Branwen had always viewed Kernyv as a singular enemy of Iveriu; she hadn’t stopped to think that the kingdom must have its own internal conflicts. As understanding dawned, she said, “You need to win tomorrow to ensure peace for the people of Liones as well.”
“Yes.” He nodded, face grave. “Like Emer wanted.” So much was riding on Essy’s marriage—more than just peace for Iveriu.
Another thought crossed Branwen’s mind and she went eerily still. “If I were the princess, would you still hand me over to your uncle?”
Doubt clouded Tristan’s eyes. “Marc is a good man. Far more honorable than some of the other so-called noblemen competing in the tournament.”
The affection with which he spoke of King Marc inspired hope in Branwen that he might make a good husband, but all she could think was that her little cousin might be forced to marry one of those other so-called noblemen. Essy would be sacrificing her happiness for the good of Iveriu; Branwen feared her cousin wasn’t strong enough for the burden. She wished there was a way to ensure her cousin’s future would be full of joy.
Tristan misinterpreted her silence. “Lady Branwen, I swear to you, it would pain me beyond reason to win you for someone else. But to keep you safe, I would do it. Even if that meant being tormented by your presence every day and never being able to show you my heart.”
He curled his pinkie around the sleeve of her gown, and Branwen was overwhelmed by need—both hers and his.
“I’m glad that’s not the case, however, my lady,” Tristan said in a deep voice.
“And if it were the case?”
He leveled her with his gaze; her limbs became entirely weightless.
“Peace above all,” he said.
THE RIGHT FIGHT
THE LOVERS REACHED OUT TO Branwen in her dreams. They were shadows of fire. Liquefying flames that engulfed her. She was at the very center, and she knew she was the one who had started it.
Branwen woke up gasping for air.
Her night-shade locks were wet, matted against her forehead. She clutched the sheet to her chest and found that it was drenched. Even her skin was hot, florid.
What were the Old Ones trying to tell her? The last dream as vivid had warned Branwen to get Tristan to safety. She’d always been so certain that the lovers in her dreams were her parents, but they were long dead. She couldn’t help them.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Branwen slipped out of bed. The stone floor was cool and refreshing against the soles of her feet. Morning sun streamed through the window of the turret, golden and reassuring.
Was Tristan awake yet? Preparing for the Champions Tournament?
She still couldn’t believe that he’d survived, that he was alive, and that he had returned to Iveriu. That he was here at Castle Rigani. Branwen had daydreamed about it a thousand times, but when it happened it wasn’t at all like she’d imagined it.
As a rule, Branwen didn’t believe in second chances. Her heart wasn’t nearly robust enough. Still, the briefest touch of his hand was thrilling—that was as sure as breathing. Yet she also couldn’t ignore the reality that Tristan was a prince and a ruler with many reasons for returning to Iveriu. Being starry-eyed would gain her nothing. Despite his claims to the contrary, Tristan might one day want a princess for himself.
Fireflies buzzed in Branwen’s chest as she performed her morning rituals, mentally preparing herself to face Essy and ready the princess for the tournament.
She couldn’t remember an explosion of this magnitude between them even as children. Both cousins had said things that couldn’t be unsaid. Picturing Lord Diarmuid’s smug expression as she gave him the handkerchief, Branwen wanted to punch a wall. Or, maybe his nose. At the same time, the way the foreign fighters eyed Essy—not as a person but merely a prize—made Branwen want to punch another wall. Or, maybe all of their noses.
A knock came at her bedchamber door. Her heart skittered. For a moment, Branwen hoped it might be Tristan. She clucked her tongue. He would never be allowed into the south tower—nor should she want him to be. It was probably Keane.
Opening the door, Branwen’s lips parted in surprise. It was neither.
“Morning, Branny.” A contrite smile spread across her cousin’s face. She couldn’t recall a single occasion when the princess had roused and dressed herself before Branwen yanked her out of bed.
Branwen curtsied, a splinter of anger still chafing inside. “Good morning, Your Highness.” She never curtsied for Essy.
“Oh, Branny. Don’t.” The princess held out a bouquet of honeysuckles and other wildflowers.
Only then did Branwen notice Essy’s eyes were watery. Her sloppily braided hair was missing its usual luster. She looked like she hadn’t slept. “I picked them for you,” she said.
Branwen tried to hold herself firm even as her heart melted.
“Branny, I’m terrified.” Her voice cracked. She scratched her head. “I’m terrified about who will win today.” And Branwen couldn’t blame her—even Tristan viewed the princess as the solution to a political problem. Bottom lip quivering, Essy said, “Please, Branny.” She pressed the bouquet into Branwen’s hands. “Please, let’s just forget what happened yesterday. I need you.”
Branwen accepted the bouquet. She raised it to her nose, dew tickling the tip, and inhaled the sweet scent of honeysuckle. The aroma was forever linked with her cousin. She took another deep breath. Perhaps she feared giving Tristan a second chance because Essy took up so many—but Branwen couldn’t deny her another one. Not today.
“They’re lovely, Essy,” she said. “Thank you.”
The princess gave her a wobbly smile. Branwen opened her arms and her cousin dove into her embrace. She stroked Essy’s lopsided plaits as the princess cried into the crook of her neck.
“Hush,” said Branwen. “I’ll be right by your side.”
“Promise?” Essy lifted her gaze, searching her cousin’s face. “You’re the only person in the whole world I can really trust. Promise me you won’t go anywhere.”
Tears pricked her own eyes.
“Never.”
It would be easier to tear out her own heart.
* * *
Royal tents dotted the clearing that had been converted into a temporary battleground. Vats of red ale for the competitors lined either side of the pitch. Cheers and claps, jeers and hisses, echoed in the balmy afternoon.
Branwen perched on the edge of her seat beside Essy in the Queen’s Tent. Directly opposite, on the other side of the field, lay the King’s Tent, where her uncle Morholt waited for the final combat. As the King’s Champion, Morholt would duel with the last man standing among the suitors. Whoever was to marry Essy would have to beat their uncle first, and he was a terrifying foe.
“It’s a little exciting, isn’t it?” Essy whispered, tugging on Branwen’s sleeve, as the first contest got underway. The eight men who were victorious in this round would be paired off for single combat and fight one another until only one victor remained.
Branwen forced a tepid smile for her cousin, thinking Lord Diarmuid stood very little chance. The princess had regained her self-possession before the tournament thanks in part to the calming water mint tea that Branwen had served with breakfast. Branwen had also dabbed a soothing ointment of juniper berries on the red blotches dotting Essy’s scalp, arranging her plaits to conceal them.
She spotted King Óengus, flanked by guardsmen, walking deliberately along the length pitch. He shook the hand of each contestant before returning to the King’s Tent to join Lord Morholt and other Ivernic noblemen.
As Branwen watched the competitors warm up, she recalled her one fond memory of her uncle. She’d been maybe eight years old and Dubthach was chasing her through the castle, pulling her hair after one of Essy’s pranks. He didn’t dare to take his revenge against the princess.
Morholt caught Dubthach by the scruff of his neck, boxed him once about the ears, and the boy promptly peed himself, much to Branwen’s delight.
“Thank you, Uncle,” she’d said in a small voice as Dubthach ran off.
“Don’t thank me,” Morholt had replied. “Defending Iveriu is my duty and my honor—and that means you. But I won’t always be here to defend you against your enemies.” Then he’d crouched down to meet her eye, adding, “When your enemy has you cornered, fight until you can’t.”
The next day a wooden practice sword was delivered to Branwen’s chamber. It was the only present her uncle had ever given her.
Now she darted a glance at the King’s Tent. She hadn’t thought of the sword for years.
Essy inhaled as Queen Eseult dropped her handkerchief to signal the charge to the fighters. Anyone who struck his opponent before the cloth reached the dirt would be immediately disqualified.
This tournament was, above all, a test of honor. Rule breakers would not be tolerated. By tradition, it was always the queen rather than the king who arbitrated the contest. The queen represented the Land—the Goddess Ériu herself—and therefore, only she was sovereign over the men competing to be her new king. She was the kingmaker: The goddess of the Land would choose a new Champion through feats of honor and bravery. It had always been thus.
Branwen held her breath as the finely embroidered silk was enveloped in a small plume of dirt. A moment later came the first ferocious clashes of steel, like the baying of feral animals. Fear clawed at the back of her mind.
Where was Tristan?
Essy grabbed Branwen’s hand, locking their knuckles tight. “Do you see him?”
She turned to her cousin with alarm. Did Essy know whom Branwen was so desperately seeking with her eyes?
“Diarmuid,” the princess said under her breath. “Do you see Lord Diarmuid?”
Oh. Branwen’s shoulders relaxed. “Not yet.”
“You thought I meant Keane,” Essy said, an impish grin alighting upon her face. “I saw him this morning.” She leaned into Branwen. “He was bearing your token.”
Branwen blushed. “He asked for it.”
“And you didn’t say no.” Essy laughed. “I should have guessed it was Keane,” she mused. “I knew you had someone special in mind, Branny. You’re always so secretive.”
“Keane is just a friend. Honestly.”
Essy arched an eyebrow at her cousin. “Whatever you say.” The queen had gone very still, clearly following their conversation. Essy turned toward her mother and said, “Well, at least Branwen gets to choose a husband.”
Queen Eseult extended a hand toward Essy, concern stippling her brow.
“The Old Ones are choosing your husband,” she told her daughter. “They will choose wisely, I swear.”
Essy pulled back from her mother’s reach with a “Pffft,” and the queen returned her gaze to the field of play. The clearing was awash with brilliant colors and the winking of sunlight on steel as swords bit into armor.
The foreign champions could be identified by the color of the tunics they wore and the beasts on the standards they bore. They fought together in a terrifying mass of men before the individual combat commenced. No mortal wounds were permitted but everything else was fair game. The din of fighting swarmed around them, quickening Branwen’s pulse.
She still couldn’t spot Tristan.
Part of her hoped he wouldn’t compete; she didn’t want him to get hurt—and not solely because her honor was tied to his well-being. Given what she knew of him, however, he wasn’t one to run from a challenge. Tristan might be a poet, but he was also a warrior.
A sudden roar rose above the other cries. Several men toppled to the ground. Branwen recognized the Duke of the Frisii Lands and the Prince of South Jótland among them. A shield bearing three blue lions and nine red hearts splintered and fell into the dust. The fighters spilled from the center of the field like ants marching, smaller skirmishes erupting on every inch of soil.
In the very middle of the pitch, Branwen at last spied Tristan. His dark curls glistened with sweat against his bronze skin. From this distance, she couldn’t see his eyes but she could feel how intense they were. She half wished she couldn’t; still, she heaved a sigh of relief.
It was short lived. Tristan appeared to be fighting six men single-handedly.
Branwen spotted Havelin, the eldest son of King Faramon of Armorica. Its coastline was equally beset by Kernyvak pirates. If Essy were to marry Crown Prince Havelin, Iveriu and Armorica could form a strong maritime alliance against Kernyv.
She glanced at her cousin, who watched the fight avidly, wondering if the princess was thinking along similar lines. And then Branwen caught herself. She realized she was regarding Essy as a pawn to be moved in a great game—exactly as King Óengus did, as all the competitors did. She felt a stab in her heart that Essy’s family was trading her happiness for peace.
Branwen could no longer maintain any illusions about what they were doing. What she was doing. She gave her cousin’s hand a squeeze. “Prince Havelin is fighting bravely,” she said. “I hear he has a sister a year or so younger than you. Also named Eseult. Maybe you’ll be friends.”
“He has an enormous nose,” Essy complained. “And it’s crooked.”
Indeed, it looked as if the Armorican prince had broken his nose as a child and it had set very badly. Queen Eseult cast Branwen a sidelong glance, followed by a bland smile.
Essy pulled a half-embroidered piece of cloth from a basket at her feet. She had been working diligently, if somewhat ineptly, on the trim for the doll’s dress she’d promised Gráinne. The stitches were all skewed; Branwen would pull them with her hook and rework them later. But it warmed her to see her cousin trying so hard to please the orphan girl. Branwen only wished Essy would stick to sewing dolls’ dresses rather than clandestine handkerchiefs.
A thunderclap reverberated through the tent. Prince Havelin collapsed to the ground, his spear broken in half. Defeated. Once disarmed, the combatants had to exit the competition.
Essy’s gaze flew up from her stitching and she let out a victorious harrumph. Havelin and Armorica were now out of the running. Branwen scoured the throng once more for Tristan.
Instead, her eyes snagged on Keane. His green tunic was splashed with what looked like elderberry juice. Only she knew it wasn’t juice; it was blood.
He lifted his silomleie, a blackthorn wood cudgel, in defense against a duke from the kingdom of Logres on the east coast of Albion. The silomleie was a weapon favored by members of the Royal Guard because the blackthorn was said to be native to the Otherworld.
“Ooh! There he is, Branny,” Essy said, pointing at Keane with her needle.
The queen followed her daughter’s sight line. She squinted and then said, “What a lovely ribbon Sir Keane has tied to his silomleie.”
That was the extent of Queen Eseult’s commentary. Branwen’s nerves zinged. Did her aunt think she wished to be matched with Keane?
He wouldn’t be a bad match. He just wasn’t the match she wanted.
Emer and Tantris existed out of time, beyond the stars. Tantris was her heart’s desire—but he was a fantasy. Branwen and Tristan belonged to the world as it was.
Could she ever learn to trust Tristan, Prince of Kernyv and King of Liones? With all of the duties he had to his king and his kingdom?
The question would be moot if Iveriu and Kernyv remained at war.
Branwen tapped the brooch fastening the emerald sash at her shoulder. Her forefinger pricked on the silver thistle-like needle that secured the cloth through the round, enameled clasp. The brooch had belonged to her mother. Lady Alana was wearing it the day she died.
Branwen’s last memory of her mother after refusing to say good-bye was of candlelight glinting off silver. Queen Eseult had the heirloom returned to Branwen, although she’d refused to let her see the body. Remember Alana smiling, she’d said.
On the underside of the brooch was engraved the motto of Castle Bodwa: The right fight.
Branwen traced the ridges of the language of trees that her ancestors had
used and hoped they were guiding her hand. Maybe from the Otherworld. Queen Eseult reached out to steady her niece’s fingers.
“Don’t forget to breathe, Branny.” She laughed kindly.
At that moment, a fast-moving blur of purple and red charged Keane from behind. Branwen recognized the Parthalán crest. It was Lord Diarmuid. He assaulted his fellow Iverman with all his might.
Essy let out a gasp, casting her needlework aside to clap her hands. The queen lifted her eyebrows. Thankfully, the northern lord wasn’t so imprudent as to display the princess’s token outwardly. As she glanced at her aunt, Branwen felt another twinge of guilt for delivering it.
She had been complicit in compromising the honor of Iveriu last night. Essy had given her an order, but Branwen had followed it. That choice had been hers. Had she chosen wisely?
The trumpet sounded. The crowd fell silent. There were eight men left.
With a jolt of panic, Branwen scanned the field.
Queen Eseult dropped another handkerchief.
Tristan, Keane, and Lord Diarmuid were advancing to the next round.
Iveriu was one step closer to an allegiance with Kernyv. Tristan was on the verge of turning Iveriu’s greatest enemies into friends. Deep inside, Branwen knew what the Old Ones were telling her to do—to choose: the right fight.
BLACKBIRDS
RED ALE WAS SERVED ALL around. The royal minstrels played heartily as the servants readied the tournament pitch for the first bout of single combat. Branwen’s entire body thrummed with anticipation as she watched Tristan take a few practice sweeps with his broadsword.
The lots were cast for the opening match. The champion from the Kingdom of Míl, the peninsula from which the ancestors of the Iverni were storied to have emigrated, would face off against one of the princes of Langazbardaz. There were so many duchies on the southern continent that it was hard to keep track of them, and the boundaries were constantly changing. The Aquilan Empire had fragmented beyond repair: Its ruling class now tussled with each other for scraps.
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