Wild Savage Stars

by Kristina Perez

  “Yes. The princess is fine.” Tristan scratched the scar above his eyebrow. “I’ve been looking for you. No one knew where you were.”

  He entered the stall and tousled Senara’s forelock. “You shouldn’t be outside the castle alone after dark, Bra—my lady.”

  “I can take care of myself.” Branwen raised her right palm. Tristan stepped in closer. The mare neighed.

  “You always have,” he said, taking her hand lightly. Branwen’s body tensed; then she sighed.

  “What did you want, Tristan? Why were you looking for me?”

  He released her hand. “It’s my grandmother. She fainted at lunch with Marc. She says it’s nothing, doesn’t want us to send for the kordweyd, but—” Tristan swallowed. “Would you check on her for me?”

  “I’ll come now.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The words rang with more than gratitude. Branwen ignored the quiver in her chest as she followed him from the stables.

  Tristan went first up the twisty stairwell of the West Tower. Branwen’s eyes strayed to the waning moon through the small slits in the stone. Long Night would also be a new moon this year.

  A moonless sky on the shortest day of the year was a rare occurrence. Children born in Iveriu on that day were said to be more easily stolen into the Otherworld because their souls had never entirely left it.

  Branwen herself felt torn between this world and the Otherworld. Much as the White Moor had put each of her nerves on alert, she’d also felt a sense of recognition there. Welcome. As if it wasn’t solely the Wise Damsel who’d been expecting her.

  “Damawinn?” Tristan called, opening the door to the apartment where Queen Verica had been installed. Only Tristan was so familiar with the queen as to call her damawinn—grandmother. Even King Marc, Branwen had noticed, addressed his mother using her title.

  Branwen heard an odd plink-plink noise coming from inside. Almost like rain, yet more solid. Plink-plink.

  Finally, a female voice answered, followed by a prolonged cough. Tristan frowned, but he motioned at Branwen to enter.

  Queen Verica was seated beside the hearth at the opposite end of the drawing room. Buttercup-yellow draperies framed the windows, giving the room a cheerful appearance.

  Plink-plink.

  Squinting, Branwen detected the source of the sound: dice. The Queen Mother was throwing dice cut from alabaster onto the small table in front of her. Despite the light of the glowing embers, Tristan’s grandmother looked sallow, more haggard than when she’d first arrived at Monwiku. The dice landed beside a glass of Mílesian spirits.

  “Damawinn.” The distress in his voice affected Branwen more than she wanted it to. “I thought you were going to rest.” Tristan looked back at Branwen, speaking in Aquilan for her benefit. “I’ve found Lady Branwen. She’s kindly agreed to see if she can help.”

  “My grandson fusses too much,” the Queen Mother said to Branwen. She took a harried breath. “My body is resting. I said nothing about my mind.” Then, patting Tristan’s arm affectionately, she told him, “I’m the old woman, not you, karid.”

  “Nosmatis, Queen Verica,” said Branwen with a curtsy. “I would be happy to assist you in any way I can.”

  The Queen Mother smiled, looking between her and Tristan. Then another cough racked her frame. It sounded watery. She covered her mouth with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. As the queen withdrew it again, Branwen noticed it was smeared with black spittle. Their eyes met briefly before the queen hid it in her lap, beneath the table.

  “Prince Tristan,” Branwen said. “Would you mind retrieving my healing satchel from the Queen’s Tower? There’s an herbal tea I believe will help with your cough, Queen Mother.”

  “I prefer Mílesian spirits but I’ll drink your tea if you insist,” replied Queen Verica.

  “I insist, damawinn,” Tristan told her. He kissed his grandmother’s cheek. “Thank you, Br—Lady Branwen. I’ll return directly.”

  She nodded, top teeth digging into her lower lip. She sensed the Queen Mother watching their interactions closely. Unlike with Countess Kensa, Branwen didn’t detect hostility. It was more of a fierce protectiveness.

  Plink-plink. Queen Verica threw another round of dice as Tristan left.

  “Do you play?” she asked Branwen.

  “No, Queen Mother.”

  “Please, Lady Branwen, take off your cloak. Sit with me.”

  Unfastening her mother’s brooch, Branwen draped her cloak on the back of the chair opposite the queen’s and did as she was told. Queen Verica collected the dice. The alabaster reminded Branwen of sea foam.

  The old queen held up one of the dice, admiring it, worrying it between her fingers.

  “These dice have six sides,” she said. “They’re etched with the Aquilan numerals for one through six. When I throw one, I have a one in six chance of landing on the six. Throw two and the odds become much more complicated. How much would you wager that they’ll sum to six?”

  “I don’t know, Queen Mother.”

  “Being queen is like gambling. You have to play and you can’t control the outcome.”

  Branwen thought of her aunt. “I’ve always thought ruling was more like a game of strategy.”

  “Ruling is only a game of strategy if you’re extremely lucky.” Queen Verica’s gray eyes sparkled. “The same goes for life. It’s a game of chance.”

  She raised her blackened handkerchief from beneath the table.

  “We both know I’ve lost, Lady Branwen.”

  “Prince Tristan doesn’t know,” she inferred. Branwen adopted the carefully neutral demeanor her aunt always used when discussing a dire prognosis with patients.

  “Neither does my son,” Queen Verica confided. “I don’t want to distract from the wedding. Kernyv must appear strong to the guests who come from abroad to celebrate this union with us.” The queen leaned forward in her seat. “Can I trust you with my secret?”

  The weight Branwen had felt on her chest since her visit to the White Moor grew heavier. She should be used to keeping secrets from Tristan by now.

  “Yes, Queen Mother,” she said with a nod. “I will keep your secret. I am a healer first, and your condition is not mine to share.”

  “Thank you, Lady Branwen. My grandson thinks very highly of you.”

  Branwen pulled the handkerchief gently from the queen’s grasp, examining it. “When did the wasting sickness begin?” she asked.

  “In the summer.” Queen Verica tossed one of the dice. “The kordweyd in Liones removed a tumor from my abdomen. I seemed to be doing better—then the black cough began. I’d hoped to be here to celebrate the Seal of Alliance, but the weather turned, and I grew too weak to travel.”

  She coughed. “I told the Horned One he couldn’t call me for judgment until after the wedding.”

  “I can help ease your suffering, Queen Mother. If you’ll let me.”

  Once a wasting sickness had spread, there was little to do besides make a patient comfortable. This wasn’t an injury like Talorc had sustained at the mine or a poisoned spear; this was an illness that came from within the body. Magic couldn’t mend everything. And after her conversation with the Wise Damsel today, Branwen was afraid of how the magic might try to wield her if she tried.

  Queen Verica tilted her head. “I would be grateful for your help, Lady Branwen.” The embers crackled in the hearth as a log shifted and fell. “When Tristan was lost off the coast of Iveriu,” she began, “everyone told me he was dead. But I knew better. He is my karid—my beloved.” The queen gave Branwen a look that made her hold her breath.

  “I love my son, but I knew I had to raise a king. With Tristan, it’s different.” The queen’s expression turned wistful. “When Tristan did not return to our shores, I implored Marc to send the ships to Iveriu looking for him. I knew in my heart that he was alive.”

  A knot formed in Branwen’s stomach. She was sitting opposite the woman responsible for sending the raiders who killed G
raínne’s parents, for the villages that were massacred along the Rock Road. But the Queen Mother had done it for someone she loved.

  Branwen could no longer pretend that she wouldn’t do the same. Or worse.

  “The Horned One answered my prayers,” Queen Verica continued. “And when, at last, Tristan came home, he told me that I had a young Ivernic healer to thank for his safe return. A fair maiden, like something out of legend. And that he’d promised her he’d bring peace between our peoples.”

  Branwen squirmed beneath her gaze. The queen pinched one of the dice between her fingers.

  “Tristan, like me, is a gambler. The chance for peace was a risk worth taking, he said.” The other woman sipped her spirits.

  “No one else knows you helped Tristan before he entered the Champions Tournament, do they?”

  Branwen met her eye. “Do you think me a traitor?”

  “I think you helped a man in need, regardless of the fact that he was your enemy. If that makes you a traitor, then let us all be traitors.” The Queen Mother cough-laughed.

  She raised her glass to Branwen. “To traitors!”

  Branwen pinched her thigh to stop from crying. She was a traitor many, many times over.

  “We will keep each other’s secrets, won’t we?” said the Queen Mother as footsteps echoed from down the corridor. “For that is what we women do.”

  A YEAR WITHOUT DEATH

  THE FOREST THRUMMED WITH ANTICIPATION. Branwen was on foot, as were the other wedding guests. Fanned out through the trees, courtiers from all over Albion walked softly in search of a small, russet-colored bird.

  Over the past five days, foreign dignitaries and Kernyvak nobles had been arriving at Monwiku Castle. The island was filled to bursting, and the dread coiled inside Branwen threatened to rip from her skin.

  It was a Kernyvak custom, she’d been told, to hunt the rixula—the little queen—on the day before Long Night. The Kernyveu believed whoever was first to kill the bird would have protection against death for the coming year.

  Tomorrow, the Princess of Iveriu would marry the King of Kernyv, joining their kingdoms forever and warding the Iverni from death for many years to come.

  Branwen froze as her foot snapped a twig. A pair of wings flapped rapidly overhead, and a speck of reddish-brown darted skyward.

  “Bad luck,” said Ruan, sidling up next to her. “The rixula are cunning. They know how not to be caught.”

  Branwen spread her hands. “I have no bow or arrow.”

  He flicked his bowstring. “It’ll be hard to shoot without those.” Grinning, Ruan leaned closer, and Branwen could feel his body heat. She resisted the urge to lean into him.

  “I’ve scarcely seen you these past weeks. How do you fare?” Ruan asked, concern in his gaze. “Branwen.” He truly wanted to know.

  And she could never tell him. She had started to like the arrogant prince, and she wouldn’t blame him for despising her if her treason were uncovered.

  “Once the wedding is over, I think I’ll sleep for a month.” Branwen laughed uneasily.

  Ruan waited a beat before accepting her deflection. “I’ve never seen Endelyn work so hard,” he agreed. Glancing around them, he said, “Princess Eseult didn’t fancy joining the hunt?” A slight edge had crept into his voice.

  “My cousin hates to see an animal in pain,” Branwen replied. “When we were girls, she freed a rabbit from a trap. It bled out in her arms. Ever since then, she’s hated blood—and hunting. She’s with Queen Verica, playing dice.”

  Ruan snorted. “Then she’ll lose. The Queen Mother cheats.”

  “It’s a game of chance.”

  “Not if the dice are weighted,” he said, and Branwen gave a laugh.

  A rustling of wings caught Ruan’s attention. He targeted his bow, which was made of heartwood, to the north. New footsteps joined them, and the rixula flew off.

  He cursed under his breath.

  “Hail, Prince Ruan,” said a man, about Branwen’s age, whom she hadn’t met yet. He spoke in Aquilan, as all the wedding guests would.

  A look of chagrin passed over Ruan. “Hail, Prince Kahedrin.” Lifting his bow, he said, “Be careful that no one mistakes you for our prey,” and leveled the arrow at the other man’s vibrant red hair.

  “I think there’s little danger of that.” He slung his own bow over his shoulder. To Branwen, the redhead said, “I am Prince Kahedrin of Armorica.” He was only just taller than her, with a stocky build.

  He bowed his head at Branwen with respect. “Lady Branwen,” she said in response. “From Iveriu.” She curtsied.

  The Armorican prince had a strong jaw, yet his smile was warm. “Delighted to meet you, my lady.” His eyes were steady on hers—a hazy blue like a late summer’s evening.

  Ruan glanced between them, the corner of his mouth betraying the slightest frown.

  “Ruan!” called King Marc from farther back in the wood.

  He clinched the curve of his bow with his fingers. “I’ll win the rixula for you, Lady Branwen,” Ruan said. Arching a brow, he added, “Maybe then you’ll save me a dance tomorrow night? I’m keen to learn your unenlightened, Ivernic ways.” He winked and dashed off.

  Prince Kahedrin stared after him. “Ruan has always been charming,” he said.

  “You know him well?” Branwen prompted.

  “I don’t know if anyone knows him well, my lady.” Kahedrin turned a serious look on her. “But I’ve known him since we were boys. The Whel family stronghold at Illogan is only a few days’ sail across the southern channel from Armorica. We used to trade with them for white lead.”

  “No longer?”

  Kahedrin began to walk, and Branwen fell into step beside him. “White lead has been found in the kingdom of Míl. The supply is plentiful and the price is cheaper.”

  Branwen absorbed the information. This new competition would explain the pressure on the miners to work faster. Without minerals to export, Branwen didn’t know how Kernyv would sustain itself.

  Could Marc have needed Eseult’s dowry in addition to wanting peace? She had always assumed the kingdom was far wealthier than Iveriu.

  “You look troubled, Lady Branwen,” Kahedrin remarked.

  “No, that’s just how I look when I’m thinking.” She laughed. “When did you arrive at Monwiku?”

  “The day before yesterday. My father sent me as emissary. The pirate raids usually become less frequent in the winter. Not so this year.” He blew out a breath. “We’re refortifying all of the old Aquilan city walls.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

  “If my older brother had won the Champions Tournament last summer, we might be celebrating a union between Armorica and Iveriu tomorrow.”

  Branwen folded her hands together. “Crown Prince Havelin fought bravely.” She maintained a neutral tone, remembering how Eseult had complained about Havelin’s crooked nose.

  Kahedrin grunted. “Havelin didn’t even advance to the single combat. I would have done better,” he boasted, catching Branwen’s eye.

  “Spoken like a younger brother.”

  The prince laughed. “I suppose.”

  “And you have a younger sister? Also called Eseult, I believe.”

  He nodded. “But don’t call her that. She prefers her middle name—Alba.”

  “Like the giantess?”

  “She has the attitude of one.” Kahedrin laughed more broadly. “You’ll know what I mean, if you ever meet her.”

  “She didn’t want to come to the wedding?”

  His face clouded. “She prefers sailing to entertaining, and we could only risk one member of the royal family setting foot in Kernyv with things … the way they are. Sending Havelin was out of the question—so here I am.” The words speared Branwen with panic. She dug her fingernails into her palm. “It’s a shame Iveriu and Armorica couldn’t unite to fight the Kernyvak pirates together.”

  A frightened birdcall pealed from the trees.

  “The
Land chose her Champion,” Branwen told Kahedrin. “My father taught me to turn enemies into friends, and a new era of peace for Iveriu is about to dawn.”

  “For Iveriu, maybe. Not Armorica.”

  “It’s not for us to question the Old Ones.”

  Liar. Branwen heard that acid-washed voice in her head again. It was her questioning of the Old Ones that had left the peace balanced on a knife’s edge.

  Kahedrin stopped mid-stride and angled his body toward her. “Kernyv’s enemies become Iveriu’s tomorrow. I very much hope they won’t number more than their friends,” he said.

  An arrow whizzed overhead and lodged in the tree trunk a few hands’ widths away.

  “Beg your pardon!” Ruan called out. “I thought I saw a rixula.”

  Kahedrin grimaced. Branwen pivoted toward Ruan and saw King Marc a pace behind.

  Dead leaves crunched beneath the king’s boots as he came to a halt.

  Branwen glanced at him sideways, her gaze drifting to his hands. There was dirt from the forest beneath his fingernails, but they were precisely filed. Almost too short, as if they’d first been bitten.

  “Your Majesty,” said Kahedrin. “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials.” He bowed from the waist.

  “Thank you, Prince Kahedrin.”

  Stealing another look at King Marc’s nails, Branwen wondered if he was at all apprehensive about the wedding night? She dug her own into the flesh of her palms and dropped her gaze.

  Marc adjusted the bow slung over his shoulder. “I trust King Faramon is in good health,” he said to the Armorican prince.

  “My father’s health is as good as can be expected.” Kahedrin widened his stance, as if preparing for a fight. “Given the relentless assaults on our northern coast.”

  Ruan moved closer to Kahedrin and Marc pulled him back.

  “I have no quarrel with Armorica,” said the king.

  Kahedrin’s nostrils flared. “And yet you allow pirates to plague our shores.”

  “You forget yourself,” Ruan barked, grazing the hilt of his sword with his bow hand. “You’re speaking to my king.”