Branwen closed her fist to squelch the flame. When she’d arrived in Kernyv, she’d known she would have to become someone new. Slayer. She never would have imagined who that would be. Killer.
Or maybe it was who she’d been all along.
She unlocked the door and left her lover where he stood.
* * *
Branwen woke at daybreak from a fitful sleep. King Marc often paced the castle gardens when sleep eluded him, but the gardens were watered with blood. The Kernyveu would be returned to their families for burial; the Armoricans would be burned in accordance with their traditions.
Rustling could be heard from Alba’s suite on the floor above hers, and from the inner bailey below. No one at the castle had slept well.
Branwen stretched her arms above her head, the muscles of her back and shoulders sore, complaining. She had scarcely treated her own cuts and bruises last night before stripping down to her shift and collapsing into the bed. She cursed the stiffness in her injured wrist. What would Ruan do with the knowledge she’d given him? Exhaustion had only blanketed her mind with calm for a few bittersweet hours.
Sighing, Branwen padded to the window, surveying her quarters. Eseult had exiled Branwen from the Queen’s Tower after Countess Kensa accused her of inducing the queen’s miscarriage. At the time, Branwen had been shocked that her cousin could give any credence to the countess’s malicious words. Her cousin’s mistrust had been a soul-deep wound. Now she marveled at her shock. Eseult had been selfish and prone to tantrums since before she could walk.
Branwen was thankful to have a room to call her own.
The sky was a painful blue this morning, so clear it threatened to unveil her secrets. She poured water from a pitcher into a shallow basin that lay on the table beside the window. The basin was glazed red, most likely imported from the southern continent.
Branwen should hurry. Ruan and Marc would be at the stables preparing for another day of searching. Where would Tristan and Eseult go? Liones was the logical choice—Tristan must have loyal retainers there—but it was also the first place the king would look after he’d scoured every corner of the northern coast.
Her cousin never thought much for consequences. She lived in the moment, and Branwen had once envied her ability to enjoy herself—to truly feel joy without worrying that it was about to slip from her fingertips.
But Tristan should know better. The lovers couldn’t hide forever.
Branwen dipped a linen cloth into the basin and washed her face as she’d done for Alba. Sunlight glimmered on the water. Branwen’s reflection stared back at her as the ripples stilled.
The swath of curls that rested against her left temple was ash-white. No wonder Ruan had been alarmed. Her copper-colored eyes, which she’d inherited from Lord Caedmon, gleamed brighter, almost fiery. The girl in the water did not resemble the girl who’d stepped aboard the Dragon Rising in Iveriu.
She wasn’t a girl at all. Branwen had celebrated twenty summers the day after Long Night. In the three months since, she felt as if she’d survived another twenty. She pulled out the chair beside the table and slid her body into it. The wood creaked.
If Branwen couldn’t find Tristan and Eseult before the King’s Champion did, all of her sacrifices, all of the blood she’d spilled, would be meaningless.
Her gaze was attracted by the sunlight that skipped along the surface of the basin. Yesterday, she’d been spurred on by fear. Delirium had stretched her mind so thin she’d actually forgotten she possessed another way to find the lovers.
The second aspect of the Hand of Bríga was the Fire of Inspiration, and water was a place of in-between, neither earth nor air: a conduit between this world and the Otherworld. The Old Ones had been sending Branwen dreams and visions since she was a child, although she had not yet mastered how to summon the visions, to control them.
Using her magic would drain Branwen further. She saw no other choice.
She inhaled deeply and let her gaze merge with her reflection until the planes of Branwen’s face ceased to be distinct. She was both at Monwiku and outside it.
Where is my cousin? she asked the Old Ones.
The cliffs along the Rock Road surged up from the Ivernic Sea. Branwen could smell the rosemary she always associated with Lady Alana. In the distance, she spied the top of a burnished head. Essy! someone cried.
The queen’s childhood name sounded alien. Wrong. It reminded Branwen of tinkling icicles.
This was the past.
Show me where the True Queen is this very moment, she clarified.
Branwen’s gaze caught on a raven, black as night, soaring upward from the branches of a hazel tree. The raven spotted Branwen as well. It began flying straight toward her. Cunning radiated from its eyes—eyes like rubies.
The creature swooped low, flying in a circle around Branwen. Its caw chilled her blood. A warning? An invitation? The bird was smaller than one of the Dark One’s kretarvs, but it scared Branwen more. It scared Branwen because she felt the sea breeze on her face and the flapping of wings. The exhilaration of flying coursed through her.
As she watched, the black leeched from the raven’s wings like dye. Obsidian raindrops landed at Branwen’s feet. Around and around the bird flew until its feathers were all the color of bone.
One by one, the feathers, too, fell to the ground. A shower of white scattered among the black rain.
The raven continued to fly: a skeleton with fire-bright eyes against a painful blue sky. Then its bones turned to smoke.
The plume swirled around Branwen. She gasped, lungs clamoring for air, as the vision broke. Her heart slammed against her rib cage. Sweat dripped down her cheeks.
She was cast out.
The Old Ones would provide her no answers.
THE TIES THAT BIND
EXCITED YAPPING BOUNCED AROUND THE inner bailey as Branwen exited the West Tower. The queen’s dog scrabbled over the cobblestones, pawing at Endelyn’s skirts. Her sandy-brown hair was lank and her gown rumpled. There was no berry tint to her cheeks or jewels around her neck. The princess was usually immaculately presented.
“Good morning, Endelyn,” Branwen said in Aquilan. The dog barked and scurried toward her. He’d been a puppy when the queen adopted him, but he was growing fast.
“Arthek keeps looking for his mistress,” said Endelyn. “He wouldn’t stop yowling or whimpering all night.” Arthek breathed noisily through his flat nose, his wrinkled face and floppy ears charmingly ugly. He barked again.
Endelyn crouched down and scooped the dog into her arms. She hadn’t been overly fond of the little beast when the queen brought him home from Seer Ogrin’s temple, but this morning she clung to his wriggling body. Ogrin was the only kordweyd that Branwen liked, however begrudgingly.
“Ruan said there’s no sign of Tristan. Or the queen.” The tenderness in Endelyn’s voice when she spoke Tristan’s name was unconcealed. He viewed her as a younger sister, but that wasn’t the role she wanted. Tristan was handsome and brave, and a simpler version of Branwen had wanted him to sing her to sleep, too.
“I’m heading to the stables,” Branwen said. “We’ll find the True Queen and her Champion.” I’ll find them. She had one more idea of how to contact the Otherworld for help.
Endelyn scratched Arthek behind the ears. Her blue eyes were misty, haunted.
“I held Freoc’s hand as he died,” she said. “He worked in the kitchens. I didn’t know his name before yesterday. He must have prepared many of my meals, and I didn’t even know his name.” Endelyn’s voice grew thick. “I didn’t know his name, and he died holding my hand.” She squeezed the dog more tightly.
The princess’s display of emotion left Branwen at a loss. A breeze rustled the ivy that had rooted itself stubbornly into the cracks between the stone tower walls.
“Was it always like this in Iveriu?” Endelyn said.
“Always like what?”
“The fear.” Her lips trembled. “The death.”
“Yes.” The word was clipped.
The tears on Endelyn’s cheeks glittered in the sunlight. Branwen fought the impulse to comfort her. They weren’t friends and Endelyn had provided the countess with evidence for her false allegations against Branwen. The princess sniffled.
“I’m sorry,” Endelyn said. Branwen sucked in her cheeks. “I never thought about what it was like for the … Iverni.” Did she wonder what it was like when her own father was stolen from his home? Endelyn was too young when he was killed to remember him, Ruan had said. Despite their previous history, the princess’s admission stirred something in Branwen.
“You know Freoc’s name now,” she told the princess. “Honor his memory.” Branwen saw herself on the beach below Castle Rigani, her aunt delivering the news that shattered her world. “The fear never leaves you,” she admitted. “But you can go on with honor.”
Endelyn dried her eyes with one hand, still gripping Arthek.
“Mormerkti. I’ll see if Andred could use my help today.” She showed Branwen a meek smile. “I hadn’t thought I’d take orders from my baby brother, but you’ve trained him well.”
“I take very little credit.”
“Bran—” Endelyn stopped at her own informality. “Lady Branwen, my brother—Ruan, I mean, he was … during the attack he couldn’t stop worrying about you.” She compressed her lips. “I know he has a reputation as a flirt—”
“A reputation you informed me about,” Branwen reminded her.
“Yes.” The princess stroked Arthek. “But I wanted to say…” She delayed again, eyes shifting around the courtyard, and Branwen’s patience wore thin.
“I really must get to the king,” Branwen said.
“Of course.” She inhaled. “Lady Branwen, I have given you no cause to like me, but when Ruan loves, he loves deeply. He pretends he’s impervious to everything, but he’s not.”
Branwen couldn’t begin to formulate a response. “Have a good day, Princess Endelyn,” she said, and picked up her pace toward the stables.
Death unmasked everyone in different ways. For Endelyn, her distress betrayed a kindness that Ruan had hinted at, but which Branwen had thus far failed to see. She was right that she’d given Branwen no reason to like her, but she clearly loved her brother and she’d been moved by the pain of her countrymen.
The princess would not be the only of the Kernyveu to taste true fear for the first time. Cornered animals were the most ferocious. Branwen had to prevent them from lashing out at the True Queen. At Iveriu.
Chimes clanged from the branches of trees with spear-shaped leaves and long, spindly trunks. Branwen rushed halfway down the hill of Monwiku, the wind teasing wisps from her firmly plaited hair, arranged to disguise the bleached curls as best she could.
“Dymatis,” King Marc said, manner harried, when Branwen found him in the stables. The wind had blown open her cloak, which she’d fastened closed with her mother’s brooch as she echoed his “good morning.”
The king’s gaze fell to the thistle-like needle of the round, enamel brooch, and his jaw tensed. Lady Alana had been wearing the ornament when she died—when a young Marc had watched her die. Branwen had forgiven him, yet his guilt endured.
On the silver underside of the brooch, engraved in the Ivernic language of trees, was Branwen’s family motto: The right fight. She had once believed that fight to be as black and white as the Kernyvak flag. Her stomach churned.
Marc coughed. “You almost missed us,” he said, checking the bit on his stallion’s bridle. “We’re about to set out.”
Ruan stood a short distance away, leading his mount from its stall. His eyes on Branwen were questioning, searching. Did he think her more or less of a threat to his king now? She slipped her gaze past his and leaned into Marc. He hadn’t shaven.
“Brother,” she began. Ruan’s horse clip-clopped on the hay and stone, and Branwen’s throat swelled. “Brother, I need to go to the White Moor. Alone.” The White Moor was known to belong to the Old Ones, although those who followed the Horned One avoided the place.
“With your permission,” Branwen said. Discreetly, she turned her right palm upward. The blackened scar was camouflaged beneath a hastily wrapped bandage. “I need to pray to my gods for Tristan’s and Eseult’s safe return.”
Marc flicked a glance at Ruan. Ruan canted his head. Neither man was certain if the other knew about Branwen’s magic.
“Yes, of course,” the king agreed after a moment’s hesitation. “Appeal to your gods to bring them home.”
“Mormerkti. I’ll be back by sunset.”
“Be safe.”
“And you,” Branwen said. She lifted her gaze to Ruan. “Both of you.”
As she brushed by Ruan in the direction of Senara’s stall, he whispered in her ear.
Kridyom.
* * *
The palfrey stomped her hoof as she neared the White Moor. Animals were particularly sensitive to the proximity of Old Ones, and Senara didn’t hesitate to make her displeasure known. Old Ones were neither good nor bad—they were something other. The Iverni considered the most powerful of the Old Ones to be gods. Although Branwen had never heard of a human becoming a god or being transformed into an Old One in the manner that the Horned One’s followers believed Carnonos was.
Sunlight failed to fully penetrate the fog, and it was as if Branwen were riding through the clouds. She quaked, recalling the white raven of her vision.
She glimpsed a doe weaving between the trees as the moor gave way to forest. The day was relatively mild and early spring buds blossomed beneath Senara’s hooves. The urgent beat of Branwen’s heart prevented her from enjoying the scenery. She sensed the Otherworld tugging her closer, claiming her.
Branwen dismounted in a copse where all of the branches were adorned with tiny bells, colored pieces of string, and other mementos. The horse neighed. Each length of fabric was a wish, an offering to the spirits of the healing well nearby.
She tied up Senara’s reins with the promise of extra oats when they returned to the castle. Her mount nickered, uneasy. Mist enveloped Branwen as she walked farther into the thicket.
The Kernyveu had been coming to the well since ancient times. Since before the Aquilan Empire had set its sights on the island of Albion. Those who remained faithful to the Old Ways still did. Branwen had come seeking the well’s guardian.
A path of moss-covered stones led her across a small stream. Water splashed Branwen’s boots. She rubbed her thumb against the inside of her right palm, relishing the friction from the bandage. The faint line made by the blade of binding at the royal wedding peeked out from beneath the cotton.
At the Champions Tournament in Iveriu, Goddess Ériu had selected Kernyv as her Consort. The Iverni believed that when the goddess lay with her chosen king, they renewed the Land together, brought prosperity to their subjects. But the marriage of King Marc and Queen Eseult had not been consummated in accordance with the Old Ways.
Through the mists, a hut made from snakestone appeared. Beside it stood the sacred well.
Could one physical act truly mean the difference between peace and war? If it did, how were the Ivernic gods any better than Seer Casek demanding a bloodied Mantle of Maidenhood?
The Old Ones are never satisfied, hissed a voice beneath her skin.
From the corner of Branwen’s eye, she spied the doe again, drinking from the bubbling waters. The tip of its right ear was missing and its coat was reddish umber, flecked with bright white spots. Unusual. The hairs on her arms stood on end.
The door to the cottage was wrenched open. “Branwen,” the Wise Damsel greeted her, expression wary. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, deep garnet streaked with gray. Crow’s-feet had gathered around her eyes, but not from smiling. She looked to be fifty summers. Branwen suspected her to be much older.
“Ailleann,” Branwen replied. The Wise Damsel had once told Branwen to call her by her given name. She pressed her palm against her abdomen, feeling distinc
tly unwelcome. “Good morning.”
“Is it?” The older woman didn’t move from the threshold. “Death has walked on Kernyvak soil, enigena.” Daughter, she called Branwen in Ivernic. There was no affection in the term. Branwen had yet to discover how Ailleann had come to speak her language.
“I need your help,” she told Ailleann. Impatience sheared the ends of her words. “The True Queen is missing.”
The Wise Damsel showed no reaction. She continued to flay Branwen with her gaze. Faster than she could blink, the other woman had seized Branwen’s wrist and ripped off the bandage. Her eyes flashed, such a dark brown they appeared black.
“Death crossed the Veil at your invitation.”
“Yes.” Branwen lifted her chin. “Monwiku nearly fell. I had to—it was the only way to save the kingdom.”
Ailleann shrugged. “Kingdoms rise and fall.”
“You’re a healer. You can’t care so little for the lives of innocents!” Branwen shot back, cheeks heating.
“I tend the well, and I help those I can. What they call themselves or who rules them is not my concern.”
“We can’t all hide in the mists.” Branwen yanked back her hand. The heat spread down her neck, across her chest. “I couldn’t watch people dying around me and do nothing!” Her shout was rough, echoing through the forest.
“It is a dangerous thing to act like a god, enigena. To decide who is innocent and who merits death.”
“I did what I had to do. Only Dhusnos was listening!”
Branwen had chosen Marc when she raised the ax against Kahedrin. Maybe she had acted like a god but so did all men in battle. Branwen had chosen Kernyv and Iveriu when she unleashed the Shades on the Armoricans.
“I would do it again,” she told the Wise Damsel.
The wind stirred around them. “Then why are you here asking for my help?” the other woman said. “If the one you call Dhusnos has already taken you by the hand?” She gestured pointedly at the nightlike mark.
Bright Raven Skies Page 5
