Her magic had brought Tristan so much despair, she wanted only good things for him now.
“I don’t hate you,” said Alba. “I wanted you to know that before I left.”
Branwen flattened her lips against the threat of tears.
“Under different circumstances, I would have been honored to call you a friend, Captain Alba.”
“And I you, Healer Branwen.”
She held Branwen’s gaze. The two women did not embrace, but they shared a smile. Gratitude, and a strange kinship, knit itself between them.
Then Alba joined Tristan on the bow of the ship that would carry them to their new life together, and Branwen walked back toward hers.
* * *
As they traveled the coastal path back to Monwiku, Eseult sidled her mare beside Senara. “When we reach the castle, we should finish the elderberry wine,” she declared.
Branwen flicked her cousin a half smile. “Is that an order?”
“If you like.”
The red-and-yellow sail of the Armorican ship was bright against the blue sky, like a second sun.
The queen glanced around them. Marc and Xandru rode in front, farther along the path, and Sir Goron trailed several horse lengths behind.
Lowering her voice, Eseult told her, “You were right when you said Tristan would never love me if he knew me as well as you did, Branny.”
Frost-hot panic swept over Branwen. “I was speaking from anger,” she said.
“You know me best. I always wanted someone to love me for me—and you did. I’ve been selfish, and I’ve been horrid to you. But my whole life, you’ve loved me best, even when I did nothing to deserve it.”
Tears speckled the queen’s lashes. “I’m sorry I took Tristan away from you,” she said in a rushed whisper. “If I’d been strong enough to let him go, he wouldn’t be married to Alba. Ruan wouldn’t be—”
Branwen cut her off. “We can’t know what might have happened. Tristan still might have had to marry Alba—or someone else—for peace. For Kernyv. A prince’s life is not his own.”
Eseult blinked, a few tears falling upon her cheeks, which were pinking under the glare of the cloudless afternoon. Branwen blew out a breath, too exhausted to cry.
“There’s a ship leaving for Blackford Harbor in a few days’ time,” said her cousin. “Do you want to go home, Branny? Marc would understand. I don’t want you to stay here for me any longer. I want you to do as you wish.”
Branwen inhaled the sea air, glancing from the yellow sail gliding toward Armorica like a fin, to the sun arcing westward toward Iveriu. Her life at Castle Rigani had revolved around her younger cousin, and she was still too cowardly to read the letter from her aunt. She feared she wouldn’t be welcomed back after the way she’d endangered the peace.
Branwen’s place wasn’t with Ruan or Tristan, but it was also not on Ivernic shores.
“I promised Ruan I would watch over Andred,” she said, after a few quiet moments. “I am the Royal Healer, and I want to see Queen Verica’s legacy established in Kernyv.”
Eseult dried her eyes. “I’m so glad. I have other news,” she said with a hint of mischief, “but I didn’t want to color your decision.”
Frowning, Branwen said, “What is it?”
“Marc is bequeathing you Castle Wragh for services to the crown. And the other lands that comprised Endelyn’s blood price.”
“Liones?” she gasped.
“You will be made Duchess of Liones, which will make you the highest ranking noblewoman in Kernyv—after me, of course.” Her cousin winked. “I suggested it,” Eseult said, a tad prideful. “I would give you more if I could.”
Branwen stared at the queen, mouth agape. “It’s too much.”
“The title also comes with a permanent seat on the King’s Council,” Eseult continued.
“Baron Dynyon won’t like it,” Branwen cautioned, and she worried how the other barons would react as well.
“After tomorrow, I doubt Baron Dynyon will dare complain.”
The executions of Baron Gwyk and Seer Casek were to be a very public affair. Branwen knew the grisly nature of their deaths would turn King Marc’s stomach, but he couldn’t afford to balk. He had already shown perhaps more mercy than was wise.
The turrets of Monwiku Castle came into view as Branwen lost sight of Tristan and Alba’s ship.
“I don’t think I deserve the honor of such a title,” she told her cousin, throat growing hoarse. She held up her right hand. “I have a darkness in me. I think I always have.”
Eseult folded her hand over Branwen’s as their palfreys walked side by side.
“And for that, I am to blame,” she said.
“I can’t blame you, Essy. I won’t. I’ve made my own choices.”
“The Belotnia Eve when we carved our names into the hazel tree, we declared we’d never need lovers,” the queen said, expression becoming wistful. “Not as long as we had each other.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wish we could have stayed girls forever.”
“Sometimes I do, too.” Branwen surprised herself by pecking her cousin on the cheek, warmth unfurling in her chest.
“Please consider accepting Marc’s offer,” urged Eseult. “The king needs you. He needs allies on the council. He’s lost too many.”
Realization dawned. “You care for him,” said Branwen.
“You told me he could become a steadfast friend—if I let him.”
A smile flitted across her face, relenting. “I’ll consider the offer.”
“Can I ask you another favor?” said Eseult. Her cousin wouldn’t be her cousin if she didn’t press her luck. Branwen arched an eyebrow in question.
“I’d like to learn to suture wounds,” said the queen. “Would you let me apprentice with you?”
Branwen hadn’t thought she could receive any further shocks today.
“Really?” she said. “Why would you want to?”
Her cousin drew her shoulders back, lifting the reins of her horse.
“It’s time I learned how to heal for myself.”
FAITH
THE DUNGEON WAS DANK, A musty odor filling Branwen’s nostrils. After she’d returned from Marghas, she declined the king’s invitation to dinner, retreating instead to the West Tower. She fell asleep, still dressed, atop her bed. The hour was late when she woke with a start. Heart hammering, she began walking toward the barracks of the Royal Guard—and the dungeon below.
Drops of moisture slid down the stone walls, pooling at her feet, making the steps slippery as she descended. The guardsmen posted at the entrance hadn’t questioned why the Royal Healer wanted to visit the prisoners. In truth, she could not discern what precisely compelled her.
Branwen had dreamed of the raven, its wings winter-bitten. The Wise Damsel had told her that the Fire of Inspiration no longer gave Branwen access to the world of the living. Could she only dream of death?
Her path through the gloom of the dungeon was lit by oil lamps and, although the night was mild aboveground, she shivered. She could well believe she was traveling through a ráithana, the hills belonging to the Old Ones, to the Otherworld beneath the earth.
At the bottom of the stairs, three cells lay on either side of a spindly corridor. Baron Gwyk occupied the cell closest to the stairwell. The flickering flame from the oil lamp reflected in his glass eye. He had lost the eye in raids on Iveriu. A year ago, the nothingness Branwen felt at the prospect of this man’s death would have alarmed her.
“Nosmatis,” she said, voice staccato.
The baron’s lips twisted in a ferocious expression and he cursed at her in Kernyvak.
His eldest son would take the baron’s place on the King’s Council as the new head of House Gwyk, and Branwen could only presume that he would be hostile toward the king who had ordered his father’s execution. Branwen schooled her features, refusing to give him the satisfaction of provoking her, and continued walking toward the last cell.
Seer Casek rose to his feet as B
ranwen approached. The diamond-encrusted antler shard twinkled, disconcerting. He ran a hand over his bald head, flecked with grime from the squalid cell.
He smiled one of his terribly pleasant smiles.
“Lady Branwen,” he said, tone snide. “Have you come to pray with me in my final hours?”
“Why does the temple use white ravens as messengers?” she replied.
The seer canted his head, intrigued. “Temples of the Horned One have always used white ravens.” Branwen glared at him and he continued, “Our god is the Lord of Wild Things. After Carnonos was impaled by the stag, his father left him in the forest, running to their village for aid.”
Seer Casek paused, regarding Branwen as if she were a dim-witted child.
“Carnonos died alone, with only a white raven who alighted upon his chest as company. When other carrion birds circled his body, the white raven fought them off, prevented them from defiling his flesh.”
Branwen crossed her arms, her right thumb stroking the bend of her elbow.
“As the truth of the Horned One began to spread across the Aquilan Empire, the emperor persecuted his followers. They were forced to meet in secret. A white raven painted on a house indicated a place of safety.” The kordweyd sighed dramatically.
“But why is this of interest to you, my lady? You cling tightly to your false gods.”
Her temper flared, but the man before her no longer posed any danger to Branwen or the True Queen. His eyes were haggard despite his sneer. She traced the inside of her right palm, almost wishing her gods were false.
“You committed treason in the name of your god,” Branwen told Casek. “Your actions will not help spread his truth.”
“On the contrary.” The seer stepped to the front of the cell, gripping the iron bars. “I will die a martyr. Word will carry among the anointed of the tyrant king who burned a kordweyd because he tried to show him the true path.”
Branwen laughed. “No one will believe such lies.”
“Won’t they? The Kernyveu who adhere to the Cult—including many of the nobles—will not be happy that I was executed like a common criminal.”
He leaned closer, pressing his face against the bars. “The king’s foreign bride still has not produced an heir. Perhaps the True Queen is barren as punishment for the king’s lack of faith?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Branwen hissed. “Nature is not cruel.”
“Human nature is, and people believe what they must. Everyone needs forgiveness, Lady Branwen. The peasants whose crops fail, the women whose children die in their cots—the Horned One gives them hope. The promise of resurrection is more powerful than any king can ever be.”
Branwen’s magic stirred at the kordweyd’s words, afraid that there was truth to them.
“I was born on the southern continent, in what is now Langazbardaz,” Seer Casek continued. “I was born a slave.” His eyes narrowed as Branwen inhaled. “Ruan’s wounds were not the first lacerations from a whip that I’d treated.”
He pulled up one sleeve of his sumptuous robes. In the low light, Branwen saw that his forearms were crisscrossed by white scars.
“For twenty years, I was considered less than human. When my master was close to death, he freed me because he believed the act would assure his resurrection. He did not regret my beatings. He was not a changed man. He freed me because he feared his own mortality.”
Casek laughed bitterly. “I left my master’s farm and found the nearest temple. I became consecrated as a kordweyd the very next day. Faith is power, and I vowed never to be powerless again.”
“Queen Verica said you loved your own power more than you loved your god.”
“They are one and the same, Lady Branwen. If King Marc were a wiser man, he would see that.”
Gesturing at the bars, Branwen said, “Look where you are now, Seer Casek. Powerless once more.”
“My legacy will be ensured, my lady. Mark my words.”
Branwen turned to go. “I see the guilt in your eyes,” said the seer. “You are Artume. A false woman. You will lead many men to ruin.”
A hunger rose up in Branwen, nearly uncontrollable. The desire to steal this man’s life. To drain him dry. Savor it.
“I might be Artume, but King Marc believes!” she shouted, pivoting back toward the kordweyd. “His faith in the Horned One is pure. Why would you seek to depose him?”
“Because he is weak. He is not my king.”
“He is my king, and when morning comes you will burn.” Composing herself, she told him, “And I will watch.”
Branwen rushed from the dungeon before she did something else she’d regret, before she acted on the need humming in her veins. She ran through the barracks and up the hill.
A man’s shape filled the path before her. “Branwen?” said Marc.
She met the king beneath a lantern that swung from a spear-leafed tree. “Brother,” she said. “Nosmatis. Or, perhaps, dymatis.”
“Dawn approaches,” he said grimly.
“You couldn’t sleep.”
Marc sighed. “I did not want to rule like my father did.”
Branwen stepped closer, her breath steadying. She rested a hand against the king’s elbow. “You mourn the men who conspired against you. You showed Ruan mercy. You do not rule as he did.”
He shifted his jaw, uncertain. In the lantern light, she noticed that his beard was precisely trimmed and she wondered if Xandru had been his barber.
“What keeps you from your bed?” Marc asked, sympathy shading his voice.
“I—I had a disturbing dream.”
The king peered past Branwen toward the barracks. “Did your dream lead you to the dungeon?”
“I suppose it did. A white raven appeared to me.”
Inhaling through his nose, Marc said, “A white raven transported Carnonos to his rebirth.”
Smoke shimmered in Branwen’s mind. The white raven seemed to be leading her to her end.
“You went to see Seer Casek,” deduced the king. His expression was inscrutable.
Branwen nodded. “Your mother told me she didn’t want Matrona to be forgotten in Kernyv. Men like Casek would suppress anything that threatens their own power. You don’t owe him anything,” she said, voice rising. “Visiting the traitors will bring you no solace.”
Marc gave her a sad smile. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, sister.”
“We’ve been bound together without knowing it.”
Regret tensed the corners of his mouth. “We have.”
“Eseult relayed your offer to me,” said Branwen. “I worry that making me—a foreigner, a woman—a duchess of Kernyv will not serve the best interests of the kingdom after such … turmoil.”
He took her hand. “It is your concern for the kingdom that only makes me more confident. You have already put my people above yourself.” Marc rubbed the leather covering her palm. “I will never have cause to doubt your loyalty.”
Branwen choked down a sob. She had been the cause of a deeper betrayal, a deeper treason, and yet this man trusted her, considered her family.
“I’m still a monster,” she said in a strained voice.
“A monster cannot forgive, and your forgiveness makes me a better man.”
Tears sprang to her eyes that she couldn’t hold back.
“You have become the best of men,” Branwen told him, “and that is not my doing.”
“Sister, if you want to leave my court, you have my blessing.” He squeezed her hand. “I am sorry for Ruan.”
“I know you are,” she said. “He told me of his true parentage—and I kept his secret. I kept it secret from you.”
“And you have kept mine.” Marc’s silver eyes flashed as the night began to thin. “You don’t need to divulge all of your secrets for me to consider you my sister, Branwen.”
Her tears flowed freely now. “I will accept a seat on your council,” she said. “On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“One Royal Infirmary is not enough. I believe Liones is rich in white lead. I want to use it to fund the creation of infirmaries across Kernyv. Perhaps elsewhere in Albion.”
“The lands are yours to do with as you please.” Marc gave her a knowing look. “Tristan will be heartened by the news.”
The king brushed the tears from Branwen’s cheeks. She hiccuped.
“Will you escort me back to my rooms?” she said.
Holding her gaze, Marc ducked his head. “I did come in search of solace. And I’ve found it.” He kissed the top of Branwen’s head and offered her his arm.
* * *
The white raven skimmed the edges of her consciousness as Branwen returned to the West Tower. Perhaps it was a warning—or an entreaty. Once she fulfilled her bargain with Dhusnos, she would no longer be who she was.
In a few hours, Seer Casek would burn. Branwen’s relief that she had saved Eseult from that fate—saved Iveriu—was all encompassing. She could no longer pretend that she was a good person, but she had done what was necessary. If her end was near, Branwen would spend her remaining days upholding the peace.
Tristan would send for her, she knew, but she would not come.
Summoning her courage, Branwen retrieved the letter from the Queen of Iveriu from beneath her pillow. She was ready to face her aunt’s anger and disappointment. She could no longer act the part of cowering child.
The room was still save for the sound of parchment unscrolling.
My dearest Branwen,
I remember when you were a little girl and you would talk to the waves. I often wondered what they said that made you smile. Now there is a sea between us, and time is short as I write, but I want you to feel the love in these lines.
Alana was my younger sister, but I sought her advice more than I should admit. More than a queen should admit. Knowing the difficulties you have encountered in Kernyv, my heart aches. Like your mother, I know you will have found a way through the thorns, yet I dearly wish I could have helped you shoulder the burdens that I also know you will have taken onto yourself.
I have tried to impart the lessons you would need to be a woman in this world, like Alana would have, but I fear there is one that I have failed to teach you. The most important one.
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