Bright Raven Skies

by Kristina Perez

  The Wise Damsel was right. “I asked for power,” she repeated. “And they gave it to me.” Branwen had asked for the Hand of Bríga.

  “And the … warrior creatures who saved us from the Armoricans?” Marc said, eyes intent. He held his pendant taut.

  “Shades, we call them. They belong to Dhusnos, the Dark One.” And now, so did Branwen. “He rules the Sea of the Dead.”

  The king started to trace the raised flesh on her palm. “Don’t,” Branwen said. She jerked back. “It’s a weapon like any other. I am a weapon.”

  “You are much more than that.” She frowned. “To me you are.” Marc tucked an errant curl behind Branwen’s ear. “I promised you that Iveriu would know no more violence from me, sister. I will do everything in my power to protect Eseult.”

  “Mormerkti.” Yet Branwen feared that the more Marc did to protect the peace, the less power he had.

  He kissed Branwen on the crown of the head.

  “I’m going to close my eyes and pretend to sleep.” The king rose to his feet. “Thank you for letting me lay down my crown for a little while.”

  Branwen nodded. “Sekrev.”

  Marc showed a sliver of a smile, tugging on his beard, and disappeared into the gardens.

  Branwen sat alone and she shivered. She turned to the rosebush behind her. Cupping one of the blooms, she pictured Castle Rigani under siege, the bodies of her friends strewn over the ramparts.

  The rosebuds began to wither.

  As Branwen’s fear spread, heart thumping, so did the decay. The promise of springtime flooded her, made her giddy, and the entire rosebush shriveled. Petal by petal, thorn by thorn.

  Branwen could take life and give death. Fear was the key. She’d feared Alba escaping, and she’d feared what Tutir’s wife wanted with Ruan.

  Fear was the Dark One’s greatest weapon.

  And now it was hers.

  BLOOD PRICE

  MIDDAY SUN STREAMED THROUGH THE windows of the Great Hall, glinting off King Marc’s crown. It was a simple gold torque. The only other time Branwen had seen him wear it was at the wedding.

  Two thrones had been placed on the raised dais at the far end of the feasting hall.

  One of them was empty.

  Everyone stood except for the king.

  Marc wasn’t in the habit of making his courtiers bow and scrape, preferring to hold council meetings in his study. Today was different.

  His wife and his nephew stood before him accused of treason, adultery, murder, and conspiracy.

  The snakestone that comprised the Great Hall’s vaulted ceiling undulated in the sunlight like a shimmering wave of blood. Dread slithered through Branwen’s being.

  Baron Julyan began the proceedings. As the most senior of the king’s advisers, it fell to him to officiate the trial. He leaned on his expertly crafted alabaster cane.

  “We will first hear the case against Prince Tristan of Liones and Kernyv,” he said. He did not speak loudly, but the acoustics carried the baron’s voice to the back of the hall.

  Branwen tossed Queen Verica’s dice inside the pocket of her dress. The trial was a gamble, and she hoped the old queen was watching over her grandson from the Otherworld.

  The baron lifted his chin at Ruan. The King’s Champion stood on the dais, at the king’s right hand. He wore his all-black Royal Guard uniform and the white sash that denoted his status. His complexion was grayed.

  Branwen knew Ruan’s despair at Endelyn’s death was profound. Yet she couldn’t forgive him for his betrayal. Perhaps all of her forgiveness was already spent.

  “Prince Tristan,” Ruan said, aiming a heated gaze at his cousin. “You are charged with murder and treason against the crown. The punishment for which is death by burning. What say you?”

  Tristan cleared his throat and fingered the collar of his tunic. He’d been provided with fresh clothes during his imprisonment to replace those covered with Endelyn’s blood. The turquoise of his shirt reminded Branwen of the seaweed called mermaid’s hair that she’d been collecting on the beach when his raft washed ashore.

  Tristan stood at the edge of the dais, hands shackled, facing the trial’s audience. All of the barons were assembled, as were some of the Royal Guard and a few servants.

  Queen Eseult stood beside her Champion, her eyes pinned to the floor. Lowenek had been assigned to the queen’s service during her confinement. The nimble fingers, which Queen Verica had thought would make the girl a skilled surgeon, had deftly gathered Eseult’s wheat-colored tresses into a crown of braids.

  Looking from Ruan to Countess Kensa, Tristan said, “I am responsible for Princess Endelyn’s death. But it was not murder. It was an accident.”

  The countess inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. She was dressed in a gown of black satin. Her only adornment was a pair of ruby combs on either side of her face, shaped like a hand, which held back her dark blond plaits. A red hand was the sigil of House Whel.

  Andred stood beside his mother, also donning a white sash, and the misery etched into his face made him look far older than his fourteen years.

  Tristan caught Branwen’s eye where she stood beside Baron Chyanhal before angling his body toward the king.

  “On the charge of treason,” he said. “I believe my uncle knows that I would never willingly betray him.”

  Willingly. Branwen squeezed the dice in her pocket hard enough to make herself grimace.

  King Marc kept his expression neutral, although his gaze drifted to his wife. Eseult’s complexion was Death-Teller white, and blue veins were visible beneath the back of her hands, folded primly together at her waist. Her lips were compressed, one corner of her mouth twitching.

  “What compensation does House Whel seek from Prince Tristan for the loss of your daughter?” Baron Julyan asked Countess Kensa somberly.

  “His head.”

  A small breath escaped from Eseult, but she didn’t look up. When they were children, Branwen’s cousin had never been one to take her punishment without protest. Since returning from Sir Goron’s cottage, the queen had grown so quiet it was unsettling.

  Branwen peered sidelong at Baron Gwyk and Baron Dynyon. They stood just behind the countess, and it was no surprise that they muttered their support. Baron Kerdu and Baron Chyanhal, however, looked at Kensa with contempt.

  For once Branwen couldn’t begrudge the countess her spite. The pain of losing a child was unimaginable. Especially when Ruan and Endelyn were all she had left of the Iverman who was killed for loving her.

  King Marc inhaled. “Countess, I have known Endelyn since her birth and my heart breaks for you. However, Tristan has stated that her death was unintentional. Is there no other compensation that you will accept?”

  “Why should I?” Kensa retorted. “Prince Tristan unintentionally killed my daughter while trying to kill my son!”

  The king flinched at her furor. He directed a glance at Baron Julyan.

  “I believe that Lady Branwen, the Royal Healer, was a witness to the circumstances that precipitated Princess Endelyn’s death,” said the old man. “I call upon her to give testimony.”

  Branwen clenched the dice. No one had suggested she would be testifying. She wanted to dive into the darkest heart of the sea.

  Her cousin’s green eyes gleamed with fear as she finally raised them from the ground.

  Branwen had the power to condemn her, and she knew it. But Branwen would never condemn Iveriu.

  “I have already recounted the events to the king,” Ruan protested. “As have members of the Royal Guard.”

  “Yes, and the other guardsmen have sworn that they saw Endelyn push you from Tristan’s path,” replied Baron Julyan. “She was not the intended target.”

  He rapped his cane on the ground. The baron was generally a jovial man, and his grandfatherly appearance cloaked the steel Branwen now saw in his eyes. To attain eighty winters in this world required not only luck, but mettle.

  The tendons in Ruan’s neck protruded from h
is skin. He dared a glance at Branwen for the first time. His anguish was tangible.

  “Lady Branwen?” prompted the baron. All eyes shifted to her.

  She coughed. “Prince Tristan drew his sword in defense of his queen.”

  “His treasonous, adulterous queen!” interrupted Countess Kensa, raising her voice.

  Eseult shrank backward, retreating further into herself.

  King Marc lifted a single hand. “That has yet to be proved, Countess. I will pardon your slander because I know how grief-stricken you are.”

  Her eyes blazed, the same sapphire color as her daughter’s had been.

  “Thank you, my Lord King,” she said tightly.

  “What led Prince Tristan to draw his sword?” the head of House Julyan questioned Branwen.

  “Ruan had been spying on them,” she answered. A grunt of disapproval emanated from Baron Kerdu.

  “And how did you come to be present in the queen’s bedchamber?” Baron Julyan pressed her.

  “I was looking for Ruan.” Branwen panned her gaze over the rapt faces of the audience. This part of the story she could relay more easily. “Princess Alba had made an escape attempt—I went to the King’s Tower to alert him.”

  A few shocked intakes of breath resounded through the hall.

  “Andred told me he’d seen his brother on his way to the Queen’s Tower,” she said.

  “Is this true?” Ruan asked his younger brother.

  Andred nodded. “Yes.” He could barely form the word.

  Branwen read the self-loathing in the set of the boy’s shoulders. If only. If only he hadn’t told her where Ruan was headed, perhaps Endelyn would still be alive. Branwen had collected enough of her own if onlys to know it was a pit with no bottom.

  “I searched the Queen’s Tower for Ruan,” she continued. “When I reached the third floor, I found Endelyn waiting outside the entrance to the queen’s suite with half a dozen guards.”

  Baron Julyan stroked his wizened cheeks. “Did this seem strange to you, Lady Branwen?”

  “It did.” She fidgeted with the dice. “Endelyn tried to prevent me from entering, but I pushed her out of the way. Inside, I found Prince Tristan and the True Queen. Ruan had been hiding in the space between the walls.”

  King Marc shot his Champion an outraged look.

  “Branwen,” Ruan said rough and low. “You saw Tristan and Eseult embracing!” His wounded expression was unbearable. “As did Endelyn—only she can no longer speak for herself!”

  “I saw the Queen’s Champion consoling his queen because of the note you had Endelyn deliver,” she countered. “Tristan never intended to harm Endelyn, and you know it.”

  Shaking his head, Ruan stepped back a pace.

  “I have heard enough on this topic,” King Marc declared. “Countess Kensa, name a blood price in accordance with Princess Endelyn’s station.”

  The countess curved her hands into talons.

  “Endelyn is worth more than gold.” She prowled toward the dais, stopping just before Tristan, close enough to spit.

  Countess Kensa wasn’t a warm or maternal woman, but her grief seemed real. “You took my child from me,” she told Tristan. A solitary tear slid down her cheek. “Endelyn can never be replaced.”

  Tristan hung his head in shame. “I would take something from you as well,” said the countess.

  “Name it.”

  She waited a beat. “Liones.”

  “Liones is Tristan’s birthright,” King Marc said, leaning forward on his throne. “It was gifted to my sister.”

  “Liones is what I want.” The look Kensa afforded the king could cut glass.

  Tristan inhaled a breath through his teeth. His curls bounced as he nodded.

  “Liones is yours—all except for the lands bestowed upon Lady Branwen.”

  King Marc stroked his beard, unable to keep regret from staining his features. He would see Tristan’s loss as another broken promise to his sister, another personal failure.

  Kensa’s lips quivered as she announced, “I accept the blood price.”

  Branwen recalled Ruan telling her that his mother had long wanted Liones because the soil was mineral rich. Acid coated her throat. She didn’t believe even the countess would have wished her daughter’s death, but she had turned Endelyn’s death to her advantage.

  As Countess Kensa strode back toward Baron Dynyon, who appeared nonplussed, Branwen couldn’t help wondering whether the countess had only demanded Tristan’s head because her true objective was his land.

  Baron Julyan banged his cane again.

  “On the charge of treason against Prince Tristan, what evidence is there?” he said, turning to the King’s Champion.

  “If you would indulge me, Baron Julyan, I would like to present the evidence of Prince Tristan and Queen Eseult’s treason simultaneously.”

  Branwen’s heartbeat thrummed through her entire body. She noticed the queen’s shoulders jerk, lifting toward her ears.

  “I will permit it,” replied the baron. “Proceed.”

  The wooden dais creaked as Ruan crossed toward his cousin and the True Queen.

  Peering down at Branwen, the man who knew her more intimately than any other said, “Lady Branwen. What was the content of the letter I had Endelyn deliver?”

  “Accusations.”

  “What specific accusations?”

  Branwen took a step toward the dais. She barely resisted the desire to chuck the dice at Ruan’s head.

  “The letter accused the queen of trying to have me killed.”

  “Yes.” To the king, he said, “I sent the True Queen the letter to see how she would respond. She sent for Tristan—her lover—and lamented that Branwen would never believe she was innocent.”

  “You entrapped the queen and now you’re manipulating her words for your own purposes!” Tristan roared. Even with his hands bound, he seemed dangerous.

  Ruan ignored his cousin. “Lady Branwen, were you not attacked by two members of the Royal Guard on the afternoon before the Armorican assault?”

  “Yes,” Branwen ground out.

  “Where are these men?” King Marc thundered, furious, and Branwen met his gaze. “They’re dead,” she said.

  Another ripple of gasps spread through the hall.

  Branwen could see the calculations taking place in the king’s mind. The charred remains that Ruan had found in the Morrois Forest. The flame he’d seen Branwen use to defend the castle.

  “Lady Branwen is very handy with a blade,” said the king.

  “That she is,” agreed Ruan. Branwen held her breath. “And why did the queen send the guards to kill you?”

  She allowed herself one second of relief that he hadn’t mentioned the bodies were burned.

  “The note you sent the queen alleges that she ordered my death because I had discovered an affair between Tristan and Eseult,” she told the man who had called Branwen his beloved.

  Unable to look at either the queen or her Champion, Branwen said to King Marc, “But I discovered no such thing, and I do not believe my cousin wishes me ill.”

  Both lies tasted brackish in her mouth. The king inclined his head.

  “And on the night of the assault,” continued Ruan, “when King Marc sent me to protect the queen, is it not true that Prince Tristan and Queen Eseult were already gone when I arrived?”

  Branwen folded her arms. “We know that Prince Tristan took the queen to safety at Sir Goron’s cottage.”

  “And yet, by Sir Goron’s own admission, their arrival time indicates that they must have left before the castle was attacked.”

  Baron Julyan’s lips parted, inhaling at the revelation.

  “You have no idea when Tristan or Eseult left the castle, Ruan,” Branwen said, storming toward him, “because you were in my bed!” His face smoothed in surprise. “The court already knows we’re lovers.” She whirled toward the other nobles; Countess Kensa’s face was flushed. “I see no reason to be coy.”

 
Ruan ran a hand through his hair. “You’re right, Branwen. I don’t know when they left.” He paused and she felt short-lived triumph. “But I have a witness who does.”

  Her breath buckled as she forced herself not to react.

  “Massen?” called Ruan, signaling with his arm.

  A boy of ten years, cheeks heavily freckled, walked with trepidation toward the dais from the back of the crowd.

  “Massen is a stable hand,” Ruan explained. Branwen exchanged one discreet sideways glance with Eseult. Her cousin looked as if she’d just seen her own death.

  Ruan spoke to the boy in Kernyvak. There was silence before the boy replied. Tristan gritted his teeth at the words that neither of the Iverwomen understood.

  “The boy says he saw Queen Eseult leave the castle on her mare, Lí Ban, almost two hours before the attack began,” Ruan translated. “Tristan’s mount was also missing from its stall.” Appealing to the barons, he said, “Why would the True Queen leave the castle in the middle of the night if not for a tryst?”

  Eseult opened her mouth to speak, and Branwen silenced her with a glare.

  “That proves nothing,” Branwen retorted.

  “No, but this does.” Ruan extracted a small scroll from his pocket. “Tutir’s wife brought it to me when he never returned home.”

  He motioned at a woman with fair skin and chestnut hair. She stepped to the front of the crowd, a babe in her arms and a daughter at her side who only just reached her knees. Both of her children had brown skin and dark hair like their father. Branwen’s heart seized with guilt, her mouth growing dry.

  Tutir’s wife was named Wenna, but that was all Branwen could make out from what she told King Marc in Kernyvak. Again, she saw Tristan’s complexion grow ashen.

  Baron Julyan took the scroll from Ruan.

  “This is the queen’s seal,” the elderly baron confirmed, tapping the maroon wax.

  “It was delivered the morning of the attack,” said Ruan. “Clearly the queen sent the Royal Guard to do her dirty work while she intended to flee with her lover.”

  “But they came back!” Branwen exclaimed. “Why would they do that?” When Ruan didn’t have an immediate response, she said, “May I see the message?”