Wild Savage Stars

by Kristina Perez

  The king and Eseult followed closely behind on their mounts, inciting many stares and bows.

  Tristan dawdled, untying his steed slowly from a timber post. Branwen knew he wanted a moment alone with her, and that was precisely what she was afraid of. “Branwen—” he started.

  “We should go,” she said. “We’ll lose sight of the others.”

  “I know how to find my way home.”

  “The tide is coming in,” she insisted.

  “Fine.” With a sigh, he hoisted himself astride a dappled gray stallion and extended his hand toward her. She hesitated before reluctantly accepting.

  His callused palm sent tingles through her—her body didn’t yet understand that this was the touch of a man who was no longer hers.

  The lacerations on her stomach from the beak of a one-eyed Shade smarted as Branwen lifted herself onto the saddle, and she flinched.

  “Did I hurt you?” Tristan said, panicked.

  In so many ways. Shaking her head, Branwen touched the nape of her neck. “It’s from the Shades.” She would carry the scars from their monstrous beaks on her flesh for the rest of her life. “I’ll heal.” She positioned herself sidesaddle in front of him, her mouth growing parched at the contact. Their faces were too close.

  “You were a warrior last night,” Tristan said. He reached a hand to her cheek out of habit, then stopped himself. Instead, he took the Hand of Bríga in his own.

  Tristan had witnessed Branwen destroying the Shades with abandon, reveling in it. She hadn’t known the extent of her power until she was confronted with the Dark One’s creatures. A power she had never asked for. Still, she couldn’t deny its exhilaration.

  “Thank you for not telling the king,” she said, even though it cost her to thank him. Many of the Kernyveu adhered to the Cult of the Horned One, which barred women from its Mysteries. Her aunt had implored Branwen to be discreet with her magic.

  “I would never betray you,” Tristan replied. Branwen could only release one brutal laugh. “I deserve your wrath, I know I do.” The hazel flecks in his dark eyes sparked to life. “I still don’t know what—how…” He trailed off, his voice rife with disgust and disbelief, and Branwen yearned for nothingness. To go numb.

  “But I also deserve the chance to make things right,” Tristan said with a hint of the stubbornness she’d once admired. “To regain my honor.”

  “By being the Queen’s Champion?”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” he pleaded. Tristan didn’t know how right he was, and Branwen hated him for it.

  She hated herself.

  He leaned toward her until their lips were almost touching.

  “Odai eti ama,” he breathed. I hate and I love.

  “I have no love for you, Prince Tristan.” Branwen would lie and lie and lie until it became the truth.

  “Don’t call me that,” Tristan told her, switching into Ivernic.

  “Oh? Would you prefer king?” she said in Aquilan. “Rix?” Branwen goaded him in Kernyvak.

  He recoiled, offended, and she took more than a little satisfaction from it. Tristan had inherited the territory of Liones—the southernmost tip of Kernyv—from his mother, Princess Gwynedd. Technically, he could be its king. He had confided in Branwen that there were those at the court of Monwiku who disapproved of Tristan’s mother marrying a commoner, especially one of Kartagon ancestry, and feared that he would challenge Marc for the throne.

  “Bedding the king’s bride is an excellent way to start a civil war,” Branwen said, and swung her head forward.

  She heard a sharp intake of breath. Then Tristan lifted the reins, warm shoulders brushing hers, and nudged the stallion into a trot. Branwen had made it to Kernyv, Tristan’s arms were around her, and yet she had never felt so far away from him—or herself.

  Flames flickered in her hand, just beneath the surface of her skin. Fire that demanded release.

  * * *

  The coastal path reminded Branwen of the Rock Road in Iveriu that she had traveled so many times. Tristan’s breath teased the back of her neck as they shared a mount in simmering silence; hoofbeats mimicked the surf buffeting craggy rocks.

  She scanned the lush cliffs, hoping against hope to spot a familiar, unnaturally red coat and white-tipped ears. Queen Eseult had promised that the Old Ones would send Branwen a teacher when one was needed. But that was before she had failed them. In her bones, she knew the fox wasn’t coming back.

  She was on her own in a strange land.

  Up ahead, King Marc rode beside the princess, stance guarded. Branwen traced the grooves on the underside of her brooch, almost like a meditation. For all the years after her parents died, faceless raiders had stalked Branwen’s dreams, but the Dark One had given those nightmares a face. She rubbed the scabbing claw marks on her forearms.

  Branwen had never divulged to either Tristan or Eseult what had been revealed to her in the vile kretarv’s eyes. She hadn’t wanted to upset her cousin with what she’d seen, and—if Branwen was being truly honest with herself—she’d also been afraid Tristan might not believe her, or make excuses for the man he considered his brother. Now she was glad she’d kept her own counsel.

  “Look, Branwen,” Tristan said. “Monwiku.” The breath caught in Branwen’s throat as the road curved.

  Captain Morgawr had pointed out the castle from the ship, but then it had only been an indistinct silhouette. From this distance, the structure was awe-inspiring. Not only had Monwiku been set upon an island, it had been carved into what appeared to be a small mountain. Turrets and towers grasped at the sky, impossibly high.

  Trees and shrubbery enveloped the base of the castle, growing from the bedrock, leading down the slope toward the water. Although it was nearly winter, the branches had not yet shed all of their leaves. Blossoms like gemstones flecked the green expanse.

  A series of round stone dwellings with thatched roofs dotted the circumference of the island. Smoke swirled from the hearths contained within. Rowboats and square-sailed dinghies suitable for shallow water were moored around the shoreline, bobbing as the tide began to rise.

  The scale of Monwiku completely dwarfed Castle Rigani, and Branwen found herself humbled by the seat of Kernyvak power. It would also be a fool’s errand to besiege it. Branwen thanked the Old Ones that her late uncle Morholt and the other Ivernic nobles who had agitated for an invasion had failed to sway King Óengus to their cause.

  “It’s an entire city on an island,” she said, unable to keep the amazement from her voice. There was nothing in Iveriu that qualified it as a city, but she’d been taught by the royal tutor about the maze-like streets, densely packed dwellings, and throngs of people thrown together throughout the Aquilan Empire. Master Bécc would sorely regret missing this sight.

  Tristan shifted in the saddle behind her, releasing a laugh. “The island was created by giants,” he said.

  Branwen turned her head to show him her skepticism. “Giants? You believe in giants?”

  “Why not?” He shrugged and there was defiance in the set of his shoulders. “With all that we’ve seen?”

  Her attempt at indifference was marred by a scowl. There had been a time, not so long ago, when Branwen didn’t believe in magic or the Otherworld. Or love. A time when she had known her place in this world and been content with it.

  “We call them the Koranied—the giants,” Tristan said in a rush to fill the fraught quiet. “The island of Albion is named after the warrior-giantess Alba who led their conquest.”

  “I see. Should I fear becoming a treat for a hungry giantess, then?” Branwen used to adore Tristan’s regaling her with tales of his people, starting when she had believed him to be a shipwrecked bard named Tantris.

  Maybe they had never known how to do anything but lie to each other.

  “The Koranied were driven from our shores,” Tristan assured her. “They made their last stand here, at Monwiku. As they made their retreat, Alba, their leader, demolished the land between Kernyv and
Monwiku with her bare hands.” Despite his restless manner, Tristan always enjoyed telling stories. Branwen could see it in the way his eyes shone.

  It would be too easy to be lulled into familiar patterns, to picture herself sitting by the fireside, listening to him sing ballads of epic battles.

  “For several decades,” he told Branwen, “the Koranied continued to terrorize the coastline until one day a Kernyvman named Lugmarch saw a giant stung by a wasp drop down dead.”

  She leaned closer. A traitorous part of Branwen’s heart wanted to hear how this Lugmarch had outwitted the giants.

  “Lugmarch gathered all of the wasp nests in Kernyv and ground them into dust. Then he laced vats of honeyed mead with the fine powder.”

  Tristan paused for dramatic effect. “The greedy Koranied accepted the offering as their due. One by one, the poisoned giants fell into the sea. Dead. For his ingenuity, Lugmarch was made the first king of the Kernyveu, and he built his castle upon the rock of Monwiku.”

  Tristan risked a smile, and Branwen felt the air leave her chest. The smile was too much—it made her want to turn back the wheel of time. It made her want impossible things. Flattening her lips, Branwen dug her heel into their mount’s side.

  The stallion broke into a gallop, and she gripped the front of the saddle to avoid being thrown off.

  Her shawl billowed as they rushed toward the beach where Ruan, King Marc, and Eseult waited. Their horses were halted at one end of a cobblestoned path that traversed the causeway. Ruan and the king were speaking with a young man who wore a black tunic embroidered with a crest in red thread that Branwen didn’t recognize.

  Ruan jerked on his reins, and his steed’s front legs lifted from the ground and crashed back down in two plumes of sand.

  Tristan slowed their mount to a trot. As they drew nearer, Branwen saw the muscles of Ruan’s neck stiffening as the man in the black tunic relayed his message. She couldn’t understand more than a few words, but, from Ruan’s reaction, it was troubling news.

  Begrudgingly, Branwen whispered to Tristan, “What is it?”

  “There’s been an accident,” he answered. “Ruan’s family owns many mines.” She tucked that information away as their stallion walked toward the others.

  Ruan ran a hand along his sash several times, stress rolling off him. Pronounced ridges had also formed on Marc’s forehead as he questioned the messenger. Eseult’s lips were drawn, her hand wrapped tightly around her braid, flicking its tail against her shoulder.

  The princess coughed, and Marc returned his attention from the messenger.

  “Forgive me, Lady Princess,” he told her in Aquilan. “We’ve just received word of a mining accident. Prince Ruan must leave us to inspect the damage.”

  “Sire—” the newly appointed King’s Champion began to protest.

  “I’m within view of the castle, Ruan. And I’m quite confident Tristan can keep me safe while you’re gone.”

  The muscles in Ruan’s jaw tightened before he vaunted a smile at his cousin.

  “I would be so very grateful,” he said to Tristan.

  “I’ll go with you.” The words flew from Branwen’s mouth before she knew what she was saying.

  Ruan raised both eyebrows, equally shocked. “Where I’m going is no place for a lady.”

  “I’m not a lady, Prince Ruan. I’m a healer.” She twisted her torso to face Tristan. “Tell him,” she said, throwing out a hand in frustration.

  Tristan swallowed. “Lady Branwen has saved me many times over.”

  “And me,” Eseult said, voice filled more with apprehension than appreciation.

  Ruan looked to his king for permission, and Branwen followed his gaze to make her appeal. “King Marc,” she said. “I was trained by Queen Eseult herself—the most renowned healer in Iveriu. Let me help your people.” His silver eyes deepened to pewter as he considered her request.

  It galled Branwen to ask anything of the king—of the boy from her vision—but a more profound need compelled her.

  “Let me show the Kernyveu that we have come here to heal the wounds of the past,” she persisted.

  A long moment passed. Branwen felt Eseult’s gaze upon her cheek as surely as if it were a touch, but she refused to look her way.

  “With my heartfelt gratitude, Lady Branwen,” Marc said at last.

  “Thank you, my Lord King.”

  “Branny, if it’s dangerous, perhaps you shouldn’t—”

  Branwen directed a hard stare at the princess, and she went quiet.

  “I need to ride fast,” Ruan told Branwen. “And you have no horse.”

  Branwen looked back at Tristan. “You don’t mind walking from here, do you? After such cramped quarters on the ship, I’d think you’d be happy to stretch your legs.”

  His nostrils flared. Ruan laughed. “You’re astride a stallion, my lady. Are you sure you can handle him?”

  “You have no idea what I can handle, Prince Ruan.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Shifting his gaze to his cousin, he lifted his chin. “We must away.”

  Tristan huffed as he dismounted and landed in the sand. Branwen grabbed the reins, triumph teasing her lips. She’d never liked being a passenger.

  “I won’t stop, so don’t lose me,” Ruan warned her. He bolted inland, toward a forest.

  Branwen cast a parting glance at Marc, Tristan, and Eseult. She was only too happy to turn her back on all three of them.

  She spurred her stallion forward and tasted a heady moment of freedom as she left them behind.

  DOORS TO NOWHERE

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, PRINCE Ruan didn’t slow his steed for a moment. Branwen galloped after him into a densely thicketed wood. Like the greenery that surrounded Monwiku Castle, the odd flower still clung to the branches overhead. She lowered herself closer to the stallion’s neck as the forest floor sloped upward and her mount began to climb.

  Hooves thundering against the moss and dirt, the steed exhaled steam through his nostrils. Branwen had almost caught up to Ruan when the path narrowed into a tunnel of hazel trees. All at once, the branches pressed in on her. As children, she and Essy had declared themselves to be like the honeysuckle vine that wraps around the hazel tree, ever entwined. One could not survive without the other.

  An almost uncontrollable urge possessed Branwen—to summon her fire and set the hazel trees alight. To burn the entire forest down.

  She heard Dhusnos’s laughter.

  With a shiver, she clutched a thatch of the horse’s mane to steady herself. Her cousin’s passionate nature had always balanced Branwen’s contemplative one; her brightness had assuaged the pain of Branwen’s other losses, opened her heart. That was in the past. She would learn to live without her best friend. She would seal off her heart and hurl it to the bottom of the sea like she had the Loving Cup.

  Pearly sunlight blinded Branwen as she emerged from the forest. Lifting her hand as a shield, she saw Prince Ruan a few horse lengths ahead, his blond hair flying in the wind.

  He didn’t look back to see if she followed.

  Branwen’s muscles were weakened from a month without exercise during the sea journey, her energy sapped from last night’s attack. Nevertheless, she wouldn’t give the conceited nobleman the satisfaction of losing her.

  Vast moorland expanded in front of her. Even as heat from the sun warmed Branwen’s face, she spied fog rolling in from the south. Chasing after Prince Ruan, she realized that the moor, in fact, lay on one side of a valley. On the opposite hill sat a lake surrounded by stones of burgundy. It didn’t look natural.

  And, what was more, in the distance, she glimpsed a similar, smaller lake on her side of the valley. A bridge spanned the distance between the two lakes. Bridge seemed like too lowly a term for the structure. Branwen had never seen anything like it.

  Dominating the landscape, rose seven enormous, rounded arches. Each was at least a tower tall, fashioned from the same rubicund rock as the walls surrounding the lakes. There didn’t
appear to be any roads leading either to or away from the massive bridge. Branwen struggled to think of its purpose. She could well believe this monument had been constructed by the Koranied of which Tristan spoke.

  Captivated, Branwen made a clicking noise from the side of her mouth, prodding her steed to quicken its pace. When she was less than half a horse length behind Ruan, she called out, “What is it?”

  “Aquilan technology,” Ruan replied, staccato, voice still raised as they rode into the wind. His mount eased beside hers. Pointing at the impressive arches, the prince said, “The bridge channels the water from one dammed lake to the other. Then we release the water into the valley. It washes away the rock to reveal the minerals.”

  Branwen marveled at the archways stamped against the sky like doors to nowhere.

  “Ingenious but dangerous,” Ruan remarked, pulling her gaze away from the imposing edifice.

  “Dangerous?”

  “You’ll soon see for yourself.” The reply was gruff. He made a clicking sound at his horse and sped away again. Inwardly, Branwen sighed. Although she preferred impatience to false flattery. She touched her middle—her cuts were weeping fresh blood.

  Another quarter hour of hard riding later, Branwen spotted a black chasm against the green of the valley. A wound in the earth. The force of the water released from the smaller lake had split the land, exposing its veins like secrets. Did the Kernyveu not fear disturbing the Old Ones who dwelled in the Otherworld beneath ráithana—hills and mounds—such as these?

  Branwen knew that Kernyv exported minerals, especially white lead, to the southern continent, yet this bordered on plundering. Robbery. She quivered at the sheer violence of it. If the Aquilan Empire had set its sights on Iveriu, her small island would have been child’s play to conquer. Master Bécc had taught Branwen that the greatest empire the world had ever known disintegrated through the folly and tyranny of its own leaders.

  She was glad of it.

  Ruan halted his steed at the edge of the moorland. When Branwen reached him, the breath buckled against her rib cage.