but he hadn’t seen Branwen fight.
“Ruan, I lied to you about the mark on my hand. But not about killing the guardsmen. I know that you follow the Horned One and that you think little of gifted women,” she said. His lips parted at her statement but the intensity of her stare made him close them again. The kordweyd were exclusively men, and women were barred from the Mysteries of the New Religion.
“In Iveriu, we follow the Old Ways. Our gods, and the Otherworld-dwellers we call Old Ones wield tremendous power.”
Branwen lifted her right hand, palm upward.
“They gave me magic,” she said. The Hand of Bríga was composed of three aspects: the Fire of the Hearth, the Fire of Inspiration, and the Fire of the Forge. No woman had wielded it since the legendary Queen Medhua.
A wisp of midnight danced above Branwen’s palm. Liquid, beautiful, dangerous. A dark flame with a golden silhouette.
Before her deal with Dhusnos, the flame had been blue.
Ruan looked at Branwen, stunned. He didn’t make a sound.
“I summoned the creatures you saw. Shades, we call them. We were losing and we needed more … warriors to protect the castle.” The flame seemed to grow animated at her words. “I ended Tutir and Bledros when they attacked me. It wasn’t premeditated. Me. Not Tristan. Not the True Queen. I burned those men alive.”
Ruan took a shallow breath. For once, the rakish King’s Champion was speechless.
Bright Raven Skies Page 4
