“I have already verified the queen’s handwriting. Wenna brought the letter to me because she does not read Aquilan.”
“All the same, if my cousin tried to have me murdered, I’d like to see the order for myself.” She appealed to King Marc with her eyes.
“I see no reason to deny the request,” he said.
Baron Julyan handed the scroll to Branwen. She scanned it, stalling for time.
Lady Branwen has imperiled the life of the True Queen. She must die.
Her eyes raced across the words several times. There was nothing unambiguous. Nothing left open to interpretation.
Then Branwen noticed something she hadn’t expected.
The Great Hall spun around her. She was hardly able to mask her own surprise.
“Queen Eseult did not write this letter,” Branwen declared.
Ruan pivoted toward King Marc. “I compared the hand to other documents.”
“Yes, and the forgery is very good. But I know something that the forger doesn’t.”
“And that is?”
Branwen dashed a glance at the queen. “My cousin’s Aquilan grammar is appalling,” she replied. She turned her eyes to the king, and then the barons. “Our tutor at Castle Rigani despaired of Eseult.” She held up the letter. “And yet the declensions here are perfect.”
Exasperated, Ruan shouted, “You would defend your cousin with your life—even when she tried to murder you!”
“But she didn’t!” Tears stung Branwen’s eyes. “She didn’t.” Eseult had been telling the truth, after all. The knowledge was heady. Branwen’s body felt boneless.
“Ruan?” Andred said in a small voice. He took a step toward the dais.
“Yes?” he snapped.
Pulling at his sash, Branwen’s apprentice said, “My Lord King. On the night of the attack, when you sent me to protect Endelyn, I—”
“Yes, Andred?” Marc’s tone was leery, yet kind.
“I saw the queen’s seal ring in Endelyn’s chambers. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
“That doesn’t mean anything!” Countess Kensa rounded on her youngest son. “How dare you cast suspicion on your sister! Your dead sister!”
“I owe the king the truth.” He raised his chin.
“Endelyn had no reason for wanting Lady Branwen dead!”
“Someone wanted Branwen dead,” Ruan said, pleading with Marc. “Only Tristan and Eseult make sense!”
“I believe it was House Whel that most recently accused me of treason,” Branwen reminded him, breath coming short and furious. “Who accused me of harming the queen! In fact, I believe it was Endelyn!”
Ruan just gaped at her. “You don’t mean that.”
King Marc rose from his throne. “The evidence against Tristan and Eseult on the charges of treason, adultery, and conspiracy is circumstantial at best. Slanderous at worst.”
“You’re blinded by love, my Lord King. And your desire to see the best in people!” cried Ruan.
“You, too, have benefited from that love, Ruan.” He leveled his Champion with a glacial stare, then turned it on Countess Kensa.
Besides the three of them, only Branwen knew that Ruan had confessed his murder of Prince Edern to the king.
“Sire,” said Baron Julyan. “The evidence against Prince Tristan and Queen Eseult is circumstantial, but it cannot be denied.”
“Then what would you have me do?” demanded King Marc.
Holding himself very straight, he said, “As Head of House Julyan, I invoke the ancient rite of Honor by Combat. Let the Horned One decide the truth on the field of battle.”
“I will fight for the True Queen’s honor,” Tristan said immediately, charging toward his cousin. “As well as my own.”
Ruan lunged forward to meet him, teeth bared.
“And I will fight for the crown.”
NOT JUST MAGIC
ANOTHER SLEEPLESS NIGHT SAW BRANWEN roaming the castle. King Marc had allowed three days for the preparations to be made for the Honor by Combat. Anticipation held Monwiku tight.
As dawn approached, Branwen found herself at the entrance to the Queen’s Tower. Eseult remained in the King’s Tower, sharing Marc’s suite of rooms until the conclusion of the trial. After the trial, her cousin would either be vindicated or burned as a traitor.
Branwen greeted the guardsmen posted outside Tristan’s chamber, to which the king had allowed him to return.
“King Marc sent me to evaluate Prince Tristan’s health before the combat in the morning,” she lied.
They let her pass, eyes wary. Castle gossip would have already informed them that the Royal Healer had felled their comrades. She had asked King Marc for permission to award Tutir’s wife part of the incomes from her lands in Liones—anonymously, and he’d agreed. The guardsman had tried to kill Branwen, but he believed he was acting on the orders of his queen, and Branwen had done worse things for her rulers.
Candlelight streamed from beneath Tristan’s door as she knocked.
A puzzled expression gripped his face when he saw Branwen standing before him. Without speaking, he motioned for her to come in and closed the door behind them.
The candle guttered on his desk. Fresh ink dripped from the quill. On Tristan’s bed lay a sword and a whetting stone.
He stared at Branwen, waiting for her to explain the reason for her visit, but she couldn’t explain it to herself.
Hovering beside the desk, she touched a finger to the wet parchment.
“The Dreaming Sea,” she said.
Tristan scratched the scar above his eyebrow. “I’m trying to finish the ballad before … in case tonight is my last chance.” He paused. “But I have no harp.”
Branwen gulped. Her aunt had gifted Tristan the krotto that had belonged to Lady Alana when she believed Branwen and Tristan would be wed.
“I burned it,” she told him.
The hazel flecks in his eyes sparked. “Why would you do that?”
“To undo what I’d done. The pain I’d caused. To create an antidote for you and Eseult.”
Drawing down a ragged breath, Tristan stepped closer. She could feel his body heat. “Why are you telling me this, Branwen?”
“You were right, Tristan. My heart isn’t noble.” She held out her right palm. “This is the mark of Dhusnos. I couldn’t save Endelyn because my healing magic is gone. I offered my blood to the Dark One to save the castle. My magic is death magic now.” Branwen lifted her eyes to Tristan, blinking away tears.
“Please don’t die tomorrow, because I won’t be able to bring you back.”
The truth tumbled out of her, and it was not what she’d expected to say. Tristan cursed in Kernyvak. “I wish it were easier to hate you,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Tristan. I’m sorry for what I did to you.” Branwen clenched her hands into fists. “For not trusting you.”
“You must really be afraid I’m going to lose.”
He cocked half a grin, and Branwen couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him do that. Her shoulders began to shake in a laugh that became a sob.
“Maybe I am,” she mumbled. Concern replaced his grin. Tristan took her hand and guided her to the bed, sitting down beside her. His touch still provoked a rush of warmth that Branwen couldn’t control.
“I don’t want to die with you hating me, either,” Tristan said, casting her a sidelong look.
“I hated you because your love wasn’t stronger than my magic.” He winced at Branwen’s honesty. “That was wrong,” she said. “I’ve done so much wrong.”
She bit her lip to suppress another sob. “I wanted peace for Iveriu and I wanted my cousin to be happy—and now … now you have to win, or the queen will be executed and the peace shattered.”
“I intend to win.” Determination filled his voice, and her heart skittered. Iveriu needed Tristan to win, but Branwen couldn’t bring Ruan back from the dead, either.
Tristan sighed. “I only wish you’d created the antido
te sooner,” he said. “It seems particularly unjust that we should be entrapped now. When everything has changed.”
Branwen’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“Since the night of the attack, it’s … it’s as if a fog is lifting.” Brow puckered, Tristan raked a hand through his messy curls. “I don’t know how else to describe it, but … but when I look at Eseult—I don’t feel that same pull, like I can’t breathe unless I’m near her.”
“That’s not possible.” Her stomach lurched. “I didn’t complete the spell because I was attacked by the guardsmen.”
“Eseult says the same is happening for her.”
“But the other day, you were embracing in the queen’s chamber!”
Tristan scowled. “You told Baron Julyan I was consoling the queen—and that’s exactly what it was. Although apparently you thought you were lying!”
“I’m very adept at lying,” said Branwen, slipping back into her invisible armor.
“Listen.” He sighed. “I will always care for Eseult. Magic or no, we’ve shared something and we … we lost a child.” Regret weighted his words. “But I—both of us—our feelings are shifting. If I survive tomorrow, I’m going to ask to be released from the queen’s service. I want to cause her no more grief.”
Branwen nodded, but she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Had the power of the Loving Cup started to wane on its own? The Queen of Iveriu had been so insistent that the lovers never discover its existence.
Could it be? Surely it couldn’t be that knowing you were under a spell was enough to unravel it? Half of Branwen was on fire; the other half was solid ice.
“Branwen, you’ve gone pale,” said Tristan.
Had the truth been the antidote all along? Was truth stronger than magic?
Branwen pressed a hand to her chest, trying to catch her breath.
“I wish I had told you the truth sooner,” she managed.
Tristan draped an arm loosely around Branwen’s shoulders.
“We’ve both hurt each other very much,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And Eseult. She’s been devastated.”
“I know.” It was a rasp.
“If I win tomorrow, can we begin again?” Tristan met Branwen’s eye. “As allies,” he clarified. “Someone forged the queen’s handwriting, stole her seal, and ordered your death, Branwen. Someone wants both of you dead.”
“Do you really think it was Endelyn?”
“No. At least, if she stole the queen’s seal, I don’t think it was her idea.” Sadness swept over him. “She loved her family to a fault.”
“It wasn’t Ruan.”
Tristan frowned. “It’s clear he’s in love with you.” He spoke without inflection. “Which leaves the countess.”
“She is my least favorite person at court,” Branwen said. “But how would my death benefit her?”
“I don’t know. If I win tomorrow, I’m going to find out.” Tristan clutched a strand of her hair out of habit. He dropped it, embarrassed. Then he said, “The white streaks are gone. Did you dye it?”
Branwen’s instinct was to lie. And yet Tristan was the first person besides her aunt whom she’d told about her magic.
“When I bargained with Dhusnos, he took my healing magic. And he … he made me more like a Shade. I—” She dared to meet the dark eyes that she had once lost herself in. “I can steal life now.”
Tristan opened and closed his mouth.
“I am the monster you think I am.”
“No, Branwen. No.” He took her hands in his. “There have been moments when I hated you as much as I ever loved you—but I’ve never thought you were a monster. If anything, you are more than human, not less.”
This time she couldn’t stop herself from crying. “I should let you finish your ballad,” she said.
Tristan lifted her hands to his mouth and kissed her knuckles.
“Thank you for—” He audibly swallowed. “For coming to see me.”
“I look forward to hearing how your ballad ends after you win.”
Branwen left before she could spill any more of her secrets.
Crossing the courtyard, a shadow interrupted her path.
Ruan’s expression was grim, his pain unmasked as he said, “I won’t ask you who you’ll be supporting.”
“What did you expect? I serve Iveriu first.”
A shaft of light fell upon them as the sun crested the horizon.
“If I should die, will you mourn me, Branwen?”
The question brought her up short. Tangled, thorny emotions pricked her beneath her skin.
“I love you,” Ruan told her, reaching a hand to her cheek. “I would have given you everything I have, everything I am.” His touch was tender, longing. Branwen fought the familiarity, the rush of memories.
“All I wanted was for you to look at me and see all that you ever wanted,” he said more urgently, cupping her cheek. “But I don’t know if you’ll mourn me.”
“I begged you, Ruan.” Her throat was raw. “I begged you to maintain the peace. You broke your promise. You lied to me.”
“I broke my promise because I wanted to protect you!” he exclaimed. “I was willing to let go of my suspicions until Tutir’s wife brought me the queen’s order to kill you.”
Branwen stepped back, out of his reach. “It wasn’t her!”
“I feared for your life. I feared she might try again.” Ruan thrust an angry hand in the air. “She still might.”
Branwen shook her head. “Someone wants me dead, but it’s not the queen. More likely it’s your mother. Or Seer Casek!”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Ruan’s chest heaved. “I know you despise Casek, but he’s the one who cared for me after my whippings. He’s a better man than you think.” Leaning into Branwen, he said, “When I told you that the queen sent Tutir and Bledros after you, you didn’t look shocked. Or outraged.”
“Because I didn’t believe you, Ruan!”
He closed his eyes, exhaling through his nostrils, and gave one shake of the head. “You knew,” he said, almost to himself. “You already knew.”
Branwen clenched her jaw, afraid to speak, angry tears streaming down her cheeks.
“What a thing it must be to be truly loved by you,” Ruan said, deep sadness in his voice.
“I warned you not to make me your enemy.”
He glanced back at the Queen’s Tower. Sun burnished his blond hair like a lion’s mane. “It’s not just magic between you and Tristan,” said Ruan. “I’ll never forgive him for killing Endelyn.”
“Endelyn died because you had to be right!”
Ruan lurched back as if Branwen had punched him. The words had left her mouth before she could stop them, and yet she wouldn’t take them back.
Ruan blinked as they both released several harsh breaths. Finally, he said more softly, “If I die today, promise me you’ll look out for Andred. My mother has always resented him for being his father’s son.”
“I will,” Branwen promised. Ruan nodded and turned to leave. “And I would mourn you,” she said. He flattened his lips. “But you could choose dishonor. You could live with being wrong.”
“Except I’m not. I’m not wrong.”
Ruan stalked from the courtyard.
Branwen closed her eyes for a moment to feel the sun on her face.
ÉTAÍN’S SONG
THE SKY HAD BECOME A wash of gray above the beach where the combat would take place.
Just on the other side of the causeway from Monwiku, sand had been cleared, battle lines drawn, and several tents erected on the mainland. In accordance with Kernyvak tradition, all of the king’s subjects were welcome to witness the Honor by Combat. Walking among the fishermen and farmers, Branwen could feel the apprehension webbing through the crowd. She heard both Ivernic and Kernyvak being spoken.
When word reached her aunt and uncle at Castle Rigani of Eseult’s trial, the Queen of Iveriu would know that Branwen had fail
ed in her duty to protect the Loving Cup—and her homeland. She deserved the recriminations of the woman who raised her. The cowardly part of Branwen’s heart was glad she didn’t have to witness her disappointment in the flesh.
Wet sand stuck to her boots as she made her way toward King Marc’s tent; the others were occupied by the noble Houses. All of the king’s councillors had sent for their families. Branwen hadn’t seen this much of the nobility assembled since the royal wedding. Even if Tristan prevailed today, would rumors regarding the True Queen’s honor ever cease? The Ivernic queen that half of the Kernyvak Houses already detested?
And if Tristan didn’t prevail, could Branwen let her cousin burn? She glanced down at the mark of Dhusnos. The power to rescue Eseult—to kill anyone who tried to stop her—lay in the palm of Branwen’s hand.
Would she use it?
In her peripheral vision, she spotted Ruan standing at the edge of House Whel’s tent, speaking with his mother. She refused to turn her head or meet his gaze.
Distracted, Branwen smacked into a solid shoulder. “Excuse me,” she muttered in Ivernic.
“In a hurry, Lady Branwen?” replied a snide, unwelcome voice. Seer Casek raised a supercilious eyebrow, showing her one of his terribly pleasant smiles.
Branwen regretted not having elbowed the kordweyd harder, but, “Yes, pardon me,” she repeated in Aquilan. She started moving past him when he asked, “Have you heard of the hero Enkidu on the island of Iveriu?”
She stopped, pivoting to meet his eye, a knot forming in her belly.
“Enkidu was born in the Desert of Thorns, at the time the Aquilan Empire began to rise,” Seer Casek informed her. “The Horned One granted him supernatural strength to defeat a monster—half man, half leopard—that had been set upon his people by their enemies.”
Branwen went very still. This Enkidu sounded like Iveriu’s legendary Hound of Uladztir, but she very much doubted that the kordweyd merely wanted to regale her with heroic exploits.
“At an oasis in the Desert of Thorns, Enkidu came upon Artume, who was as beautiful a woman as he had ever seen,” Casek went on. “He fell madly in love.” A pause. “But Artume was the daughter of the king of Enkidu’s enemies. She had been sent by her people to discover what made him so strong.”
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