Bright Raven Skies

by Kristina Perez

  “A ruler always needs someone in the shadows,” remarked Xandru, approaching her from behind. He lifted his goblet to Branwen.

  “And how long will you remain in the shadows?” Branwen asked the captain.

  “As long as he needs me.” The reply was so sincere, so unlike Xandru’s glib rejoinders, that Branwen didn’t know how to respond.

  Rearranging his features into an amiable smile, he added, “My next errand is to ensure that Baron Dynyon arrives in the Veneti Isles. I will transport him there personally.”

  Branwen listed her head, meeting Xandru’s eyes. “Will Baron Dynyon arrive safely?”

  Another laugh, darker. “I gave the king my word.” Thrusting his chin toward the cluster of noblemen standing before the dais, Xandru said, “Have you signed the charter yet?”

  “Me?” Branwen startled.

  “Aren’t you the Duchess of Liones, and a member of the King’s Council?”

  “I—I suppose I am.”

  Xandru gave one shake of the head, eyes crinkling.

  Branwen left the captain and walked toward the dais. Andred—Crown Prince Andred—stood beside the king and queen.

  Branwen joined the group of noblemen, and Baron Chyanhal drifted toward her. “My faith was not misplaced,” he said into Branwen’s ear.

  “Thank you for your advice.”

  He ducked his head. “I look forward to working together.”

  Baron Chyanhal stepped before King Marc and Queen Eseult, bowing from the waist, and signed the Crown Charter. After they exchanged a few pleasantries, it was Branwen’s turn. Her pulse unexpectedly began to accelerate.

  Marc gave her a curious look. “I would have thought you’d be the first to sign, Duchess Branwen.”

  A flush spread down her neck.

  “I forgot who I was,” she said.

  Eseult laughed, almost a giggle. “That makes you exactly who you are.”

  Branwen echoed her laughter, although her hands were clammy. Andred’s face was a stone and he did not acknowledge her.

  King Marc handed Branwen a feather quill. The nib was stained black from so many signatures. Her eyes traced them on the page before her. The swirls of ink were pledges, insubstantial in themselves, reliant on the honor of the individual behind the name.

  She had been born Lady Branwen Cualand of Laiginztir, heir to Castle Bodwa. The Dark One called her Branwen of Iveriu.

  The king’s smile became a question as she continued to delay, the quill hovering above the parchment.

  Here she was Branwen of Castle Wragh, Duchess of Liones.

  She dipped the tip of the quill into the inkwell. Leaning forward, still uncertain which name to sign, Branwen spied a figure moving quickly toward the king and queen. For half a breath, she thought she saw the silhouette of a Death-Teller.

  Sir Goron grabbed the man before he could reach the queen and pressed a kladiwos to his throat.

  The nib of the quill skidded across the parchment.

  “I—I come from Ar-Armorica,” said the man, fear further whitening his pale face. “With a message from Crown Princess Alba.” He spoke in Aquilan.

  Sir Goron regarded the messenger, leery. The man wore a yellow tunic, a red owl embroidered on his chest.

  “What is the message?” King Marc said curtly.

  “It’s for Healer Branwen.”

  She glanced up at her name—the name Alba would call her by.

  “I am Healer Branwen,” she said.

  Glancing warily between Sir Goron and the blade of his sword, the messenger said, “The scroll is in my pocket.”

  King Marc nodded, and the Queen’s Champion lowered his weapon. Xandru had deftly maneuvered himself just behind the Armorican messenger, placing his body between Marc and the stranger. The king needed a new Champion of his own, but he had thus far been unwilling to replace Ruan.

  The messenger slowly removed the scroll from his pocket, and Xandru snatched it from the other man’s fingertips, examining it.

  “This is Alba’s seal,” he confirmed.

  A chill skittered along Branwen’s spine. Her first thought was that Tristan was sending for her before Samonios as he had promised. Yet she didn’t think he would use his wife’s seal. She accepted the scroll from Xandru, dread tensing her fingers, and broke the seal.

  The red waxen owl fell to the stone floor. Many pairs of eyes bore into Branwen as she began to read.

  Her breathing thinned. She recognized each of the words and yet, taken together, they didn’t make sense. They began to swim across the page. Nonsensical.

  Her hands trembled as if she’d plunged herself into an icy lake.

  “Branny?”

  Eseult’s voice penetrated the water sloshing in Branwen’s ears—just barely.

  “It’s Tristan,” she said, rasping.

  “Is he alive?”

  Branwen swallowed, looking toward Marc, who had asked the question. She had never seen him look more capable of violence.

  “He’s wounded. Poisoned.”

  She heard Eseult gasp, but it still seemed very far away. Anger began to sear through Branwen’s shock. Directing her gaze at the messenger, she said, “When did you depart from Karaez?”

  “Five days ago,” the man replied.

  When Branwen was at Villa Illogan. The Dark One hadn’t shown her a vision of the past, after all.

  She choked on the bile that surged up her throat.

  “Who poisoned him?” said King Marc, jaw stiff, looking between the Armorican messenger and Branwen.

  Branwen wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She had nothing left.

  “Ruan,” she answered the king. “He challenged Tristan to a duel for Endelyn.” Branwen forced herself to meet Andred’s plaintive stare.

  “Your brother is dead. I’m sorry,” she said. “But he used a poisoned blade.”

  “Like Uncle Morholt,” said Eseult. She covered her face with her hands.

  “Like Uncle Morholt.”

  Had Branwen given Ruan the idea the night she showed him the wooden practice sword in her chamber? She swayed on her feet.

  “Tristan wants me to come,” she managed.

  “Of course. You must go to him immediately,” replied the king, terse. “If anyone can save him, it will be you, sister.”

  But Branwen had no more magic. Maybe she hadn’t changed Tristan’s fate at the Champions Tournament. Maybe she had only delayed it.

  She exited the Great Hall to prepare a bag. Tristan had sworn to send for her, but Branwen had lied when she’d said she wouldn’t come.

  She would always come if he needed her.

  She prayed she wouldn’t be too late.

  BLACK SAILS

  THE MAWORT AND THE ARMORICAN vessel set out from Marghas at the same time, but by the end of the first day on the open water, Branwen had lost sight of the red owl and its all-seeing eyes. Xandru had offered to escort her to Karaez without being asked, and she could only hope that his ship truly was as fast as he claimed.

  Four days passed in a haze of fear and snatched restless sleep. Whenever Branwen did catch a few minutes’ rest, the white raven circled her in her mind.

  She remembered Captain Morgawr telling her that all sailors were fate-tossed dreamers. Tristan, too, loved the Dreaming Sea.

  Branwen’s heart was not prepared for surrender. Not yet.

  Now she and Eseult stood on the bow of the Mawort as the Armorican capital sprawled before them.

  Eseult pushed back the flyaway hairs from Branwen’s plaits, black as kretarv feathers. Branwen curved her mouth in the approximation of a smile. She’d questioned Eseult’s desire to join her on this mission and her cousin had replied, “I owe Tristan my life. I want to help if I can, and I don’t want you to be alone if we’re too late.”

  Branwen believed her. To be able to trust her cousin, finally … to have spilled so much truth—it was a balm.

  “That must be Castle Arausio,” said the queen, pointing at the towers that rose
from a hill just beyond the city. Stretching behind the hill was dense forest.

  Branwen nodded absently, her attention focused on the maze of streets between the city walls. Karaez was vaster than anything she’d ever seen in Iveriu or Kernyv. The houses were brightly painted in yellows, reds, and blues.

  Eseult took Branwen’s hand. “We’ll get there in time,” she said stubbornly, as if willing it to be true. The cerulean cloak that Ruan had once said brought out the copper in Branwen’s eyes flapped around her, taunting her.

  How had he arrived in Armorica? When had he decided to avenge his sister? She shivered as she remembered Ruan’s embrace, imagining it to be as cold as the grave. If Branwen had left Kernyv with Ruan, could she have stopped him?

  Bitter tears stung her eyes.

  Suddenly, the Mawort was gliding into a slip on the busy docks. Ships flying colors Branwen didn’t recognize—from across the southern continent, possibly beyond—lined the port. Racing down the gangway, Xandru barked orders at his men and vanished into the bustling port.

  A few minutes later he returned, shouting up from the dock at Cherles. The Melitan Islander immediately escorted Eseult off the ship, Sir Goron walking in front, and Branwen just behind. King Marc had insisted—the alliance notwithstanding—that Eseult be accompanied by her Champion in a foreign land.

  Four horses waited at the end of the pier.

  Xandru knew the quickest route to Castle Arausio, having visited many times, and Branwen rode out front with him. Eseult followed, with Sir Goron as the rear guard. Branwen’s thighs burned as she gripped the saddle tight, urging her mount onward.

  The traveling party followed the path of the sun. Samonios would be celebrated in three days’ time, and afternoon was already being enveloped by evening.

  Branwen’s face was itchy with sweat despite the frigid breeze coming off the coast. The healing satchel slung across her chest bounced against her hip.

  Between the city and the castle lay farmland. Castle Arausio dominated its environs, a strategic position from which to guard against siege. Orange light hit beige stone as the sun sunk behind its walls. The structure of the castle was square and its towers rectangular. Branwen glimpsed soldiers walking the perimeter of the curtain wall at the bottom of the hill.

  Xandru was the first to cross the drawbridge, which had been lowered across the moat that ringed the hill. A soldier wearing an Armorican yellow tunic and leather trousers approached, hand on the hilt of his kladiwos.

  Branwen strained to catch her breath as she slowed her stallion beside Xandru’s. Her cousin joined them, her cheeks pink. Sir Goron guided his horse between the queen and the Armorican soldier. The man looked younger than Branwen, his pale face wind-chapped, brown hair clipped.

  Xandru addressed the soldier in Armorican, and he seemed to recognize the captain. He looked from Xandru to Branwen, and then Eseult, ears perking up at something the captain had said.

  The soldier bowed deeply before Eseult, saying something more anxiously to Xandru, and let them pass.

  “What is it?” Branwen demanded of Xandru as their mounts trotted through the gate of the curtain wall.

  “Tristan is in the East Tower.”

  “He lives?”

  Xandru didn’t reply, only gave her a heavy look, and she read his empathy for what it was. He kicked his mount and sailed past Branwen. Acid rising in her throat, she chased him up the threadlike trail that wound around the hill toward the main gate of the castle.

  More soldiers, presumably members of the Armorican Royal Guard, were clustered outside it.

  Branwen’s patience was frayed. Before Xandru could address the guardsmen, she’d leapt from her horse and rushed toward the men.

  “I am Healer Branwen,” she told them in Aquilan, hoping someone would understand her. “Crown Princess Alba sent for me.”

  A tall woman of thirty summers stepped forward. She was dressed the same as the male guards except for a sash of red silk that cut a diagonal across her tunic.

  “Alba has mentioned you to me,” she said to Branwen. From her expression, what Alba had said wasn’t all positive. The woman’s complexion was the same golden-brown as Xandru’s, her eyes several shades darker as she scrutinized Branwen.

  “Take me to Alba,” Branwen said, fear making her request a bark.

  The woman gave a short laugh, her long black braid bouncing against her shoulder. “Greetings, Sofana,” said Xandru, leading his own horse toward them by the reins. “This is Duchess Branwen and that—” he gestured behind him at Eseult, “is the True Queen of Kernyv.”

  Sofana arched an eyebrow as she bowed from the waist. This woman wasn’t easily impressed, but she still had to bow before a queen. The diamonds winked from the tiara atop Eseult’s head.

  “Follow me,” Sofana told Xandru, flicking another assessing glance at Branwen. Several of the other guardsmen approached to take charge of their horses.

  “Sofana is the head of the Queen’s Guard,” Xandru explained to Branwen as they walked. Branwen clenched and unclenched her right fist.

  She darted a glance at Eseult, who hurried to match her pace, and put a protective hand on her shoulder. Branwen shuddered a breath. She fidgeted with the strap of her leather satchel, heavy with every possible remedy.

  Just before she’d set out from Monwiku, Lowenek had brought Branwen a vial of crushed gods’ blood petals. The girl didn’t need to tell her it was from Andred, and Branwen didn’t need to ask why the prince hadn’t brought it himself.

  Sofana guided them through the inner bailey, but Branwen couldn’t take in any of the details, the unfamiliar sights and sounds washing over her without leaving a mark.

  Her only thoughts were for Tristan. The memory of the day they’d saved the fox together from one of the sandpits Keane had dug into the beach played in her mind. Tristan risked being discovered by his enemies to save a trapped animal, and that was the moment Branwen had realized that Tristan wasn’t her enemy.

  She had to stop herself from sprinting ahead of Sofana when they reached what appeared to be the East Tower. Branwen’s entire life seemed to be composed of waiting and racing, with no middle ground, nothing in between.

  Dusk filtered into a large room on the ground floor through long slit-like windows. Oil lamps had already been lit. From a cursory appraisal, Branwen could tell this room wasn’t normally used as a bedchamber.

  Her boots clicked on the stone floor as she rushed toward the bed at the far end of the room.

  Alba roused at the sound. She was slumped in an armchair beside the bed, and Branwen thought she’d been dozing. She almost felt guilty for waking her. No doubt the other woman had slept little in recent days.

  Their eyes met and Alba shook the man in the bed. “She’s here,” whispered the princess.

  Branwen’s legs halted without her permission when she reached the foot of the bed.

  Tristan shivered beneath a pile of blankets and quilts. She could see only his face, his beautiful face, but he had the pallor of death, his brown skin nearly gray.

  Branwen reached for the winter inside herself—the numbing calm. She could not let her patient see her fear. She was a healer, and a healer must always comfort even when she cannot cure. This summer, Branwen had repeated those words to Lowenek. The words she had learned from her aunt. She clung to them in this moment like a lifeline.

  Summoning the last of her courage, Branwen took the remaining steps toward Alba.

  “When was the last time he ate anything?” she asked his wife, and Alba immediately answered Branwen’s question. “Three days ago.”

  “Will he take water?”

  “Only a few sips.”

  Branwen nodded grimly. She extended a hand toward Tristan, then asked his wife, “May I?”

  Alba stepped aside as Branwen perched on the edge of the mattress. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Eseult approaching the bed, hesitant.

  Branwen stroked Tristan’s forehead, which was slick with sw
eat. She traced the scar above his eyebrow—the first wound that Ruan had ever given him: the scar that betrayed Ruan’s shame. Tristan’s flesh burned, and he quivered from the burning.

  With a somewhat violent motion, Branwen ripped the covers from him, tossed them to the floor.

  Her eyes widened.

  A skein of poison webbed across Tristan’s chest from a festering wound to the right side of his belly button. If the poison had been as potent as that of a destiny snake, Tristan would have been dead within the first day. Even so, from the smell alone, Branwen knew that whatever poison Ruan had acquired was lethal.

  She pulled her leather satchel over her head, and let it drop to the floor.

  “Branny?” Eseult made her name a choked sound.

  Branwen glanced at her, then at Alba. She knew that all her love, all her pain bled from her eyes.

  “Branwen?”

  This time her name was spoken by the same melodic voice that had once serenaded her, sung to her about the only jealousy of Emer.

  “He’s been waiting for you,” said Alba, and there was no recrimination beneath her words. “Come, Queen Eseult,” she said, wrapping one arm loosely around the queen’s shoulders. “Let’s give Branwen space to work.”

  Branwen’s heart swelled with a gratitude that was pure, awestruck by the gift of one woman recognizing the love of another.

  To her cousin, she said, “Tell him what you would have him know.” Tristan and Eseult had shared much, and there would not be another chance.

  The queen nodded, eyes gleaming. Branwen rose from the bed as Eseult stepped forward, leaning over Tristan, and whispered in his ear. She did not hear her cousin’s words and they were not hers to know. His eyes still shut, he half smiled and groaned as he squeezed Eseult’s elbow in response.

  Tears streaming down her face, the queen retreated toward Alba, making a small whimpering noise.

  Finally, Tristan’s eyelids fluttered open. He reached for Branwen and she sat back down on the bed. Branwen turned to him, only vaguely aware of the hushed footsteps as the room emptied of other people.