Branwen’s jaw dropped. “I may only have one eye now, but I see more clearly,” Diarmuid went on. “I see what you always did … that peace is more important than one man’s desire.” He touched his eye patch. “I am truly sorry for making you complicit in my treason.”
She made a choking sound. She had perpetrated so many of her own betrayals since their last encounter that Branwen could only say, “The past is in the past. I offer you my friendship, Lord Diarmuid.”
“I accept it heartily.”
“Tomorrow we will fight for Iveriu together.”
His brow puckered in surprise. “You’re coming with us?”
“There will be many wounded. I will be needed.”
“I’ve always admired your conviction, Lady Branwen—even when we were adversaries.” Diarmuid gave her a chagrined smile. “I don’t think peace will ever be a constant, but it’s still worth fighting for.”
She listed her head to one side. “I used to think you were too bold to be wise.”
“And now?”
“Sometimes the wise must also be bold.”
ALL THAT REMAINS
AS PRINCESS ALBA WAS NO longer a hostage but an honored guest, Branwen had to be announced before she was given permission to enter Queen Verica’s former apartment. Alba stood as Branwen crossed the threshold, raising an eyebrow. Mauve light glowed around the princess, the days stretching further and further each eventide.
“King Marc asked if I would assist you with preparations for the ceremony,” Branwen explained. She tapped her leather satchel, which she’d filled with berry tints and lip stains instead of medicines.
“Unless you intend to injure me before the wedding, I don’t require the assistance of the Royal Healer.” Alba folded her arms across her chest.
“I was my cousin’s lady’s maid for years.”
A line formed above Alba’s nose. “I can’t picture it,” she said. Branwen made no comment; she lifted a stubborn chin. Exhaling languidly, Alba relented. “If you insist. I’ve never had patience for cosmetics.”
No, thought Branwen, only for planning naval assaults.
She bid the princess to be seated at the table where Queen Verica had played so many games of dice. Glancing at the bright yellow draperies, Branwen said, “This room belonged to Princess Gwynedd—Tristan’s mother—when she was a girl.” The old queen had told Branwen that her daughter had requested curtains the color of sunshine.
Branwen retrieved a delicately carved comb of ivory from the depths of her satchel.
“You saved Tristan at the Champions Tournament,” said Alba, giving her a crafty look. “He said you became friends after you saved his life.”
She nodded, running the teeth of the comb through Alba’s short locks, which were knotted from her earlier ride.
“He’s a good man,” Branwen said. Tristan obviously hadn’t told the princess that the Champions Tournament was the second time she’d saved his life. “He’ll be a kind husband.”
“It doesn’t matter. I never wanted to marry, but I put my kingdom in this mess and I must bear the consequences.” Alba’s jaw clenched as she spoke. “My father always says that to those who much is given, much is expected.”
Rigor spread outward from Branwen’s belly. She had asked much from the Old Ones and yet she only knew what the Dark One expected. A life. Tonight was Belotnia. Seven months remained to deliver Dhusnos his Shade.
Finished with the combing, Branwen used beeswax to smooth the ends of Alba’s hair. “I like it short,” she told the princess.
Alba shrugged, dismissive. “I was fed up with braiding it. My mother will have a fit. She says Manduca women are famed for their dark tresses.”
“Are you close?” asked Branwen, and the other woman speared her with a glare.
“Close enough. She doesn’t understand why the sea calls to me.”
Branwen did, even now, despite the danger that lurked beneath. She still saw the beauty. “I’m sorry your mother isn’t here for your wedding day.”
“King Marc was adamant that the wedding take place before the campaign against the Veneti Isles, and my father refused to send any more royal hostages to Kernyv until the treaty had been signed. He always uses an abundance of caution.” Alba met Branwen’s gaze. “Unlike me.”
Branwen didn’t respond to the threat. She selected a cheek stain the color of wild raspberries. Holding it out, she said, “This will suit your complexion.”
“If you say so.” Alba watched as Branwen used her thumb to apply the waxy substance to her cheekbones. The knife wound from the siege had faded to a pink line.
“Tristan is a man of two peoples, like me,” said the princess, after a minute, as if edging toward a question. “He’s had as little choice in this marriage as I did … I hope we can learn to live with each other.”
“He’s an easy man to live with.” Branwen blended the rouge into Alba’s golden-brown skin.
“My father required Tristan to renounce any claim to the throne of Armorica. And King Marc also stipulated that he renounce any claim on the Kernyvak throne to preclude any possibility of foreign rule.” Alba inhaled a shallow breath. “Tristan will never be king. I will become queen upon my father’s death, but Tristan will remain a prince. I don’t know many men who could live with that.”
Branwen stopped for a moment, considering her words. She hadn’t been made aware of all the terms of the marriage contract.
Then, with confidence, she said, “Tristan can. He’s never wanted to rule. He only wants to serve his kingdom.”
Alba leaned forward in her chair. “How is it that you know Tristan so well? I thought it was Queen Eseult he was supposed to be in love with.”
The surf roared from below the window.
“He’s not,” said Branwen, terse. “He’s not in love with the queen.” She shook her head. Finally, maybe, it was actually true—might become true.
“He’s a fine warrior at least.” Alba made an approving face. “He’ll make a better sparring partner for me than you did.”
“I’m glad.” Branwen could imagine it: Alba and Tristan finding common ground, fighting for a common purpose. Her stomach pinched.
“I don’t regret trying to escape,” said the princess.
“I wouldn’t believe you if you said you did.”
She stared at Branwen dead on. “I still can’t fathom how you subdued me. I’m faster. A superior fighter.”
“Luck,” Branwen lied without hesitation. “You hit your head on a rock.”
“I don’t remember any rock.”
“That’s usual with a concussion.” She turned to pluck a horsehair brush from beside the rouge on the table.
“And is bleached hair a symptom of a concussion, too?” Alba twirled the gray streak in her short hair around her pinkie, undoing Branwen’s careful arrangement.
“I have no explanation for that, Captain.”
The Armorican princess latched onto Branwen’s elbow, forcing her to turn back toward her. “We who follow Ankou believe that when she touches you, she leaves a sign. If she touches you three times, when you cross the Veil you’ll become one of her maidservants.”
Branwen shivered. “Death-Tellers, I think you Iverni call them,” said Alba.
“Yes.”
She yanked her elbow from the princess’s grasp and chose a paint that resembled liquid gold to accentuate the other woman’s sable eyes.
Alba continued to watch her keenly as she dipped the tip of the horsehair brush into the mixture. When Branwen leaned forward to outline Alba’s eyes, Alba said, “Kahedrin liked you.” She paused the brush midair. “He came home from King Marc’s wedding saying he’d met an Ivernic healer with nerve.”
“I liked him, too.”
“But you killed him.”
“Yes, I did.” A drop of gold fell to the floor. “I mourn for your loss, but I don’t regret my actions.”
“No,” Alba said, echoing Branwen’s words, “I wouldn’t be
lieve you if you said you did.” Her smile was baleful. Although Branwen’s guilt persisted, despite Alba’s escape attempt.
Drawing in a breath, Branwen commanded, “Close your eyes,” as she lifted the brush to the other woman’s eyelids.
Alba wriggled her nose as she complied. With her eyes closed, the princess looked no older than her seventeen years. She approached her marriage like a soldier and she wasn’t someone to court sympathy—yet she had Branwen’s all the same.
“I wish I were coming with you tomorrow,” Alba admitted. Branwen applied another layer of gold.
“There are many ways to fight,” she replied.
The princess opened her eyes; they reminded Branwen of the sea at midnight. “I will honor my brothers by ruling as they would have. My mother is a foreign queen—their stepmother, but they embraced her. They embraced me.” Alba touched the medallion of Ankou that hung between her breasts. “I will embrace Kernyv. And Iveriu.” She blinked. “It’s what Kahedrin would have wanted.”
Branwen used the edge of her sleeve to dab the golden tears that had pooled beneath Alba’s eyes.
“You will make an excellent queen.”
Alba swallowed. And in that moment, another queen was announced. Eseult walked toward them dressed in a gown of Rigani green silk, with lace trim.
“You look beautiful,” the True Queen said to Alba.
“Thank you, Lady Queen.”
“Branwen always works magic with a brush,” she said. Eseult winked at Branwen, and she saw no guile there. It was a compliment, not a barb, despite the chaos that Branwen’s magic had unleashed.
“We’re nearly finished,” Branwen told her cousin. “Then you can change into your bridal gown,” she said to Alba, who sat in a simple cotton shift.
Wetting her lips, Branwen asked, “Is there—do you need me to lay out a First Night dress for … after the ceremony?”
Branwen had embroidered her cousin’s First Night dress, although they had both worn it to complete their deception of the king.
“There will be no Mantle of Maidenhood,” the True Queen declared.
Alba showed Eseult a small smile. “I appreciate your intervention on my behalf,” the princess said. “I do not like Seer Casek at all.”
Branwen whipped her head toward her cousin, overcome with many unnamable emotions. She hadn’t known the kordweyd had made such a demand, but it came as no surprise that he would try to exert his influence.
“The marriage contract is signed,” said the queen. “The alliance is sealed. What happens in your bedroom is of no concern to the seers.” She looked at Alba with a wistful expression. “I have been where you are … and your relationship with your husband is yours. It’s how you define it.”
Without thinking, Branwen took Eseult’s hand and squeezed. Tears beaded her cousin’s lashes; her own throat grew tight. As if sensing Branwen’s discomfort, Eseult said, “I can help Alba into her bridal dress and escort her to the Great Hall. Why don’t you change into your feasting gown?”
Grateful, she nodded. To Alba, she said, “Good luck,” and it was all Branwen could do not to sprint from the room.
She retreated down the stairs with as much poise as she could muster before flinging herself onto her bed and sobbing into her pillow.
Night had fallen when Branwen dried her face and changed into the same turquoise gown she’d worn for Marc and Eseult’s wedding. She glimpsed her reflection in the looking glass. She was pale, her freckles more pronounced, yet her coppery eyes still held a hint of fire. She had left her pastes and powders in Alba’s suite. It seemed fitting. Her skin was as naked as she felt.
Branwen was halfway through plaiting her black curls when a knock jolted her from her thoughts. Maybe Alba was right. Maybe shorter hair would be more convenient.
She slipped the letter from her aunt into the pocket of her gown. She was both afraid to read it and afraid to be without it. Branwen loved her aunt intensely, wanted to keep a piece of her close, even if it was an emblem of her own shame—even if her aunt didn’t know what she’d become.
“I leave in the morning,” said Tristan as Branwen opened the door.
A beat passed before she answered. “As do I.”
“I know.” He tugged at his own curls, which he’d also tamed with beeswax. “I know, and I won’t ask you not to go. You wouldn’t listen, anyway.” He half smiled.
Tristan was dressed in a tunic of white satin and black velvet trousers. The material must have been hot in the summer air, but he looked extraordinary.
“Shouldn’t you be at the Great Hall?” Branwen said, afraid that she might not be able to keep a leash on her feelings, desires that had been leashed for far too long.
He withdrew a sheaf of parchment from behind his back.
“The Dreaming Sea,” he said. “I wrote it for you.”
“But I thought—”
“I know what you thought.” Tristan sighed. “Or, I can imagine.”
Branwen took the vellum from him, not entirely sure she wasn’t dreaming now. She began to scan the words that accompanied the music. It was the ballad of Emer and Tantris. She gaped at him.
“Tristan.”
He raised a hand to stroke her cheek. “I can’t blame you for everything.” His knuckles were rough, yet soft against Branwen’s skin. “I don’t. Not anymore.”
“I’m so sorry. I robbed you of your honor…” Her voice broke. “I wish I could give it back.”
Tristan shook his head. “I will earn back my own honor. I will make my vows to Alba, and I will live by them. I will honor her and Kernyv until the day I die.”
“I know you will.”
“I understand why you did what you did, Branwen. To marry for peace is a hard thing. I know why you wanted to give Eseult love.”
“A hero’s sacrifice, you told my cousin.” Branwen trembled. “You were right.”
His eyes gleamed. “I will give Alba all the love I can—all that remains.”
Branwen gripped the music in her hand. “At the Champions Tournament,” she said. “I knew one day you’d want a princess for yourself.” She tried to laugh but it creaked like warped wood.
“When I returned to Iveriu, you were the only woman I wanted, Branwen,” Tristan told her. “The only woman I thought I could ever want.”
He pressed his lips to hers, only for a second, and their hearts beat as one.
“In my dreams, Tantris and Emer will always find each other,” he whispered against Branwen’s mouth. “That will have to be enough.”
Dreams were never enough, but they were all Branwen would ever have.
“You’ll be late,” she forced out.
A lifetime passed in the look they shared, as if they were in the in-between. A lifetime together that Branwen and Tristan would never know. Then he nodded and vanished through the doorway.
Branwen opened the drawer containing the strand of mermaid’s hair she’d been saving since the day they’d met. It was time. Time to release the dream.
She pulled off her glove and summoned her black flame. She burned the seaweed to dust, then licked her palm.
It was salty and sweet and gone.
DANCE WITH ME
BRANWEN WITNESSED TRISTAN’S MARRIAGE TO Alba in a daze. Candlelight from the chandeliers wavered around the couple. Alba stood regally in her gown of Armorican yellow, the color of the sun in late afternoon, and she was nearly as tall as her husband.
Branwen watched from the audience, just before the raised dais, close enough to listen to every word of their vows. And yet she heard none of them.
King Marc cut himself with the couple’s blade of binding, offering his blood into the chalice for Tristan. He handed the blade to Xandru, who offered his blood for Alba on behalf of Armorica and the Manduca family.
A heated look passed between the men. Sorrow formed like a pebble in Branwen’s throat and she swallowed it down. If Marc hadn’t been born a king, he could have performed this ceremony for himself
with the man he loved. She peered sidelong at the True Queen who stood next to her, almost protective. Their eyes met. Could her cousin guess the truth of Marc’s heart?
There were no ballads sung like at Ivernic weddings, but Branwen could hear Tristan’s dulcet baritone all the same.
Odai eti ama.
After Seer Casek had anointed the bride and groom with the blood of the witnesses in the Kernyvak tradition, a rite of Ankou was celebrated. Armoricans paid homage to the Old One they’d chosen as their patron on their wedding day. Alba offered Tristan a cake served at Armorican funerals to symbolize the death of the life he had known before their marriage. He took one bite, and Alba took another.
When they kissed, the married couple was born into their new life together. Branwen cast her eyes to her feet. She had once kissed Tristan back to life, too.
Eseult took Branwen’s hand and drew the symbol on her palm that she knew was meant to be comforting, although its meaning still eluded her.
This time she didn’t pull away.
* * *
The feast was lavish but Branwen barely touched the freshly baked fish or candied fruits. Eseult had made certain that Branwen was seated beside her at the king’s table. She flashed her worried smiles throughout the meal.
King Marc was seated in the center of the table, with Tristan and Alba to his left. Although this was their wedding feast, Marc was still the King of Kernyv. His place was at the center of the table—and the kingdom, lest anyone forget.
All of the barons and their families offered their congratulations to the newlyweds in turn. Branwen was surprised to see Countess Kensa in attendance. She sat with Seer Casek at one of the lower tables, dressed in all black except for the hand-shaped combs that adorned her hair, rubies glittering like hate. Branwen recalled what Ruan had told her about Casek caring for him after his beatings. Perhaps that was why the seer and the countess were thick as thieves.
When it was time to offer House Whel’s wishes to the bride and groom, Countess Kensa didn’t smile, and she didn’t so much as glance in Tristan’s direction.
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