Bright Raven Skies

by Kristina Perez

  “I told you, the queen is missing. I need you to scry for her location.”

  “You cannot find her yourself.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No.” Branwen’s voice was tight. She stroked the ebony scar. “The Old Ones are no longer speaking to me.”

  “No,” the Wise Damsel repeated. “It is not the Old Ones who have stopped speaking to you. You cannot walk with death—with the Dark One, and remain unchanged.” Branwen’s eyes dropped to the mark. Slayer. Killer.

  “But you were changed even before, enigena.”

  She glanced up. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The memory you sacrificed to ease the True Queen’s pain, I warned you that it would alter the fabric of your very self. Whatever you lost opened you to the dark.”

  The ties that bound you are gone, Dhusnos had told Branwen beneath the waves. He had already sensed it, too.

  “But I didn’t complete the spell,” Branwen protested. “The queen didn’t ingest the ashes.” She had burned her mother’s harp for nothing. The jar containing the antidote was smashed when the queen’s assassins ambushed Branwen in the forest, its contents scattered far and wide.

  Yet another sacrifice made in vain for her cousin.

  If the spell had been successful, Tristan and Eseult wouldn’t have run away.

  The Wise Damsel crossed her arms. “You offered the memory and it was accepted. If you did not use the magic that was your choice.”

  “It wasn’t my choice!” Branwen burst out. “I was attacked in the woods. The ashes scattered to the winds.”

  “Then perhaps Dhusnos is not the only one watching over you.”

  “I don’t have time for riddles!”

  Ailleann turned on her heel, retreating into her cottage. Branwen hooked her elbow. “Wait. Stop! Please, Wise Damsel,” she begged. “Please help me find the queen before it’s too late.”

  A long moment passed. Branwen swallowed a sob. In her mind she saw fields smoldering—fields that she had set on fire.

  The Wise Damsel jerked from her grip. “Come,” she barked. Branwen followed before she could change her mind.

  Kindling crackled in the hearth. Ailleann filled a shallow bowl from a bucket as Branwen hovered. Firelight gleamed on the surface of the water. Ailleann set the bowl upon a wooden table and seated herself.

  “Sit,” she commanded Branwen. She did. “What did you see in the water, enigena?” the Wise Damsel asked.

  “Nothing. It was meaningless.” The other woman held her gaze. “A white raven,” Branwen revealed. “Its feathers fell as it flew, until it was nothing but bone. And then smoke.”

  “Primordial magic is both creation and destruction,” said the Wise Damsel, which Branwen well knew. “The Iverni have their names for the Old Ones and the Dark One, but those are unimportant. The gods of light and darkness have always coexisted.”

  Branwen resisted the urge to interrupt. “Your magic is out of balance,” the other woman continued. “When you called on the god of death, the world of the living was put beyond your reach. You cannot search the water for those still on this side of the Veil.”

  Branwen’s pulse pounded in her throat.

  “What did the Dark One want in exchange for his aid?” the Wise Damsel demanded.

  “A life,” she forced out. “One life for many. By next Samonios.”

  You will kill of your own volition. She shuddered as the words ricocheted around her skull. Not in self-defense, not in the defense of another—but because you want to, Branwen of Iveriu.

  “The Branwen I met a few months ago would not have made that bargain,” Ailleann remarked.

  “Much has happened since I arrived in Kernyv.” The older woman remained unmoved at her explanation. Leaning closer, Branwen asked, “Is there a way to void the bargain?”

  “Double-cross a god?” The Wise Damsel’s laugh was abrupt. “I wouldn’t.”

  Branwen’s flesh tingled; the scar grew hot. She hadn’t really believed there would be. She folded her hands together. The other woman peered down at the water, eyes becoming unfocused. Her breathing deepened. Branwen studied each wrinkle on the other woman’s pale face as she went into a trance.

  Branwen tapped one thumb against the other.

  Outside, the stream gurgled. A log shifted in the hearth, startling Branwen.

  At last the Wise Damsel opened her sea-dark eyes. “Your cousin is alive,” she pronounced.

  Branwen exhaled, although her relief was tempered. “Where is she?” The words came out in a rush. If Eseult had been killed by the Armoricans at least it would not turn Kernyv against Iveriu.

  “I saw a crown by a river.”

  “Which river?” she asked, and Ailleann replied with a shrug. “But what use is that? How am I supposed to find her?” Branwen exclaimed.

  The older woman narrowed her eyes. “I asked the question and received the answer the Otherworld saw fit to provide. Gods don’t exist to serve mortals.”

  “No, they exist to play with us!” Venom coursed through Branwen’s words, her heart.

  “Don’t be naïve,” scolded the Wise Damsel. “You have asked and received much of your gods. You have dealt willingly in primordial magic.”

  Branwen thrust out her hand. “I didn’t ask for the Hand of Bríga!”

  “Didn’t you?” A snort. “I offered to help you tame your magic, Branwen of Iveriu. You let it wield you instead. And now it is no longer the Hand of Bríga you possess.”

  “Death saved my life.”

  “Once your magic is gone, death won’t be able to save you. If you burn yourself out, there will not even be enough left of you to enter the Land of Youth.”

  Fury made Branwen’s lips quiver. She pictured the white raven. The possibility of never rejoining Lady Alana and Lord Caedmon in the Otherworld—of never being reborn together—was a worse punishment than any she’d foreseen. It was cruel. She slammed her palm on the table.

  “All I’ve ever wanted was to protect the people I love, and this is how the gods repay me? Why give me magic, then?”

  “If a hungry man eats until he is sick, he cannot blame the cook.”

  “He can if the cook starved him first.” Rancor rattled Branwen’s teeth.

  The Wise Damsel pushed to her feet. “It is time for you to leave. There is nothing more I can do for you, enigena. You must regain your own balance. Until you do, don’t come back.” She swung her arm toward the door.

  Branwen’s mouth fell open. She stood, hands curled into fists.

  “I told you that the Old Ones could not bear the consequences of your magic for you, Branwen of Iveriu.”

  “You did.” She took a step toward the door. Dhusnos had been cast out by the Old Ones for insulting the Goddess Ériu: she who embodied the island of Iveriu itself. Ériu was the Land, and she had thrust Dhusnos into the sea. Now Branwen had been cut adrift, too.

  “Find the part of yourself you lost,” said the Wise Damsel.

  Branwen shook her head. “Whoever that girl was—I’m glad she’s gone.”

  A LOVE SONG

  THE KING’S FACE WAS DRAWN as Branwen entered his study. She was the first to arrive for what was bound to be a tense occasion.

  Platters of cured meats and cheeses had been laid on the table in the center of the room. Flames flickered above candelabras set on either side of a silver bowl of apples. King Marc was intent on adhering to the rules of hospitality even if his dinner guest had attacked his castle.

  “Nosmatis, sister,” Marc told her. The corner of his mouth lifted, but his posture remained taut. Branwen heard the hope and question in his greeting. Her own nerves were frayed after her encounter with the Wise Damsel.

  Branwen walked toward the king, placing a hand on his arm, and answered in low tones. “The queen is alive.” Marc’s eyes brightened instantly. “I don’t know where,” she said. “Only that she is near a river.”

  He cut the air with two fingers, as followers of the Horned One did t
o invoke their god. Then he clasped Branwen’s shoulders and drew her into an embrace.

  “Mormerkti,” the king said in a deep voice. “Thank all the gods.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  Marc drew back, still holding her shoulders. “Knowing she’s alive gives me courage. You are a blessing to me, Branwen.”

  Her stomach roiled. She’d brought far more curses than blessings down upon the king.

  “Your gods spoke to you at the White Moor?” he said. He squeezed Branwen’s shoulders and dropped his hands. Branwen didn’t know which gods the Wise Damsel had consulted. She wondered if Ailleann might be an Old One herself—or whatever Old Ones called themselves.

  “Yes,” Branwen said simply.

  “We’ll ford every river in Kernyv. In Albion.” Determination underscored the king’s statement. But, then what? What chaos would ensue? She didn’t need to ask whether the Royal Guard’s search had borne any fruit today. If a trace of either Tristan or Eseult had been found, the entire castle would be buzzing with it.

  A knock came at the door. “Enter,” said Marc, and Andred’s face lit when he saw Branwen. Behind her brother, Endelyn chewed her lips together.

  Branwen’s apprentice moved swiftly, hobbling slightly, and gave her a hug. His left foot was curved partially inward, yet Andred never let it stop him from doing anything he wanted to do.

  “It’s good to see you, Lady Branwen,” he said. Less than two days had passed since she’d said goodbye to the boy in the stairwell of the King’s Tower as the Armoricans attacked. It felt like a lifetime.

  “And you.” Branwen hugged him back, mussed his hair. Andred resembled Prince Edern in coloring, but their hearts were nothing alike.

  “Thank you for taking charge of the wounded today, Andred. You’ve done well. I’m proud of you.”

  He blushed. “Endelyn makes a good assistant,” Andred teased his older sister. She lingered a few paces away from the group. Branwen expected a snide rejoinder but the Kernyvak princess merely lifted her eyebrows, continuing to chew her lips. She had changed into a gown of heavy crimson linen that served to make her complexion more wan. Branwen was also dressed for the occasion—she had rearranged her hair and chosen a laurel green gown with embroidered trim for the king’s dinner.

  “Lowenek has been helping, too,” said Andred, his voice brimming with warmth for the orphaned Kernyvak girl whom Branwen had rescued from the mining disaster.

  “I’m glad she’s well.” Branwen smiled.

  “I am obliged for everyone’s aid,” King Marc said, looking from Andred to Endelyn, then Branwen. “This tragedy will unite Kernyv, not destroy us.”

  “Kernyv bosta vyken,” Andred declared. His expression was deadly earnest. Kernyv forever. Sometimes when Branwen looked at her apprentice, she saw a seasoned old man rather than a boy of fourteen. “Let me pour you some wine, my king,” he suggested.

  “Pour us all some wine!” Ruan’s voice boomed from the doorway.

  On his arm, Princess Alba stood, nose tilted upward, proud. Her hands were no longer bound but Ruan’s grip on her elbow was iron tight.

  Ruan grazed Branwen with a glance. She looked away.

  King Marc took a step forward. As far as Branwen was aware, he hadn’t visited the Armorican princess since her capture in the Morrois Forest.

  “Good evening, Princess Alba,” the king said to her in Aquilan. “Thank you for accepting my invitation to dine together.”

  “How could I refuse?” Her words were a blade.

  The swelling around Alba’s nose was diminishing slowly, and the skin was purpling like ripe elderberries. Otherwise, she appeared in good health.

  “Come, sit by me,” King Marc entreated, strolling toward the head of the table. He motioned at the chair to his right. The seat usually occupied by Ruan. “I trust you’re acquainted with my other guests,” he said to Alba as if this were any other formal dinner. Marc’s ability to control his demeanor was truly remarkable.

  Alba nodded. “Hello, Endelyn. Andred.” The Armorican royal family was old friends with House Whel, trading with them for the white lead from their mines. At the wedding, Kahedrin had told Branwen that they used to visit Villa Illogan often. Alba was a couple of years older than Andred, and a few younger than Endelyn. They must have all played together as children.

  “Hello,” Andred replied uncertainly. Endelyn sneered.

  Ruan escorted Alba to the table, seating himself next to her. She had been provided with a light blue blouse and beige leather trousers that hung loose on her hips. Her dark brown hair was coiled into several neat plaits atop her head. The princess looked ready to flee at the slightest opportunity, and Branwen wondered at the wisdom of letting her eat with a knife in such proximity to the king.

  Branwen chose the seat opposite Alba, stroking the fresh bandage she’d tied around her blackened scar. She would let no further harm come to Marc.

  Andred poured the wine for everyone at the table, testing the king’s cup before letting him drink.

  “To the fallen,” King Marc said, raising his goblet. He spoke directly to Alba. Branwen and the others echoed him somberly.

  Alba gritted her teeth. “To the fallen.”

  A fraught silence descended over the dinner table.

  Avoiding Ruan’s attempts to catch her gaze, Branwen remarked to Alba, “I trust you haven’t been feeling feverish.”

  “No. But thank you for your concern, Branwen.” The princess’s tone contradicted her polite smile.

  “Lady Branwen,” Ruan corrected Alba. “She is Queen Eseult’s first cousin.” He finally succeeded in drawing Branwen’s attention. “She is also a most talented healer. You’re in the best possible hands, Lady Princess. We’re blessed she came to Kernyv.”

  Branwen sipped her wine. She recognized the apology beneath the compliment, but her feelings for Ruan were more knotted than the roots of a tree. Alba looked between her and Ruan, calculating, too canny for Branwen’s liking.

  “Ruan has always been the most charming of House Whel,” said Alba. She smiled at him pertly.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” replied Branwen, patting her apprentice on the shoulder. Endelyn afforded Branwen a chiding glance. Until this morning, Branwen hadn’t realized that the protectiveness between the siblings ran both ways.

  “I once fancied myself in love with him, too,” Alba mused. “Like every other noblewoman along the western seas.” She snorted. “Ruan was even my first kiss.”

  Branwen’s eyebrows lifted skyward. He was at least seven years Alba’s senior.

  “A stolen kiss, Lady Princess,” Ruan said, his discomfort clear. He appealed to Branwen with a glance. Turning his shoulders toward Alba, he said, “Which as you recall, I put a stop to immediately—you were only thirteen!”

  Alba shrugged. “I was curious what all the fuss was about.” To Branwen, she said, “I can’t fathom the trail of broken hearts that Ruan has littered across Albion. Can you, Lady Branwen?”

  “Better to litter hearts than bodies!” Endelyn retorted. Branwen was taken aback at the vehemence of her defense.

  Alba clenched the table violently and hot wax spilled from the candelabra to the wood. “If you hadn’t sent pirates to kill Havelin, I wouldn’t be here!” she said, raising her voice.

  “Princess Alba,” King Marc began firmly. “I deeply regret Havelin’s death—but I did not sanction the raid. In fact, your cousin, Captain Xandru Manduca, was already on his way to Karaez to parlay with King Faramon on my behalf before you besieged my castle.”

  Branwen noticed Alba’s knuckles flex on the tabletop.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s the truth,” Ruan told her in a tone of flint. “Despite the assassin you sent to kill my king in the forest after Long Night.”

  Alba gasped. “Assassin? What assassin?”

  “Too late to play the innocent, Lady Princess.”

  Several emotions washed over Alba’s face be
fore she rinsed them clean. To King Marc, she said, “You may well regret Havelin’s death, but you don’t regret Kahedrin’s.” Swiveling in her chair, Alba stared down Ruan.

  “Did you know that Lady Branwen is a killer as well as a healer?”

  Alarm rippled across Ruan’s features. His gaze pierced Branwen once more and she saw his confusion, his trying to puzzle out whether Alba knew about Tutir and Bledros.

  “That’s right,” Alba said. “Lady Branwen killed Kahedrin. I saw it with my own eyes.” She turned on Branwen. “You drove an ax into his back like a coward. You didn’t have the guts to fight him with honor. You have no honor!”

  “I defended my king, as anyone would do!” Branwen countered even as her chest hollowed out. She darted her eyes back to Ruan, and his lips were parted in surprise, perhaps relief.

  “Is that why you took Eseult?” Marc pressed in close, wrapping his hand lightly around Alba’s wrist. “Because Kahedrin is dead?” His grip was light but it was threat enough.

  “Eseult?” Shock splayed on Alba’s face. “The True Queen is missing?” She circled her gaze around the table. If her shock was feigned, then the princess was an exceptional actress.

  “Why else wouldn’t she be at dinner?” Endelyn sniped.

  Alba’s jaw tensed.

  “If any harm comes to her,” Marc began, letting a thread of menace into his voice, “your father will be very sorry.” He released her hand.

  “No, no. We didn’t take her,” Alba protested. Panic raised the pitch of her voice. “We never intended to kidnap the queen.”

  “Just to kill the king,” said Ruan, rife with disgust.

  Her nostrils flared. “We’re at war.”

  “Why should we believe you?” Andred said to Alba. Branwen snapped her head toward her apprentice. “Why should we believe you don’t have the queen?” the boy persisted.

  “Because I’m the only one left!” Alba told Andred hotly. “My men are dead. My boats are destroyed.” She looked at Branwen. “My brothers are dead.” Directing a jagged glance at King Marc, she yelled, “There is no one left to kidnap Queen Eseult—even if I wanted to!”

  Angry tears glistened in Alba’s eyes; Branwen saw her fighting them.