“You came,” he rasped, tangling a finger in her knotty hair. “I’ve been dreaming of black sails. I feared you wouldn’t come.”
Branwen took his hand and kissed his knuckles. She would not sob. She would not.
“I’m here,” she breathed against his skin, and he smiled. “The Mawort’s sail is white.”
“I’m ready. It’s not yet Samonios, is it? I’ve been trying to hold on.”
His eyes opened fully, dark and bright like the night sky, and Branwen wanted to spend forever in his gaze.
“Take me, Emer. Branwen,” he said. “Take my life.”
She drew in a labored breath. “There’s no need,” she whispered.
“Why? What’s happened?”
Branwen saw his mind clutching for reason through the fog of his pain. She pressed a finger to his lips. They were dry, cracked, bleeding—but she had never felt anything so soft.
“It doesn’t matter. All is well. You can sleep, and I will be here—right by your side.”
Tristan shook his head, as headstrong as ever, trying to raise himself onto his elbows. He was too weak.
“I’m sorry, Tristan. Tantris. My magic is spent.”
Branwen pressed her scarred palm, her useless hand against his cheek.
“Your magic is your heart,” said Tristan, sliding her hand from his cheek, down his neck, and resting it above the love-knots Branwen had stitched when things were simpler. He struggled for his next breath.
“The greatest joy in my life is that you entrusted it to me, for a little while.”
Branwen touched his lips with her own.
“I will always come for you,” she said, her voice breaking, suppressing another sob.
Tristan pulled her against his chest, resting her head against his scars, over his heart. “In you my death,” he said. “In you my life.”
His chest rose and fell, and Branwen kissed his heart, watered it with her tears, and then it rose no more.
LOVE-KNOTS
HIS BODY WAS STILL WARM.
Branwen began to sob now that Tristan could no longer hear her. This man who had burrowed into her heart, whom she had wronged so grievously, and who had forgiven her. This may have been the fate that was destined, but it wasn’t the fate he deserved.
Time became an abyss of stars. Branwen clung to Tristan, not wanting to open her eyes. If she opened her eyes, she would have to face his death.
Her heart pounded so hard in her ears that she could almost fool herself into believing that the beat was coming from Tristan’s chest.
A gentle hand stroked the length of her arm.
Branwen’s head jerked toward the intruder, a predator ready to pounce, unwillingly opening her eyes.
Alba stared down at her. The room had grown dark save for the flames wavering above the oil lamps.
Slowly, Branwen raised herself from Tristan’s chest. Alba sank down beside Branwen on the bed, next to her husband. The other woman’s lips trembled. Exhaustion ringed her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Alba,” said Branwen, voice croaky. She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her dress.
“Our healers said there was no cure,” replied Alba in a bleak tone. “Tristan bade me send for you.” She peered at Branwen sidelong. “I don’t think it was because he thought you could save him.”
Alba traced the back of Tristan’s hand. “He’s been happy these past months, I think,” she said. “He charmed everyone at court. He’s quite the bard. My mother was particularly fond of his ballads.”
“Yes,” Branwen rasped.
“Tristan and I—we … we enjoyed each other’s company. But we didn’t fall in love. We couldn’t.” Alba’s gaze strayed back to Branwen. “The court gossips tittered that he was still in love with the other Eseult. I know the truth,” she told her. “You are the one lodged deepest in Tristan’s heart.”
Branwen wet her lips. “I—” she started, and Alba interrupted, “I’m glad you were here with him, at the end.”
“Thank you,” said Branwen. “Thank you for sending for me.”
“I regret not being with Kahedrin.”
“I know.”
Alba inhaled through her nose. “I told Tristan not to fight Ruan. I didn’t trust the look in his eye.”
The chasm inside Branwen yawned wider. “What happened?”
“Tristan was winning. He was a better swordsman.” A tear leaked from Alba’s eye as she spoke. “Then Ruan pulled this from his boot.”
She withdrew Ruan’s father’s knife from the pocket of her trousers, her face a snarl. Firelight flickered on the golden lion’s mane, and Branwen sucked in a painful breath.
“He cheated,” spat Alba. “Ruan cheated like a coward.”
Branwen had forced the knife back into his hand. “He knew he would lose,” she said. Alba nodded. Ruan had come to avenge his sister knowing he couldn’t beat Tristan in a fair fight. He’d been willing to die just to kill his cousin.
“We’ve already burned his body,” Alba said more quietly. “His ashes were scattered to the sea.” She extended the blade toward Branwen. “I kept the knife. Perhaps his mother will want it.”
“Kensa is dead.” Alba narrowed her eyes at Branwen in question as the words left her lips, but she only replied, “I will give Crown Prince Andred his brother’s knife.”
“Crown Prince Andred?”
“Many things have changed.”
Alba shifted her gaze to Tristan. His eyes were closed. He looked as if he were sleeping. “They have,” she said.
Branwen’s ears pricked at the sound of new footsteps. The diamonds on Eseult’s tiara sparkled dully. Branwen beckoned her cousin forward. Her skirts swept over the stone like whispers, and she lowered herself onto the opposite side of the bed.
Eseult did not need to be told that Tristan was gone. Her eyes were wet as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. The queen’s grief was plain, and Branwen could not begrudge it to her. She had always wanted them to be friends.
Branwen trailed her gaze between her cousin and Tristan’s wife—now his widow. The quiet thrummed with sorrow. Love knotted between the three of them, unexpected and delicate.
“We should bring him home,” said Eseult, after several minutes. “King Marc would want Tristan laid to rest with the kings and queens of Kernyv.”
“Armorica will also mourn him,” Alba replied, a tinge of protest to her voice.
“Of course.”
Alba exhaled. “But Tristan should be with his family in death. With those he loved most.”
In you my death, in you my life.
Branwen ran her finger across his chest. Could Tristan’s life possibly lie within her? In Kerwindos’s Cauldron, Branwen had offered the Mother of Creation her love for peace. Could she offer the one thing she had left?
Brushing the tears from her cheeks, Branwen said to Alba, “Do you have somewhere very cold to store his body for the voyage?”
Tristan’s soul now lay on the other side of the Veil, traveling back to the cauldron of rebirth. Branwen glimpsed the white raven in her mind. Maybe, just maybe, she could find him there. Would the Old Ones accept one final sacrifice? Would they accept her heart?
Hope—like a bud in the snow—sprouted amidst Branwen’s grief.
She would make them accept it.
“We will bring him to the icehouse,” Alba told her, nodding. The princess drew her shoulders back, composing herself. She looked regal.
“We will hold our own funeral for my husband before you depart for Kernyv.”
“As you wish,” said Branwen. She gave Alba’s hand a squeeze, and the other woman listed her head, giving Branwen a canny look.
“A bedchamber has been prepared for both of you in the South Tower,” Alba said, looking from Branwen to Eseult.
Catching Branwen’s eye, her cousin said to Alba, “Branwen and I grew up together in the South Tower at Castle Rigani.”
“We did,” Branwen said, distracted.
“I will sta
y with the body and oversee its transport to the icehouse,” Alba stated. “You should both rest.”
Eseult stroked Tristan’s lank curls. “Farewell, my Champion.” She stood and rounded the bed, offering Branwen her arm.
Branwen didn’t want to leave him. She glanced from her cousin to Alba. The other woman needed to mourn alone, and she had allowed Branwen to have the final goodbye.
Her feet tingled with pins and needles, but Branwen commanded herself to stand. She collected her satchel, shoving Ruan’s knife to the bottom.
“Odai eti ama,” she breathed, and let Eseult lead her away from Tristan.
There was no hate in Branwen’s heart, only love—so much love.
* * *
Xandru swept his gaze over the noblewomen as they exited.
He pressed a fist to his chest, a sign of condolence, as he realized their race to the castle had been for naught. Branwen knew his thoughts would be for Marc’s loss.
Sir Goron’s face creased with anguish for the boy whom he had mentored, taught to hold a sword.
Sofana showed Branwen and Eseult to the South Tower in silence. Nightclothes had been laid atop a bedspread of thick damask. Several fur blankets had also been provided. On a side table, Branwen noticed a jug of wine and a plate of cheeses.
The bedroom looked out over the inner bailey. The clang of a bell resounded through the courtyard.
“A call to Ankou,” said Sofana, expression somber. “To collect the soul of Prince Tristan.” The head of the Queen’s Guard paused. “I am sorry,” she said, looking between Branwen and Eseult. “The prince was well liked.”
Branwen inclined her head, but could form no reply.
As the guardswoman left them, Branwen glimpsed Sir Goron standing watch outside the door. It clicked shut and Eseult helped Branwen to remove her cloak. She hadn’t even taken it off.
She allowed Eseult to strip her clothes from her body, limbs as limp as a doll’s, and to slip the nightdress over her head. Her mind whirled. The Veil between this world and the Otherworld was thinnest on Samonios. This year it would also be a Dark Moon.
The Loving Cup had been conjured on the Dark Moon because its magic would be most potent.
Your magic is your heart. Branwen would trade it for Tristan. Freely. Eagerly.
She watched her cousin rummage through her healing satchel. Would Eseult understand what she wanted—needed to do? To rebalance the scales? A life for a life. She was ready to cross the Veil and take his place.
The queen pried a glass vial from Branwen’s bag. “This is Clíodhna’s dust?” she said, seeking confirmation.
When Branwen nodded, Eseult pinched the powder into a silver goblet and filled it with wine from the jug on the side table.
“You need to sleep,” she said to Branwen, maternal and firm.
Branwen accepted the drug-laced wine and drank it down. She crawled beneath the quilt, legs growing weak. Eseult slid into the bed beside her, covering them with another fur blanket against the draft.
“Once on the island of Iveriu,” her cousin sang softly, stroking the shell of her ear, “there was a girl called Branwen of the Briars.”
She kissed Branwen’s temple. “She did not care for balls or swoon-worthy lords, but of injured men and salves she never did tire!”
Branwen intertwined their fingers and floated away.
* * *
When she woke, it was yet dark. Eseult sat in an armchair beside the hearth, face glowing by the light of the embers, gazing into the fire. Branwen blinked, and for a moment she thought she saw the Queen of Iveriu. But no, it was a glimpse of her cousin—older, fulfilled.
Branwen rubbed her eyes, slithering across the quilt toward the edge of the bed, closer to the hearth. Eseult stirred at the sound of rustling.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said.
“You didn’t.”
Drawing closer, Branwen saw that her cousin’s cheeks were flecked with fresh tears. The queen dabbed at them with the hem of her nightgown.
“You have every right to weep for him, Essy,” she said.
“I weep for Tristan, but not just for him.” A sigh lifted Eseult’s chest. “I love him as a friend—as family.” She twisted a flaxen strand around her finger.
“Tristan never could have loved me for myself. Nor could Diarmuid. Because I didn’t know who that was, Branny.” Her cousin swallowed. “I told Tristan once that when I looked at him, I glimpsed the life I wanted. But I was wrong.”
Eseult scooted forward in her seat. “I didn’t know what I truly wanted. I only knew what I didn’t want. Now, at the infirmary, I’ve found something I’m good at.”
“You’ve always been good with children,” said Branwen, an uneasy feeling dispelling the lingering effects of the Clíodhna’s dust. “You have a gift for midwifery.”
“I do,” she said, eyes brightening. “I do, and I feel like I’m on the verge of finding out who I am.”
“I’m happy for you, Essy.”
“I’ve tried to make up for my selfishness, Branny. To be the queen dictated by my birth. And I’ve been more content at Monwiku than I’d thought possible,” she said in a rush. “And yet…”
Eseult’s expression sobered. “Marc will never love me, because he’s in love with Xandru.”
The air rushed from Branwen’s lungs. “You don’t—”
“He told me,” said the queen. “He wanted to be honest.” She paused, and Branwen gulped. Of course he did. That was who Marc was.
“He is a good man, and in the past months I’ve come to care for him as a dear friend,” continued her cousin. “He should be with the man he loves, and I—I need to find out who I am before I can find someone who loves me.”
“Essy, I don’t know what to say.”
“Our lives can be cut short at any time. We shouldn’t spend them waiting,” she said, tone becoming feverish, and for once Branwen couldn’t disagree.
“Tristan is dead, but the Three Kingdom Alliance will endure,” she continued. “I won’t put my heart above the peace again, Branny. But … but—” Eseult sank to her knees, grabbing Branwen’s hands, pulling her right to the edge of the bed.
“If I were dead, too, Iveriu would still be protected. Iveriu doesn’t need me anymore—if it ever did.”
Branwen inhaled. “Kernyv has an heir,” said the queen. “It doesn’t need me, either.”
A thousand protests rushed up Branwen’s throat and died on her tongue.
“Noblewomen rarely write the endings to their own stories,” said Branwen.
“But we can. We can.” She squeezed Branwen’s hands tighter. “I came to Armorica for you—but I need to leave for me.”
Tears glistened in her green eyes. “You were always better suited to ruling than me. In my heart, I know it’s not who I was meant to be.”
A regretful laugh shook Branwen’s shoulders. “I’ve made far too many mistakes to rule.”
“Rulers make mistakes. They’re only human. You’ve always wanted to be perfect, Branny.”
“Maybe I have.” Branwen hesitated before saying, “I won’t stop you. I have no right to force you to stay. Your heart is yours, Essy. I won’t try to tame it—not again.”
Eseult brought Branwen’s scarred palm to her lips and kissed it.
“Will you help me? One last time? Help me rewrite my own history.”
IN YOU MY DEATH
My dearest Branny,
Forgive me for leaving you. With Tristan gone, I find that I cannot be in this world without him. I wish you love and peace—and for King Marc, but I cannot stay.
Yours in love, always,
Eseult of Iveriu, True Queen of Kernyv
Branwen’s voice shook as she read the missive aloud, translating from Ivernic to Aquilan. Sir Goron watched her intently. The sheen to her eyes wasn’t feigned.
Pinching the queen’s seal ring between her fingers, she held it up to the evening light. “The note has her seal,” said Branwen
in a hush.
The Queen’s Champion stood at the foot of the bed and looked from the letter in Branwen’s hand to the True Queen lying on the bed.
No breath lifted Eseult’s chest. Her blond hair fell about her shoulders. She looked beautiful. Enchanted.
Branwen counted every second in her mind.
She had called first for Sir Goron, as had been planned. Sweeping her gaze around the bedchamber, speaking low even though they were alone, Branwen said, “I don’t think that Kernyv needs to have the memory of its True Queen further tainted.”
She gave Sir Goron an unwavering stare. Branwen had reasoned that the Queen’s Champion would have to be convinced that Eseult’s death was not the result of foul play, but also that he wouldn’t shatter the peace his king so ardently needed. The letter was a risk to Iveriu, a final gamble. She kept counting the seconds.
Brow lined with consternation, the old sword master took the letter from Branwen’s hand—and threw it in the fire.
“No,” he agreed.
Tension momentarily leaving her shoulders, Branwen said, “Eseult has always had a weak heart.” Branwen’s gaze returned to the queen, to the antler shard hanging around her neck, atop a dress of heavy wool. A dress suitable for a long journey. “The Horned One called for the queen, and she answered,” said Branwen to Sir Goron. She blinked and a tear trickled down her cheek.
“He did.” Understanding filled his eyes.
Branwen fidgeted with the queen’s seal ring: back and forth, back and forth. Every minute was precious. The charade could too easily prove real.
She wiped away another tear. “I will alert Princess Alba,” she said. “We should move the True Queen’s body to the icehouse directly.” Branwen’s words came out urgently, almost angrily. “I won’t have my cousin be gawked at—become a spectacle.”
Sir Goron took a stride toward her, placing his hands on Branwen’s shoulders. She felt the strength of his grip.
“I am sorry for your loss, Duchess Branwen.” His voice rumbled like thunder, yet it was kind. She was sorry to deceive him.
“Mormerkti,” she muttered. Breaking away, Branwen exited the bedchamber and broke into a sprint.
Bright Raven Skies Page 33