“No.” A meager sound. Casek speared Branwen with a glance, and she knew this was far from the last of their battles.
“Stargazy pie! Stargazy pie!” Andred broke the fraught moment with a laugh. He hurried to Marc’s side and held out a thickly crusted pie. Pilchard heads stuck out through the slats in the pastry, eyes glassy.
Taking a step toward Eseult, Andred said, “We call it Stargazy pie because the fish are gazing up at the stars. See!” He raised the pie up to the queen’s nose, and she went completely green.
She lifted a hand over her mouth as if she were about to be ill. Panic lanced Branwen. The queen pushed the pie away with her other hand, and Andred’s face fell.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Andred … I think—” Eseult’s shoulders heaved. She made a gurgling sound and then broke into a sprint.
Branwen immediately followed. The True Queen of Kernyv raced down the beach, only stopping when she reached the water. She clutched at her stomach and then she began to retch.
Branwen pulled Eseult’s braid away from her face. She shushed her, rubbing her back. When the queen was done, Branwen wiped a dab of spittle from the corner of her mouth.
“I don’t know what happened,” Eseult said, cheeks pinking with embarrassment. “The stench was just too much.”
“Strange. You’ve always loved pilchards.”
“I know. A lot of things have been making me feel ill lately. I don’t know what it could be.”
“This isn’t the first time?” The queen shook her head. “Are you sure?” Branwen grabbed her elbow.
“Yes, I’m sure!” Her tone grew petulant, and panicked. “Why?”
“Have you had your monthly bleeding?” she asked her cousin in a whisper.
“My monthly—no, no…” Eseult’s eyes rounded.
“When was the last time?”
“In Iveriu.” Three moons ago.
“Eseult! Queen Eseult!” Tristan called out, rushing toward them headlong.
“Oh, Branny,” said the True Queen. “I’m not—it was only once. I—I couldn’t be … Am I?”
Branwen slanted her gaze at the man running through the sand.
“Pregnant,” she said.
And the father was Tristan.
Branwen thought she might retch, herself. The wind whipped her face, and she heard the waves laugh.
ONWARD, ARMORICA
BRANWEN CLOSED HER EYES AS Senara carried her through the forest. She trusted her mount to stay on the path more than she trusted herself.
Blood and bone, forged by fire, we beseech you for the truest of desires.
The Queen of Iveriu’s truest desire was that Eseult should bear a child that united Iveriu and Kernyv in one bloodline, one legitimate heir to both kingdoms. The birth of an heir would also put Eseult’s status as True Queen of Kernyv beyond question.
Branwen shivered as if she had a fever.
The birth of a child who resembled the Queen’s Champion rather than the queen’s husband would mean war. War within Kernyv, and war between Kernyv and Iveriu. There would be no denying the evidence of their treason.
The second vision she’d had while casting the spell flooded Branwen’s mind. She had seen Tristan drifting on the sea—the way she’d found him—and herself being tied to a pyre, set alight. She’d seen the Land wither and die.
“Taking a nap, Lady Branwen?”
Her eyes flipped open at Ruan’s teasing voice. He spoke to her in Ivernic whenever it was just the two of them. His blond hair gleamed, messy in the breeze, as he guided his stallion alongside hers.
“It’s been a busy few weeks,” she said, fiddling with the reins.
“That it has. But things should calm down now.” Branwen swallowed at Ruan’s words. They were already in the midst of a storm he couldn’t see. Involuntarily, her gaze was drawn to Tristan. He rode just behind Eseult and the king. All of the men had believed Branwen when she’d said the queen was suffering from simple indigestion.
Ruan leaned in her direction, halfway out of his saddle. “We’ll soon have more free time for other pursuits,” he told her.
“What pursuits would those be?” Branwen kept her tone light.
Dropping his voice, he promised, “Highly imaginative ones.” The tip of his nose grazed her cheek before he pulled away. Tingles radiated from the spot.
On the wedding night, she’d foolishly hoped that the Mantle of Maidenhood would be the end of her many deceptions. Ruan was the King’s Champion. Their loyalties would always be divided. No matter how much her cousin might hurt Branwen, she would never let any harm befall her. Letting Ruan get close to her was a risk Branwen shouldn’t take.
“I think I’ll have my hands full with the royal infirmary,” she said.
“Yes, your cousin has a talent for getting her own way.”
“Doesn’t a queen always get her way?”
“Perhaps.” He laughed. “Mother will be fuming all the way back to Illogan.”
Branwen suspected as much. She was glad that Countess Kensa wasn’t returning to Monwiku with them. Seer Casek had also, mercifully, departed separately for Marghas. Branwen glanced around the wood. Endelyn accompanied Queen Verica in the carriage trailing at the back of the convoy. Andred rode beside them on his steed, chatting away to Queen Verica. Endelyn ignored her younger brother as usual.
“Andred seems happy,” Branwen noted. “I think he plans to teach Lowenek the name of every flower in the castle gardens.”
A pensive expression came over Ruan’s face. “He does. He likes being your apprentice, and he’s never had many friends. My father…” He paused, and Branwen sensed protectiveness in him. “Edern didn’t like having a cripple for a son, he said.” His lips curled at the memory. “Andred was scarcely allowed to leave the villa until Marc appointed him his cupbearer. My father couldn’t refuse a king’s request.”
Ruan glanced at Branwen, gauging her reaction. She was beginning to understand why he kept himself so well guarded with innuendo and cavalier statements.
“King Marc is a kind man,” Branwen said.
Holding her gaze, Ruan said, “Does the queen think so, too?”
“Of course. They’re getting to know each other—slowly.” Branwen shifted her weight so that her shoulder touched his as their horses walked. “You’re kind, too, Ruan. Despite your attempts to hide it.”
He pulled back, trying to recapture her gaze. Ruan’s voice was deep as he began, “Branwen—” Then abruptly, he broke off. He jerked his head forward, following something with his eyes.
“Rix!” he shouted.
This time Branwen heard it, too. The sound of an arrow whizzing through the air.
And another.
And another.
King Marc’s stallion reared as an iron tip pierced its shoulder. The beast crashed back down to the ground, letting out an agonized cry. Marc rolled deftly from the horse’s back before it could crush him.
“Get low,” Ruan directed Branwen and galloped straight for his king.
Dread paralyzed her. This was how her parents had died. Ambushed.
Arrows continued to sail through the air, lodging in the trees with a wretched thunk sound. A woman’s scream cut through her fear.
Eseult. Her cousin. Her queen. Branwen’s right hand twitched. The urge to protect her cousin was violent, and Branwen’s magic was more potent than a sword. But did she dare reveal it? Would the kordweyd condemn her powers?
In her moment of hesitation, she saw Tristan pull Eseult from her saddle onto his horse. Another arrow whirred through the air, striking the king’s mount again, embedding in its left flank. “Marc!” Tristan yelled as Ruan charged his stallion in between the king’s felled horse and the direction from which the arrows seemed to be coming—inland, east from the moors.
Praise the Old Ones, Eseult had been riding on the king’s right. Marc shouted back at Tristan in Kernyvak. Even from a distance, Branwen could detect the anguish that contorted Tristan’s face.
> Marc’s voice was furious, and the only word she understood was Rixina.
Queen.
Tristan’s eyes were locked with his king’s. A moment later, grimacing, he gripped Eseult tighter around the waist and kicked his steed into a gallop.
Tristan’s first duty was to protect the queen—and that was what King Marc had ordered him to do.
Ruan brandished his sword, shielding the king with his body, as Tristan’s horse disappeared between the trees.
The queen’s mare whinnied, frightened, and took off after her mistress. Several more arrows pursued it.
Twisting around in her saddle, Branwen dashed a glance at Queen Verica and the others. The Royal Guardsmen driving the carriage had taken defensive positions around the Queen Mother and Endelyn. As had Andred, even though he didn’t have a weapon.
No arrows were being launched at the back of the convoy. King Marc was the target.
Instincts taking over, Branwen urged Senara toward the king. Alarm spread across Ruan’s face as he realized what she was doing. She kept her body low against her horse’s neck.
“Stay back!” Ruan shouted at her. Branwen ignored him.
Another arrow zoomed toward the king. But this one came from the west.
Marc howled as it struck him in the right shoulder. A blossom of blood darkened his tunic. For less than one heartbeat, Branwen saw him as the boy he was—the boy who had ambushed her family in exactly the same way.
Resolve erased resentment. He was Branwen’s king now, the Land’s Consort. Her magic simmered beneath her skin, almost as if it recognized him.
Marc stumbled, his foot catching on a gnarled tree root, and he fell back against his writhing mount. All of Branwen’s senses sharpened. The sounds of the forest grew crisper. The red of the king’s blood and the blue of the sky became more vivid.
It was as if she’d once more passed through the Veil. Something dark, something that didn’t belong caught her attention. Branwen squinted. A woman’s shadow wavering between the trees to the west.
A skeleton dressed in flowing silk.
Chills erupted across Branwen’s chest. This was a Death-Teller. The skull opened its mouth and began to sing: a bloodcurdling lament. The shriek stopped her heart.
No! Branwen wouldn’t let the Death-Teller take the king. She yanked Senara’s reins and steered her mount toward the Otherworld woman. Branwen had no weapon, but she hadn’t needed a weapon to defeat the Shades. The Wise Damsel had been right.
Branwen was the weapon. The Hand of Bríga ended the Shades’ living-death, and she prayed it could stop a Death-Teller. She would defend King Marc as she would defend the Land.
The Death-Teller floated toward Branwen at breathtaking speed. Branwen didn’t let up on her mount’s pace. Just as Senara was about to run down the Death-Teller, Branwen was blinded by a starburst of light. The palfrey balked.
“Branwen!” Ruan screamed. She turned her head toward him. He had leapt down from his horse. “Move!” Ruan shouted at her again. Vision still blurred with dark spots, Branwen didn’t think she could trust her eyes as the Death-Teller dissolved and took on the form of a man.
“Onward, Armorica!” hollered the man, eyes wild.
Branwen recognized the Armorican motto—they were the only Armorican words she knew. The man waved a dagger in jagged motions. He was perhaps forty summers, his white skin weather-beaten, dressed in fisherman’s clothes.
When the steel caught the sun, it blinded Branwen again. Senara neighed in distress, hooves flying into the air.
The Armorican man dodged the hooves and sprinted toward King Marc. Ruan raised his sword, planting his feet in front of the king. Marc had regained his footing, but he was cradling his shoulder. Branwen jumped down from her horse and ran after the Armorican.
She managed to grasp the tail of his tunic, throwing him off balance just as his dagger clashed against Ruan’s sword. He wheeled on Branwen.
The Armorican’s expression changed from aggression to fear. She looked down at her hand. A flame danced on her palm. Her heart line had turned black.
He regarded her the same way that the captain of Dhusnos’s Shades had during the assault on the Dragon Rising. When Branwen had looked at the Armorican, she had seen a Death-Teller.
What did he see when he looked at Branwen?
Thankfully, his body blocked Ruan’s view of her flame. The King’s Champion wasted no time in using the man’s distraction to his advantage. He bashed the Armorican over the head with the flat of his sword.
The man pivoted to defend himself, and Ruan cracked the pommel of his sword against the Armorican’s temple. The dagger went limp in his hand and slid to the ground as he keeled over.
Branwen’s flame vanished. Ruan took two predatory steps toward the unconscious man. He pressed the tip of his sword to the Armorican’s throat.
“Stop!” Branwen barked. She dropped to her knees beside the man. She pressed two fingers below his jaw. “He’s still alive.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to correct.” Ruan was breathing hard. “I know you’re a healer. But this man doesn’t deserve your mercy.”
“Mercy?” She looked up at Ruan. “This isn’t about mercy. We need him alive so he can be interrogated.”
“Branwen speaks wisely,” Marc said, hissing against the pain. He pushed himself to standing and walked toward his attacker. Surveying him, he said, “He’ll be unconscious for a while. Bind his hands and feet, and we’ll take him back to the castle.”
Ruan glanced around them. “We don’t know how many there are.”
“No,” the king agreed. “But we need to find out.” He and his Champion argued with their eyes. The forest was silent. Whoever the man’s accomplice was must have run off when he was captured.
Branwen approached Marc, touching a gentle hand to the elbow of his injured arm. He gritted his teeth. She panned her gaze along the shaft of the arrow; its head was firmly lodged inside the flesh.
“I need to remove the arrowhead. But I’d prefer to do it with all of my surgical instruments.”
Marc showed her a half smile. “I think I’d prefer that as well.”
Branwen stooped down to pick up the Armorican’s dagger. Closing her palm around the handle, she noticed her scar had returned to white. The king looked from the knife to Branwen’s face.
“I don’t think I’d survive your attack,” Marc told her. He wheezed a laugh. The king had no idea that she could have ended his life on his wedding night. How close Branwen came to surrendering to her darkest impulses.
Ruan snorted. “I don’t think anyone could, Rix.”
Branwen huffed a breath. “I need to trim the shaft of the arrow so it doesn’t cause more damage on the journey back to Monwiku.”
“Of course,” said Marc.
“Ruan, your sash.” Branwen held out her other hand, and he laughed as he pulled it over his head. “I’m going to need to have more of these made,” he remarked.
The king’s maimed stallion released another doleful cry, discordant against Ruan’s laughter. Tying the sash tightly around Marc’s upper arm, Branwen told him, “This should stem the bleeding until we reach the castle.”
“Mormerkti,” he replied.
King Marc turned toward his mount, sadness rinsing his features as his eyes swept over the beast’s wounds.
“He’s in pain,” he said to Ruan. His Champion nodded, expression becoming solemn. He kneeled beside the horse and used his sword to slit its throat.
The immediate quiet made the air heavy. After several moments, Marc put his lips together in a whistle that sounded like a birdcall.
Branwen raised her eyebrows in question. “It’s a signal Tristan and I made up as boys,” the king explained. “To let each other know that we’re safe. The danger’s passed.”
She lifted the dagger and began sawing through the shaft of the arrow.
ALL THAT WE ARE
THE PALE LAVENDER OF TWILIGHT streamed through the wind
ows of the king’s study. Branwen rushed in without knocking, healing kit under her arm.
“Nosmatis,” she said. The king was seated at the table toward the back of the room. Pain was etched into the line of his jaw.
The return journey to Monwiku had been slowed by the pace of the carriage. Marc had sent Tristan on ahead with the queen, but Branwen insisted the king travel with his mother to avoid jostling the arrow.
“Queen Eseult is resting comfortably?” King Marc said as Branwen neared. His brows were drawn. “I promised her she’d be safe in Kernyv.”
At this very moment, the would-be assassin was being transported by Ruan and the other guards to the dungeon.
“She’s fine. Unnerved, but fine. Endelyn is with her. And Tristan.” In truth, Branwen hadn’t had time to look after her cousin. “The queen has an aversion to blood, but she’s thinking of you.”
One corner of Marc’s mouth lifted. Dropping her satchel onto the table beside him, Branwen scanned him with her healer’s eye. Luckily there were no outward signs that the arrows had been poisoned.
“Are you feeling hot?” she asked.
“No.” He shook his head.
Branwen lifted her hand to check for herself but hesitated before pressing it to his forehead. “May I?”
“Treat me like any other patient.”
As her skin made contact with his, Branwen swallowed a lump in her throat. She hadn’t been alone with the king since she’d lain beside him in his marriage bed. She feared that she might somehow trigger a memory, that he might suddenly realize it had been her with whom he’d spoken in the dark, but he gave no sign of it.
The king’s brow felt a normal temperature. Branwen exhaled. “Infection is the worst complication from an arrow wound,” she said.
“I know. I’ve seen.” He didn’t need to explain it had been while raiding.
“As have I.”
Marc nodded. “Tristan told me you work miracles. I know I’m safe in your hands.”
Just how much had Tristan disclosed about how he’d survived the poison-tipped spear? Branwen cast her eyes to the blood-soaked tunic. A short section of the arrow’s shaft still protruded from his right shoulder. She removed Ruan’s sash and tore at the fabric of the sleeve with her fingers, but the tunic was made from thick wool.
Wild Savage Stars Page 20
