Life’s most closely guarded secret, my darling niece—my darling daughter—is that we fail more than we succeed. We must learn to love ourselves, and each other, in our failures. Watching you grow into a woman of conviction has been a privilege and I love you more than I can ever express, Branwen.
I want you to love yourself, too. As much as you have loved Essy. As much as you have loved Iveriu. Love yourself as much when you fail as when you succeed—more, even.
This is my last lesson for you. Please make it a promise.
Yours always, devoted,
Eseult
Parchment fell to stone. Every insult, every flaw, every word of loathing that Branwen had expected to see in ink would never have been authored by her aunt. She had feared the letter as if it would be a mirror, but Branwen was the author of her own self-hate. She had assumed the woman who raised her saw only what she saw.
A tremulous breath escaped Branwen’s lips. Her aunt wanted only love for her. Only love. Yet she couldn’t make that promise. The Queen of Iveriu didn’t know the terrible choice that lay before her. Thorns still bit her deeply, crowded her path.
Branwen cried for who she had been, and for who she would become.
She slept a few restless hours on the wings of an ice-white raven.
PART III
THE END OF THE BEGINNING
RUDDERLESS
SUMMER LINGERED FOR SO LONG it seemed endless, and then it was gone.
Branwen and Eseult had held hands as they watched Seer Casek and Baron Gwyk burn at the stakes erected on the same beach where Tristan had fought Ruan for the queen’s honor. The stench of singed flesh polluted the causeway for days.
Xandru made himself scarce immediately after the executions, the Mawort departing for the southern continent. King Marc spent his free hours replanting and reviving his gardens, seeds occasionally arriving from abroad, while Branwen and the queen started recruiting female students who were interested in healing.
The freckles that dotted Branwen’s nose and forearms soon multiplied, and on nights the sky stayed shell-pink until midnight, she could almost let herself forget the deal she had struck with the Dark One. But Laelugus, the Festival of Peace, had taken place two moons ago. A year had passed since the Champions Tournament, and now only three weeks remained until Samonios.
By the next moon, Branwen must take a life, or condemn someone she loved.
A nip was in the air that teased the hem of her cloak as she skulked beside the Stone of Waiting, surveying the crowd assembled for the official opening of the Royal Infirmary. Maroon snakestone glistened in the mist of the moors.
The True Queen had ensured the infirmary was larger—and grander—than anything attached to the temples, although she was now never without the antler shard around her neck. Built in the Aquilan style, the square, two-story structure was constructed around a central courtyard and divided into four wards: surgery, maternity, wasting sickness, and a clinic for minor injuries. After various delays, the infirmary had begun receiving patients in midsummer, although this afternoon was its dedication to Matrona in accordance with Queen Verica’s wishes.
Branwen scanned the faces of the villagers, both Kernyveu and Iverni, who had come to celebrate the dedication. Laughter echoed across the moor as they enjoyed the spiced wine, Stargazy pies and apple tarts laid on two long tables, offered by the king and queen. Eseult always loved to organize a feast, and she was greeting her subjects in Kernyvak, Lowenek at her side, paying particular attention to the boys and girls.
Branwen exchanged a smile with Talorc from a distance, the elderly Iverman also hovering near Lowenek. He had taken up a post as a custodian at the infirmary to be close to the girl who had become his family. Queen Verica had been right about Lowenek’s skillful fingers, and Branwen suspected she would soon surpass her own talent with a needle.
The day she’d met the Wise Damsel at the mining disaster, Branwen had been told by Ailleann that healers were all sister, daughter, and mother to each other in turn, and she now felt the truth of those words. When Branwen instructed Lowenek how to prepare a poultice or clean an infected wound, she experienced a new kind of pride, a different sense of contentment.
Her eyes found her other apprentice in the crowd, sticking close to King Marc. When not given a specific task, it was nearly impossible to coax Andred from his rooms. He devoted all of his time to his flowering box experiments and to compiling a compendium of the medicinal properties of Kernyvak plants for use in the infirmary.
“Dymatis, Healer Branwen,” said Seer Ogrin as he wandered over to her. He held a goblet fashioned from white lead, filled with spiced wine. “Normally, I abstain,” he said, glancing at the dark liquid. “But it is a celebration, and we have worked hard.” His jolly face parted in a smile.
His brown robes were plain, cinched with a belt of wooden beads from which dangled an antler shard. Dull sunlight illuminated his shorn head, a smattering of gray hairs closely shaven.
“Today is for celebrating,” Branwen agreed, although her stomach clenched at how few nobles were in attendance. The kordweyd raised an eyebrow at her empty hands. “I haven’t eaten yet,” she explained. Her appetite diminished with each day that Samonios neared.
Seer Ogrin never asked Branwen about the fingerless glove that had become like a second skin.
His eyes crinkled as he took another sip of wine. “Have I ever told you how I came to Kernyv?” he said, and Branwen shook her head. “In a rowboat.”
“From where?” she asked, curiosity piqued.
“The Kingdom of Míl.”
Branwen shot Ogrin a disbelieving look. “You crossed the sea in a rowboat?” she said. Alba had managed the Southern Channel in a dinghy, but the kingdom of Míl was much farther.
“I didn’t say it was an easy journey.” He tilted his head at her, laughing in his childlike manner. “After my Consecration, I chose to wander. I climbed aboard a boat—oarless, rudderless—and trusted the Horned One would lead me where I needed to be.”
Branwen gasped. “That’s sheer folly.”
“We’re all rudderless sometimes,” he said with a shrug.
Eseult waved at the seer from beneath the entrance to the infirmary. It was time to begin. A linen sheet covered the statue of Matrona that was to be unveiled as part of the dedication. Ogrin raised his glass to Branwen and walked toward the queen. The smile beaming from her cousin’s face elicited a small one from Branwen. She had never seen Eseult so confident.
Several births had taken place at the infirmary in recent weeks and her cousin was becoming a diligent midwife. She wasn’t as capable with sutures and stitches as Lowenek, but the queen took great joy in delivering babies. Branwen chided herself for her own astonishment, and she wished her aunt could see the patience and kindness that Eseult lavished on expectant mothers or hear the lullabies she sang to newborns.
The murmurings of the crowd dimmed as King Marc began his address. Sir Goron stood behind the two monarchs, ever watchful.
Branwen slipped between the guests in the direction of the banquet tables. Sea-wolves and lions were embroidered on the tablecloths, the backdrop white, black, and green. A shallow breath became trapped in Branwen’s chest as she recalled the tricolor bracelet Tristan had given her aboard the Dragon Rising.
Pilfering an apple tart, she began to nibble. The crust was not as light as those prepared by Treva at Castle Rigani, and yet when Baron Chyanhal appeared at Branwen’s side, startling her, she discreetly brushed the crumbs from her lips.
“Dymatis, Duchess Branwen,” he said. Branwen returned his greeting, yet she was coming to prefer the title of Healer. The baron’s slender frame cast a long shadow across the grassy moor.
Branwen’s eyes circled those assembled and she said, “I only see Baron Kerdu and yourself from the King’s Council in attendance. Do the other barons have more pressing obligations?”
“Baron Julyan has grown too ill to leave his manor,” replied Baron Chyanhal. “He�
��s sent his eldest daughter, Lady Neala, in his stead.” The baron pointed toward a short woman who had seen at least forty summers, her light brown hair coiled atop her head, fine lines streaking her pale forehead.
“I am sorry to hear of his illness,” Branwen said. “I would be happy to visit him.”
Baron Chyanhal nodded, making a noncommittal noise. Keeping his voice low, he said, “The dissolution of House Whel has raised concerns among the other Houses, Duchess.”
As well as her own elevation to duchess, she surmised. Branwen skewered him with a glance. “Kensa committed treason against the crown. All ranks—and lands—are bestowed at the king’s pleasure.”
“True, but we all have relatives whom we cannot control,” said Baron Chyanhal mildly, features composed in a mask of calm. “Prince Andred is of royal blood, yet he no longer has a House. To be stripped of our lands without notice, without any protections—it makes the nobles uneasy.”
“Are you making a threat?” Branwen demanded in a quiet, but harsh, voice.
The crowd cheered and clapped as King Marc finished his speech, motioning at the True Queen.
“I’m making an observation, Duchess,” replied the baron. “My ancestors were once foreigners in Kernyv, too, and I supported the peace with Iveriu. House Gwyk waits each day for news of its own dissolution, and their new head, Doane, is an impulsive man. Quick to draw a sword.”
Branwen tugged at the hem of her cloak, stomach twisting, as Eseult addressed the crowd in Kernyvak, thanking them for coming. The queen had taken pains this summer to become proficient in the language of her subjects. A diadem of white lead winked atop her head. She looked like the True Queen she was always meant to be.
“Why are you telling me this?” Branwen whispered to Baron Chyanhal.
“Because I believe you to be pragmatic, my lady. Prince Tristan belongs to Armorica now; Ruan is banished. Andred’s status is muddy. There is no obvious heir should both the king and queen perish before their time.”
He paused, considering his next words. The baron’s brown skin glimmered in the luminous afternoon, intensifying his impassive features. “Reassure the barons that the kingdom is stable—and that their Houses are secure.”
“Mormerkti,” Branwen said shortly. “I will consider your counsel.”
She walked toward the front of the crowd as Seer Ogrin intoned a blessing of the Horned One. When the kordweyd had finished the prayer, he spoke in Kernyvak, then Aquilan.
He met Branwen’s stare as he said, “Matrona, the mother of Carnonos, was herself a healer. She understood the Mysteries of life and death. All healers are beloved of the Horned One, and all those who seek consolation are welcome here.”
Eseult pulled on a rope and the sheet covering the frieze above the rounded archway rippled to the ground. Boisterous applause erupted from the onlookers.
While the infirmary building had been constructed from snakestone, the relief of Matrona was carved from a cream-colored marble. A master stonemason had brought the sorrow of Matrona to life—her downturned lips, tears in her eyes, and bowed head—as she cradled her son’s slack, prone body. Branwen could almost hear the woman’s weeping on the wind. The Land, too, wept for her children, and Branwen’s throat grew tight.
Behind Matrona a stag kneeled, offering Carnonos his antlers—the implements of the god’s death—in apology, the creature shriving itself. This was the moment before the Horned One was reborn as a god. When he was still a man.
Perched on his mother’s shoulder was a raven. Its stone eyes fixed on Branwen, and they blinked.
* * *
Branwen dawdled in the king’s study after supper. Eseult retired to the Queen’s Tower for a bath, her muscles sore from the exertions of the day, as Andred and Lowenek disappeared to his rooms across the hall to continue with his experiments.
“The days grow shorter,” remarked King Marc. He lit another candle on the dining table. Glancing at the fidkwelsa board in the room, he said, “Could I tempt you with another game?”
This summer Branwen and the king had finally found time to play. She had currently won two more matches than Marc in their running tally. A comfortable routine had been established during the hot months: dinners with Eseult, Marc, Andred, and Lowenek—a new family of sorts; games of fidkwelsa with the king afterward. Branwen had allowed herself to be lulled into the false belief it could last forever.
Marc leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table.
“What occupies your mind, sister?” he said. A line appeared on the bridge of his nose.
“Did you notice how few nobles attended the ceremony today?” asked Branwen.
The king stroked his beard, candlelight accentuating the sorrel bristles. “Lady Neala told me that Baron Julyan is unwell.”
Branwen nodded. “He has seen many summers.” She waited a beat. “Baron Dynyon has no such excuse. Neither does the new head of House Gwyk.”
“No.” A weighted word.
“The barons are in need of reassurance that their Houses will not be destroyed.”
“If they don’t commit treason, they have nothing to fear.” Marc’s voice was gruff, loud, not like himself. He sighed. “What kind of reassurance would you propose?”
Branwen plucked the bronze goblet from next to her plate. She swirled it, observing the sediment drift in the wine.
“Perhaps a treaty?” she said. “An alliance.”
“With my own barons?”
She took a sip. “A document that enumerates the rights of the barons—and their duties to the crown.”
Marc rubbed his hand over his forearm, over the sea-wolf tattoo that was inked beneath. The tattoo he’d received before his first raid.
“It’s an intriguing idea,” he allowed, after a minute or two. “Does Iveiru have such an agreement between the High King and his retainers?”
“Not as such.”
“But a king’s subjects keep him in power,” said Marc, grabbing Branwen’s gaze, as if he had lifted the thought from her head. He rubbed his forearm with more force.
“Baron Dynyon’s wife is a fervent follower of the Horned One,” said the king. “She was dismayed at Seer Casek’s death.”
Branwen swallowed, throat burning from the wine. If her time on this side of the Veil was drawing to a close, she would not let Casek’s predictions be proved true. She wasn’t content to leave her adopted kingdom rudderless.
“You need an heir,” she told the king.
Marc gave a small cough. “Sister, I will not press that issue. Your cousin is beginning to embrace her life here.” His statement was firm.
“Could you not designate someone else?” she said. “Until such time as you and Eseult … until the queen is once again with child?”
Candlelight wavered between them. The sea lashed the rocks at the base of the island. Marc stroked his beard, considering, but made no reply.
“There is also the matter of Andred.” The king raised his brow at Branwen’s words. “He is Prince Edern’s son, and you have given him the holdings that once belonged to House Whel. But his official status is unclear. Perhaps … perhaps it would pacify the barons if you were to create a new House, with Andred at its head?”
King Marc leaned back in his chair. “He has always spoken the truth. Even when it implicated his own family.”
“He is young, but he is just. He is not to blame for the actions of his mother or siblings.”
Marc held Branwen’s gaze. “I agree. Let’s play another round of fidkwelsa. Perhaps this time I might win.”
WATCHFIRES
FIVE DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE the opening of the infirmary. Each sunrise chiseled another chip from Branwen’s heart. The dread that coursed through her at the thought of Samonios was a constant companion. If she could still scry, Branwen would have searched the kingdom for someone whose pain she could end as Queen Verica had decided to end her own.
She draped her cloak over the chair beside the hearth in the Q
ueen Mother’s apartment—which now belonged to Branwen. Eseult insisted that she needed a suite fit for a duchess. The bright yellow curtains did nothing to cheer her, however. She stretched her arms above her head, weary from the day and the long ride home from the Royal Infirmary.
Slumping into the chair, Branwen flicked the alabaster dice that rested upon the table. Queen Verica had adored games of chance, but Branwen had made a wager with a god, and a god played with loaded dice.
A knock came at the door, jarring Branwen from her thoughts. She called out leave for them to enter in Kernyvak.
“Nosmatis,” replied a familiar, if unexpected, voice as a lithe figure appeared in the doorway.
“I didn’t know you had returned,” said Branwen.
Xandru closed the door behind him. He looked handsome in a tunic of deep blue velvet that complemented his golden-brown skin. Dust motes floated in the shafts of twilight that striped the room.
“Just this morning,” he told her. His stride was fluid, gliding toward her from the doorway and taking the seat opposite hers.
He glanced around the suite; embers crackled in the hearth.
“You have risen high, Duchess Branwen.”
“It was never my ambition.”
Xandru relaxed into his chair. “I know,” he said. “Which is why I’m glad Marc has had you by his side these past months.”
“And where have you been?” she asked.
“Here and there.” He picked up one of the dice, tossing it in the air and catching it one-handed. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the Veneti Isles, and other matters.”
“Tending the watchfires,” Branwen said as her nerves prickled. Xandru nodded. “How do things fare?”
“Not well. Food shortages. Riots,” he answered, shrugging in his casual fashion. “Pirating was their only source of income. There are few farms. The terrain is rocky.”
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