She had seen it. Branwen had watched the attack on Tristan’s ship in the waters, the first time the Wise Damsel had taught her to scry.
In the vision, she’d been aboard a pirate ship with black sails, chasing a Kernyvak vessel with a sea-wolf on its sail, and she’d sighted Castle Rigani in the distance.
Tristan stared at Branwen but she wasn’t seeing him at all.
“I’m sorry, Branwen,” he said. He took her hand in his, and once more her right hand sparkled with blood.
She had asked the Old Ones to tell her who was the greatest threat to peace—and they had.
A red hand.
The red hand of House Whel.
The Old Ones had answered Branwen months ago. She wasn’t listening. She’d only seen her own guilt.
Branwen pulled away from Tristan, feeling light-headed.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “None of it matters now.”
“You were missing for weeks before we found you,” Xandru said to Tristan, and Branwen couldn’t even feign surprise that the Mawort would have been among the ships Queen Verica sent to retrieve her grandson from Iveriu. “You never did reveal how you survived your injuries. Or stayed hidden for so long.”
“The Old Ones must love me,” Tristan replied. He’d never told anyone save Queen Verica that Branwen had pulled him from the waves, but Branwen no longer saw saving Tristan as betraying her cousin, or her people.
This was one secret—just one—that she no longer had to keep.
“I found him,” said Branwen. Tristan sucked down a breath. “I saved his life before I knew he was my enemy.”
“It seemed a shame to let me die on the shore when you’d rescued me from the waves.” He grinned, repeating her words from so long ago.
“You assured me you were a poet and not a pirate.”
Xandru coughed in a dramatic fashion. “Let’s get the actual pirate to the castle—sooner rather than later. Branwen, ride with me,” he said, taking her arm in a genteel but firm fashion. “I’m sure Tristan and Alba have much to discuss.”
Branwen matched Xandru’s brisk pace toward the market square.
“Remus didn’t attack Tristan’s ship at random,” she said quietly.
“No. He didn’t.”
* * *
The castle was abnormally still, caught in a state of suspense, like in tales of Old Ones enchanting mortals to sleep for hundreds of years.
Xandru and Branwen entered the king’s study first. Marc started, spinning on his heel toward the door.
“Xan!” he said, joy on his face, his relief so great that his kingly mask dissolved. Only for a moment. Clearing his throat, Marc shifted his eyes to Branwen.
“Sister,” he said. The love that underscored his voice was of a different hue, but no less profound.
“Branwen,” exclaimed Andred. He beamed at her from the other side of a fidkwelsa board, his game with the king interrupted by their arrival. Branwen felt an excruciating pinch in her chest. The boy’s mother was a traitor and, perhaps, his siblings as well.
“We obtained the package,” Xandru announced. He locked eyes with King Marc, then cast Andred a cagey glance.
King Marc nodded. “I also discovered Princess Alba aboard the Mawort. She has been safely returned,” Xandru went on. Marc brought the antler shard around his neck to his lips. “She and Tristan are in the West Tower now.”
“Thank you,” Marc told him in a deep voice. He rubbed his beard, which had a few days’ growth.
“Lady Branwen was a great asset,” said Xandru.
“She always is.” Marc met her gaze. “Thank you, too.”
“Would you like to see the package?” Xandru asked.
The king’s kindly demeanor transformed into a scowl. “I would,” he said, and Xandru clicked his fingers. Otho and Cherles hauled Remus into the study. The sneer on his face was foul.
“Andred,” said Xandru. “Do you recognize this man?” He pointed at the pirate king.
Marc furrowed his brow at Xandru’s question. He looked at the boy.
“Answer him, Andred,” said the king.
The boy toyed with one of the pieces on the fidkwelsa board. A squire.
“Yes,” he told Marc. “Before my father died, I saw this man a few times at Villa Illogan.” Andred swallowed. “I don’t know if he’s visited since you brought me to Monwiku, my Lord King.”
Hearing the formality in her apprentice’s address of Marc touched a nerve in Branwen. Ruan had confided in her that Prince Edern reviled Andred because of his clubfoot, and Marc had asked him to serve as his cupbearer to get him away from his abusive father. Fortunately Andred wasn’t present on the night when Prince Edern struck Endelyn, and so he was unaware that Ruan had been the one to kill him.
“Thank you, Andred,” said King Marc. He traded a glance with Xandru. “We’ll finish our game later,” he told the boy. “Why don’t you see whether Lowenek and the queen have returned from the moors?”
“Of course, my Lord King.” The boy got to his feet and performed a small bow. Branwen smiled at him as he walked toward the door, favoring his left. His answering smile was tinged with apprehension.
As he closed the door to the study behind him, Branwen peered at the game board. Andred was winning.
Cherles and Otho forced the pirate king to his knees; then Xandru told them to wait outside. Otho was obviously loath to let Remus out of his sight until he’d been remunerated and reunited with his family. Still, he did as the captain commanded.
“You’ll never be able to control the Veneti Isles without me,” boasted Remus. He spoke in Ivernic, then repeated himself in Aquilan at the obvious lack of comprehension on King Marc’s face.
“No wonder you can’t control your wife,” said the pirate king. “You don’t even speak her language.”
Xandru socked him on the jaw so fast he didn’t see it coming. He spat a tooth onto the floor and it rattled against the stone.
Marc gave the captain one curt shake of the head.
“If you would like to leave the castle with your throat intact, you’ll tell the king what he wants to know,” said Xandru, dispassionate, although Branwen noticed tightness in the tendons of his own neck.
“I was dead the minute I woke aboard your ship, Captain. Why should I tell you anything?”
“I can make your final hours spectacularly miserable.”
“Perhaps.” The pirate king directed a glance at Branwen. “But you’re not half as terrifying as her. I’ve never seen such a pretty monster.”
Xandru punched Remus again. Marc didn’t dissuade him.
“You’re not wrong,” Branwen told the pirate king. She raised her right hand in the air, and he noticeably shivered.
Marc hurried to Branwen’s side. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.
But she did. Furthermore, she wanted to. Her pulse raced, excited. Like so many others, the pirate king looked at Branwen and saw the face of his own death.
“You were raised in Iveriu,” she said to Remus. “You know who Dhusnos is. I’m a favorite of his.”
The heels of her boots clicked against the stone as she moved closer.
“You should fear me,” she told him. “You disgust me. You’ve visited untold atrocities upon our people.”
“The Iverni are not my people.” The pirate king ran a tongue across his teeth, which were coated with blood. “If I’d lived my life as a swineherd in Conaktir, like my father before me, I never would have amounted to anything. The pirates did me a favor when they burned my village. In the Veneti Isles, we can at least make our own fate.”
To King Marc, Remus said, “You may win the war. You won’t keep the peace. My people are not sheep—unlike yours. They won’t live penniless simply because they were born poor.”
“Tell me about your agreement with House Whel,” Branwen said to Remus, and Marc dashed her a sideways glance.
“Just kill me, pretty monster.”
“I c
an—and I will. But, as I drain the life from you, I will see your memories. I will learn what I need to know regardless.”
The pirate king snarled a laugh. “I don’t believe you.”
“The man with the ax—the one I killed at the fort,” she started. From the corner of her eye, Branwen saw King Marc go rigid. “He grew up on a leafy coastline. In a villa by the sea.”
“An easy guess,” Remus said, unimpressed. “We have many fortune-tellers who peddle speculation and call it prophecy.”
“He loved cats. Especially gray ones.” All color bled from the pirate king. “You’ve heard of the Shades,” said Branwen. “How they drain their victims to sustain their afterlife. They also receive their memories. And so do I.” She leaned into him. “Once I’ve taken who you are, you will become a Shade yourself.”
Revulsion swept across Remus’s face. “Keep her away from me, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“Go on,” said Xandru. Branwen lowered her hand. She smiled at the pirate king, and he shivered once more.
“Prince Edern approached me when your father died,” he said to Marc. “House Whel has wanted the crown for a long time. After Edern died, the countess continued our arrangement.”
“Kensa will never sit on the throne,” said the king.
“No, not her. Ruan.”
Branwen advanced toward him. “That’s why you attacked Tristan’s ship last spring.”
Remus nodded, grudgingly. “With Tristan dead, Ruan would be a logical heir.”
“But then I got married,” said Marc. He tugged at the hairs on his chin. “Did you arrange the assassination attempt?”
“That was Bledros.” He let the information sink in. Ruan had told Branwen that Bledros was first commissioned by House Whel. “Bledros was born in the Veneti Isles,” added Remus.
“Bledros is dead,” Branwen informed him. “And I killed him.” Remus simply shrugged at the news. “What was Ruan’s part in the conspiracy?” she asked.
The pirate king showed her a lecherous smile, blood dripping from the gum above his missing tooth.
“Your heart is torn, isn’t it? I can hear it in your voice.” He sniggered.
“Answer me.”
Remus spread his hands. “I never dealt with him. As to what his mother told him?” Another shrug. “Drain my memories from me if you want, pretty monster, you won’t get a further answer.”
Branwen could barely restrain herself from slapping him. She and Marc exchanged a glance. He stroked his beard, then, “Why did you attack Karaez?” the king asked without emotion.
“Wars can be profitable. But you have no stomach for it,” replied Remus. “The barons would have demanded a stronger king.”
And hadn’t Ruan argued for war at every turn. Branwen felt sick. “Who warned you of our assault on the fortress?” she said, wanting blood—anyone’s blood.
“A message arrived by raven. By white raven.”
Chills erupted down Branwen’s spine. “From a temple,” said Marc. Anguish stitched his brow. “What did Kensa promise you?”
“Liones. And to make me a duke of Kernyv.”
“I thought you had no kingdom,” said Branwen, ferocious.
“I planned to make my own.”
Marc took a step toward the pirate king.
“If you repeat all that you have told me before the assembly of barons, I will let you leave Monwiku with your life.” Remus canted his head, disbelieving.
“You have my word,” Marc swore, and though it was a mistake Branwen knew he would keep it.
“Agreed. I’ll take a dozen jugs of your best wine. I want to get good and drunk before I die.”
“You will not die within my castle walls.” King Marc stared at Branwen, then Xandru. They both nodded. “Xandru, would you escort the prisoner to Ruan’s—to the bedroom below. I want to keep him close.” He paused. “And safe.”
Xandru pulled the pirate roughly to his feet.
“You despise me,” said Remus to Branwen. “But I have no regrets. Can you say the same, pretty monster?”
“You don’t need your teeth to speak,” warned the captain and shoved the other man across the threshold. The door slammed closed with a bang.
Branwen shook where she stood. Marc rested a hand on her shoulder, and she recoiled.
“Sister,” he said. His tone was gravelly. “I fear I’ve asked too much of you.” Tears began to leak from her eyes, and Marc drew Branwen into him. “I won’t ask you to use your power again. I was selfish—forgive me.”
“You didn’t ask me. Xandru and I protected each other.” She licked the tears that fell onto her lips. “We needed the truth to protect the peace.” Her voice quaked. “But Ruan—despite how it looks, he loves you. He went back to the fight. He might already be dead. I—I don’t want to believe he’s a traitor.”
“I don’t either.” Pain shone in Marc’s eyes. “Endelyn could have stolen the queen’s seal ring for Countess Kensa without his knowledge. He loves you, too, Branwen. I can’t believe he’d harm you.” Branwen nodded against the king’s chest, still hoping, despite all of the bloodshed she’d witnessed, that it was true.
“The men that House Whel sent to reinforce the Royal Guard after the attack—we should send them home,” she said, struggling to regain her composure.
“Yes, that would be prudent.” He wiped a tear from Branwen’s cheek. “How did you know about the attack on Tristan’s ship?” Marc asked her.
“I was the one who pulled him from his raft. It was me. I’m sorry I never told you.”
Marc planted a kiss between her eyes.
“You are no monster, Branwen. You are my family.”
TWILIGHT CALM
BRANWEN RETURNED TO HER CHAMBER in the West Tower and stripped out of her clothes, unsteady on her feet, as if she were being buffeted by the waves. She filled a shallow tub with soapy water, scouring her limbs, trying to wash away the past few days. Her heartbeat wouldn’t slow.
Countess Kensa’s ambition was far greater than she had imagined. The countess had tried to frame Eseult for Branwen’s murder to discredit her with King Marc, with the court. How much had Ruan known? Had he worked so doggedly to expose Tristan and Eseult’s affair at the behest of his mother?
Branwen stared at her naked body in the looking glass. She missed her scars. Her scars had made Branwen human. She looked at her palm. The white line from the blade of binding was gone, too.
Pretty monster. That was what she had become. What she had made herself.
Her lip curled. She turned from the mirror, twilight casting a violet glow on the walls. She picked a linen dress from the wardrobe and it felt like a disguise, like she was concealing her true nature: a woman after Keane’s heart.
She slumped onto her bed, fully clothed, and closed her eyes. She slid her hand beneath her pillow, fingers curving around the parchment scroll. She could suck the life from men, but she was too much of a coward to read her aunt’s letter.
The white raven from her vision circled in her mind. Had it been a forewarning, after all? Branwen hadn’t been aware that the temples of the Horned One sent their messages by air. What exactly did the kordweyd have to gain by helping the pirates? Why had Casek allied himself with Kensa?
A knock came at the door.
“Come in,” she said, sitting up with a huff.
“Branny!” Eseult enthused, smiling brightly. “Andred told me you were home!” She rushed toward the bed and threw her arms around Branwen. “I couldn’t rest while you were gone.”
Her cousin held her a long moment. Branwen allowed herself to bask in the queen’s warmth, feel the beat of the heart rabbiting in her chest. It was both familiar, and not. A song to which she only knew half the words.
“Others aren’t coming home,” said Branwen, drawing back. “Captain Morgawr.” She took a breath. “Diarmuid—I’m sorry, Eseult. He’s gone.”
The queen’s lips parted, regret creasing her brow.
“H
ow did it happen?”
“The pirates had been warned. A vast chain was strewn across the harbor. Our ships were caught on it. The pirates launched fireballs from their fortress. The Dragon Rising was destroyed.” The words came out in a rush.
“Diarmuid, Ruan, and other Ivermen brought the chain down,” Branwen went on. “But at great cost.” She remembered Ruan saying the countess had tried to forbid him from going to the Veneti Isles. Why would she let him sail into an ambush? And why would he go if he was party to her schemes?
“Branny,” said Eseult softly, after Branwen had trailed off, lost in her thoughts. “It must have been horrible to witness,” said her cousin. She stroked Branwen’s cheek.
“Diarmuid died a hero,” she said. “For Iveriu.” Branwen wet her lips. “You always saw the best in him. He was a better man than I’d allowed.”
“We should toast him.”
Branwen glanced toward the bookshelves. “I have elderberry wine,” she said.
Her cousin went to retrieve the waterskin from where it lay beside the wooden sword. “Didn’t Uncle Morholt give this to you?” She lifted it from the shelf. Branwen nodded. “Do you ever wonder what might have happened if our uncle had won?”
The queen set down the child-size weapon and returned to Branwen with the waterskin.
“No,” Branwen replied. “I can’t rewind the ribbon of time.”
If their uncle had bested Tristan—fairly—in the Final Combat, Branwen would never have been gifted the Hand of Bríga. She wouldn’t have conjured the Loving Cup. She wouldn’t have made a deal with Dhusnos.
There would also be no peace.
Eseult uncorked the wine. “When I first saw Diarmuid, we were children. He was still scrawny,” she said. “He didn’t hold my interest.” She lowered her nose to inhale the scent of elderberries. “When we met again, he was handsome. Charming.”
The queen sighed. “Each letter he sent me was a rebellion. Thrilling. I treasured them, but … it was all about me.” The look she gave Branwen was doleful. “I wish I’d known Diarmuid better—truly known him. Not merely craved his sweet nothings.”
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