THE QUEEN’S CHAMPION
THE WAVES MOCKED HER.
Discordant laughter swelled in Branwen’s mind and twisted her heart. She couldn’t remain on the ship one moment longer. Her skin itched.
Branwen rubbed her thumb along the raised flesh of her right palm, trying to quell her anger. She couldn’t. The gangway creaked beneath her feet as she disembarked the Dragon Rising at a brisk pace. She needed to get away from everyone on board.
With a shallow breath, Branwen took her first step onto dry land—the land of her enemies.
The kingdom of Kernyv had terrorized her beloved island of Iveriu for generations. Kernyvak raiders were responsible for the deaths of Branwen’s parents, and countless other Ivermen. But she wasn’t here for revenge.
She was here to make peace.
And she had already killed for it.
Her eyes skittered over the cliffs that towered above the Port of Marghas; their lurid green had faded to a melancholy hue in the hour it had taken to make landfall. The rocky vista reminded Branwen deceptively of home, of the view from the beach below Castle Rigani.
She quashed a pang of longing. She couldn’t afford to look backward; Branwen had been sent across the sea to ensure that the future would be brighter than the past.
The late-autumn breeze coming off the waves was warmer than it would have been in Iveriu. The Kernyveu called the body of water that separated their two kingdoms the Dreaming Sea. Branwen scoffed. Her voyage had been filled with nothing but nightmares.
Loosening her fur-lined shawl, she panned her gaze across the fishing boats and other merchant vessels moored in the sheltered harbor. Kernyv occupied the southwestern peninsula of the island of Albion and, being so close to the southern continent, it owed much of its wealth to trade. Both legal and illegal. Kernyvak pirates were feared throughout its neighboring seas.
The din of bartering and gossiping lured Branwen toward the jetties, which were littered with stacks of crates, wicker baskets, and ceramic pots. Albion had been ruled by the Aquilan Empire until a century ago. At the empire’s peak, it had dominated half the known world, and Kernyv maintained strong trading ties with its distant corners.
Farther inland, near the end of the pier, Branwen spied a market where fishermen were selling their fresh catch. Also, she reckoned, where foreign merchants were trying to tempt the locals into purchasing jugs of sweet Mílesian liqueur or weapons forged from the toughest Kartagon steel.
Her throat tightened. Those weapons would never be used against the Iverni again. Branwen would die before she let that happen.
She glanced back at the sail of the Dragon Rising. A swath of red cloth was stitched between the white. Branwen had risked everything for the deepest magic known to her people because she’d rashly believed she could mend the rift between Kernyv and Iveriu in the same way.
Blood and bone, forged by fire, we beseech you for the truest of desires.
To bind the peace with love, she had conjured the Loving Cup. This morning, the streak of red looked like blood on the moon.
The Land, Goddess Ériu herself, had chosen Kernyv as her Champion in a sacred ritual, but Branwen had wanted more for the Princess of Iveriu—for the sister of her heart—than a political alliance. She had wanted her cousin to know love.
Her aunt, Queen Eseult of Iveriu, had cautioned Branwen that forced fruit is nearly always bitter.
She hadn’t listened.
The Old Ones, the Otherworld-dwellers who guarded her homeland, had sent her warnings.
She’d ignored them.
And now … no one could ever know the Loving Cup had existed. No one could know the potion intended for the Princess of Iveriu and the King of Kernyv had been imbibed by the wrong couple. Not even the new lovers themselves.
The knowledge could only bring ruin—to Iveriu, to Kernyv, to everyone Branwen cherished. When she’d discovered the golden vial empty, she hurled it to the bottom of the sea, disposed of the evidence. In trying to break the cycle of war, Branwen had led others into treason: both her cousin and the only man she had ever loved.
The truth threatened to strangle her from within, but, if that was the price of her transgression, she accepted. The burden of this secret was hers alone.
Lost in her thoughts, Branwen continued walking toward the market. Thud. She smacked straight into a solidly built chest.
The man she’d stumbled into regarded her shrewdly, silver eyes gleaming, and Branwen studied him right back. Light brown hair and a precisely trimmed beard framed his pale, slightly sunworn face. The angles of his cheekbones were too severe to be handsome, but not unappealing. He was at least a head taller than Branwen, and she ventured a guess he was also about ten years her senior.
“M-Mormerkti,” she stuttered.
“Mormerkti?” the stranger repeated.
Branwen flushed. Mormerkti was the Kernyvak word for “thank you.” His eyes remained steady on hers, not unkind, no doubt puzzling at why she would offer thanks for barging into him. Scrambling to recall the few other words of Kernyvak she knew, Branwen tried again.
“Dymatis,” she said, tentative, her pronunciation halting. It was a greeting that translated as “good day.” The stranger must have realized Branwen was a foreigner from her accent, but could he tell she was an Iverwoman?
The Iverni had also spilled much Kernyvak blood. Branwen had come to the land of her enemies, but she was their enemy, too. She braced herself to be rebuffed. Unconsciously, she touched the brooch pinned to her shawl. It had belonged to her mother and bore her family motto: The right fight.
Slowly, the corner of the stranger’s mouth lifted in a guarded quarter smile.
“Dymatis,” he said in return, and Branwen released a small sigh of relief. Pointing toward the other end of the dock, in the direction of the ships, the man launched into a torrent of Kernyvak words.
Branwen couldn’t keep up. His tone was friendly and, from his cadence, she thought he was asking a question—although she had no notion as to what that question might be. The heat on her cheeks intensified. Biting her lips together, she dropped her gaze, landing on the sash that the man sported across his tunic.
In the center of smooth white silk, a sea-wolf had been embroidered in shiny black thread. The hybrid beast was the royal emblem of Kernyv. Morgawr, the captain of the Dragon Rising, had informed Branwen that King Marc would send an envoy to meet them at the port. This man must be in the king’s service. His leather trousers and sumptuous linen tunic indicated affluence, perhaps even nobility.
An idea sparked in Branwen. The language of the Aquilan Empire was still spoken at most royal courts across their former territories. Ivernic nobles also learned the language so as not to be at a disadvantage in diplomatic negotiations.
Steeling herself with a deep breath, Branwen said to the man in Aquilan, “I beg your pardon, but I’m not fluent enough in Kernyvak to be able to understand your question.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, followed by a tensing of his features. He stroked his beard.
Copyright © 2019 by Kristina Pérez
