Marc shook his head. “He may not yet have reached Karaez.” The king stroked his beard, which was becoming unruly. The night before his departure, Xandru had teased Marc about his needing Xandru to shave him. Branwen didn’t think the king had slept since the attack.
“When Captain Manduca does arrive in Armorica,” said Baron Gwyk, “he will discover that King Faramon sent Crown Prince Kahedrin and Princess Alba to avenge the death of his eldest son.”
“King Faramon didn’t send them,” Branwen said, speaking for the first time.
Countess Kensa arched an eyebrow. “What are you talking about, Lady Branwen?”
Ruan answered his mother. “Princess Alba claims that she and Kahedrin led the assault without her father’s permission.”
Kensa scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “A clever gambit. She failed. What else would she say?”
“I believe her,” Branwen said. Her anger stirred. Her power.
“You’ve made clear to this council on numerous occasions that your priority is to keep Iveriu out of a war, Lady Branwen—even with your own queen missing. You do not care what is best for Kernyv, and what is best for Kernyv is to wreak such havoc on Armorican coasts that no one dares attack us again!”
“I killed Crown Prince Kahedrin.” Branwen laid her right hand flat on the wooden table. It took all of her self-control not to set it on fire.
“You weren’t here when the Armoricans attacked, Countess. Don’t tell me what I wouldn’t do to protect Kernyv—and Iveriu. We’re bound now.”
A stunned silence fell over the councillors.
“Branwen saved my life,” affirmed the king. “She is as much my Champion as Ruan.” Ruan’s jaw tightened and Branwen wished that Marc had chosen his words more judiciously. After a moment, Baron Julyan banged his finely whittled cane against the stone floor.
“We thank you, Lady Branwen,” said the elderly baron. “You’re a Kernyvwoman now, as far as I’m concerned.”
Countess Kensa puckered her mouth. The others clapped. “Here, here,” Baron Kerdu echoed. Branwen’s pulse didn’t slow.
“Mormerkti,” she said to the room.
“Princess Alba also claims that kidnapping the True Queen wasn’t part of her plan,” Ruan said, and Branwen tensed further. “Nor, she says, did Armorica send the assassin who attacked King Marc in the forest.”
“I am not in the habit of taking my enemy at his word,” Baron Gwyk retorted.
“Her word,” said Branwen.
He sniffed. To the king, he said, “Armorica has been threatening us—threatening you for months. It’s time to act.”
King Marc folded his arms. Branwen noticed him discreetly support the shoulder that had been struck by the Armorican’s arrow.
“Princess Alba and her father remain under the impression that we sent the pirates to attack their capital first. Faramon has now lost both his sons,” said the king. “I want to end this vendetta while we still can.”
“It doesn’t matter who sent the pirates,” said Ruan. “If we don’t respond with force now, then other kingdoms—like Ordowik—will see us as easy prey. They will circle us like vultures.”
“I agree with my son,” said Kensa.
“As do I,” said Baron Chyanhal.
“We can’t afford to act while the True Queen might be aboard a ship bound for the Armorican capital of Karaez,” King Marc stated in a controlled roar.
“We can’t afford not to act, my Lord King,” Countess Kensa told him. “We have Faramon’s last surviving heir. He won’t risk hurting the True Queen.”
“Lady Branwen,” the king appealed. “What is your counsel?”
Kensa and Seer Casek exchanged a look. The other barons directed their attention to Branwen as well. It was quiet enough to hear the pounding of feet on stone. Agitated knocking followed a few seconds later.
“Come in!” growled King Marc, composure dissolving.
Andred’s face appeared in the doorway. “Someone’s here—I was helping a guard at the gatehouse, and he … he says he brings news of Tristan. And the queen.”
“Bring him here. Now.”
The boy hurried away. It was as if Branwen’s breaths were laced with broken glass. She felt Ruan’s gaze on her but she couldn’t look at him.
More footsteps. Heavier. Methodical.
The door was pushed all the way open.
A man of sixty summers, dressed in traveling clothes, filled the doorframe. His shoulders were broad and his bulk solid, reminding Branwen of Sir Fintan, her aunt’s bodyguard at Castle Rigani. This man had light brown skin, a graying beard, and an impressive sword of Kartagon steel at his hip.
“Sir Goron?” said King Marc.
The other man bowed deeply. “My Lord King.”
One of Marc’s rare smiles graced his face which, given the circumstances, left Branwen befuddled. “It’s been years.”
“It has.” Sir Goron didn’t smile but there was warmth to his severity. “Tristan told me of the attack. He sent me to find out what happened. I’m glad the castle hasn’t fallen.”
“So are we,” replied Marc, and when he spoke to this man, it was with great respect. “Tristan was with you?”
Sir Goron nodded. “He and the True Queen are safe at my cottage.”
Whispers of thanks to the Horned One rose to the ceiling. Branwen’s emotions swirled. “Where?” the king asked.
“A hard day’s ride. Beside the River Heyl.”
Marc dashed his gaze to Branwen. A crown by a river. The Wise Damsel had been right. “Branwen,” he said. “Sir Goron was the sword master who trained me and Tristan. Your cousin is safe. Tristan took her where he knew she’d be safe.” To his former teacher, Marc said, “Retreat before you attack.” His smile broadened.
“Glad you boys were listening,” Goron replied, gruff.
“Get a hot meal and a few hours’ sleep, and we’ll leave before sunset,” King Marc told the sword master.
“But we haven’t settled on a plan for Armorica,” countered Baron Dynyon.
The king glowered. “I’m going to get my queen. Everything else can wait.”
“Praise the Old Ones,” Branwen said.
The words were empty.
A SWORD BETWEEN THEM
THEY SET OUT AT DUSK, riding into the night. This time when Branwen insisted on accompanying the king, Ruan raised no objection. Sir Goron rode in front, Branwen and Marc behind, and Ruan in the rear. The king was adamant that the traveling party should be kept small so as not to be slowed down.
Burning pinks and oranges striated the sky as they skirted around the Morrois Forest and followed a road with which Branwen was unfamiliar. The River Heyl ran through the moorland and emptied into an estuary on House Whel territory. Sir Goron’s cottage was located to the north, in a most deserted spot along the river. He said he preferred fish to people, and Branwen didn’t think he was jesting.
Marc wore a plain cloak of black wool. If there were any raiders roaming the countryside, or common thieves, the king didn’t want to attract any attention. Branwen kept her eyes peeled for Death-Tellers. All she heard were hooves beating earth.
“Why did Sir Goron leave court?” Branwen asked Marc in a hush, after an hour had passed in silence. The moon was starting to rise.
He fidgeted with his reins, considering. “Sir Goron served my father faithfully for many years. He was his Champion before he was entrusted with training me to fight like a king. From the time I was seven years old, we practiced together every day. I spent more of my childhood with Goron than either of my parents.”
The king paused and Branwen sensed reluctance in him to continue. He drew his mount closer to Senara, and Branwen’s palfrey threw back her head. The mare never liked for other horses to get too close.
Marc rested a hand on Branwen’s shoulder. “Goron took me on my first raid,” he said, and she went rigid. The sword master had led the ambush that killed her parents. Blind rage made Branwen dizzy. She clutched the fro
nt of her saddle.
“I’m sorry, sister. I owe you the full truth after all you’ve done for me.”
Branwen gulped, unable to speak. “When my father died, Sir Goron asked me to release him from his oaths of service to the crown. He said he’d passed on all he could to me and Tristan, and that he had no more appetite for battle. He wanted a quiet life—to atone for the blood he’d spilled.” King Marc sighed. “I couldn’t refuse his request. Although I’ve missed him.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she said tightly.
Marc nodded, putting space between their mounts. “It was clever of Tristan to seek Goron out. He’s the best swordsman Kernyv has ever seen. I should have thought of it myself.”
“We’ve all been panicked, brother.”
“We have.” He looked up at the stars beginning to prick the sky. The ancient Kernyveu had believed they were gods. “The council wants a war,” said the king.
Marc returned his eyes from the stars to Branwen.
“You never gave me your opinion.”
Branwen pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth. She breathed in and out. “I am not unbiased.”
“Nobody is. Be honest with me,” he said. “What advice would you give me if I weren’t a king?”
Empathy engulfed her. Marc wanted so much to be a good man. Not for the first time Branwen wondered if a good man could not be a good king.
She shifted in her saddle. “Countess Kensa is right that I want to keep Iveriu out of a war. I also want to prevent more slaughter on Kernyvak shores,” she stated. “When King Óengus declared the Champions Tournament it was because Iveriu needs allies. No kingdom can stand alone.”
“Your uncle and I agree on many things,” said Marc.
Branwen lowered her voice further. “You know I’ve never been convinced that Kahedrin hired the assassin. And we still don’t know who sent the pirates to Armorica flying a Kernyvak flag. But, I imagine it’s the same person. Someone who wants this war very badly.”
“On that we are also in agreement,” the king ground out.
“However, I also fear the truth of Ruan’s words that if we do nothing, we invite another challenge.”
“So you would counsel war?” Marc’s chest lifted with a surprised intake of breath. “I am loath to reward treachery.”
“We still have Princess Alba. And Armorica does not have Queen Eseult.” Branwen canted her head. “Is there something we can demand for Alba’s return that will be regarded as a victory?”
The king touched his beard. “You pose an interesting question,” he said. “I will think on it.”
The conversation dwindled as the moon rose to its apex. Branwen’s entire body was sore when they stopped to water the horses just after midnight. King Marc wanted to reach his queen before morning. Ruan approached Branwen as their mounts drank from the river. He massaged her shoulders and she let out a soft moan.
“You’re good at that,” she said.
Ruan wrapped his arms around her, drawing Branwen’s back against his chest.
“I do my best.” He kissed her discreetly on the temple, yet her body couldn’t entirely relax into him. “You must be relieved your cousin is safe,” he said. They hadn’t been alone since Sir Goron walked into the council meeting.
“Of course.” But the True Queen had still tried to murder her, and Branwen didn’t relish the prospect of spending the rest of her life trying to keep the lovers apart.
“It seems your cousin was never in any true danger,” Ruan remarked.
Except from me. Branwen spun around in his arms to face him.
“Thank the gods,” she said. Moonlight made Ruan’s hair appear silvery-white. She toyed with a strand.
Ruan frowned. “Sir Goron also tells me that Tristan and the queen arrived mid-afternoon the day after the attack,” he said, and Branwen’s mind raced. The journey took twelve hours, which meant that Tristan and Eseult would have had to leave before the assault began.
“Their horses must have traveled like the wind,” he noted.
“They must have.” Branwen’s look could turn lesser men to stone.
“Bran—”
She shrugged off Ruan’s embrace and rejoined the others. The traveling party followed the riverbank until the promise of daybreak began diluting the murk. Physical exhaustion distracted Branwen from the many worries taking root in her mind like flowering thorns. King Marc might be willing to overlook discrepancies in the timing of Tristan and Eseult’s departure from Monwiku, but his Champion was not.
With the sun still below the horizon, a small stone house with a thatched roof came into view. As they drew nearer, Branwen spied the silhouette of Lí Ban, the queen’s stark-white mare. Beside her, Tristan’s dappled gray stallion grazed on grasses and wild mushrooms. Eseult had named her mount for an Ivernic sea goddess, a mermaid whose ballad Tristan had serenaded her with aboard the Dragon Rising.
Marc pulled back his reins, halting his own steed. He put his lips together in a whistle, mimicking a birdcall. Branwen recognized it as the signal he and Tristan had devised as boys. No noise came from within the cottage.
Above the doorway hung a pair of antlers. Sir Goron must be a devotee of the Horned One. Marc dismounted immediately. He entered the cottage first, Branwen half a step behind. Embers glowed in a fire pit that had been dug into the dirt floor, casting a faint light on the sleeping alcove in the corner. Only a tapestry separated it from the main space of the one-room dwelling.
Sweat beaded on Branwen’s brow despite the fresh air.
In what state would King Marc find Tristan and Eseult when he drew back the curtain?
Blood and bone, forged by fire, we beseech you for the truest of desires.
Branwen had cast the spell in Kerwindos’s Cauldron. She knew its power. Could the lovers resist the temptation of a whole night alone together? Ruan followed at Branwen’s heels and she didn’t dare glance backward.
Marc began drawing the tapestry—which depicted the Horned One saving his father—to one side. Branwen couldn’t breathe. One simple motion could unveil the secrets Branwen had been keeping for months. Bring her kingdom to its knees.
Swish.
The lovers were asleep, a sword between them. Fully clothed.
Tristan woke in an instant, hand gripping the hilt of his weapon before he even opened his eyes. The edges of Marc’s mouth twitched in a smile, relief smoothing his brow. Evidently he wasn’t completely immune to Ruan’s accusations that Tristan and Eseult had run off together.
The Queen’s Champion slept closest to the door, and he heaved the sword toward whoever had disturbed him in one fluid motion as he sat up.
He stopped himself. “Marc?” Tristan said as his eyes focused.
“Brother.” Love brimmed from the word. The king loved his nephew perhaps too well, but Branwen could only be thankful for it.
Tristan’s eyes skipped from Marc to Branwen, then behind them to Ruan.
Eseult stirred, scrubbing a hand over her face. She always was a heavy sleeper.
“You’re here,” she said.
“I am,” answered the king, but the queen’s gaze was fixed squarely on Branwen. Sitting up beside Tristan, Eseult hugged herself closer. Her flaxen tresses fell past her shoulders, unplaited.
Fear in his voice, “The castle?” Tristan asked.
“We held it,” Marc said, with a meaningful glance at Branwen.
“What happened?” Tristan looked to his king, then Ruan. Not at Branwen. “Who attacked us?”
“Armorica,” replied Ruan from behind Branwen. She slanted her gaze his way. The King’s Champion’s hand also rested against his sword.
Tristan cursed at the response.
“Didn’t you see their colors?” Ruan’s question was far from casual.
Had Ruan also noted that both Tristan and Eseult were dressed in day clothes? The queen wore the same deep indigo gown as the night before the attack. If she’d been roused in the early hours of the mo
rning, shouldn’t she be in a nightgown?
“I was more concerned with getting the queen to safety,” Tristan told his cousin, “than checking the banners of our assailants.”
“Marc sent me to assist you at the Queen’s Tower,” Ruan said. “But you were already gone.”
“I’m fast on my feet. A reason you’ve never bested me in a fight.”
“And I’m indebted, Tristan,” said King Marc. Authority rang from his voice. Tristan and Ruan had always chafed at each other, but their antipathy was something more now.
“I’m only sorry I wasn’t there to defend Monwiku with you, brother,” Tristan told Marc. Devastation roughened his voice.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” The king turned the focus of his attention to his wife. “My queen—Eseult. I can’t tell you how overjoyed I am to see you unharmed.” Marc took a step toward the cot.
Tristan swung his legs beneath him and moved out of the way. The cot dipped as King Marc lowered himself onto the edge, taking Eseult’s hands in his and kissing them.
“I give thanks to your gods and mine that we’re reunited.”
Eseult sought Branwen with her eyes, and they were wisely filled with apprehension. “As do I,” the queen told her husband, head bowed, shy.
Tristan came toe-to-toe with Branwen as he exited the sleeping nook.
His warm brown skin and pronounced cheekbones were as attractive as they’d always been, but the hazel flecks in his dark eyes were cold. He returned his sword to its sheath.
“Branwen,” he greeted her.
Your heart isn’t noble. Tristan’s angry words from their last encounter rattled in her skull. Branwen, too, had promised to destroy him if he further threatened the peace.
“You’ve escaped death again,” she said. Her voice was as frosty as his eyes.
Tristan brushed past her, knocking her shoulder more than necessary. Branwen glared after him and found Ruan watching their exchange. He raised his eyebrows.
Tristan crouched beside Goron, who stoked the embers, adding another log. He’d entered his own home unnoticed. Tristan murmured something to him in Kernyvak that Branwen didn’t understand.
Bright Raven Skies Page 8
