She would follow the creature to her end.
Laying a hand on Alba’s shoulder, Branwen said. “I must go. Be safe. I see a Champion in you.”
“You will always have a friend in Armorica, Healer Branwen.”
Air rushed from her lungs. It was more forgiveness than she’d ever expected from the other woman.
“Farewell, Captain,” she said, and squared her shoulders.
Walking toward the grove, Branwen understood the faith that Seer Ogrin had needed to step into a rudderless boat. Perhaps it was madness, but she had to believe—she had to believe in herself.
Keening filled her ears: lyrical moans, silent pleas, the wails of the Death-Tellers. Tingles inundated her body as she took her first step into the circle.
The tingles began to burn. Branwen gritted her teeth.
When she first crossed the Veil on Whitethorn Mound, she had been an innocent. A girl struck by love for the first time. When she’d plunged into the Sea of the Dead, Branwen had been lost, desperate.
The keening became shrieks, enough to make her ears bleed.
She continued to put one foot in front of the other. Branwen had killed and saved and loved. She would not be denied.
Let me in! she shrieked in her mind.
Battling the scorching wind, she lifted the moon-catcher. The Old Ones always wanted blood. Branwen would give them the very last of herself, of her love, of her life.
She sliced the crescent-shaped blade across the brand that Dhusnos had left her.
Slayer.
Her blood swelled to the surface, appearing black in the starlight.
It dropped from the silver blade to the forest floor.
The wild moon is high, my love. The shrieking in Branwen’s ears transformed into a lullaby. Come away with me. A lullaby sung by a voice she’d thought she’d never hear again.
The wind ceased, and Branwen toppled to her knees from the lack of resistance. She shielded her eyes, squinting.
She inhaled the scent of rosemary. Eyelashes fluttering, she saw the silhouette of a woman approaching her, dark against the sun. Outside the grove, it was still night.
When the woman loomed over her, Branwen gasped.
“Mother?” she said.
In the fourteen years since Lady Alana’s death, her features had become less distinct in Branwen’s memory. And yet, she knew her at once.
“I am the goddess you call the Land,” said the Otherworld woman—the goddess. “Your mother is one of my children. I am both her, and not. I thought you would like to see her face.”
Tears scorched Branwen’s cheeks. The love that radiated from Lady Alana’s green eyes was too much. She’d forgotten that her mother had a dusting of freckles across her nose, just like Branwen did. She reached up, her hand bleeding, to touch the mahogany curls in which she’d buried her face as a girl.
“Ériu?” rasped Branwen.
“My children call me by many names in many kingdoms.” The goddess’s tone was mild.
“Your body is all kingdoms,” Branwen realized, awe suffusing her. “Not only Iveriu.”
Ériu offered Branwen a hand, and she pushed to standing. The goddess kept ahold of Branwen’s right hand, examining her bleeding palm.
“Prince Tristan of Kernyv is dead,” said Branwen, struggling for the right words. “My magic has wronged him. I offer my life for his.”
“You have made mistakes in your quest for peace, Branwen of Iveriu.”
Shame scalded her, and she dropped her eyes to the forest floor. Wildflowers peeked out from the moss. In the Otherworld, it was spring. Perhaps that was why the Iverni called it the Land of Youth.
“Make me a Shade,” Branwen said. “If that is what’s required. I accept my fate.”
The goddess relinquished her grip on Branwen’s hand.
“I am not the Dark One.”
A hint of danger underscored the statement, and Branwen trembled. It was because Dhusnos had slighted Ériu that she’d cast him out. The goddess had a temper.
“No, but you also deal in death,” Branwen said, not knowing if she was brave or foolish. “And I have, too.” She held out her palm. “I have tried to keep the peace for Iveriu—for Kernyv. I have bled for it.”
Ériu’s face—Lady Alana’s face—softened.
“Peace is not a destination, enigena. Nor is happiness,” she said. “It is a journey that you must begin anew each day.”
Branwen blinked as more tears leaked from her eyes. “I want Tristan to have the chance at happiness.” Inhaling deeply, she asked, “What can I offer you?”
“Your blood is my blood. You are a natural healer, like your mother,” said the goddess. Branwen’s throat constricted at hearing Lady Alana’s voice speak the words. “Magic comes from the Land and it is not gifted—it is loaned.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The power you call the Hand of Bríga? You no longer have need of it. It has returned to the Land.”
Branwen pressed her bleeding palm to her heart, vivid red staining the gray silk beneath the glare of the Otherworld sun.
“Then take this,” she said, pounding her hand against her chest. “Take my heart.”
“You have already lost pieces when you stole life.” The goddess shook her head, and Branwen felt her mother’s scolding as if she were six years old again.
“I will not take more,” said Ériu. “The mistakes you’ve made have been for love, from love, and there is still much healing for you to do on your side of the Veil.”
Branwen opened her mouth to protest, and the goddess of the Land silenced her as her eyes flashed with the fury that only a goddess could summon.
“You must ask Prince Tristan if he would like to return to the mortal realm,” Ériu went on. “If he agrees, you will be stripped of the lives you stole—of the death magic still corrupting your blood. You will die several times over, Branwen of Iveriu.”
“Where do I find him?”
The goddess lifted a hand to the sky. A white raven cawed.
When Branwen glanced back to Ériu, she was gone.
“Goodbye, Mother,” she whispered.
The raven cawed again, flying toward the sun, and Branwen started to run.
* * *
Sweat darkened the silk of her dress beneath the blood.
Sunlight streaked Branwen’s face between the trees as she ran through the Otherworld. She pursued the raven. The leaves were lush, intensely green. Maybe this was how Brechliant Forest looked in springtime—or maybe this was a different part of the Otherworld entirely. She didn’t care. She just kept running.
Her legs quivered, rebelling, and her shoulders strained as she wheezed.
The sun didn’t move across the sky in the same way as it did in the mortal world, so she lost all sense of time. Eventually—maybe hours later, maybe minutes—Branwen found herself in a field of whitethorn blossoms. Bushes of thorns and buds surrounded her like a maze.
The heat became more oppressive. The gray silk was now black. In her exhaustion, under the haze of the sun, Branwen saw the petals of the whitethorn blossoms dance like flames.
Throat parched, Branwen kept her eyes pinned to the wings of the raven. She was so focused on the bird that she didn’t see what—or who—was right in front of her.
“Branwen.”
She stopped just before she slammed into him. “Tristan,” she breathed.
The raven cawed and flew away. Tristan and Branwen stood at the center of a maze, alone in the Otherworld.
“I’ve been here before,” he said. Tristan was dressed in the clothes in which his body had been prepared for the funeral. He wore a tunic of Armorican yellow and black leather trousers, but he hadn’t broken a sweat.
“I found this,” said Tristan, tugging something from beneath the collar of his tunic.
Branwen’s lips parted. It was the chip of Rigani stone that she’d given him that day on the beach when the pirates were scouring Ivernic shores for the lost
prince—when she and Tristan had shared their first kiss.
“I thought I’d lost it on the pitch of the Champions Tournament,” he said. Branwen remembered. “It’s brought me back to you—again.”
His grin captured her heart like it had when she gave him the first kiss of life.
“But why are you here?” Tristan asked.
“What do you remember?” said Branwen carefully, daring to touch his arm, wanting to make sure it was really him.
A crease formed on the bridge of Tristan’s nose and he arched an eyebrow, accentuating the scar she so adored.
“I know I’m dead,” he told her.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t reach you in time.” Branwen raised her hand from his arm to his cheek. “But you were right, Tristan. My heart is my magic.”
He traced Branwen’s hairline, and her whole body sighed.
“Why are you here?” he repeated in a whisper.
“I’m here to offer you a way back to the mortal realm—if you want it.”
A scowl gripped Tristan’s face, which wasn’t what Branwen had anticipated.
“How, Branwen? What did it cost you this time?” He wrapped one arm around her waist, pressing her closer. “I won’t take any more from you.”
“From me?” She startled. “I’m the one who took everything from you.”
Tristan gave one shake of the head. “And yet your face was the only one I wanted to see before I took my last breath.”
His lips were near enough that Branwen felt his breath on her lips—and it was cold. No wonder he didn’t feel the heat.
“Tristan, your life was cut short—because of me. Because of my magic. If not for the Loving Cup … Endelyn would be alive, and Ruan never would have wanted you dead.”
“Ruan made his own choices,” said Tristan.
“Yes, and I’ve made mine.” Branwen stepped back. “This was my choice to come here—to offer you another chance at mortal life. But it won’t be the life you’ve known.”
Her chest rose and fell. “We held your funeral at Castle Arausio. You are dead to Armorica. To Kernyv. To everyone you’ve ever known.”
She wiped the salty sweat from her eyelids. The smell of the whitethorn blossoms was intoxicating.
“Do you remember, aboard the Dragon Rising, when I asked you what you would do if you weren’t a prince?”
“Explore,” said Tristan.
“Yes.” Branwen exhaled. “Alba has arranged passage for you east—to the Bujan Empire.”
He shook his head, a chagrined smile on his face. “I think she’s the one who wants to see the Bujan Empire.”
“Maybe.” Branwen swiped her right hand across her face, tracking blood.
“What happened?” Tristan said, sucking in a breath, taking her hand.
“Nothing.”
“No, Branwen. No more lies.” His voice was hard.
Branwen’s shoulders deflated. “No more lies,” she echoed.
She tore a length of silk from the hem of her dress and wrapped it around her palm. Tying a knot, she said to Tristan, “Walk with me?”
He offered her an arm. They walked through the maze with no particular destination.
“The first night I hid you in the cave near Castle Rigani, when you attacked me—I thought I’d been the worst kind of fool to help you,” said Branwen.
“I did apologize. I felt terrible.”
“I know,” she said. “I told you I was Emer because I was afraid you would kidnap me. Hold me for ransom.”
Tristan peered down at her. “I know.”
“You said no more lies. I’m telling you every lie I ever told you.”
“Every lie?
“The important ones.”
His expression sobered. “Tell me, and I will tell you.”
Branwen’s stomach dropped. Truth was far more terrifying than lies. She clutched Tristan closer.
“When you returned to Iveriu, I was furious with you—for endangering my countrymen, for not telling me your name. And I was furious with myself because despite all of it—I wanted to kiss you. Hard.” Tristan chuckled at her emphasis.
“That’s why I gave my ribbon to Keane at the Champions Tournament,” she added.
He didn’t laugh.
“Afterward, I hid Eseult’s relationship with Diarmuid from you because I believed in peace above all,” said Branwen. “But also because I knew if our kingdoms were at war, we would never get the chance to love each other.”
“Branwen,” said Tristan in a deep voice, stroking her cheek.
“I didn’t tell you about the Loving Cup because I didn’t want to ask you to commit treason against your king. If I had … everything could have been different.”
Tristan halted. His dark eyes held her with a look of understanding, of pity, of love.
“You should know I didn’t sleep with King Marc,” Branwen told him. His eyes grew wide with surprise. “I drugged him,” she continued. “I cut my hand and sprinkled blood on the sheets to satisfy Seer Casek.”
Timidly, she met Tristan’s gaze. “I know it was wrong. I didn’t see any other way to keep the peace. To protect you and Eseult.”
Tristan lifted Branwen’s chin. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry you’ve been so alone.”
“I didn’t want Eseult to keep the baby,” she said, the words rushing out of her. “I didn’t poison her, but I told her not to tell you. I was afraid you might get yourself killed.”
Tristan shut his eyes for a long moment.
“You weren’t wrong,” he said. A sad smile. “It seems I did anyway.”
“I cared for Ruan,” Branwen admitted. “I cared for Ruan, and he loved me.”
Tristan nodded. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough?” He framed her face with his hands as Branwen told him, “I killed Kensa. To fulfill the bargain with Dhusnos. I’m a murderer.”
Tristan rested his forehead against hers. It was cold, clammy.
“I lied when I said I hated you. I never hated you, Branwen.” He ran his fingers through his curls. “You should know, I consummated my marriage with Alba. More than once.”
“She was your wife.”
“Yes,” he said. “My vows were until death, and I am dead.” His chilly breath tickled Branwen’s face. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to ask to share my life with me.”
Stepping back slightly, Branwen lifted her eyes to his. “If you return,” she said, “it can’t be for me. Our paths are not the same. I must return to Kernyv to finish what I’ve started.”
Tristan wrapped his hand behind Branwen’s neck.
“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.” He lowered his mouth to hers, seeking, asking, demanding, giving her his answer. Branwen embraced him, opened herself to him fully.
Life. This was life. This was love. She sucked his wintry lip between her own, wanting him, wanting all of him. Willing life back into him.
Pain sheared Branwen’s consciousness like she had never known.
Agony became her entire existence.
Her body convulsed. This was her unbinding. Her unbecoming.
Branwen screamed until she could scream no more, and day became night.
IF ONLY FOR A NIGHT
DARKNESS SURROUNDED HER, BUT BRANWEN was unafraid.
Warm arms held her and she heard the crackling of twigs in the fire pit. She was dreaming of the man in her cave—the Kernyvman. The poet. She shouldn’t be dreaming of sleeping in the arms of her enemy. She should open her eyes, rouse Essy for the day, but the dark was so warm, so inviting.
“Branwen,” whispered the man’s voice. Her body tensed. How did he know her true name?
Her eyes flipped open: she was in a cave. Her gaze darted around the rocky interior—it wasn’t veiny green Rigani stone. Nor could she hear the Ivernic Sea lapping against the shore.
Heart frantic, Branwen’s eyes latched onto the man who held her.
“Tristan,” she said. The hazelnut flecks in his eyes glowed. A sob burst from her chest as she read their entire brutal history in the spaces between them.
“Shh,” murmured Tristan, stroking her hair, holding her close against his chest.
Branwen wept. She had forgotten. For a brief respite, everything that had happened once Emer and Tantris had left their cave was blotted from her mind. And yet somehow they had returned.
Glancing around them, vision still blurred, she said, “Where are we now?”
“In the forest, near Castle Arausio,” Tristan replied. He brushed his lips against her temple. They were warm.
Joy penetrated her sorrow. “You’re alive.”
He kissed her again. “I’m alive,” he said. “But I watched you die.” His voice was rough.
“It was the price.” Branwen wriggled around in Tristan’s arms to face him. “The Old Ones took back the lives I stole. I had to experience their deaths.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I wanted it, Tristan. I wanted to be purged of the death magic, but I needed you to make your choice unburdened,” she said, pleading. “It was a kindness, ridding me of it.”
He quirked his lips—his soft, tempting lips—unconvinced. “It didn’t seem like a kindness. I lost count of how many times your heart stopped.”
Tristan pressed his palm flat against hers. “I held you in my arms, and suddenly we were in a grove of trees. I carried you here—barely breathing.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Branwen placed her hand over his. “It’s beating now.” She dared to brush her lips against his. “How long was I…”
“It was night when I found the cave. The day has come and gone, and evening has fallen.”
Relief spread through her. “Your ship departs tomorrow from Karaez,” Branwen told him, urgent. “Alba was to leave horses and supplies just outside the curtain wall.”
She moved to stand, but Tristan stopped her, drawing Branwen more securely onto his lap. “Rest,” he said. “We have the night.” He wove his fingers through her long curls, holding them out to her.
Branwen gasped. White. She gathered another thatch in her hand. All of it.
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