She touched the antler shard that rested against her chest.
“Perhaps we never know people as well as we should,” said Branwen. “But Diarmuid believed peace was worth fighting for, and he gave his life so that we might know it. He died with honor.”
Eseult sighed, raising the waterskin. “To Lord Diarmuid Parthalán of Uladztir, a true Ivernic hero.” She put the metal lip to her mouth and took a substantial swallow.
“To Diarmuid,” Branwen said, taking the waterskin from her cousin. “May he find his way back to Kerwindos’s Cauldron to be reborn with his father in his next life.”
She drank, the wine tart and sweet. Treva adamantly refused to share her recipe, and no other wine tasted as good. Memories of her cousin’s harmless pranks and the confidences they’d once shared flickered through her mind. She took a bigger sip.
The cousins sat together in the twilight calm. Eseult’s cheeks grew rosy, as they always did, and she hiccupped as she stole another swallow.
“I’ve been thinking about a gift for Dubthach and Saoirse,” she said. “Maybe a baby blanket?”
“That would be nice,” Branwen replied. She found it hard to think about celebrating a new life in the wake of all the carnage she’d seen.
Smiling mischievously, Eseult said, “I could embroider a trim of chickens and eggs on it!” She winked, and Branwen laughed, heartier than she’d expected.
Dubthach couldn’t stand the sight of eggs or chickens, since her cousin had convinced him hard-boiled eggs were eyeballs and forced him to touch them.
“I also want to send Gráinne a new doll’s dress,” said the queen. “When the Ivernic ships return.” Branwen hoped the Ivernic ships did return. And she hoped Ruan would be with them. Although she didn’t know what fate would await him.
“I wonder how much she’s grown?” Eseult mused. “I might not even recognize Gráinne now.” She had always loved children, delighted in telling them stories, and she had taken a particular shine to an orphan she’d met on the Rock Road. “Lowenek reminds me of her. She has spirit. She’s teaching me Kernyvak—I think she’s rather clever.” Her cousin spoke quickly, nervously, filling the quiet.
Branwen placed her left hand over Eseult’s. “You would be a good mother,” she said. “You’ll get another chance. If you want one.”
Her eyes grew shiny. Looking at Branwen’s gloveless right hand, she said, “I’ll sew you a new one.”
“I lost it during the fight. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly.” Eseult’s words were hushed. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“Not tonight.”
The queen nodded. “Whatever you need, Branny. Just tell me and it’s yours.” Eseult offered Branwen the waterskin, but she shook her head. The queen recorked the wine and laid it atop the coverlet.
“When you’re feeling rested, I’d like to take you to the infirmary site. See our progress—see if there’s anything you’d like changed.”
“I will,” Branwen promised. “You seem to be enjoying the project.”
“I feel useful.” Eseult pursed her lips, a determined look on her face. “I didn’t think I had any talent. I’ve never been a healer like you, or Mother. But this infirmary will help our people, and I can make it happen. I want to open it by the end of summer.”
“You’ve always had a talent for bossing people around,” Branwen said lightly.
“I suppose I have.”
“I’m teasing, Essy.” Her cousin stared at her. Branwen hadn’t used her childhood name for months. Maybe it was the effect of the elderberry wine.
There was a quick rap on the door, and Branwen shot up to answer it. Her nerves buzzed, wondering whether the fleet was putting into port.
“Tristan,” she said. “Is there news?”
“Not as yet.” He scratched the scar on his eyebrow. Noticing Eseult over Branwen’s shoulder, he said, “Nosmatis, Lady Queen. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Branwen opened the door wider, glancing back at her cousin.
“It’s no intrusion,” said Eseult. “I was just leaving.” She stood, crossing toward them. “I’ll see you both at dinner.”
Eseult smiled tentatively at Tristan, and gave Branwen a kiss on the cheek as she left. Tristan glanced after the queen, then back at Branwen, brow pinched.
“You two seem to be getting along better,” he said.
“We’re … trying. Eseult has known me my whole life.” Branwen heaved a sigh. “Does Alba need me? Is her wound inflamed?”
“No.” Tristan stepped farther into the room, but he left the door open.
Branwen retreated toward the window. She lit a candle in a sconce on the wall as the evening thickened.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again after the wedding,” Branwen said, turning back toward Tristan. “Not for some time, at least.”
“It would have been easier.”
“Yes.”
“Alba told me you saved her life,” he said, and Branwen’s chest constricted.
“She has the heart of a Champion,” she told him. “Alba is kind and strong. She will be a magnanimous queen.” Branwen rubbed her thumb against the sole scar that remained—the mark of Dhusnos. “I—I think you will be happy. I hope so. You deserve a wife like her.”
Tristan took several strides closer. “Yours is the heart of a Champion, too, Branwen.”
“Maybe once. Not anymore.” She shook her head. “When I created the antidote—I lost a part of myself. I created a crack, and let darkness seep in.”
“Oh, Branwen.”
“I don’t want your pity,” she snapped. “It’s what I deserve.”
“It’s not.” There was anger in his voice as well.
“I enjoy killing, Tristan. I drained the life from a pirate to save Alba, but it was intoxicating. I wanted more. I want it still.”
She released a harsh exhale, clenching her fists. “I’m afraid,” she said. Branwen’s voice had grown hoarse, barely audible.
Tristan framed her face with his hands.
“From the moment I opened my eyes and saw you, I knew you were Otherworld-sent. I still believe it.”
Branwen’s eyes grew wet with tears. “You shouldn’t.”
He brushed his thumb across her lips, smearing the tears that had dripped down. Branwen trembled as warmth curled through her.
“Tristan,” she said, his name a plea. “The bargain I made with Dhusnos, there was another condition.” His eyes bored into hers. “I have to deliver him a Shade by Samonios. I have to kill of my own volition—murder. Not because I’m in danger, not to save someone else. Because I desire it.” And a growing part of Branwen did desire death.
She broke his gaze. “If I don’t, Dhusnos will steal the soul of someone I love.”
Tristan hissed a curse and dragged Branwen against his chest. His lips tickled the shell of her ear as he said, “Let it be me.”
Branwen pushed against him in horror. He held her firm.
“You’re always too willing to throw away your own life,” she told him, fury stirring. “I could never wish you dead.”
Tristan rested his chin on top of her head, squeezing her tight.
“I should have died in the Champions Tournament. Without your magic, I would have. This is how I repay you,” he said in a low voice. “This is fate.”
“No,” Branwen said through gritted teeth. She broke free of his embrace. “You will sail to Armorica with your new wife, and you will live. It’s where Kernyv needs you to be. Where Iveriu needs you.”
“I will send for you before Samonios.”
“I won’t come!” she roared.
“Why are you so willing to save everyone but yourself?”
“I’m beyond saving, Tristan.”
“Then you don’t see what I see.” He closed the small space between them. “I see a woman whose heart is fierce, yet open enough to turn her enemies into friends—to love them. We all have darkness inside us.”
Tristan gathere
d a loose curl between his fingertips.
“Odai eti ama. You hate and you love, Branwen. As do we all.” She felt his breath on her face as he spoke. “There’s another verse by the same Aquilan poet that makes me think of you. En vos meos mortis, en vos meos vita.”
“In you my death,” she whispered. “In you my life.”
“It was true the day we met. It’s true now.”
“Alba will be wondering where you are,” Branwen said.
Tristan took her right hand in his, raised her palm to his lips, and kissed the mark of Dhusnos.
Branwen shivered, and watched him walk away.
WASHER AT THE FORD
WISHES FLITTED IN THE BRANCHES above Branwen, colorful slivers of desire in the fog.
She followed the stream to the healing well. The way Tristan had looked at her last night, his faith in her despite how she’d wronged him—it gave Branwen hope.
As she came upon the Wise Damsel’s cottage, she saw Ailleann kneeling on the bank of the stream, washing a green woolen cloak. The silver strands amidst her loose, deep garnet hair caught the hazy light. She radiated power, and no one would dare mistake her for a simple old woman doing her laundry.
Branwen kneeled down at the ford, beside the Wise Damsel, who had yet to glance at her. The stream gurgled.
“You were right,” Branwen began. “We found the True Queen by the river.”
Ailleann made no response. She scrubbed her cloak beneath the bubbling waters. The fabric flowed like seaweed.
Steeling herself, Branwen said, “I think I know what I lost.” Her words were hesitant. “My cousin, the True Queen—I lost the love that bound me to her.”
She exhaled a thin breath. “We made a vow when we were children, stitched each other into our hearts. I cut the threads.”
Branwen leaned back on her heels, hugging herself. If not for the spell, would she have believed that Eseult had tried to have her murdered?
“Can the bond be repaired?” she asked.
The Wise Damsel tilted her head in Branwen’s direction for the first time.
“The memory will not return,” she told her. “But your heart is yours, enigena. If you want to let your cousin shelter within it, that is your choice.”
Branwen nodded. The devotion that had driven her to conjure the Loving Cup, that had fueled the Hand of Bríga, was gone. Maybe such devotion had obscured her understanding of who Eseult truly was. Branwen would have to get to know her cousin as she was now.
With a small swallow, she said, “I told the queen the true source of her pain, and her suffering has abated, even without the spell. How can primordial magic be so easily undone?”
The Wise Damsel glanced at Branwen sharply. “I told you that magic requires honesty.” The hairs on the back of Branwen’s neck lifted. “Truth can be a weapon or it can be a balm. Its force is as potent as any magic.”
The bells tinkled in the trees, a harbinger.
“My magic … it’s changed, and it’s changing me,” said Branwen. She extended her hand, palm up, toward the other woman. “Slayer.” She choked on the word. “I can no longer heal. I cannot create. Only destroy. I can steal the life from men and see their memories.”
Branwen lifted her hand closer. “This is the Hand of Dhusnos now. It craves power and it sickens me.”
Ailleann continued scrubbing her cloak.
“When you consume life,” she said, “you will lose a part of yourself, Branwen of Iveriu.” Soap foamed against the rocks. “The power will hollow you out. Old Ones, as you call them, who sustain themselves in this way become vicious creatures.”
Branwen expelled a tremulous breath. “How do I stop it? How do I stop myself from being a monster?”
“You took the hand of darkness, yet there is light all around you.” She glanced up at the rays of sun piercing the fog. “I told you not to return until you had regained your balance.”
“I want to find the balance, I do,” Branwen protested. She dropped her hand to her lap. “I don’t know how.” Her voice cracked. “You offered to help me tame my magic. I wasn’t ready. Teach me now.”
“I am not a god, enigena. There is no escaping the bargain you made with Dhusnos.”
“You are an Old One,” she said, only half in question.
“I am the guardian at the well.”
“If I don’t take a life of my own volition, the Dark One will claim the soul of someone I love. How do I condemn someone to an eternity as a Shade?” Branwen was growing agitated. “How could my magic find balance after that?”
Ailleann lifted the cloak from the water and spread it onto a rock to dry.
“Kings come and go. Many arms will hold you. What is it in you, Branwen, that is constant?” The Wise Damsel touched her wet fingers to Branwen’s heart, and the linen of her dress grew damp.
“When you find what is constant, you will see the light in the darkness. I do not envy you the choices that lie before you, enigena. I cannot make them for you.”
Anger flared and fizzled. “I believe in peace,” she said.
“And yet, you have none.” The other woman tapped a finger against Branwen’s chest. Branwen bowed her head.
The Wise Damsel pushed to her feet.
“The healing you need won’t be found at the well. You must heal yourself.”
* * *
As Senara trotted back toward Monwiku, a fog rolled in from the sea that was so thick Branwen could hardly make out the path in front of her.
She’d gone to the White Moor with hope; she was leaving with resignation.
Every day, Samonios grew closer. The Old Ones could not—or would not—help her. She had asked for godlike powers, and now she alone must bear the consequences.
Branwen reached the stables and was feeding her mount extra oats when a lean figure slipped into the stall beside her. Xandru stroked Senara’s muzzle and the mare nickered, delighted. The captain’s charm extended to animals, it seemed.
“You were looking for me?” Branwen surmised.
“The queen said you’d gone for a ride.” He patted Senara’s neck. “If you were anyone else, my lady, I would think you’d be worried about traveling alone through the same forest where you’d been attacked.”
Xandru laughed. “The fort has fallen,” he reported, abruptly changing the subject.
Relief and apprehension wound through Branwen at the news.
“How many ships did we lose?” she asked.
“At least twelve.” His posture was relaxed, but Branwen knew better than to trust his demeanor. “King Marc has ordered a contingent of the Royal Fleet to remain in the Veneti Isles to establish order.”
A knot formed in her stomach. “And the Ivernic ships?” she said.
“Four have been sighted making their way to Marghas.” Xandru held her expectant stare. “Lord Diarmuid’s ship is among them.”
Branwen sighed heavily, the knot tightening. “Good news,” she managed.
“Indeed. The King’s Council has also been sent for. When Countess Kensa arrives, she will be arrested,” said Xandru, tone casual, as if he were talking about the weather. “Remus is enjoying his stupor in Ruan’s old apartment. I can’t say that I blame him.”
Senara whinnied, and Branwen pacified the mare with another handful of oats.
Xandru’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“I know Ruan means something to you,” he said. “He means something to Marc, too.” The captain stepped close to Branwen. “Go to him, persuade Ruan to confess his involvement to the king before he is formally arrested. Marc is too forgiving for his own good.”
“Why would you risk giving Ruan the opportunity to warn the countess? Or to run away?”
Xandru sighed. “Because I don’t want Marc to be forced to watch one of his closest friends burned as a traitor. It would break his heart.”
For a moment his eyes were unguarded.
“Marc is not like us,” he added.
Branwen grazed her moth
er’s brooch with her fingertips.
“If you leave now, you should be able to catch Ruan at the port,” said Xandru.
“Very well,” she agreed. Whatever they were to each other, whatever they had been, Branwen did not wish to see Ruan executed.
She made her apologies to the mare, promising Senara apples as well as oats, and swung herself back into the saddle.
“Be persuasive,” Xandru told her.
He gave her a silent salute as Branwen set out for Marghas. From the coastal path, she could glimpse four golden lions upon green sails. Two were already docked. She urged Senara faster. Villa Illogan lay in the opposite direction from the port as well as Monwiku, and she needed to catch Ruan—assuming he’d survived the battle—before he left Marghas.
The rock pools glittered like black pearls. The earlier fog had evaporated, although Branwen still felt a chill.
Branwen was rounding the last bend in the road toward Marghas when Senara’s front legs flew into the air. Another rider was coming at them at high speed. The mare released an enraged neigh, her hooves sending small pebbles over the edge of the cliff as she found purchase.
“Ruan!” said Branwen. Her heart leapt into her throat. He pulled back on the reins of his stallion, showing Branwen a rakish, if tired, smile.
“You saw the green sails,” he said. Something tender passed over his face. “You were coming to see if I was alive.”
Ruan walked his horse closer. “I thought you might return to Illogan,” she said. “If you were alive.” Branwen’s response was short, her pulse skittering.
“You told me you’d see me at Monwiku, so that’s where I was headed.” His smile deepened. “I wouldn’t dare disobey you.”
“The pirates’ fortress is secured?” Branwen asked.
“It’s ours. For now, at least. We burned their ships.” Branwen watched him intently, trying to detect any hint of remorse. He sidled his mount next to hers.
“Karid,” Ruan said, and the timbre of his voice conjured memories of lying in his arms, legs intertwined. “I survived the battle because I wanted to see you again.”
“We have the pirate king,” she told him. A ripple of confusion spread across Ruan’s brow. “But you already know that.”
Bright Raven Skies Page 24