Bright Raven Skies

by Kristina Perez

  Andred lifted his shoulders, clinging to the tree, rising to his full height. He had also grown rapidly over the summer and he was now taller than Branwen. He hadn’t wanted to celebrate his fifteenth birthday, but it had passed nonetheless, and soon he would not be a gangly boy.

  “My mother never wanted me,” he told Branwen, an emptiness in his voice that spread to his eyes. “At least I learned why when she was arrested.”

  Branwen shifted closer, reaching out to him. He heaved a sigh, allowing her to brush the curls from his face.

  “I was there when she died,” said Branwen. “Kensa loved you, Andred. She told me so.”

  Her apprentice cringed, suspicion filling his gaze.

  “You’re lying,” Andred said. He released his grip on the tree. “She never said those words. Not once in my entire life.”

  “Andred—” she started to protest when he cut her off, saying, “I had a pet mouse once.” Confused, Branwen tilted her head as he continued, resisting the urge to interrupt.

  “He was my only friend at Illogan once Ruan left.” The sadness with which he spoke squeezed the air from Branwen’s lungs. “One day I came back to my room to find the mouse dead, between the jaws of a cat. My mother had let the cat into my room.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Andred lifted a hand. “She told me it was for my own good. She said in a world full of cats, mice are dinner. She said better never to love a mouse, and she didn’t.”

  He took another step back from Branwen. “Countess Kensa never loved me, and she certainly wouldn’t tell you if she did. I don’t know what really happened at Illogan, Duchess Branwen,” he said, eyes hardening. “But I know you’re lying to me. The advantage to being a mouse is that you recognize cats for the danger they pose.”

  Andred turned his back on Branwen and strode away, his gait deliberate.

  Her heart kicked. She pressed a hand against the ache between her breasts, watching as the boy straightened his shoulders. With each step he took, he was leaving his boyhood behind. Branwen had ended it, and their friendship. One day, she was certain, he would make a strong, decisive leader. But they would not be friends.

  * * *

  Night had wrapped itself around the castle when Eseult came to find Branwen in the West Tower. Queen Verica’s apartment still didn’t feel like it truly belonged to her.

  Branwen sat up on her bed as the door creaked open.

  “I didn’t know you’d returned until I saw the light in your window,” said her cousin, apologetic. “Did I wake you?”

  Branwen huffed a laugh. She’d lain down on her bed hours ago, as soon as she left Marc and Xandru in the gardens, but sleep remained elusive. She had lost Andred and she deserved his wrath. His distrust. The boy saw her with clear eyes.

  The queen’s skirt made a shushing sound as she approached the canopy bed. Candlelight darkened her green eyes, which brimmed with questions. She sank into the thick quilt beside Branwen.

  “Kensa is dead,” she told Eseult.

  “She tried to have you murdered. I won’t mourn her, Branny.”

  “She did, and now I’m a murderer, too.” Branwen’s eyes were dry. Her pillow was already damp. “When I killed Keane, it was an accident. He found your letter to Diarmuid, he cornered me in the stairwell, and I thought he might … he seemed capable of anything in that moment.”

  Her shoulders hitched. “I didn’t know Keane would become a Shade. I only half believed they existed. Yesterday, I knew. I acted with the power of a god.”

  Branwen turned her right palm face up and Eseult took it gently in her own. Her cousin traced the puckered flesh, then brushed a kiss upon it.

  “My healing magic will not return,” said Branwen.

  “You don’t need magic to heal, Branny.”

  “I needed magic to save you on the ship.” Her tone was sharp. They peered at each other sidelong.

  “I remember a field of white flames. Flames that almost looked like flowers,” said Eseult, hushed. “Once when I stabbed myself, and once when I fell overboard.”

  Branwen nodded. “It was Bríga’s fire,” she explained. “Her fire that terrified the Shades. And now it’s gone.”

  Not letting go of Branwen’s hand, Eseult lifted her other to Branwen’s temple.

  “The Old Ones have demanded more of you than others.”

  “I’ve demanded more from them. And I’ve made terrible mistakes with the power they gave me.”

  “You’ve saved far more lives than you’ve taken,” her cousin insisted. “Me. Tristan. Marc. You have saved all of us—more than once.”

  Branwen bit her lip. “When I stole Kensa’s life, I received her memories,” she replied. “If my life had been hers, I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t have done the same.”

  “Yes, you can. Everything you’ve done—even your mistakes—has been for peace.” Eseult sighed. “Kernyv, Iveriu, Armorica—they should all be grateful you did what you did.”

  “Marc can’t know,” said Branwen with a start. “It’s better if he doesn’t. For him, and for Andred. I don’t want to sour their bond.” If Andred was to cast Branwen as the villain, let her be the only one.

  Her cousin’s expression grew earnest. “I won’t break your trust,” she said. “Not again. Never again.”

  “Will you stay?” Branwen asked. Her shoulders curled forward, her request—her need—making her shy.

  “Of course.” The queen’s lips formed a small, contented smile. She unlaced her boots and stretched out beside Branwen on the bed, Branwen scooting to the far side.

  “The Dark One said he would leave me my Otherworld sight so that I could see death coming without the power to stop it.”

  Eseult slipped her hand back into Branwen’s, interlocking their fingers.

  “Most people can’t stop death, Branny. Most people wouldn’t think to try.”

  Branwen blew out the candle on the bedside table. She screwed her eyes shut against the image of Tristan lying on the battlefield. That was in the past. The past couldn’t hurt her any more than it already did.

  “Your magic isn’t why I love you,” said her cousin into the murk-filled room. “You’ve always been my best friend. Your friendship is magic.”

  “Thank you, Essy.”

  She and her cousin were no longer girls. She did not love her in the same blind way she had a year ago, but the woman lying beside her was worthy of her respect, her trust, and a place in the heart she was reconstructing.

  Branwen swooped over the starless tide, wings outstretched, teasing the whitecaps, searching—searching for something she’d found and lost, and almost found again.

  FATE DELAYED

  THE GREAT HALL TEEMED WITH people. An air of trepidation wove among the noble men and women, who did not know the reason they had been summoned to Monwiku, as they enjoyed the king’s hospitality—dining on venison, lamb, trout, and harvest vegetables at the feasting tables that ran the length of the hall.

  Branwen’s thoughts coasted on the din of impatient chattering. Eseult had stayed close to her for the past few days, sleeping each night by her side like she had in the months after Branwen’s parents died, when Branwen was too angry to share her blanket. Now it was not anger, but an amorphous grief that seeped through her.

  Eseult had also insisted on preparing Branwen for the feast, combing her recalcitrant curls and painting her cheeks.

  Her seat next to the queen at the king’s table provided an excellent view of the courtiers. From the raised dais, Branwen’s gaze skimmed the extended family members of the barons whose acquaintance she had made at various occasions since arriving in Kernyv, but whose names she struggled to remember.

  She watched their expressions while she picked at her food, sipped the spiced wine. Andred sat on King Marc’s left, a place of honor—the seat Ruan used to occupy—but he did not glance once in Branwen’s direction. Doubtless news would be spreading through the hall that Kensa had died from black lung while a prisoner
at Villa Illogan, and there was no way to prevent rumor or speculation.

  Xandru had chosen to dine with the members of House Dynyon this evening. The baron touched his carmine moustache with increased frequency as Xandru engaged him in conversation, the captain’s face a pleasant mask. Baron Dynyon’s wife had a pallid complexion. She studied the lamb chop on her plate, eating quietly.

  King Marc took a substantial swallow of wine, then pressed a hand to Eseult’s shoulder. They both rose to standing. Eseult coughed. She spoke first, greeting her subjects in Kernyvak, and a hush fell over the hall.

  Branwen leaned forward, catching Lowenek’s eye. The girl was sitting next to Andred, at his request. Branwen winked at her, and her cheeks grew rosy with pride. Lowenek had been an excellent language tutor to the queen.

  Her fiery hair was elegantly plaited for the feast by her own deft fingers, her face beginning to lose the fullness of girlhood. She had turned thirteen this summer, and Branwen had talked her through her first bleeding, just as the Queen of Iveriu had once done for Branwen. A language that only women could speak with one another, private and binding. Kensa and Endelyn had shared similar secrets, and now they were both dead.

  King Marc smiled at Eseult and there was warmth in his eyes, yet it was not how he regarded Xandru.

  Branwen clapped when the queen concluded her words of welcome, as did the rest of those assembled. In addition to the families that comprised Houses Gwyk, Julyan, Chyanhal, Kerdu, and Dynyon, the king had invited all of the petty Kernyvak lords. Men who ruled small pockets of land between the baronies—gifts from one Kernyvak king or another to their ancestors, usually for bravery in battle.

  The king cleared his throat, and the tension tightened around the feasting hall.

  “Friends,” he began. “Thank you for joining me for this celebration. I hope you are enjoying the bounty of the autumn harvest.”

  Murmurs of appreciation and head nodding accompanied his statement. Branwen’s Kernyvak had improved so that she understood what Marc was saying, even if she missed a word here or there.

  “The past year has been tumultuous for Kernyv,” said the king. “But now, thanks to all the gods—” Marc tipped a smile at Eseult. “We have peace with Iveriu, and peace with Armorica. The pirate threat has been quelled, and the Veneti Isles are under complete Kernyvak control for the first time since the Aquilan occupation.”

  Sir Goron lifted his voice in a cheer from where he sat on the other side of Branwen as she searched the crowd for the new head of House Gwyk. Doane. The man that Baron Chyanhal had warned her about. He was square-faced, his pale cheeks hollow, pitted. Branwen thought him to be the same age as King Marc. Doane was well muscled and he held himself as if braced for an attack.

  King Marc pursed his lips. “In order to maintain this newfound peace, to ensure stability, the True Queen and I have drafted a Crown Charter.” Marc had consulted with Eseult on all of its minutiae, and Branwen could see how much his respect meant to her cousin.

  He paused, surveying the faces of his nobles. “This document will enshrine the rights and responsibilities of the noble Houses and petty lords. As well as the crown’s responsibilities to you, my friends and subjects.”

  Eseult lifted her chest and announced, “The Crown Charter will henceforth allow female heirs the right to ascend the throne, and the monarch to designate his or her heir—regardless of direct descent.” Several intakes of breath rippled through the hall.

  “One religion will also not be privileged above any other in the laws of the land,” she stated firmly. Both the king and queen wore antler shards around their necks, but Eseult had not forgotten the Iverni who remained in Kernyv nor the Kernyveu who still cherished the Old Ones.

  Branwen felt for her mother’s brooch, but her fingers touched only velvet. She hadn’t been able to put it on since she’d returned from Villa Illogan.

  “We also believe there is a need for a Greater Council, in addition to the King’s Council,” King Marc continued. He and Eseult must have rehearsed the speech together.

  “We want to hear the concerns and consult with more of our subjects,” he said, his voice carrying through the silent hall. “The Greater Council will meet thrice annually and be composed of five members from each of the noble Houses, as well as all of the petty lords and their most direct heirs. The Houses may determine their representatives independently.”

  Foot stomping and thunderous applause rose to the ceiling, especially from the tables of petty lords. Branwen’s shoulders sagged with relief.

  The queen angled her body toward Andred, grabbing his gaze.

  When the crowd had quieted down, “Prince Andred,” she said. “You are the son of Prince Edern, of royal blood, and you have proven your loyalty to the crown. In recognition of your fealty, we bestow upon you the honor of your own House.”

  Eseult took a breath, looking out at the hall. “House Katwaladrus, after your ancestor, the great king.”

  “To House Katwaladrus!” said King Marc, raising his goblet.

  Echoes of House Katwaladrus! bounced off the walls. The nobles all lifted their goblets and toasted to Andred.

  Andred’s face was drenched with shock. He squirmed slightly, unused to being the center of attention.

  “M-mormerkti,” he stuttered.

  “Sekrev,” replied King Marc, and he patted his cousin on the back. Shifting his gaze toward the table where Xandru sat among the members of House Dynyon, the king said, “Tonight I would like to honor another Kernyvman who has been a great asset to me on the King’s Council.”

  The edges of Marc’s mouth flickered.

  “Baron Dynyon,” he started, and the attention of the nobles trained on the baron. “You served my father faithfully for years, and you have served me well in recent months.”

  Branwen narrowed her eyes at Xandru and, even from a distance, she saw the laughter in his.

  “For this reason, I am appointing you the Governor of the Veneti Isles. I know that a man of your acuity will bring them to order, and bring honor to your House.”

  King Marc lifted his glass again. “To Baron Dynyon, Governor of the Veneti Isles!”

  The nobles cheered, although there were a few gasps mixed with the applause. Xandru nodded at Branwen as he drank deeply from his goblet.

  Baron Dynyon’s face took on a scarlet hue, but he could not refuse such an honor, and certainly not so publicly. He must see the exile for what it was, and yet Branwen hoped he was wise enough to show gratitude for King Marc’s clemency.

  “There is one final matter that I have assembled you all here to address,” the king said. He took Eseult’s hand. “The True Queen and I are determined that the future of Kernyv should not be marred by the strife we have seen this past year.”

  King Marc cast a pointed glance in the direction of House Gwyk.

  “To this end, as Queen Eseult and myself have yet to be blessed with a child—” He gave his wife’s hand a small squeeze, swallowing, and Branwen gripped her goblet tighter. He still believed that the child Eseult had lost had been his.

  “Until such time as we have our own child,” King Marc started again. “The True Queen and I have decided to designate an official heir, in accordance with the new Crown Charter. In the event that we should both succumb to illness or accident, we want the line of succession to be clear.”

  The sound of a hundred people holding their breaths throbbed in Branwen’s ears.

  “Prince Andred of House Katwaladrus, I have trusted you with my life as cupbearer, and I trust you with my kingdom,” pronounced the king. The look on Marc’s face was pure paternal pride.

  “Prince Andred, will you consent to the honor of being our heir?” he said.

  Another silence kept the hall in suspense.

  “Yes, my Lord King,” replied Andred, brow furrowed, and Branwen could see the gravity of what was being asked of him on his face. “It will be my greatest honor to serve my kingdom as your heir.”

  King M
arc motioned for him to stand. He slid out of his chair sideways, and leaned against its back as he swung his feet under him.

  “Raise your glasses to Crown Prince Andred!” urged the True Queen.

  Xandru stood. Branwen followed his lead. All of the Kernyvak nobility leapt hastily to their feet. Branwen toasted her former apprentice, and her congratulations were heartfelt.

  Andred was a good choice. A smart choice. No one could question his lineage, and no one had a bad word to say against him. His elevation would also dampen the fears of the other nobles.

  Furthermore, he had chosen the truth, the good of his kingdom, even when it had cost him everything.

  Eseult turned to Branwen, and they clinked glasses.

  “Tonight you are a True Queen,” Branwen told her.

  Her cousin hesitated at the compliment, then kissed Branwen on the cheek.

  * * *

  Once the meal concluded, the heads of the noble Houses—including Andred—and the petty lords were invited to sign the Crown Charter.

  The king’s table was cleared of dishes, and the elaborately decorated vellum was unfurled in its center.

  Seer Ogrin had been the scribe. He’d learned calligraphy from the temple as a young kordweyd. Although he had little occasion to employ his skills now, he was a talented artist, evidenced by the capitals of the letters accentuated with delicate flowers and animals.

  Eseult had trusted the seer to keep the terms of the charter secret. Branwen was glad of the closeness that had developed between her cousin and Seer Ogrin, even though she realized her cousin’s embrace of Matrona and the Horned One would soon leave no room in her heart for the Old Ones.

  Branwen leaned against one of the snakestone pillars that supported the Great Hall, watching from beneath a shadowed archway as the Kernyvak nobles signed their names to the charter, reaffirming their loyalty to the crown, and receiving assurance that their rank and property could not be stripped from them without cause.

  Lady Neala signed on behalf of House Julyan, her father still too ill to travel. Baron Doane of House Gwyk bowed before the king and queen, and yet Branwen sensed him chafing like a dog at his collar.