Xandru leaned closer, fiddling with the dice.
“If Kernyv is to maintain control, the islands will need a governor. And revenue. The Manduca family is interested in exporting the granite from the abandoned quarries.”
Branwen stroked her gloved hand, taking in the news. The shrewd look in Xandru’s eye undercut his placid demeanor.
“Family business brings you back to Monwiku, then,” she said.
“One is a Manduca for life.” Xandru’s laugh was resigned. “But that is not the reason I’ve sought you out.” His gaze skimmed her gloved hand and Branwen dropped it to her lap, tingles rushing down her spine.
“What is it I can do for you, Captain?”
“Marc has told me of your proposal—a treaty with the barons, and the creation of a new House for Andred. It’s not a bad suggestion.”
Xandru collected both of the dice, shook them, and watched as they spun; the table creaked.
“The former countess is still a threat.” He met Branwen’s gaze. “As long as she has a living son.”
“Andred won’t even visit her,” said Branwen. Noble prisoners were often allowed visitors and the king had given him permission, but he refused to go.
“Ruan was also unaware of her schemes.”
A valid point but, “Kensa is isolated at Villa Illogan,” she protested.
“Do you remember our pirate friend, Otho?” Branwen raised an eyebrow, tension coiling in her chest, as Xandru went on, “He has found employment at Villa Illogan as a guard; his wife and daughter as maids.”
The soldiers who had been sworn to House Whel had been disbanded, and Kensa’s jailors handpicked by the king—and Xandru.
“They’re spying for you,” Branwen said, and she should have realized sooner. Xandru would never leave Kensa to her own devices, without eyes and ears on her. He loved Marc too much. A sliver of a laugh escaped her.
“Information is your trade,” she said. “What do they report?”
He cocked his head at her, his smile cold. Dusk shone on his sleek black hair.
“A man matching Baron Dynyon’s description has visited Villa Illogan twice in recent months.”
Branwen inhaled sharply. “I don’t understand. Why would she risk her life with another plot?”
Xandru answered her question with a question. “Have you ever watched a man drown?” he said, and she nodded, thinking of the horrible moment Eseult was thrown over the side of the Dragon Rising.
“Desperation makes a man clamor—hasten his own death,” continued Xandru. “Kensa is already drowning.”
And she would pull Kernyv down with her. “But would she really endanger her last living child in Kernyv?” Branwen wondered aloud.
“I think that woman would do anything for power. To put Andred on the throne—and rule in his stead as regent until he comes of age.” Xandru’s lip curled.
The possibility of Kensa acting as regent for her young son hadn’t occurred to Branwen, but of course it was a gambit the countess would consider.
As Branwen’s lips parted in dismay, Xandru noted, “You know I’m right.”
She did. Kensa could do untold damage to Kernyv in a matter of months, never mind years as a regent. “Does Marc know?” Branwen said, fear lacing her words.
“The countess didn’t name Baron Dynyon among her co-conspirators, and the king is loath to execute the head of another House without substantial proof.”
She clasped her hands together, rubbing one thumb over the other. “The barons are already … agitated,” she agreed.
“Even when a king is in the right, there is a fine line between enforcing the law and being seen to be a despot.” Xandru paused. “Despots are often overthrown.”
Although they were alone, Branwen whispered, “What are you suggesting?”
“Baron Dynyon is a pompous man, easily enticed by the right incentives. Prisoner or not, Kensa wields considerable influence. She lost Endelyn and Ruan because of your cousin and the king. She is not a woman who forgives.”
Xandru held Branwen with a level gaze. “Kensa is a threat to Marc—and Kernyv—as long as she draws breath.”
“He’ll never have the stomach to kill her.”
“He is too good.” The captain’s eyes gleamed. “Sometimes threats must be removed so that a king does not become a tyrant.”
Branwen went utterly still. Her heart beat painfully. Dark murmurings filled the back of her mind, both the taunts of Dhusnos and the threats of Seer Casek.
Xandru pushed to his feet. “There have been reports of black lung near Illogan. Perhaps you should visit and see if Kensa is in good health? I fear she may have already caught the sickness.”
He held her with a look. “No one will question the Royal Healer if she succumbs to an illness under your care.”
Branwen nodded again, more slowly, realizing the truth of his words. It had to be her.
“Also, I trust you to protect Marc as I do.”
His admission was no small thing, and she swallowed with sudden emotion.
“And where will you be?” Branwen asked him.
“I will be helping Marc to draft a new charter. The heads of the Houses have too much power. Surely it would be fairer if we were to create an assembly with more representatives from the noble families. Don’t you agree, Duchess?”
“Also more likely that they will fight among themselves.”
Xandru grinned. “Precisely.”
* * *
Sleep did not come that night. Or the next. At dawn of the following day, Branwen saddled Senara and crossed the causeway, the White Moor her destination.
She felt each passing minute like grains of sand sliding through an hourglass. Fifteen days remained until Samonios.
Branwen rode her palfrey hard through the Morrois Forest, sweat forming on her brow as she reached the Royal Infirmary. Following the tip of the Stone of Waiting northwest for a league, she plunged into a shroud of fog.
Senara whinnied as the same doe with a missing tip of its ear, whose reddish coat was snow-flaked with bright spots, followed them into the thicket. The animal hadn’t grown at all since the spring.
Bells tinkled from the branches overhead. The mare stomped her hoof. They were in the presence of an Old One. Branwen urged Senara onward, looking for the copse by the stream that led to the Wise Damsel’s dwelling.
She heard no gurgling water.
Branwen pulled back on the reins, turning her mount around. She walked Senara more slowly, wondering if she had missed the path when the doe distracted her.
She returned southward, then aimed northward again. The fog thickened. Panic bit deep beneath Branwen’s skin, its fangs sharp.
The White Moor was protecting itself. She could not cross the Veil to the healing well or Ailleann’s cottage.
Branwen choked down on a wail, chest heaving. Twigs crunched beneath the doe’s hooves as it approached. Senara’s eyes grew wide, frightened.
The young deer began to lope, and Branwen kicked her mount into a trot, giving chase, following the creature.
Wishes fluttered in the trees, flashes of color in the dense mist.
Soon enough, Branwen found herself at the edge of the White Moor. The doe—the Old One—had guided them out, but the message was clear.
Branwen was no longer welcome.
* * *
Dejected, she let the mare carry her back toward the Royal Infirmary. There was work to be done, patients to be tended. Work would numb Branwen’s mind.
Arthek barked as she tied Senara to a wooden post near the Stone of Waiting. Andred had brought the pup to the infirmary to entertain the patients, although it hadn’t lifted his spirits much. If Branwen did what Xandru had proposed, the weight on the young prince’s shoulders would only increase.
Her eyes were drawn to the statue of Matrona above the entrance. Was Branwen truly the white raven? Taking Kensa’s life would not lead her to rebirth.
“Branny?”
Branwen�
��s gaze dropped from Matrona’s mournful visage to the queen.
“I didn’t expect to see you so early,” said her cousin, drawing closer.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied, still in a daze. “What are you doing here?”
“Lamorna went into labor yesterday afternoon, and I didn’t want to leave her. I stayed the night.” Branwen’s lips creased into a smile. “It’s been a difficult delivery so far,” said Eseult. “Her contractions are finally growing closer together.”
She raked her cousin with her gaze: bruise-like smudges beneath the queen’s eyes, blond plaits skewed, her gown soiled. And she looked happy. Genuinely happy.
Branwen’s knees grew weak. She struggled for breath. The sob she had suppressed overwhelmed her. Eseult’s mouth pinched in concern. “Branny, what is it?”
She couldn’t find the words.
Eseult embraced Branwen, holding her up as her rib cage quaked. Her cousin drew circles on Branwen’s back as Branwen had done for her on so many occasions. Branwen’s cheeks grew so wet it was as if she’d cried the entire Ivernic Sea. The queen held her firm against her slight frame.
Sir Goron came running at the sound of a woman’s distress. Embarrassment heated Branwen’s face. Eseult shooed her Champion away and led Branwen into an empty room that opened onto the central courtyard. King Marc had sent the castle gardeners to plant it with spike-leafed trees and other foliage. Branwen shivered as wind stirred the chimes.
The queen sent Lowenek to brew some tea, and seated herself beside Branwen on a thin cot, stroking her spine in silence. The close quarters reminded Branwen of their cabin on the Dragon Rising, before everything had gone wrong.
Lowenek returned with the tea, the girl’s gaze pensive as she handed Branwen a ceramic cup. Branwen sipped.
“What happened?” Eseult prodded, tender, once the girl had gone. Her cousin’s green eyes were pained, filled with love, so like Lady Alana’s.
“I’m afraid what my parents must think of me. If they can still see me from the Otherworld.”
When the Armoricans had attacked Monwiku, Branwen had believed one life for many was a fair trade. Choosing that life was a slow form of torture.
Eseult stroked Branwen’s brow, fingers cool, touch gentle.
“I fear what my parents think of me, too,” said the queen. “Maybe we always do.”
Branwen shook her head. “You don’t understand. I … there is something I must do. A darkness that must be appeased.”
She’d been a fool to think death had saved her. Branwen had saved the castle, and lost herself.
“You’ve done enough for peace,” her cousin declared.
Branwen turned the cup between her fingers. She saw no choice but to become more lost.
“I’ve never told you the full truth.”
Eseult swallowed. “I know, and I know why. You don’t have to tell me now.”
“I want to,” said Branwen, and for the first time in their entire lives it was true.
“Then I want to listen.”
She breathed in and out. “When Monwiku was besieged, I offered myself to Dhusnos. In exchange for his assistance in defending the castle, I—” Branwen rushed the next words, “I agreed to provide him with another Shade by Samonios.” The queen touched her throat. “If I don’t, Dhusnos will claim the soul of someone I love.”
Eseult pried the mug from Branwen’s hands, setting it on the floor. With a deliberate motion she intertwined their fingers.
Voice strained near to breaking, Branwen confessed, “And, Essy, part of me wants to—the rush when I take a life … not even love feels as good.”
Her cousin pulled Branwen closer on the bed, wrapping her other arm around Branwen’s back. “What can I do to help you?” Her voice was hushed, resolute.
“Tristan already offered me his life,” said Branwen, leaning back, meeting Eseult’s gaze. “I won’t condemn him that way.”
Her cousin opened her mouth. “Or you,” Branwen preempted her.
“There must be something.”
Branwen’s shoulders rose and fell, fresh tears welling. “I have no choice but to fulfill my end of the bargain. I don’t know how it will change me,” she said. “I need you to remember me—remember who I am.”
“Nothing will change my love for you.” Eseult traced the honeysuckle and the hazel atop Branwen’s leather glove. “You have one last battle,” said the queen, lifting her chin. “And I will be waiting when you return. You will always be the sister of my heart.”
Who Branwen would be when she returned she did not know. She only knew that it would not be the woman she was now.
VILLA ILLOGAN
BRANWEN RODE ALONE ACROSS THE peninsula.
She forded the River Heyl where it was shallowest, near Sir Goron’s home, then continued south toward Illogan, which was located on the tip of a jagged cape. She stayed a night at the same inn where she had rested together with the king and queen during Eseult’s welcome tour last winter.
Sheer physical exhaustion had forced a few hours of sleep on Branwen, but she woke before the sparrows.
Villa Illogan was perched on a clifftop, ferocious waves assaulting the cape below. Branwen spotted its silhouette from several leagues away. Derelict mines lay on either side of the road. She remembered Ruan telling her that his ancestors had grown wealthy selling white lead to the Aquilan legions, but the land around Illogan was now depleted of minerals. Ruan’s true father must have been pressed into labor in one of the mines that Branwen now passed.
The day was blustery as Senara carried her steadily toward the villa, a heavy inevitability closing in on her. Her cloak fanned around her. It was unadorned.
Branwen had left her mother’s brooch at Monwiku. This was not the right fight, yet it was the fight she had chosen. Despite knowing her destination, she felt as rudderless as when Seer Ogrin had abandoned himself to the will of his god and a rowboat.
Twelve days. Twelve days until Samonios. Branwen could let the former countess live a little longer. She could. But this was the road she traveled.
Five days from now, King Marc would announce the new Crown Charter to all of the noble Houses. His invitation to attend a feast at the castle made crystal clear that apologies could not be sent. Nor could anything—anyone—be allowed to interfere with the implementation of the new laws.
Yellow gorse sprinkled the loam, sprouting stubbornly in the ruined earth. The road tapered as Branwen approached the villa. She had never visited Ruan’s home with him. The remnants of the vinegary tea and stale bread she’d eaten for breakfast rose in Branwen’s throat. If fortune were kind, Ruan would never learn the details of his mother’s death.
The façade of Villa Illogan was not dissimilar to the late pirate king’s residence in the Veneti Isles. Six snakestone columns supported the triangular roof of the building in the center of a rectangular complex. Behind the Aquilan structure, set farther back, loomed three rounded towers made from granite in the Kernyvak style. Perhaps they’d been added later, when House Whel required more fortification. The overall impression of Ruan’s childhood home was daunting.
In addition to the soldiers who had been in the employ of the countess, the servants had also been dismissed and replaced with a skeleton staff. Now, as Branwen’s mount beat the dirt road toward the portico of the villa, there was no one to be seen.
She inhaled shortly. It was as if the villa already belonged to the dead.
Wind whistled between the pillars of the portico as Branwen brought Senara to a halt. “Dymatis!” she called out. She received no response.
After a few minutes, Branwen tried again.
Finally, Otho appeared at the top of the steps that led to the portico. He rubbed his substantial nose and waved. He did not look surprised to see Branwen.
He wore a black uniform with the crest of House Whel embroidered in red thread on his tunic. Kensa had dressed her jailer in her colors. Xandru’s assessment was correct. The former countess would
not so easily accept the destruction of her House. She was still clamoring.
Branwen jumped down from her mount, boots squelching in the soft ground. It had rained overnight and the air was thick, presaging another storm.
As Otho took Senara’s reins from Branwen, he thinned his lips into a not quite smile, revealing his snaggled teeth. He was careful not to make contact with her. He had already witnessed the power of Branwen’s touch.
“Mormerkti,” she told him, and she patted her mare’s shoulder. “Kensa?”
A woman appeared between the pillars above them. Otho slanted his gaze in her direction. Her white skin was tanned, and her shoulders were broad. She looked younger than Otho, perhaps thirty summers.
“My wife, Petra,” said Otho in the Aquilan dialect spoken by the pirates. Branwen nodded. “Petra will take you.”
Branwen forced a skittish smile, grateful to understand the simple phrases, another wash of acid rinsing her throat.
She ascended the stone steps toward Otho’s wife. The woman was grim-faced, her eyes watchful. She also seemed to have expected Branwen’s arrival.
Petra walked briskly through the central building, and Branwen kept pace silently at her side. They passed into another courtyard that contained an elaborate fountain in the middle: a sea-wolf spitting water onto terraced levels of crimson marble. She could picture Ruan playing here as a boy, splashing around in the fountain on a sweltering summer’s afternoon—except that his childhood had not been filled with frolicking.
The courtyard led to another building and out again. With each step she took, Branwen grew more nauseated. Sickened by the craving she could not deny.
She clamped her left hand over her gloved one, willing her shoulders not to tremble as Otho’s wife steered her through the outer ward hemmed by the three towers.
The pirates had died almost instantly by the Hand of Dhusnos, Branwen tried to convince herself. It would be more merciful than death by burning. She bit the inside of her cheek. An appealing lie. Eternity as a Shade was no kind of mercy.
At the entrance to the northernmost tower, Branwen spotted several men. They were dressed in the same uniform as Otho, and yet she suspected their true allegiance was also to Xandru. Kladiwos blades jangled at their hips.
Bright Raven Skies Page 29
