The scene of carnage had been like so many others that had played out on Ivernic shores, like the Skeleton Beach massacre Keane survived as a boy but from which he’d never recovered.
Finally, the moon high and her hair still damp, Branwen threw on her cloak and hurried across the inner bailey. She bid Nosmatis to the guardsmen posted at the entrance to the King’s Tower.
She didn’t head for the stairs. Quietly, not wanting to disturb him, she opened the door to Ruan’s chambers.
He bolted upright in his bed, illuminated by a single shaft of candlelight. It winked off the sword in his hand. “Branwen?”
“I’m here to escape.”
Ruan lowered his sword and spread his arms. “Your escape is here.”
ALLIES
DAWN CAME TOO SOON.
A few hours later, the King’s Council had been assembled. Marc asked Branwen to join them as she changed his bandages. Following him down the corridor toward his study, she could already hear arguing from behind the door.
“I suppose I can’t keep the council waiting forever.” He sighed.
“Well, you’re the king,” said Branwen. “I think you can.”
Marc let out a laugh, then winced from the movement of his shoulders. He’d declined to wear a sling.
“Would you escort me?” Branwen asked, touching his elbow.
His lips quirked in understanding. “Forgive my manners, Lady Branwen.” She accepted the king’s left arm, leaning in close so that she could take some of his weight as they entered the study.
The loudest of the voices—belonging to Baron Dynyon—ceased mid-sentence when he spotted King Marc. He smoothed the ends of his fiery mustache. The other half of the heated exchange appeared to be the elderly head of House Julyan. His liver-spotted hand was wrapped tightly around his cane.
Everyone sitting rose immediately to their feet and began to approach the oblong table upon which Branwen had operated on the king. Seer Casek had been interrupted mid-discussion with the younger Baron Chyanhal, seated on opposite sides of the fidkwelsa board in the far corner.
Countess Kensa gave Branwen a look as cold as moonlight when she saw her on the king’s arm. She stood beside Baron Dynyon, with the inordinately tall Baron Gwyk completing their group. His glass eye reflected a shaft of sunlight.
“My king,” said Baron Dynyon as he bowed. “Kernyv bosta vyken!”
“Kernyv bosta vyken,” King Marc affirmed. He relinquished Branwen’s arm.
The other councillors lifted their goblets and toasted to Kernyv forever. The last Kernyvak king to die in battle had been before the Aquilan retreat from Albion. Despite the fact that Marc had narrowly escaped death, the barons believed in the permanence of their kingdom.
“Apparently the debate has begun without me,” said the king.
“Not at all,” Baron Julyan said. His wizened eyebrows drew together.
Noticing King Marc was without a goblet of his own, Andred hurried toward his older brother who had the decanter of Mílesian spirits in hand. Ruan leaned against the sideboard, refilling his glass generously, as well as that of Baron Kerdu.
Ruan had a robust tolerance for drink, but Branwen suspected he was maintaining his well-cultivated image among the nobility as a cad. His eyes trailed to hers languorously, and an unwelcome heat rose in her cheeks.
“Please, everyone, take your seats,” King Marc said, part request, part command.
Tristan escorted his grandmother to a chair at the far end of the table, closest to the windows. Marc walked toward the Queen Mother and the True Queen, as the council members complied. Eseult caught Branwen’s eye and beckoned her.
“You look well, my son,” said Queen Verica.
Eseult gave her husband a shy smile. “You do,” she agreed. “Very well.”
Marc returned the smile. “Thank you for visiting me yesterday,” he told her, somewhat reticent. “I’ll try not to fall asleep next time. I promise it wasn’t the quality of the conversation.” He offered a self-deprecating laugh.
“Oh, I don’t mind. I might be quite dull only no one dared tell me because I was a princess.”
“I very much doubt that’s possible.” They shared another smile that soon became awkward. “Here,” Marc said, pulling out the chair at the head of the table. “I am filled with gratitude that you are attending your first council meeting as my wife and my True Queen.”
Eseult’s creamy complexion grew rosy. “Mormerkti, my Lord King.”
“Sekrev.” He kissed Eseult’s hand as she lowered herself into the chair.
Branwen’s stomach revolted as she observed them and watched Tristan observing them. Another night of escape in Ruan’s bed was not enough to make her forget all of the suffering she had caused.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the prince appeared at her side, proffering her a silver goblet. “My younger brother seems to have forgotten you,” Ruan said, nodding at Andred who was handing the king spiced wine. “Is he still your favorite?”
Ruan’s eyes danced. Branwen pried the goblet from his fingers, letting a scratch on the back of his hand be sufficient answer. He licked his lips.
“Let’s turn to the matter at hand,” the king said to his councillors as he wandered back to the other end of the table. Ruan followed.
Seer Casek had seated himself in the chair directly to the king’s left; Ruan flanked his right. As at other formal occasions, the barons from Houses Julyan, Kerdu, and Chyanhal also filled out the right side of the table, while Countess Kensa, Baron Gwyk and Baron Dynyon rounded out the left. Tristan pulled out a chair between Baron Julyan and his grandmother. The divisions among the nobles couldn’t be starker.
Andred had wisely made himself scarce, decamping to the corner of the room.
Standing behind the chair at the head of the table, Marc said, “Baron Dynyon, please, let us begin with your concerns.”
“But, my Lord King, we have a guest,” Countess Kensa interrupted. She dazzled Branwen with a poisonous smile. “Lady Branwen is not a member of the council and there is no chair for her.”
“I invited her,” King Marc said. His words were steel. “She is welcome.”
The head of House Chyanhal rose. His chair creaked. “Please, Lady Branwen, take my seat. I’m glad to stretch my legs after a day of hard riding.” He pulled the chair out farther.
“Mormerkti, Baron Chyanhal.”
Countess Kensa’s lips twisted as if she’d tasted something sour but raised no further objections as Branwen took the baron’s seat, next to Ruan. King Marc showed Baron Chyanhal a reserved smile of thanks. Ruan allowed his knee to rest against Branwen’s beneath the table, a sign of support.
“Now that that’s settled,” said the king, “Baron Dynyon?”
The baron touched two fingers to his crimson mustache. “Sire, I had suggested to the esteemed head of House Julyan that the Royal Fleet set sail for the south coast,” he replied. “Once our ships have amassed at Illogan, they can cross the Southern Channel from the headland with ease. The fleet can reach the Armorican capital of Karaez before the end of next week. With favorable winds.”
Branwen went rigid in her seat, pressing her spine against the leather back.
“And I suggested to Baron Dynyon,” said Baron Julyan, white eyebrows lifted, “that he was being hasty.”
“Hasty? The Armoricans tried to kill our king!” Baron Dynyon shot back.
Seated on Branwen’s right was Baron Kerdu, who said, “We have long had a friendly relationship with Armorica.” He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, the cream of his tunic contrasting against the brown of his skin.
“Prince Kahedrin didn’t behave like a friend when he attended the royal wedding,” Ruan said, looking from Baron Kerdu to King Marc.
The king was quiet a moment, calculating. “Prince Kahedrin expressed his … frustration with ongoing raids on Armorica’s northern coast,” King Marc said finally, countenance neutral.
Ruan twisted in hi
s seat to meet Marc’s eye. “He threatened you.”
“I was also present for the conversation, Prince Ruan,” Branwen reminded him. “He appealed to Kernyv to put a leash on the pirates.” Ruan turned in Branwen’s direction, stunned, hurt. She broke his gaze.
Countess Kensa scoffed. “Nobody puts a leash on the pirates.” To King Marc, she said, “The Seal of Alliance with Iveriu precludes subjects of the crown from buying goods or prisoners taken from our True Queen’s homeland.” She darted a sideways glance at Eseult. “But the pirates can’t be prevented from finding other sources of … revenue.”
From where he stood behind Branwen, Baron Chyanhal stroked his angular cheekbones and said, “Armorica is an important trading partner. They rely upon our white lead.”
“No, they don’t,” the countess told him. “Which you would know if House Chyanhal had any mines.” The younger baron bristled. “White lead is flowing into Armorica from the kingdom of Míl.”
Her expression was bloodless. Baron Gwyk nodded in agreement. Beneath the table, Branwen bunched the skirts on her thighs. Countess Kensa appeared utterly unconcerned with the Armoricans being terrorized, only with her business interests. Had she always been so callous, or had it been years of marriage to a heartless man?
Baron Julyan coughed. “House Julyan has mines. I am aware of the competition from Mílesian lead. However, I do not believe that King Faramon would sanction an assassination attempt on our king solely because Armorica is no longer dependent on our minerals.”
Branwen panned her eyes around the table, trying to read the expressions of the other councillors. Baron Dynyon fiddled with the end of his mustache, shaking his head. Baron Gwyk’s lips were also pursed.
She locked her gaze on Tristan. His dark eyes showed his worry. If there were anyone she would trust with her vision, it would still be Tristan. But what she’d seen was inconclusive at best.
“I agree with Baron Julyan,” Tristan said, looking down the table at King Marc. “Before we consider launching an assault on the Armorican capital, we should send an ambassador to King Faramon.” He briefly glanced back at Branwen before returning his gaze to Marc. “I would be happy to lead a diplomatic mission.”
Queen Eseult inhaled sharply, and Branwen sensed her dismay. Her cousin dropped a hand to her belly.
“Why should we send an ambassador when they sent an assassin?” Baron Dynyon exclaimed. He pounded a fist on the table.
“Because war is not something to be courted,” Branwen said, her own vehemence surprising even herself. Beneath her skin, she felt her magic stir.
“Who are you to speak about what Kernyv should or shouldn’t do?” Baron Gwyk reprimanded, fixing her with his one good eye.
“Kernyv and Iveriu are united now,” Branwen told him. “If Kernyv becomes Armorica’s enemy, so will Iveriu. Prince Kahedrin made that clear.”
“See,” said Ruan, agitation mounting. “Kahedrin made very free with his threats.”
“Beneath his threats was desperation,” she said. “I have felt that desperation.” Branwen shifted in her seat, beseeching Marc directly. “My kingdom has known nothing but war my entire life. It’s enough.”
King Marc lifted his right hand to his beard out of habit and winced. He lowered it slowly to his lap.
“What does my True Queen say?” he asked. All eyes snapped to Eseult.
She looked to Branwen. Branwen lifted her brow, uncertain what the True Queen would say. “I believe, my king,” her cousin began. She visibly swallowed. “I believe that I came to Kernyv for peace.”
The queen pressed on her abdomen, drawing in a breath. “We should find a way to keep the peace with Armorica.”
Her green eyes were moist. Had the danger of her situation finally impressed itself upon her cousin?
“You speak wisely, my queen,” King Marc said.
Queen Verica leaned forward. “King Faramon has always been a reasonable ruler. I support my grandson’s proposal. Send an envoy.”
“And would you be willing to give them Prince Tristan as a royal hostage if they aren’t interested in diplomacy?” Countess Kensa asked, voice needle-thin and piercing. She knew that the Queen Mother’s love for her grandson was one of her few vulnerabilities.
“I have taken greater risks on the battlefield,” Tristan countered.
“Responding to an assassination attempt with diplomacy is a mistake,” Baron Dynyon said, a low hum threading through his words. “It tells the other kingdoms we’re weak.”
“I have to agree, my king,” Ruan said. “Prince Kahedrin was often in the company of King Cunacus at the wedding, and Ordowik has always been a difficult neighbor.”
“Seer Casek,” King Marc said, pointing his gaze at the kordweyd. “What is the opinion of the temple?”
The seer took a long, dramatic breath. “The Horned One teaches us mercy, but he died to protect his father, and all of the Kernyveu would die to protect you, my king. The opinion of the temple is that a threat against a king who has accepted the truth of the Horned One cannot go unanswered.”
Light winked off the precious stones that encased the antler shard around his neck.
“But what if the assassin wasn’t sent by the King of Armorica?” Branwen said hotly. “Should innocent people be slaughtered because of the actions of one man?”
Seer Casek opened his mouth to reply when King Marc held up his hand.
All fell silent.
“Let us ask him,” said the king. “Ruan, fetch the prisoner.”
The King’s Champion leapt to his feet and exited the study without glancing at Branwen. This would undoubtedly be the first of many disagreements between them. She sent a silent prayer to the Old Ones that the Armorican was awake.
Countess Kensa raised her goblet to her lips and took a long sip.
“I presume the plans for the royal infirmary will be put on hold, given the circumstances.” She did nothing to hide her gloating.
“On the contrary, Countess.” King Marc looked down the length of the table to his wife. “The True Queen’s project is even more paramount if we are soon to have war wounded to care for. We will not change our course in the face of danger.”
He stared around the table at each of his councillors. “That would be weakness.”
Every now and then, Branwen saw the menace in King Marc—the fortitude—that had allowed him to survive his raids, much as he regretted them.
The barons drank in silence. The waiting became almost unbearable.
Sooner than Branwen expected, Ruan burst back into the king’s study.
Alone.
“He’s dead,” he said. “The prisoner is dead.”
THE TOUCH OF DHUSNOS
RUAN’S CHEST CONTINUED TO HEAVE. He must have sprinted up the hill from the dungeon. Branwen glanced at the other members of the King’s Council: Their expressions ranged from shocked to furious.
“How?” King Marc asked Ruan, careful to betray no emotion.
The room was still enough to hear nothing but the surf.
Ruan looked from the king to Branwen. She clasped her hands together, worrying one thumb over the other. The prisoner should have recovered. Unless, of course, the guards had tried interrogating him again.
“I’m no expert, Rix, but … it looks like poison,” Ruan told Marc, eyes still on Branwen.
At the far end of the table, Eseult gasped. The shock and indignation on the faces of those assembled became tainted with fear.
Was there another assassin within the castle walls?
King Marc pushed to standing. Branwen noticed his knuckles tighten against any pain he might feel.
“Take me to the body.” The conciliatory, diplomatic king was gone. “Lady Branwen,” he said, and the tension in his voice wound around her heart. “You’re a master of the healing arts. I’d like your opinion.”
“Of course, my Lord King.”
Seer Casek rose to his feet. “Allow me to lend my expertise as well, sire.”
“But, my Lord Ki—” Baron Dynyon began to protest before seeing the fierceness in Marc’s gaze and shutting his mouth.
To Tristan, the king said, “Please escort the Queen Mother and Queen Eseult to their rooms,” and then pivoted toward the door.
Branwen hurried to King Marc’s side and quietly offered him her arm for support. Ruan and Casek followed closely behind. As she and the king began descending the stairs, the din of arguing voices once more filled the air.
The king said nothing as they walked down the path to the barracks at a brisk clip. No one else dared to speak, either. Marc was ready for a fight, Branwen could feel it. She’d seen the battle-lust in men’s eyes before. But there would be no fight at the dungeon. Only a dead man.
The guards at the entrance to the barracks straightened as their king approached, Tutir among them. He kept his eyes on the ground. He had failed in his duty to keep the prisoner alive to face the King’s Council.
Marc barked at the Royal Guardsmen in Kernyvak. Ruan stepped forward to his side, pointing at Tutir and another, older guard who was blond and had a scar bisecting his left cheek. Branwen couldn’t catch everything that was being said, but she inferred that they had been the two guards on duty when the prisoner was found dead.
Ruan spoke to them in a lethally soft tone. Then, switching to Aquilan, he said to Branwen, “Please come this way, my lady. Rix,” and she followed him once more down the murky stairwell to the dungeon. King Marc and Seer Casek filed behind them.
At the bottom, Branwen spied the cell door flung open and the Armorican flat on his back, arms and legs sprawled on the floor like a serpent-star. As they neared the cell, Ruan stepped aside to let Branwen enter. The king and the seer also remained on the other side of the bars.
Wild Savage Stars Page 24
