Bright Raven Skies

by Kristina Perez

  Alba waited beneath the entrance to the South Tower for Branwen’s signal. Dusk cast shadows across her face, eyes alert.

  “How much time do we have?” she asked as Branwen appeared.

  Heart thumping, “Twenty minutes,” she replied.

  Alba whistled and a man appeared with a small cart. “It was good enough for the pirate king,” she said, lifting a shoulder, almost smiling.

  The next part of the plan was a race against the hourglass. Alba returned with Branwen to the bedchamber, and Sir Goron lifted the queen’s lifeless body from the bed, carrying her down the stairs.

  With reverence, the Queen’s Champion laid Eseult into the straw-filled cart. The other man began to push it down the hill toward the icehouse. His name was Yannick, tall and muscular, his hair auburn. Alba had assured Branwen that she trusted Yannick with her life. Branwen was trusting Alba with her cousin’s, and so she had to trust this stranger as well.

  Alba walked in front of the cart, pace rapid, with Branwen at her side. The icehouse was located near the first perimeter wall. Anticipation tightened Branwen’s chest. She and Alba exchanged several nervy glances.

  Yesterday, Branwen had visited the princess alone in the North Tower—the tower she had shared with Tristan. A map of Armorica was painted across one wall in the sitting room.

  “He still had so much of the kingdom left to see,” Alba had said as Branwen entered, gesturing at the mural.

  Branwen wasn’t as skilled in making polite conversation as her aunt, or as Queen Verica had been, and so she’d come straight to the point.

  “On our way back from the Veneti Isles,” she’d started. “You told me we were even.” Alba lifted an eyebrow. “I need to put myself in your debt.”

  The princess had pushed to her feet, folding her arms.

  “What kind of debt?”

  “You married Tristan for peace.” Branwen crossed toward her, coming to stand just before the map. “When I killed Kahedrin, you lost the life you might have had. The life you wanted. The sea,” she’d said, and Alba bristled.

  “My cousin also married for peace. Her life has never been her own. She deserves the chance to make it so.”

  “We all do. But I don’t see how.”

  “She could live the life she wanted if she were dead.”

  “Your magic?” Alba had said, eyes rounding.

  “My magic is gone.” Branwen had shown her her palm, the absence of the dark mark, and said, “There is a root that mimics death.”

  Bóand’s tears. When they were girls, her aunt had warned both Branwen and Eseult never to play with it. Bóand was the Ivernic goddess of rivers, and the root was used to deeply anesthetize patients for long surgeries. It slowed your pulse, stole your breath from you as if you were drowning—just enough to give the illusion of death. Branwen had packed it in her satchel, and Eseult remembered its effects only too well.

  Branwen and Alba continued to stare at each other. “I’ll need another body,” she told the princess matter-of-factly.

  “And you think I know where to procure a dead body?”

  “I do.”

  A small smirk. “I might know someone who does.” Tilting her head, Alba had said, “Why would you do this? And why would you trust me to help?”

  “I trust you because you sent for me when Tristan asked—when you didn’t have to,” said Branwen. “And I’m doing this because my cousin never wanted to be a queen, but I refused to listen. Now I hear her—I see her. I have many amends to make. Let this debt to you be mine.”

  Alba’s expression had grown solemn. “I will help you, Healer Branwen, because a woman’s life should be her own. There will be no debt to repay.”

  Now torches flickered outside the icehouse as night fell. Alba had needed today to make all of the necessary arrangements. Branwen glanced back at Yannick who pushed the True Queen in the cart behind them. He’d been tasked with finding another female body—no questions asked.

  Several of the Armorican Royal Guard were keeping watch in front of the building where Prince Tristan’s body was laid in advance of the funeral tomorrow.

  Ten minutes, Branwen mouthed to Alba in Aquilan. Tension spread through her body.

  Branwen had the antidote to Bóand’s tears in the pocket of her dress. If she didn’t administer it within an hour, however, the mask of death would become death itself.

  She had poisoned her cousin to give her the chance to love. Perhaps the Aquilans were right to consider love and poison twin gods.

  Alba spoke tersely to the guards and they stepped aside.

  The icehouse was built from the same beige stone as Castle Arausio. Alba plucked one of the torches from beside the entryway, and Branwen followed her into the house, then down a darkened flight of stairs to where the ice was stored.

  And, for now, where Tristan dwelled in eternal slumber.

  The chill lifted the hairs all over Branwen’s body as they descended. Sir Goron lifted one end of the cart, and Yannick the other, carrying the True Queen carefully below.

  Tristan was laid on a wooden table at the back of the room. Torchlight filled the confined space. Looking at him, Branwen felt a fist in her chest. His visage was waxy, his lips blue.

  “I would like to be alone with my cousin,” Branwen said as Yannick rolled the cart beside the table. First she must help Eseult. She looked from the Armorican to Sir Goron.

  “Of course,” said the Queen’s Champion. He read the impatience in Branwen’s eyes, although he didn’t know its true source.

  Yannick traded a charged glance with Alba, and headed for the stairs. Sir Goron followed while the princess lingered.

  Once the men were out of sight, Branwen lowered her face above Eseult’s. Heat from her shallow breath tickled Branwen’s nose. Her cousin’s heartbeat was faint enough to miss—but it was there.

  Branwen positioned herself behind Eseult’s head, dragging her cousin against her chest, cradling her. She withdrew the vial of antidote and uncorked it swiftly, with her teeth.

  Forcing open her cousin’s mouth, she poured the liquid down her throat. She kept Eseult propped against her chest so she would swallow it all.

  For several awful moments, there was no change to her cousin’s condition. Branwen looked from Tristan to Eseult, side by side in death: the former lovers too serene.

  Then Eseult gasped, and it was a heartrending sound. She spluttered just as Tristan had on the raft, and Branwen kissed her forehead. Tears of relief rushed to her eyes.

  Alba heaved a sigh. Branwen had almost forgotten she was there.

  The princess hung the torch from a hook on the wall and then disappeared behind several large blocks of ice. Eseult blinked rapidly, regaining consciousness in Branwen’s arms. “Branny?” she said.

  “We’re safe.”

  Alba reemerged from behind the ice, holding a thickly woven travel bag.

  “Clothes,” she explained. “Dried meat. Gold coins. The tiara.” She walked toward the cousins. “Enough to start a new life.”

  Eseult coughed, rubbing her eyes, still disoriented. “Where are we?”

  To Branwen, Alba said, “I’ll invite Sir Goron back to the castle for supper.” She pointed at a stone on the wall into which an owl had been carved.

  “That’s your way out,” she said, and Branwen nodded.

  The princess mounted the stairs speedily. A moment later, Branwen heard boots clicking above them as Alba escorted everyone from the icehouse. She might not want Branwen to be indebted, but Branwen felt what she owed her keenly.

  “You don’t have much time,” she told her cousin. “We’re in the icehouse. We need to leave.”

  By the mellow torchlight, Branwen could see her cousin’s pupils remained dilated. She offered Eseult a hand as she found her feet, stepping down from the cart.

  “Sir Goron?” asked her cousin, shaking her head, trying to gather her wits.

  “He believed your note. Then he burned it.”

  Eseult n
odded. “And Xandru?”

  “No sign of him,” Branwen answered. “I don’t think he’s returned from Karaez.” By a stroke of luck, the captain had left that morning to visit with other merchants at the central city market.

  Branwen collected the large traveling bag from the ground. “Alba prepared this for you,” she said. “There’s gold. Food. Your diamond tiara—you can sell it.”

  Her cousin gave a nod, taking the bag from her. “Thank her for me.”

  “I will.” Branwen swallowed. “Have you chosen a new name?”

  “Gráinne, I think.”

  “She would like that.” The little girl they’d known in Iveriu had her whole life before her, and now so did her cousin. Branwen recovered the torch from where Alba had hung it.

  She pressed on the owl engraved into the stone and a seam appeared in the wall. Alba had explained that this tunnel had been constructed so that the royal family could escape in the event of a siege.

  “We should go,” Branwen told her cousin. She held the torch aloft as she pushed open the hidden door.

  Eseult hesitated a moment, eyes lingering on Tristan’s face, before she hefted the traveling bag over her shoulder.

  The stones were slick, wet, the tunnel no wider than the eye of a needle, and the sleeves of Branwen’s dress grew damp as she brushed against them.

  The last section of the tunnel became a cave, jagged stones dripping water onto the cousins from above. As they reached the mouth of the cave, which was cleverly concealed with hanging vines, Eseult took Branwen’s hand.

  “You must get as far away from the castle as you can before dawn,” Branwen told her cousin. “Alba said to head west through the Brechliant Forest.”

  “Come with me,” entreated Eseult. “Not you without me, not me without you.”

  There was a time when Branwen would have followed her cousin anywhere.

  “That is not my path,” she told her, tongue growing thick.

  Eseult nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m sorry it took me so long to understand all the ways you loved me, Branny.”

  She pressed a hand to Branwen’s chest. “Sister of my heart, always in my heart.”

  “Your future belongs to you now, Essy. Write your own ending.”

  Her cousin threw her arms around Branwen, and they clung to each other. Branwen shuddered a sigh. They would not meet again on this side of the Veil.

  “Go,” she whispered. She lifted the curtain of vines, brittle and brown in face of the coming winter.

  A black mare was tied to the branch of a tree as Alba had promised, an unremarkable creature. Eseult was royalty no longer. She had no expectations on her, but also no security. She must travel far, far away from everything and everyone she’d ever known.

  If she were to be recognized, it would mean a war.

  That was the price of her freedom. Eseult was willing to pay it, and Branwen could only pray for her safekeeping.

  Her own cheeks grew wet as she watched her cousin launch herself into the saddle. Eseult lifted the reins with poise.

  Looking back over her shoulder, she held Branwen with her gaze.

  Branwen felt the sting of every wound they’d inflicted on each other, and the joy of every confidence they’d shared—every laugh, every embrace. Her cousin had been first in her heart, and because she loved her she had to let her go.

  A smile parted Eseult’s lips. Even in the encroaching darkness, Branwen glimpsed the same thrill in her eyes as the day she’d leapt from the waterfall.

  This was her choice. Whatever happened next, wherever she landed, Eseult was embracing the unknown.

  Her cousin kicked her mount and vanished into the forest. Branwen had decided not to tell her about her plan for Samonios. She wanted Eseult to start her new life unburdened by the past—Branwen’s final gift to her.

  She watched until the sound of hoofbeats dwindled to nothing. Retreating back into the cave, Branwen retraced her steps through the tunnel.

  Halfway down, the figure of a man blocked her path.

  “Out for a stroll?” Xandru asked.

  Each of Branwen’s muscles tensed. She had no weapon. No magical advantage.

  He prowled closer. She’d almost allowed herself to forget how dangerous the spy could be. They had become allies because they both loved Marc. Xandru regarded her now as a threat.

  He stopped when they were toe-to-toe. “Word is spreading through the castle that the True Queen of Kernyv has died. A heart attack, said Sir Goron. Strange, Eseult being so young.”

  “My cousin has always been … temperamental. Nervous. Prone to … swooning.” Which had been the truth once. “The heart is a mercurial organ. Hers simply gave out.”

  “Mercurial? Yes. But, stranger still, her heart seems to be missing along with her body. I did not see it laid out beside Prince Tristan’s.”

  “You’re mistaken, Captain Xandru. Her body is there.”

  “It is?” he replied, too casual.

  “Marc wanted peace, and he has it. Marc needed an heir, and he has Andred.” Branwen drew in a deep breath. “Why shouldn’t Marc have love, too?”

  Light from the torch glinted off the sword at Xandru’s hip. Condensation dripped from above. Branwen remained utterly still, listening to the fire and the water.

  Xandru’s stare pinned her in place. Then, eventually, his stance relaxed.

  “Kernyv will be plunged into grief by the loss of both Tristan and Eseult. Within a day of each other.”

  “It will,” Branwen agreed, tentative.

  “Are you ready to return?”

  “Not yet.”

  * * *

  Past midnight, Branwen rapped on the door to Alba’s bedchamber.

  “I need another favor,” she said as it opened.

  IN YOU MY LIFE

  SAMONIOS HAD ARRIVED, AND THE Dark Moon was rising over the Brechliant Forest.

  Branwen followed Alba by starlight, pale and faint in the moonless night. The wood shivered with power. She sensed the thinning of the Veil.

  “The shrine to Ankou is near,” said Alba, wrapping her arms around herself. She must sense it, too.

  “You sang beautifully,” Branwen told her. The funeral of Prince Tristan of Kernyv and Armorica had taken place earlier this evening. As his widow, Alba sang his lament.

  “I will miss him,” she said. Twigs snapped beneath their boots. “But that was my goodbye. Tristan is dead to Armorica.” Alba peered at Branwen sidelong, and she saw a warning there.

  “You’ve arranged passage on a ship?”

  “The White Stag is bound for the Bujan Empire. It departs the day after tomorrow,” replied Alba, with a nod. “The voyage east will take half a year. Through the Saozone and North Seas.”

  “Thank you.” Branwen’s voice grew quiet.

  “You only asked me to book a single passage?”

  “That’s all that’s required.”

  The princess glanced from Branwen to the sickle-shaped blade in her hand. “Tristan told me how you saved him at the Champions Tournament,” she said. “When he felt death upon him.” Alba paused for a breath. “I thought your magic was gone?”

  “It is.”

  Branwen couldn’t say what had compelled her to pack the moon-catcher, which her aunt had gifted her, with her healing kit when she scrambled to collect her things for the journey to Armorica. She’d forgotten to pack any clothes. She walked through the forest in a dress of gray silk that she’d borrowed from Queen Yedra for the funeral. The queen was closer in height to Branwen than her daughter.

  A mournful wind howled between the women.

  Still eyeing the blade, Alba said, “Whatever you have planned, Tristan cannot return to the life he knew.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you think he’ll see the Bujan Empire?”

  “I don’t know.” Branwen rolled the handle of the moon-catcher between her fingers, the mother-of-pearl cool to the touch. “I hope so.”

  The
White Moor no longer welcomed her, but Branwen prayed that on this night of all nights, she could pierce the Veil. If the Old Ones were merciful, she would take Tristan’s place on the other side.

  Alba flattened her lips. “Tristan’s body is being transported back to the icehouse from the funeral. If another … body is needed for Kernyv, Yannick will provide one.”

  “Yannick is resourceful,” said Branwen.

  “We’ve been sailing together for years. He saved my life once. He should have been with me when we attacked Monwiku, but he’d been injured in a tavern brawl.” Alba laughed, although it was tinged with regret. Catching Branwen’s eye, she said, “I’m glad Yannick wasn’t there.”

  “So am I.” Branwen swallowed. Her magic had wrought so much destruction. She didn’t know whether the balance the Wise Damsel wanted her to find was possible.

  An eerie clinking sound drew Branwen’s attention. Not quite like a bell, almost more like creaking.

  She looked up.

  Bones.

  Hundreds of tiny bones were tied from the branches above them. Hollow bird bones, and those of other small woodland creatures. Perhaps human fingers, or toes. Ribs.

  Clink, creak.

  The forest had thinned into a circular grove. “Wait!” said Alba, grabbing Branwen’s elbow before she could step into the circle.

  “This is the shrine to Ankou. Once you enter, you are in her world.”

  “The Otherworld—that’s where I need to go,” Branwen said, determined.

  “In Armorica, we believe that the Old Ones will only let you return to our world if you give them what they want.”

  The concern for her that Branwen saw on Alba’s face made a lump rise in her throat. “This is what I must do,” she told her. “If you don’t see me again, wait two days until you release Tristan’s body to Kernyv.”

  “I will sit vigil myself.” She gave Branwen’s elbow one more squeeze. “Two horses will be waiting near the tunnel. The White Stag is docked two piers over from the Mawort. You’ll recognize it by the stag on its prow.”

  The bones creaked overhead, a wistful refrain. From the corner of her eye, Branwen glimpsed a white raven circling the grove. She blinked and it was gone.