Wild Savage Stars

by Kristina Perez

  As the members of the King’s Council took their seats around the table, she also felt the absence of the Queen Mother profoundly. Tristan took his grandmother’s place beside the True Queen at the opposite end of the table from the king. He motioned for Andred to sit between him and Baron Julyan. The elderly baron must not have expected to outlive Queen Verica.

  Branwen remained on her feet, as did two newcomers: Morgawr and Xandru. She hadn’t noticed the captain at the cliff top.

  “I won’t keep you too long from sharing in the feast to celebrate my mother’s life,” King Marc began, grim-faced. “She always preferred feasts of the dead because she said at least the dead are quiet dinner companions.” He attempted a meager smile and there was muffled laughter. That of Baron Dynyon and Baron Gwyk seemed particularly disingenuous.

  “There have been many losses at this court,” King Marc continued, and his eyes found the True Queen. “I am not eager for there to be more. After careful deliberation, I have come to a decision about the Armorican threat. Captain Morgawr, Captain Xandru.”

  He waved a hand toward the men who stood at attention behind him, inviting them to approach.

  Morgawr met Branwen’s stare and tipped his head, his jaw taut. He was dressed in his Royal Fleet uniform, a white clover pinned to his collar.

  “Tomorrow morning, Captain Morgawr will lead a convoy of ships around the tip of Liones,” King Marc disclosed. “Word has already been sent overland to Captain Bryok at Illogan to expect reinforcements. Together, they will fan out along our southern coast in a defensive net.”

  “We will not be breached, Rix,” said Captain Morgawr.

  Marc nodded. “The shallow waters that surround Monwiku will protect us, but Countess Kensa, Baron Gwyk, Baron Dynyon: Your territories are the most in danger from an attack by sea. When you return to your homes tomorrow, you should start fortifying your beaches.”

  Baron Gwyk turned his good eye on the king. “Will the crown be providing funds for these new battlements? The cost of labor has increased and our revenue from trade has decreased in recent months, my king.”

  “Now is hardly the time to haggle over your taxes,” Tristan said, nostrils flaring.

  “I agree,” said Baron Chyanhal. While he was slim, his shoulders were broad, and when he threw them back his normal reserve vanished.

  “Which is easy for you to say, seeing as your lands lie here on the north coast,” countered Baron Dynyon.

  Tristan leaned forward suddenly. “We are on the brink of war, and we have just laid my grandmother to rest. Can you not think of your kingdom rather than your coffers for one solitary day?” His outburst stunned the barons into silence.

  Countess Kensa shifted in her seat. “Prince Tristan is right,” she said. “We should have better fortified ourselves long before now. We’ve been complacent, Baron Dynyon.” The baron looked at her askance. As did Branwen. Although, for once, she agreed with the countess.

  To King Marc, Countess Kensa said, “House Whel will do its part to defend our lands.”

  “Thank you, Countess.”

  “Rix,” Tristan said, capturing his uncle’s gaze. “Grant me leave to return to Castle Wragh. Liones is also vulnerable to attack from across the Southern Channel.”

  “No.” It was the True Queen who spoke. She shot Tristan an anxious glance, twiddling one of the pearls in her plaits.

  Meeting the queen’s gaze, he said, “I should be there to defend it with my people.”

  “No.” She gripped the sleeve of his tunic. “You’re my Champion. I need you here.” The quiet desperation in Eseult’s voice clawed at Branwen.

  Branwen tilted her gaze at Ruan, whose face had become an enormous scowl. Could King Marc see what his Champion did? She rubbed her right hand several times against her skirt.

  “As you wish,” King Marc told his wife.

  “Tristan, we will send reinforcements to Castle Wragh,” he added.

  With a quick, pained look at Eseult, Tristan said, “But, Rix, the people of Liones are mine to protect.”

  “Surely your obligation to Liones is not more important than your duty to the True Queen of Kernyv, Prince Tristan?” said Countess Kensa.

  The other barons watched for Tristan’s reaction. If he didn’t yield to Marc in this, he would be declaring the needs of Liones greater than those of Kernyv. By making Tristan heir to Liones, Queen Verica and King Merchion had brought the permanent specter of civil war to their kingdom. Tristan would always be a threat to the crown.

  “Of course, Rix.” Tristan swallowed hard. “My place is here, with you and the True Queen.” He swung his gaze to Eseult, who relaxed into her seat. She folded her hand around a pearl that she’d yanked from her braid.

  Countess Kensa was unable to suppress a smirk. Ruan’s expression didn’t change.

  As King Marc looked over his shoulder at Xandru, the corners of his mouth creased. With concern, Branwen thought.

  “Captain Xandru Manduca has volunteered to sail for Karaez. As many of you know, the Manduca family in the Melita Isles has been trading with Armorica for generations. The captain is also a distant cousin to the Armorican queen.”

  Marc shifted his gaze to the left-hand side of the table and spoke directly to Seer Casek, Countess Kensa, Baron Gwyk, and Baron Dynyon. “Captain Xandru will be our ambassador to King Faramon and Queen Yedra.”

  There were a few startled grunts among the nobles at King Marc’s pronouncement. Tristan’s face registered no such surprise.

  The king swallowed, unable to keep the apprehension from his eyes. “Captain Xandru is a neutral party in this. He assures me that King Faramon and Queen Yedra will grant him an audience to explain that the attack that killed Havelin was not sanctioned by the Kernyvak crown.”

  Baron Kerdu cleared his throat and said, “Sire, might it not be a mistake to admit that we no longer have control of our own waters? That the pirates fear no repercussions from us?”

  Baron Dynyon leaned back in his chair, folding his arms and nodding in agreement.

  “There will be repercussions.” King Marc’s tone was flinty. “But first, I will make one last attempt at diplomacy with Armorica.” Returning his gaze to Xandru, he said, “All of Kernyv owes you a great debt, Captain.”

  Tristan shifted in his seat. Did he regret not being sent as envoy? Given the death of Crown Prince Havelin, it would be distinctly unwise to send a prince of Kernyv.

  “No doubt the captain is being paid handsomely for his trouble,” said Baron Gwyk. “The Manduca family isn’t known for its charity.”

  King Marc’s eyes flashed. Xandru took a step forward. “My dear Baron Gwyk,” he said. “It is not in the interest of my family that war make the Southern Channel too dangerous for our merchant ships to traverse.”

  Branwen suspected Xandru’s motives for aiding the King of Kernyv were not purely financial. She grabbed Tristan’s gaze, but he immediately looked away.

  “My services in this instance are therefore free of charge,” Xandru continued. “But not without reward.” He gave the one-eyed baron a winning smile, and the baron clamped his mouth shut.

  The king bit down on a smile of his own. Frowning again, he said, “Thank you all for coming. Let us go and toast to the Queen Mother.”

  “Rix,” Branwen interjected. He lifted his brow. “My Lord King, what of Iveriu?” she said, and the True Queen gave her a barbed look.

  “A fast messenger ship has been sent to warn King Óengus, Lady Branwen,” King Marc replied. “I pray that no harm will come to your island.”

  “Mormerkti,” she said.

  The rest of the night passed in a somber haze. After the feast of the dead had been consumed, the funeral guests were invited to the gardens for the final rite: a toast to the stars. If the stars were gods, it made sense to appease them with drink, Branwen supposed. The moon had risen during the meal, and the air was chilly. Branwen had dashed back to the West Tower to grab her cloak.

  Fastening it about
her shoulders, she ducked into the Great Hall to fill a goblet with spiced wine. The hall was empty, the oil in the Aquilan lamps burning low, emitting a warm light on the snakestone. She stole a small sip of wine from the gods.

  Carrying her drink toward the darkened entryway, she heard the hushed murmur of voices. It was King Marc with Xandru.

  “I hate to leave you, with everything—” Marc was saying. Branwen froze a few paces away. They didn’t see her.

  “I always hate to leave you,” Xandru told the king.

  “And I hate putting you in danger. I won’t be able to sleep while you’re in Armorica.”

  “When do you ever?” He gave a soft laugh.

  “Xan.” The name was a tease, a sigh. Branwen had never heard King Marc sound so unguarded. Not like a king at all.

  Xandru lifted a hand and stroked the line of King Marc’s jaw. “I’d cross a thousand seas for you, Marc.” Tenderness glowed on his face. The king shuddered a breath.

  Branwen’s grip tightened on the goblet. This moment wasn’t hers to see. She retreated a step.

  “I wish I could go with you,” Marc said.

  “You know you can’t. Besides, Queen Yedra has Manduca blood, and we’d rather turn a profit than cut off heads.”

  The king sighed. “At least promise me you won’t take any undue risks.”

  “Define undue.” Xandru toyed with Marc’s earlobe. “You always cut yourself in the same place,” he said. “I can’t die because you need me to shave you.” Another soft, flirtatious laugh.

  Branwen took one more quiet step backward, trying to escape without notice.

  “You can’t die because Kernyv is falling apart with you gone, Xan. And me, I’m—” Marc wrapped his hand behind Xandru’s neck and pulled him close. The motion was violent, jagged. Desire gripped the king’s face.

  “Karid,” he said huskily against the other man’s lips.

  The heel of Branwen’s boot caught on the hem of her dress. Before she could balance herself, the goblet was flying from her grasp. It clattered against the stone as she fell on her bottom with a yelp.

  Xandru’s head snapped up. He raced toward her, dagger halfway out of the sheath at his hip. “Lady Branwen?”

  His hand remained on the hilt of the weapon. His jaw was tensed as he glanced sidelong at King Marc. It was a question. Branwen’s heart thundered.

  She looked at Xandru and saw herself the night Keane had threatened to expose Eseult’s affair with Diarmuid. Marc was Xandru’s absolute, the way Eseult was hers. He would eliminate any threat to the king and his rule, and he wouldn’t be overly plagued with qualms about it.

  “Let me help you up,” King Marc said, offering Branwen a hand. She accepted; his palm was clammy.

  “Mormerkti,” she said.

  Xandru looked between Branwen and Marc. With some reluctance, he dropped his hand from the blade. “My apologies, my lady. We’re all on edge at the moment.”

  “Forgiven, Captain.”

  “Would you mind giving me a moment alone with Lady Branwen?” Marc said.

  Xandru straightened his shoulders. “Take all the time you need. The crew of the Mawort awaits. We sail at first light, and I should be returning to port.”

  Mawort was what the Aquilans called their god of war, and it seemed an ill omen to Branwen.

  “Yes, of course,” said Marc. He touched the spot where he’d nicked himself shaving. “Safe travels, Captain Xandru.”

  “And to you, King Marc.”

  Xandru pressed two fingers to his lips, and then his heart. Perhaps it was a customary salutation on the southern continent. Branwen suspected it held a private meaning between the two men.

  The captain departed as silently as a shadow. Branwen could practically feel the air around Marc growing solid as he watched the other man leave.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, the king said, “Let me get you another drink.” He walked over to one of the long feasting tables, not looking at Branwen, and began checking for an unused goblet among those left behind.

  She followed him, unsure what else to do. Metal made a muted thunk sound on the wood as he turned over each cup.

  “Lady Branwen,” said the king. “I don’t know what you saw—”

  “I didn’t—”

  He pivoted to face her. “You must think me a terrible husband. You must … I don’t know what you must—”

  “I don’t,” Branwen interrupted him. “I don’t think you’re a terrible husband.”

  Marc winced as if she’d said the opposite. “On the wedding night, I promised you I’d cherish your cousin. I am committed to our marriage. To peace.” He turned over another goblet. “Xandru and I meant a great deal to each other. Once. I hope you can understand. What you saw—it doesn’t change the vows I made.”

  He flexed his hand around the rim of a goblet.

  “If I could beg you a favor, Lady Branwen. Please, let me be the one to explain to Eseult what you witnessed. This should come from me.”

  Panic streaked through Branwen. After everything that had happened, she had no idea how her cousin might react. “I saw nothing that requires an explanation, my king. Two old friends parting—nothing more.”

  “I don’t understand.” King Marc squinted at her.

  “You buried your mother today.” Branwen worried a loose thread on the hem of her cloak. “I remember when I buried mine. We do—we seek comfort from those who love us.”

  For her, it had been Essy. Always Essy. She had caused her oldest love the deepest pain. “I—” She stopped and started again. “Every truth has its season, I think. My cousin is still grieving her own loss. I don’t think it’s the right time for a discussion of your past.”

  The king held her gaze. “Xandru understood my choice. Why I have to put peace above all else. He was with me on my first raid.”

  Branwen stood immobile. “I don’t know how to reach Eseult,” King Marc continued. “Maybe I haven’t tried hard enough. I, too, feel the loss.” He swallowed. “I will find a way.” Determination glinted in his eyes. “The queen is fond of the harp. Maybe Tristan can teach me, too.”

  Branwen’s mouth grew dry as she said, “That’s a nice idea.”

  “Thank you for your understanding, Lady—may I call you Branwen?”

  “Of course, Rix.”

  “I see you as family now, Branwen. Won’t you call me Marc?”

  Tears pricked her eyes. She was deceiving him in so many ways, but still, “I’d like that,” she told him, because it was the truth.

  His answering smile was sad, but real. “I’m afraid your cloak is stained,” he said. Marc dabbed at it with the sleeve of his own tunic, right next to her brooch.

  Cocking his head, he stepped back a pace. He pulled the sleeve tight over his hand. “Branwen,” he said. “This brooch you always wear … is it a common style in Iveriu?”

  Their eyes met. “No. It’s the emblem of Castle Bodwa. It belonged to my mother.” Her lips trembled. “She was wearing it when she died.”

  “When she was killed by raiders?”

  Branwen nodded, and Marc paled. “I’ve seen you wearing it for months,” he said. “It was somehow familiar. I dismissed the thought, but the truth has been tugging at the back of my mind.” The king searched her face and cursed.

  “You look just like her.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother.” Marc covered his face with his hands. “I have wronged you, Branwen. It’s my fault. Your parents are dead because of me.”

  The admission struck Branwen like a firebolt. She already knew, of course. Yet hearing him say it aloud made it more real. As if she were seeing the kretarv’s vision for the first time.

  “What happened?” she whispered. Branwen needed to know if Dhusnos had shown her the full truth.

  “I didn’t want to hurt your mother. I was letting her go. But she didn’t believe me. Why would she?” He shook his head. “Your mother killed herself rather than risk being taken by raide
rs.”

  Marc rubbed his eyes. “By the Horned One, I see her now in you. She was fearless in the face of death—like when you charged the assassin.”

  Daring to look up at her, he said, “Branwen, I knew shame in the moment of your mother’s death that I will never stop feeling. And I decided to bring peace when I became king. I will never stop making amends. Xandru knows this. I want you to know it, too.”

  Branwen blinked at her own tears, which now flowed freely. “I do know, Marc. I grew up hating the raiders who killed my parents.” She touched his shoulder. “That hate is in the past.”

  “I have hated myself every day since it happened, I swear to you. It will be fourteen years soon.”

  “Yes.” A breath rushed from Branwen that he also remembered the day her parents died. “Fourteen years is long enough for hate. I forgive you.”

  She wished with her whole heart that she could ask Marc for his forgiveness, too: for the Loving Cup—for everything.

  Marc wrapped his arms around Branwen. “Thank you.” He breathed deeply. “Thank you, sister. Iveriu won’t know any further death because of me.”

  “I believe you, brother.” This was no longer the boy who ran away from a suffering woman; he was a man who stayed so that his people would not suffer, who took their suffering onto himself.

  Drawing back from his embrace, Branwen held out her hand.

  “Let’s toast the stars.”

  THE TRUE HEIR

  BRANWEN HELD ON TO HER cloak, hugging herself close in the cold moonlight.

  The castle gardens teemed with opening buds and mourners raising a glass to the departed queen. Marc was set upon by courtiers offering condolences the moment they entered the gardens, and Branwen excused herself.

  She roamed among the spear-leafed trees alone. The Queen Mother had asked her to watch over Tristan and he was obviously in tremendous pain. After what he’d said to Branwen at the burial, she didn’t know if he’d accept her sympathy. All the same, she wandered the gardens until her eyes caught on the bright white of his sash.