Wild Savage Stars

by Kristina Perez

  At the look of confusion on Branwen’s face, the boy explained, “Xandru is a merchant, a good friend of King Marc’s.”

  “Xandru sends the seeds for the castle gardens,” Branwen said, thinking back to her discussion with the king on the morning after her arrival.

  Another excited head bob. “From all over. Xandru has his own ship. He stayed at Monwiku last winter and hopefully he’ll return soon—he promised me another box.” Nervously, almost apologetically, Andred added, “I like to experiment with growing plants. This one”—he pointed through the stone to a small green stalk sprouting from a bed of dirt—“is called gods’ blood. I read in an Aquilan treatise that its oil can cure a blood infection.”

  “That’s very industrious of you, Andred.” Branwen smiled.

  “Sometimes Marc helps,” the boy told her. “When he’s not too busy.”

  To be chosen as the king’s cupbearer, Andred must have Marc’s absolute trust. The bond between the two seemed very strong. Branwen pictured Marc working with the boy to make a flower grow. She pushed the image from her mind. She couldn’t think of King Marc that way. Until Eseult had been recognized as a True Queen, Branwen must continue to think of him as her enemy. He had taken the side of the kordweyd over the princess.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Lady Branwen?” Andred asked, distracting Branwen from her thoughts.

  “Yes. I need to find a place called the White Moor. Do you know it?”

  “Why would you want to go there?”

  Branwen curled her hands around the edge of her cloak and delivered the lie that she had prepared.

  “The princess has problems sleeping,” she began. “Back in Iveriu, I would blend a special tea for her. I’m missing a key ingredient, and I believe the Wise Damsel may know where to find it. She told me I could find her at the White Moor.” Branwen turned a serious look on Andred. “I’m only telling you because you’re my apprentice. As healers, we must respect our patients’ privacy.”

  “Of course, my lady. Only … perhaps I can find you a substitute for what you’re missing? You shouldn’t go to the White Moor. It’s not safe. It belongs to the Old Ones.”

  “We have such places in Iveriu, Andred. The Old Ones must be respected, but they don’t scare me.” The Iverni were leery of Death-Tellers, but the Old Ones were neither wholly good nor bad—like humans. “I honor them,” Branwen told the boy.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, I—”

  “I know you didn’t,” she interrupted him. “Now where can I find the White Moor?”

  The boy coughed. “When you head in the direction of Seer Ogrin’s village and you see the Stone of Waiting, follow the tip of the stone northwest. About a league. It’s nearly always shrouded by fog. I’ll go with you.”

  “I need to go quick—” Branwen stopped herself the moment Andred cringed, but it was too late. Guilt sliced her as his face fell. “I know you can ride fast, Andred.” She touched a hand to his shoulder. “But I need to keep this errand discreet. I don’t want to embarrass the princess. You understand?” He nodded, but his shoulders slumped forward.

  “Mormerkti, Andred.”

  She pecked the boy on the top of his head and exited the King’s Tower.

  * * *

  Following Andred’s directions, Branwen clung to her palfrey’s mane as the forest whizzed by her.

  After she’d proceeded northward from the Stone of Waiting, an icy fog stole over the moor from the sea to the west. The sun had reached its highest point for the day, but it merely caused the mist to shimmer. The White Moor deserved its name.

  Between the sea and the moor lay another thicket of trees. Branwen steered her mount toward the wood. Senara threw her head back, stomped her front hoof in protest. Animals were often more attuned to the presence of the Old Ones than people.

  Branwen kept her eyes peeled for smoke swirling from a hearth or any other sign that the wood was inhabited. A few minutes later, she heard chimes tinkling. Dangling beside them in the branches were strips of fabric and ribbons strung with tiny bells. Hundreds of them. The cloth was dark blue like ripe elderberries, pink as a baby’s cheeks, bleached as sorrow. As Branwen’s gaze wove from strand to strand, Senara came to a halt.

  Branwen dug in her heels. The palfrey nickered. She would go no farther.

  A gust of wind blew Branwen’s cloak up over her face, ringing all the bells. She struggled with the fabric, yanking it back down, and found that she was no longer alone.

  “I expected you sooner.”

  Branwen released a small gasp. Recovering, she said, “Greetings, Wise Damsel.”

  The older woman wore her hair long, the dark garnet and silver strands whorling around her. Her tunic and cape were sewn from a thick wool, dyed a similar shade of green to Rigani stone. She was taller than Branwen remembered and she radiated supreme self-possession. Branwen speculated the Wise Damsel to have seen at least fifty summers.

  “Call me Ailleann.” Wrinkles formed around her eyes as she narrowed them. “You’re a Wise Damsel, too,” she said, and Branwen felt a frisson of foreboding. The woman stepped closer. “Are you going to dismount?”

  Branwen slung her leg over Senara and dropped to the ground. She patted the mare’s shoulder and tied the reins to a low branch. “I won’t be long,” she murmured, and the horse neighed. Pivoting to face Ailleann, she said, “I came to ask for help.”

  “Yes,” the Wise Damsel said. “Come, daughter.”

  Enigena. Hearing the Ivernic word for daughter gave Branwen pause. Would her mother approve of the woman Branwen was becoming? Of the deceit and subterfuge? The extremes that peace required of her?

  The Wise Damsel retreated farther into the thicket of trees and Branwen followed.

  Beneath her feet, the soft dirt became a path of slick, moss-covered stones. The path crossed a small stream, and water seeped into Branwen’s boots.

  Shrouded in the mist, appearing as if from nowhere, emerged a circular hut made from snakestone. Before the hut, stood a well, red stones gleaming dully.

  The tiny hairs lifted on Branwen’s arms. “Where are we?” she called to Ailleann.

  Her aunt had once described the Otherworld as love. She couldn’t see it, yet it always surrounded her. In some places, however, the Veil between the worlds grew thinner, and Branwen had the creeping sensation this was just such a place.

  Pausing beside the well, the Wise Damsel shrugged. “People have come here for healing since before the Aquilans came to Albion. Since before the longstones were carved. They hang offerings in the trees to the spirits of the waters.”

  Branwen approached the well and noticed that there were beeswax candles in various stages of melting around its base. “Whom do you worship?” she asked.

  “I think, gods or Old Ones, they care little for the names mortals give them,” Ailleann said, her tone brisk. “I tend the well now, and I heal those I can.”

  She scanned her with her eyes, and Branwen would have sworn the other woman could see right down to the bone.

  “Including you, Branwen of Iveriu.”

  Alarm streaked through her.

  “I never told you my name.”

  The Wise Damsel croaked a laugh. “Seer Ogrin is a friend of mine. He told me you’ve been helping at the temple.”

  Oh. “I didn’t come here to be healed,” Branwen said, irritation and relief eddying inside her. “I need derew root.”

  “There are plenty of pain-relieving herbs in the Morrois Forest.”

  “It has to be derew root.”

  “I see.” She crossed her arms. “I have what you seek. I’ll give it to you if you agree to train with me.”

  “I told you I don’t want my power.” On Whitethorn Mound, Branwen thought she’d been wrong to reject the Old Ways, the healing magic she shared with the other women in her family. But Branwen’s magic had wronged both Tristan and Eseult, wronged her kingdom.

  “Stop lying, daughter. You feel the power humming
inside you—the thirst to unleash it. Your instincts are at war.”

  “I don’t have time to barter,” Branwen spat. “And I’m not your daughter!”

  The moor grew very still.

  The Wise Damsel moved so fast Branwen didn’t have time to breathe before the older woman grabbed her hand and pain shot straight to her heart. Chest spasming, she fell to her knees. She screamed as she stared down at the Hand of Bríga.

  The scar on her hand had been transformed into a bilious black. Beneath the surface, it appeared to writhe like the Sea of the Dead.

  “What did you do?” Branwen shouted.

  Steam rose from the center of her scorching palm.

  “I did nothing but reveal the truth you feel.” The Wise Damsel pointed at the midnight line. “From the same source comes creation and destruction—from the in-between. Primordial magic won’t be ignored.”

  Tears of agony ran down Branwen’s cheeks.

  “Rejecting your gifts won’t make them go away,” the Wise Damsel said.

  They’re not gifts, thought Branwen. I’m cursed, and I curse those who love me.

  “Magic like yours attracts dangerous forces, enigena. Either you control your power, or it controls you.”

  Branwen tried to breathe through clenched teeth, her chest heaving. She couldn’t deny the constant pressure of magic under her skin, the desire to break free, to run away and char the ground beneath her. When she’d fought the Shades, she’d been terrified, but she had also felt alive. Exquisitely alive.

  She could reduce the Dreaming Sea to salt with her fire. Her wrath.

  “Make it stop!” Branwen pleaded. She hated herself for whimpering. “I accept your terms!”

  Once again, Branwen didn’t see the Wise Damsel move, and then the pain was gone. The other woman kneeled before her, pressing her palm to Branwen’s. When she removed it, the scar had returned to its threadlike appearance. Pale as the echo of nightmare.

  Fresh tears leaked from Branwen’s eyes at the absence of pain.

  “Come inside,” Ailleann said. “The wind’s growing bitter.”

  Branwen remained on her knees, steadying her harsh breaths, as the other woman rose and walked toward the hut.

  It was too late to back down now. Branwen pushed to her feet. She needed the derew root.

  When she entered the cottage, Ailleann was pouring boiling water from a kettle into two ceramic mugs. She motioned for her guest to be seated.

  The interior of the stone hut was more sumptuously appointed than Branwen would have expected for a dwelling in the middle of a wood. But, then, she was not altogether certain that she hadn’t passed into the Otherworld.

  Branwen sat opposite the Wise Damsel at a table carved from oak.

  Her host took a sip of her tea. Branwen watched the crushed, dried petals floating on the surface of the water.

  “Primordial magic is not given lightly,” Ailleann began. “To obtain this kind of power, you must have killed and saved.”

  Branwen swallowed. The tea burned her throat. Queen Eseult had warned Branwen that the Loving Cup was primordial magic and its cost would be unpredictable. She had been naive to think the Hand of Bríga stemmed from a less potent source.

  “Tell me your story, Branwen,” said the Wise Damsel. “Tell me your heart.”

  A broken laugh escaped her. Branwen had accused Tristan of not knowing her heart, but she didn’t know it, either.

  Ailleann waited for Branwen to speak.

  “My aunt always said I was a natural healer, like my mother,” she started, tentative. “My mother died when I was young. I never believed in the Old Ones until—”

  “Until?”

  “There was a man. He was poisoned.” Branwen flinched at the memory of Tristan’s motionless form on the tournament pitch. “He would have died without Otherworld magic. I offered the Old Ones my blood in exchange for their help.”

  The Wise Damsel listened impassively. After a moment, she said, “So, that is the life you saved. Which is the life you took?”

  Branwen turned the red-glazed mug in a circle against the grain of the wood. Revulsion washed over her as she remembered the stink of spirits on Keane’s breath, the dampness of the stones on her back as he cornered her in the stairwell.

  “I was defending myself,” she said, her tongue sluggish, tasting the chalky memory of her fear. “I begged the Old Ones for help.” She held up her palm. “The flames erupted before I realized what I was doing.”

  “It wasn’t only yourself you were defending, was it? It was someone you loved.”

  Panic gripped her. No one knew that Branwen had killed Keane because he discovered Eseult’s affair with Diarmuid. Not even Queen Eseult. Tristan knew Branwen had condemned Keane to be a Shade, but he didn’t know why.

  “The—Land,” she stammered. “My aunt said the Hand of Bríga was awakened when I felt the Land under threat.”

  The Wise Damsel stared at her a long moment. “Your love is as deep as the well outside.”

  Branwen’s eyes dropped back to her palm. She could almost feel Eseult’s finger drawing their secret symbol. Before Branwen understood duty to her kingdom, she felt devotion to her younger cousin.

  Had Queen Eseult suspected all along it was Branwen’s love for the princess, not the Land, that had truly brought forth the darker side of her power? That it was the air that fueled her fire?

  “And the man?” asked the Wise Damsel. “Why did you offer your blood for him?”

  Tristan’s death on Ivernic soil would have spelled disaster, but it wasn’t the only reason. And, despite everything, she could never regret saving him.

  “For the Land,” Branwen repeated, as obstinate as the princess.

  The Wise Damsel inhaled. “You’ve killed for love, and you were willing to die for love. The power you’ve been granted, daughter, comes from the time before magic was bound by rules. Before this world and the Otherworld were split. It can create or destroy—just like you.”

  Branwen rested her hand on the table, palm up. “My aunt is the most renowned healer in Iveriu, but she couldn’t teach me how to wield it. She only knew legends about the Hand of Bríga. No one has carried it since ancient times.” She curled her fingers toward the scar. “How did you learn?”

  “There is always a guardian at the well.” Branwen heard a door close in the Wise Damsel’s voice. She stroked Branwen’s scar.

  “Your heart is divided,” Ailleann said. “As long as you remain at war with yourself, you will not wield the magic. The magic will wield you.”

  The Wise Damsel pushed to her feet and retrieved an Aquilan oil lamp from above the hearth. Its wick was unlit. She placed it before Branwen on the table.

  “Like this lamp, you only have so much magic, so much fuel. Your fire burns bright, Branwen, but there are forces that would use you like fuel until your fire burns out.”

  She plucked one of Branwen’s white hairs between her fingers, held it up to the light.

  “The miner you healed with your power. Why did you save him?”

  “Because I could.” Ailleann snorted. “Because he came from my family’s lands in Iveriu,” Branwen admitted. “We should have protected him.”

  “So you are responsible for all of the Iverni captured in raids? You have magic, but you’re not a god. Branwen, your power and your life are joined now. Once it’s gone, it’s gone—and so are you.”

  She ran a tongue over her lips. “My aunt told me there would be a cost to using the Hand of Bríga…” Branwen hadn’t realized exactly what that meant, but she had asked much of the Old Ones. No power was infinite.

  “The Aquilans have a goddess named Menrva. Like Bríga, she is the goddess of fire. But she is also the goddess of wisdom. You must use your fire wisely.”

  “If I use it in the service of Iveriu, then I’ve spent it wisely.”

  The Wise Damsel exhaled through her nose.

  “There is room in your heart for an entire kingdom, Branwen—but not
for yourself.” She returned to her seat and put her mug to her lips. “I want you to light the wick of the lamp,” said Ailleann.

  Branwen stared down at her hand. The only times she’d summoned her magic, she’d been angry or afraid. The Wise Damsel sipped her tea. Waiting. Branwen chewed her lip.

  Ailleann began to drum her fingers on the table, impatient, and Branwen’s heart beat faster and faster. Finally, “I don’t know how,” she said, frustration chiseling at her words. “I’m afraid I’ll make it explode.”

  With a grunt, the Wise Damsel set down her tea and extended her own right hand. “Your magic was born from love. Love that is boundless, but wild. You only know how to find your power in a place of frenzy.” She held Branwen’s gaze, and fear quickened Branwen’s pulse that the Wise Damsel could pluck the very thoughts from her head.

  A tiny blue flame appeared in the palm of the other woman’s hand. She touched it gently to the wick. As she transferred the fire, a warm glow was cast on the terracotta lamp. “When I summon my magic, I think of the heat on my face from a bonfire. You only need the impression of the fire, not the fire itself. You must learn to find strength—and magic—in stillness.”

  The Wise Damsel closed her hand, and the flame vanished. “I’ll get you the derew root.”

  “But I couldn’t do what you asked.”

  “Nothing is mastered in a day.”

  GAMES OF CHANCE

  BRANWEN FILLED THE BOWL OF oats in Senara’s stall high as she whispered words of thanks in her ears. Her palfrey had remained on edge until they’d put the White Moor behind them, and she couldn’t help but share the horse’s relief.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” said a worried voice.

  Branwen glanced over her shoulder at Tristan. For a half a breath, she glimpsed the old warrior she’d seen in the in-between. The life they might have shared.

  “Is the princess well?” she asked and surprise registered on Tristan’s face. Branwen was so drained from her meeting with the Wise Damsel that she’d slipped into Ivernic. Dymatis, nosmatis had been the extent of the conversation between them since the Mantle of Maidenhood had been decreed.