Bright Raven Skies

by Kristina Perez

  Branwen narrowed her eyes. “And did he tell her?” she asked.

  “He did. Enkidu confided in Artume that the Horned One had shaken his right hand, and that was the source of his strength.”

  “His right hand?” Swallowing, Branwen pressed her own flat against her thigh as dark susurrations stirred inside her.

  “Yes. And while Enkidu slept, Artume cut it off. He lost his divine strength and died battling the next monster sent by Artume’s father.” Seer Casek tilted his head. “That is why women do not partake in the Mysteries of the Horned One.”

  “I don’t see why the actions of one woman should preclude all women from your Mysteries, Seer Casek.”

  “It wasn’t her actions, my lady.” Casek wagged his finger at her. “Enkidu broke his faith with the Horned One because of Artume. He promised the Horned One never to reveal the secret of his strength, but he loved Artume more than his god. Artume was Enkidu’s temptation—his weakness.”

  “It seems to me that Enkidu’s weakness was his own.”

  A hollow chuckle. “Perhaps you are right, Lady Branwen.” Casek clasped the jewel-encrusted antler shard with one hand, lifting it to his lips and nodding at something over Branwen’s shoulder. She followed his gaze.

  Tristan.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” said the seer and he turned on his heel, proceeding toward House Whel’s tent.

  Forcing her hands not to tremble, forcing herself not to steal Casek’s life in front of the entire court, Branwen sought out King Marc’s tent. The heat from her nostrils as she exhaled nearly made her believe in dragons.

  The tide was starting to come in. Tristan stood at the waterline between the mainland and the causeway, surrounded by at least a dozen Royal Guards. Since the attack their ranks had been bolstered with men from House Whel and House Kerdu. The presence at the castle of soldiers loyal to the countess unnerved Branwen.

  She directed a glance at Tristan but he didn’t notice; he appeared entirely focused on the cliffs that towered above the beach.

  When Branwen reached the king’s tent, she startled.

  She did not find Eseult sitting beside Marc. Instead, the chair to his right was occupied by Princess Alba.

  And to his left, sat Xandru.

  “Dymatis, my Lord King,” said Branwen. As this was a formal occasion, she curtsied. Purple smudges were smeared beneath Marc’s eyes, but his beard had been closely shaved for the first time in weeks.

  Branwen shifted her gaze to Xandru, who lounged in his chair, long black hair pulled back by a leather tie, golden-brown skin wind-chapped from days at sea.

  “Welcome back to Monwiku,” she said. “I’m glad to see you safely arrived. When did you land?”

  “Thank you, Lady Branwen. King Faramon is always a gracious host. The Mawort put into port a few hours ago.” Peering across the king to Alba, Xandru said, “My little cousin has always been a difficult houseguest.”

  There was a vague family resemblance between the pair, something in the tilt of their mouths.

  Princess Alba gripped the armrests of her chair. She was dressed in a gown of wild Armorican yellow, a citrine-studded tiara atop her head. Branwen sucked her teeth. What was the meaning of this?

  “Perhaps the accommodation isn’t to my liking,” said Alba, glaring at Xandru. Then she flicked an irate look at Branwen. The women hadn’t spoken since their boxing match, and Branwen didn’t know what Alba remembered of her escape attempt.

  Before she could articulate any of the many questions buzzing around her brain, Branwen heard King Marc say, “We are about to begin. Queen Eseult has been allocated her own tent for the duration of the trial.” He couldn’t conceal the worry in his eyes. “Would you sit with her?” Motioning at the last tent along the beach, he added, “She shouldn’t be alone.”

  “Of course.” Curtsying once more, Branwen forced down her misgivings.

  She hurried along the beach. Two guardsmen stood on either side of the opening to the queen’s tent; the flaps were pulled back to allow a full view of the combat pitch.

  “The king sent me,” said Branwen. The guards nodded brusquely.

  Stepping inside the tent, she met her cousin’s look of surprise. The crown of diamonds and onyx that Marc had bestowed upon his wife at her coronation graced her brow. She embodied a True Queen. But, for how much longer?

  “May I watch with you?” Branwen asked her cousin.

  “Yes.” A nervous smile. “Yes, I’d like that.” Eseult patted the seat of the chair next to hers. Both were upholstered with plush cushions of black damask.

  Branwen perched on the end. The muscles of her upper back were so taut that a headache was forming behind her eyes. She hadn’t been completely alone with her cousin since the night of Queen Verica’s funeral. Wind rustled the flaps of the tent, and the hum of the crowd pulsed around them.

  Neither of the cousins spoke.

  There had been a time, not much more than a year ago, when Branwen had thought there would never be anything she and her cousin wouldn’t tell each other. She glanced at Eseult, who offered her another painful smile, and tried to recall that intimacy.

  “Thank you for defending me—” Eseult began at the same time Branwen asked, “Did you know Captain Xandru had returned?”

  After a fraught moment, Eseult nodded, saying, “He came to the king’s suite early this morning. Then Marc excused himself. I don’t know what they discussed.”

  Branwen clumped the material of her skirt between her hands.

  “Princess Alba is sitting with the king in his tent,” she informed the queen. From the fact that Alba was wearing a crown, she no longer seemed to be a prisoner. Although Branwen doubted the princess could get very far from Xandru’s sights if she tried.

  Eseult screwed up her nose. “Maybe King Faramon agreed to the alliance?” she said. Branwen didn’t reply. Something had changed—that much was certain. And life had taught Branwen to loathe surprises. She forced out a somewhat calming breath.

  “Branny,” her cousin started again. “Thank you for taking my side against Ruan.”

  “You didn’t send the order to kill me.” Branwen’s reply was crisp.

  “No, I didn’t. But I’m—I’m sorry that I’ve made you think I could.” The queen’s chin trembled. “I can see why you did.” She pulled a golden strand from one of her plaits, wrapped it around her forefinger and yanked.

  “I was a fool to ever want to be Étaín,” she said.

  Branwen’s chest constricted. Étaín’s song had always been her cousin’s favorite. The ballad of a woman married to one brother but in love with the other. Eseult had asked Tristan to perform it on the night of the Farewell Feast in Iveriu.

  I did not ask for the love I was given; the love for which I must be forgiven.

  It was Branwen’s magic that had made her cousin into Étaín. Too much had passed between them for simple words of apology. She took Eseult’s hand and unwound the strand of hair from her finger.

  “I’m scared, Branny. I’m so scared.”

  A horn sounded, setting Branwen’s nerves alight. She dropped the queen’s hand.

  Baron Julyan processed from his tent to the pitch, stopping in the center, opposite the king’s tent. He leant on his alabaster cane as he bowed. He spoke in Kernyvak, then Aquilan. King Marc must have asked the elderly baron to ensure that the True Queen understood what was happening. His heart was the noblest of them all, and Branwen’s magic had endangered everyone he loved.

  “The trial of Honor by Combat is older than the Kingdom of Kernyv itself,” Baron Julyan announced to all those within earshot. A thrumming hush emanated from the spectators.

  “Our ancestors trusted in their gods to settle their differences, and so do we. Prince Ruan. Prince Tristan!” He summoned them forward.

  Ruan walked from the east, Tristan from the west. Both the King’s Champion and the Queen’s Champion were dressed in black and white. The hazy light shimmered around them. Branwen had
witnessed this scene before; when she blinked she could see Uncle Morholt and Tristan preparing for the Final Combat.

  “I’m scared, too,” Branwen admitted to Eseult.

  “I wish it were me instead of Tristan,” said her cousin. “He doesn’t deserve this.” Branwen canted her head; the look in Eseult’s eye was fierce. “I think maybe I do,” said the queen, and the confession stole Branwen’s breath away.

  “Prince Ruan has accused Prince Tristan and True Queen Eseult of treason,” Baron Julyan proclaimed. As if anyone present were unaware. When the two Champions reached the center of the pitch, the head of House Julyan said, “Before we commence with the combat, Prince Ruan, would you like to withdraw the charge?”

  Branwen clamped her lips together. Ruan had never bested Tristan in a fight. In fact, he’d once conceded to Branwen that his cousin was the better swordsman. And yet his loathing, his sheer stubbornness, forced him to declare, “I do not withdraw the charge.”

  Eseult covered Branwen’s hand where it rested on her lap.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want Tristan to lose, and I don’t want Ruan to die. Anyone can see how much he loves you.”

  “Love isn’t enough.”

  “I know,” whispered her cousin, holding her stare. “I know it isn’t.” Branwen swallowed a lump in her throat and it tasted of blood. The tears she fought were scalding.

  To the Champions, Baron Julyan said, “You are each allowed one weapon only. Have you chosen?”

  Ruan unsheathed a broad fálkr sword, its blade gently curved. Branwen had tucked his father’s knife into her boot.

  Tristan drew a kladiwos: a long, thin Ivernic weapon. It was hard to ascertain from this distance, but Branwen thought it might be the same sword she’d purloined from the armory at Castle Rigani when King Marc had sent a search party for Tristan last spring.

  “The rules of Honor by Combat are simple,” said Baron Julyan. He stroked his substantial white beard. “The contest is concluded when one fighter disarms the other. Mortal wounds are allowed, but the gods will only be seen to have passed judgment if one of the combatants loses his weapon.”

  Branwen and Eseult traded a terrified glance. If both men died without being disarmed, what would that mean for the True Queen? The rules of men, written by men, yet again disregarded the women.

  “He who loses his weapon loses his honor, and the gods will have affirmed the honor of the victor.” The baron’s voice boomed over the silent crowd. “When the horn blows again,” he said, swinging his gaze between Ruan and Tristan, “you may begin. Starting positions at three paces.”

  Baron Julyan waited until the Champions had retreated the appropriate distance. As the baron returned to his tent, Branwen spied Andred exiting House Whel’s. Her eyes followed the boy as he joined Lowenek, who stood together with Talorc and Seer Ogrin. Either Andred would lose his remaining sibling, or Tristan and Eseult would burn.

  Branwen nearly missed the blare of the horn for the pounding of her heart.

  Eseult gasped as the Champions raced toward each other. The sea rushed closer to the land. From the first day Ruan had met the Dragon Rising at the port of Marghas, he and Tristan had been careening headlong into this moment, their childhood animosity turned deadly.

  The clang of steel on steel shredded the humid breeze. Unbidden, Branwen recalled the heat of Ruan’s breath and lips as he kissed the space between her breasts. He hadn’t challenged Tristan for Branwen, and yet his disdain for their bond was one of the many reasons he wouldn’t back down.

  Étaín—in jealousy was I born and named. Traipsing through the tide, trotting atop the water, Branwen glimpsed the skeletal fox. There, and gone. Étaín—destined to bring my lovers pain. The Otherworld sang to her; taunted her.

  Tristan leapt high in the air, tucking his knees tight to his chest, as Ruan swept the fálkr at his ankles. It was a move King Marc had used when he’d dueled with Prince Kahedrin, and which both had learned from Sir Goron. Who had instructed Ruan? Branwen doubted it was the father who beat him.

  “Oh, Branny!” Eseult exclaimed. Ruan had landed a blow on Tristan’s left arm. Blood welled where the sleeve of his tunic gaped open. “I don’t think I can watch.” She gripped Branwen’s hand tighter. “But I must.”

  Branwen interlocked their fingers. Tristan shouted, spitting at the surging tide, and rounded on his cousin.

  At the Champions Tournament, the Iverni believed their goddess Ériu would choose the victor. Today, the Kernyveu believed that their gods would pass judgment by confiscating the weapon of the man without honor. Some of the spectators on the beach followed the Horned One; others the Old Ones. Or, perhaps, gods whose names Branwen didn’t even know.

  Which god, then, was determining the outcome of the contest? Branwen had to hope it was a trickster god, because Ruan was right about Tristan and Eseult’s adultery despite being wrong about the reason. Branwen had stolen Tristan’s honor, and if Ruan lost today, she would have stolen his as well.

  The Champions clashed blades, Tristan driving Ruan closer inland. Branwen could hear the men trading insults. She couldn’t decipher the Kernyvak words but their facial expressions were enough.

  Blood spurted from Ruan’s right calf, just below the knee. He staggered sideways, the tip of his fálkr grazing the sand, before recovering. The crowd roared as Tristan also sustained another wound on his thigh.

  Eseult’s complexion went whiter than lace.

  “Branny, I need you to know I don’t blame you. For the baby—I didn’t mean what I said. I was angry and I wanted to blame someone for what happened.” She gazed at Branwen, a sheen to her eyes. “It felt better to hate you than myself.”

  “I won’t let you die,” Branwen told her, and she realized it was true. If Eseult were found guilty, it would mean war. Branwen would smuggle her queen back to Iveriu, no matter the cost.

  “I’m not saying this because I’m afraid of dying!” Eseult’s reply was urgent, with a hint of irritation that was almost reassuring. “Do you remember when I made you fetch me that apple?”

  “What?”

  “When we were girls. I forced you to scale that tree in the garden. You fell and sprained your ankle, but you never told Mother on me.”

  Branwen’s eyes followed Tristan and Ruan as they danced through sand and surf.

  “Yes, I remember,” she said distractedly.

  “You’ve always kept my secrets,” said Eseult. “I’m sorry for making you. I’m sorry I wasn’t worthy of yours.”

  Branwen inhaled shortly. “You weren’t wrong when you said I’m no longer who I was,” she told her cousin. “Your miscarriage was an accident—but I’ve taken other lives.”

  A scream tore from Ruan’s throat. Tristan had sliced his sword arm, right near the elbow. His grip around the hilt of the fálkr slackened. Eseult rose halfway out of her seat.

  Tristan pursued the King’s Champion with two thrusts. He ducked as Ruan arced his blade too widely. Twirling in the sea foam that now lapped his boots, Tristan elbowed his cousin once in the face and once in the gut.

  Ruan’s sword fell to the ground.

  He dove for it. Blood painted the sand.

  Tristan kicked the fálkr out of the other man’s reach.

  With what seemed like Otherworldly speed, Tristan lunged for the fallen weapon. A raven cawed as Tristan brandished both weapons above his head.

  Branwen slammed back in her seat. The raven gliding above the Champions was black. Black, not white.

  Ruan scrambled to his feet and sprinted for his cousin when the horn sounded.

  Eseult let out a yelp. “He’s won?” Hope strained her voice. “Tristan’s won—hasn’t he?”

  The look on Ruan’s face was utterly bleak. He cursed and tore at his hair, matting it with his own blood.

  Tristan had won. Tristan had won, but Branwen didn’t thank the Old Ones. She didn’t thank any of the gods.

  Dull light gleamed off both of the blades in his han
ds. His shoulders rose and fell, sweat pouring from his brow as he held them aloft.

  King Marc emerged from his tent. He strode toward the two Champions. He carried himself with confidence but without joy.

  Surveying his nephew and his cousin, he pivoted toward the crowd.

  “The Honor by Combat has been decided,” the king declared. “Prince Tristan has upheld his honor and that of the True Queen.” He maintained a neutral countenance.

  “Queen Eseult,” said King Marc, beckoning her from the tent. “Please join me.”

  Eseult stared, dazed, paralyzed by relief. “Get up,” whispered Branwen. Her cousin tugged on their joined hands. “Come with me,” she said.

  Branwen escorted her cousin toward the king. She met Marc’s gaze, and she saw grief there.

  Taking the fálkr blade from Tristan, the king said to Ruan, “Your charges against Prince Tristan and True Queen Eseult have been proven false.”

  He paused, and Branwen saw the cords in Ruan’s neck tighten.

  “Do you choose death or dishonor?” King Marc asked his cousin.

  Ruan inhaled through his nose. He looked at his king, and then at Branwen. Her bottom lip quivered. She had warned him, she had shared her body with him, and she didn’t want to attend his funeral.

  The sea also waited for his answer. Ruan searched the crowd, and Branwen saw his gaze land on Andred.

  “Dishonor,” he said after several long moments.

  King Marc nodded. Branwen spied the muscles in his jaw relax a fraction. He would not be forced to play the part of executioner today. The king lifted the fálkr to Ruan’s sash, the white now speckled with furious crimson.

  “Prince Ruan of House Whel, you are stripped of your status as King’s Champion. Henceforth, you will hold no official position at court. You will return immediately to your family estates at Illogan where you will remain unless I send for you.”

  The blade made a smooth sound as it cut through silk. The sash fell onto his boots.

  Ruan bowed from the waist. Murmurs swept through the crowd. Given the severity of the allegations that he’d brought against the True Queen, the punishment was light indeed. Neither Tristan nor Eseult protested, but Branwen worried what the other courtiers might think.