“So glad you could join us,” Xandru said to Branwen, shocking her by speaking Ivernic. Yet another language the spy knew, apparently.
The lounging man lifted his eyebrows.
“An Iverwoman?” he said. His face was rounder, more childlike, than Branwen would have expected from a pirate. He was slim, and his hair was so blond it was nearly white.
“This is Remus,” Xandru announced as if there were nothing peculiar about the introduction.
Outrage lit Branwen. No. It was impossible. The pirate king, the man responsible for so much destruction in Iveriu, could not be her countryman.
“Remus is not an Ivernic name,” Branwen said to the lounging man.
His eyes became slits. “I was brought to the Veneti Isles when I was six years old. No one cared about my name. No one from Iveriu came looking for me.” He sat up. “I have no kingdom. I am free. When I realized that, I chose my own name.”
Branwen’s chin trembled, anger overwhelming her.
“But now I am a king myself,” boasted Remus. He was no more than thirty summers, yet he had risen from a plundered boy to king of the pirates. He must be savage indeed, and pragmatic.
“We were just negotiating the terms of King Remus’s surrender,” Xandru said blithely.
“I don’t think that’s entirely accurate,” Remus countered. “Your fleet is being torn to pieces by my catapults. And you won’t make it out of this fortress alive.” To emphasize his point, he nodded at the pirate holding Spiru at knifepoint.
The man slit Spiru’s throat.
Branwen’s heart kicked but she suppressed a scream.
Xandru betrayed no emotion as his crewmember slumped to the floor, blood gushing down his tunic. Branwen didn’t know whether it was because the captain truly felt nothing, or because showing allegiance to anyone or anything besides his objective would be a sign of weakness.
“I believe we still have the numbers,” said Xandru, panning his gaze over Otho, Cherles, Alba, and Branwen.
“Inside this room, yes,” Remus acknowledged. Above his lounge chair hung a threadbare tapestry of some Aquilan feast. “Outside?” He raised his shoulders. “Not so much.”
“King Marc wishes to speak with you, but he didn’t say you had to be in excellent condition.”
The pirate king laughed, and the sound reminded Branwen of the goat she’d heard earlier.
“I don’t think we have many common interests,” said Remus. “Aside from comely Iverwomen.” He leered at Branwen. “Isn’t there an Ivernic queen on the throne of Kernyv these days?”
“There is. But no, King Marc wishes to know who’s been staking your raids.”
“Ah. Well, I’m afraid I’m not inclined to tell him.”
The man with an ax took a step closer to Xandru, and Branwen moved closer to the captain.
“I would very much appreciate it if you came with us,” Branwen said to the pirate king. She showed him a placid smile. Feeling a rush of power, she stepped in front of Xandru.
“As much as I would enjoy your appreciation,” said Remus, “I cannot oblige.”
Branwen lowered her sword, raising her right hand to the cheek of the ax-wielding man. He startled, then laughed. He said something she didn’t understand to Remus, but which she inferred to be lascivious.
The ax rattled as it fell to the tiled floor.
A different villa, on a lush green coastline, flashed through Branwen’s mind. She saw a boy with a gray cat, caring for its kittens.
Xandru tugged her hand away from the pirate. It was too late. There was no more light in his eyes.
Remus jumped to his feet. “By the Old Ones, what was that?” Fear pulled his features into a sneer.
Though shock washed over him, Cherles wasted no time in dispatching the pirate who had slit Spiru’s throat.
A shout could be heard from the garden. A few moments later, a stocky man, chest heaving, rushed into the room. Scrambling for breath, the newly arrived man forced out his message for the pirate king.
“The chain is down,” said Xandru. “The chain is down.”
Alba stabbed the stocky newcomer in the heart.
To Remus, Xandru said, “Would you like to reconsider your position?”
The pirate king’s eyes hadn’t left Branwen. Otho hit his temple with the pommel of his sword.
“I believe that qualifies as a yes,” said Xandru, and this time his smile wasn’t careless at all.
THE POETRY OF LOSS
PIRATES STREAMED OUT OF THE fortress, racing for the harbor to get to their ships. All of the gates were raised. The moored ships had been dangled like bait to lure in the royal fleets, but the pirate king had been overconfident that the chain would protect them.
In the chaos, Otho procured a wheelbarrow, loading Remus into it unceremoniously and covering him with a woolen tarp. Branwen walked next to Xandru as they wheeled the pirate king straight out the east gate.
Alba kept her distance as they hustled through the encampment on the other side of the trench. People were dashing from their tents, down the south side of the promontory toward the harbor. Cherles pushed the wheelbarrow along the road at a steady clip, and the pirates were too panicked to notice that he and his companions were headed in the opposite direction from the battle.
Before they started to descend the hill, the vantage point allowed Branwen to glimpse the royal ships that had retreated now changing tack again to rejoin the fight. Diarmuid and Ruan had done it. They’d given the fleet a chance of success.
She hoped they were still alive.
When the hunting party, returning with their prize, reached the wood without being followed, some of the tension left Branwen’s shoulders. She noticed a subtle shift in Xandru’s gait as well. Otho scratched his nose, his expression brooding despite the captive beneath the tarp. She wondered again what Otho’s motives were and whether he would be returning to Kernyv on the Mawort.
Alba eyed Branwen warily. She flicked the tip of her sword against the trunks of the trees she had marked on their way to the fort. The sun beat down on them from directly overhead, the leafy branches dappling their faces with cool spots of shade. Branwen tasted salt on the breeze as they neared the shore.
The wheelbarrow bounced as Cherles navigated it through the dune grasses toward the pebbled beach, jostling the unconscious pirate king within.
“Look!” said Alba. “They’re coming.” Excitement lifted her voice. Branwen spotted them, too, farther along the beach: Ruan, Diarmuid, and two of the Ivermen.
Her relief was fleeting. “They’re not alone,” said Xandru. Branwen looked again. Five men were pursuing them, and they were gaining ground.
“We get Remus to the ship,” Xandru commanded.
“We can’t leave them,” said Branwen. Her heart twisted. She hadn’t been able to save Endelyn, and she cared for Ruan—even if she couldn’t love him back in the way he wanted.
“They’re not part of the mission, Branwen. They knew the risks.”
“I’m not leaving them.”
“Do what you must,” Xandru told her. “I’m taking Remus to the Mawort.”
Magic flaring, Branwen bolted in the direction of Diarmuid and Ruan, the dune grasses giving way to rocks as she descended the slope. Her ankles ached as she sped over the uneven ground. Exhilaration spurred her on and for a ghastly moment, Branwen thought she saw the bullish pirate and the ax-wielding man running beside her. She didn’t know their names, yet she’d witnessed the most intimate details of their lives.
She had stolen them.
Something solid banged against Branwen’s shoulder. “I don’t leave anyone behind,” said Alba. The other woman burst forward, shouting at Ruan in Aquilan and lifting her kladiwos.
Alba and Branwen converged on the band of Ivermen just a breath before the pirates. Diarmuid’s shirt was sprayed with blood and he’d lost his eye patch.
One of the Ivernic sailors, his dark hair thick and frizzy, had a huge gash on his thigh. H
e was limping, leaning on his crewmate, a man with russet-colored hair and features like cut glass.
“I count five!” Branwen yelled in Ivernic.
Ruan ran to her side. He had a wound on his shoulder but it didn’t look deep. They exchanged a sideways glance. “Not dead yet,” he said. “As promised.”
Alba clashed swords with a pirate whose mouth glinted gold as he bared his teeth. Diarmuid dueled with a long-haired pirate who looked no more than fifteen. Branwen couldn’t keep track of who was fighting whom, because her kladiwos sang as another sword struck it.
The man at the other end of the blade was Branwen’s height and he wore a silver hoop through either ear. His face was sunburned, and his expression ugly.
Branwen retreated a pace. The pirate pursued. He spit blood onto the black and white pebbles. She searched for Ruan with her gaze, but he was now engaged in his own sword fight.
The pirate targeting Branwen circled his curved blade in the air. He thrust and she jumped back into the surf. The tide was coming in and sea foam covered the rocks. Branwen’s breath came in pants.
She was no match for the pirate physically, yet she felt a surge of strength. Maybe from the life force she had absorbed. She’d been lucky not to kill Alba the day she’d tried to escape.
The man snarled as he edged Branwen farther back into the water. At his feet, the skeletal fox prowled out of the tide. The creature shrieked at Branwen, red eyes burning. It wanted her to drain the pirate of life. She felt the fox’s desire.
Or, perhaps it was her own.
She lowered her sword, and confusion crinkled the pirate’s brow. Then he bellowed a laugh. He thought Branwen wanted to surrender.
He lunged closer; her pulse pounded, acid sloshing in her stomach.
The pirate stopped dead. The tip of a sword sliced through his tunic from behind.
Stunned, he fell onto the rocks with a thud. Blood spurted from his mouth, covered his front.
Diarmuid’s kladiwos dripped crimson as he removed it from the pirate’s back.
“Are you all right, Branwen?” he asked.
She nodded, grateful yet frustrated. The fox yowled and vanished into the surf. Diarmuid gave a tight smile, satisfied, spun around, and ran toward Ruan.
Branwen spied the long-haired pirate dead on the ground. So too was the Iverman who had already been wounded. Alba danced around the man with golden teeth, though she was clearly tiring.
Diarmuid and Ruan fought an ogre of a man together. The russet-haired Iverman had been chased into the dunes by a pirate Branwen realized was a woman, and the Iverman was losing.
Branwen sprinted past Ruan to help her countryman. To her surprise, from the direction of the moored ships, she saw Xandru tearing down the beach.
Pebbles became sand, tall grasses whipping against Branwen’s knees. Xandru caught up to her right before she reached the Iverman dueling with the pirate woman.
“Gods curse you,” Xandru said. “I won’t be the one to tell Marc you’re dead.”
“I’m already cursed, Xandru.” And part of her wanted another taste of life.
He clenched his jaw, eyebrows drawing together, then attacked the female pirate before she could hear his approach. Xandru was a blur of motion and instantaneously the woman was in his arms, almost as if she had swooned.
He laid her down gently in the grasses and closed her eyes.
“Thank you,” sputtered the Iverman.
Jerking his head at Branwen, Xandru replied, “Thank her.”
“Thank you,” the man repeated, still in shock. He clutched at a wound on his hip. “I’m Bearach.”
As the three of them jogged back down the dune, Branwen saw Alba finally land a killing blow on the golden-toothed pirate.
Ruan had fallen sideways onto the beach. Diarmuid continued to battle the enormous pirate alone, reminding Branwen of how he’d fought the Reykir Islander at the Champions Tournament.
“Ruan!” Branwen called out. He didn’t seem to be moving.
Somehow Diarmuid knocked the sword from the pirate’s grasp. With a guttural shout, he struck the pirate in the chest and the other man fell backward.
Diarmuid turned to Ruan, crouching down beside his companion-at-arms. Branwen ran faster than she knew she was capable, scanning his body for injuries.
“Look out!” cried Alba.
It was too late.
While Diarmuid was kneeling next to Ruan, the giant pirate got to his feet. He swung his sword down on Diarmuid’s neck. Blood spurted violently from the artery like a fountain.
“No!” Branwen shouted.
The pirate stumbled back a pace from the force of his own blow, then teetered face-first into the sand. Before she could blink, Alba had parted the pirate from his head.
Branwen crashed down beside Diarmuid. His blood was hot as it sprayed her face. She clasped his hand. There was nothing mortal that could repair such a wound, and her healing magic was gone.
“One Iveriu,” Diarmuid rasped. They were his final words.
Tears scalded Branwen’s eyes. As she crawled over to Ruan, she put two fingers to his neck. He was alive. She kissed him without thinking, her lips coated with another man’s blood.
Xandru and Alba hovered above them, weapons still drawn.
Bearach bent down on one knee beside his fallen lord.
“We need to get back to the Mawort,” said Xandru. “Now.”
Ruan’s eyelids quivered. He groaned. Branwen had never thought a groan so beautiful. She glanced at Diarmuid, his one eye staring up at the infinite sky.
“We need to bury him,” she told Xandru.
He shook his head. “No time.”
Ruan came around, rubbing his head. Sitting upright, his eyes focused on the man lying dead beside him. Genuine pain streaked his face.
“I’m sorry, Branwen,” he said. “Diarmuid was a good man.”
“Can you walk?” Xandru asked Ruan, switching to Aquilan. He nodded. “Then get up.” Impatience striated his words.
“Wait!” Branwen’s voice was high, almost hysterical. She wouldn’t let Diarmuid become a Shade like Keane because his soul was unclaimed.
Swiveling her torso toward Bearach, she asked the Iverman, “Do you know the mourning prayer?”
“Do it quickly,” said Xandru, exhaling in exasperation.
Branwen spied a chip of Rigani stone among the pebbles, gleaming green like the cliffs of Iveriu. Ivermen carried them for luck. It must have fallen from Diarmuid’s pocket. Choking down a surge of emotion, Branwen kissed the stone and placed it on Diarmuid’s mouth.
Bríga was invoked at Ivernic funerals because she inspired the poetry of loss. She helped people give voice to their grief. Branwen recited the prayer she had spoken at her parents’ funerals so many years ago.
Goddess Ériu, she pleaded silently. Do not abandon Diarmuid in this foreign land. Don’t let Dhusnos claim him.
Branwen and Bearach repeated the prayer to Bríga over the other fallen Iverman.
Ruan watched her as she collected Lord Diarmuid’s sword from the rocks. Xandru strode ahead as they followed the beach back to the Mawort. Alba stayed close to her cousin. The Rigani stone on the hilt of Diarmuid’s kladiwos glittered in the midday sun. The northern lord had been bold, and he had been wise. If the fleet succeeded in taking the Veneti Isles, it would be because of his courage.
Branwen sidled next to Bearach, holding out Diarmuid’s sword.
“When you return to Iveriu, take this to Talamu Castle. Give the kladiwos to Lady Fionnula.”
“I will.” He accepted the blade with reverence.
Branwen had never been particularly fond of Lady Fionnula, but the woman had lost both her husband and now her son in a matter of months. She wanted his mother to have this vestige of Diarmuid.
Ruan tugged at Branwen’s sleeve, and Bearach walked on ahead.
“What happened at the fort?” he asked. He ran a hand through his hair, slick with sweat.
“We
got what we came for,” Branwen said.
“Whatever that is.” He muttered something in Kernyvak.
Scanning his profile, she said, “Do you have spots in your vision? Do you need to vomit?”
Ruan laughed. “Always a healer first.”
He didn’t know how wrong he was. Branwen glanced at the mark of Dhusnos. Delivering the Dark One his Shade might not be as difficult as she’d once believed—and the realization terrified her.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said shortly. “Are you seeing double?”
“No. No, I’m seeing fine. Ready for more action.” Branwen looked at him in surprise. “The chain is down, but the fleet needs reinforcements,” he said.
Her stomach lurched. “You were brave,” she said.
Tenderness softened Ruan’s features. “As were you. Like always.” Under his breath, he said, “Did you use your fire?” and concern brimmed from his eyes.
Branwen had used something worse. Bríga’s fire was gifted to her for protection. Her withering power was a worse abomination than merely burning men alive. What rumors would circulate about Branwen now?
“I’m well enough,” Branwen lied. She took Ruan’s hand, and he shuddered a breath. “I’ll see you in Monwiku,” she told him sternly.
“You do love giving me orders.” He raised her hand to his lips. “And I still don’t mind.”
Ruan and Branwen reached the rowboats. The Mawort and the Ivernic vessel cast long shadows on the waves. Bearach was waiting to row Ruan back to their ship.
“This is where we part,” she said.
He walked Branwen to the waterline and cocked an eyebrow at the wheelbarrow.
“Get in!” Alba shouted at Branwen. The princess was seated at the back of their rowboat, Xandru in front; Cherles sat in the middle, holding the oars.
On the bench between Alba and Cherles sat Otho with the pirate king across his lap, a dagger tilted at his chest, ready to slide into Remus’s heart.
Branwen watched Ruan as his eyes skidded across the faces of the passengers. His gaze settled on the pirate king and his jaw tensed.
If she hadn’t known him so well, Ruan’s reaction would have been imperceptible. But she couldn’t lie to herself. Not now. Not after everything.
Bright Raven Skies Page 21
