“Why not? It’s true!” Essy hurled the accusation at her mother. To Branwen, she said, “You always defend her!”
Branwen opened and closed her mouth. She had witnessed last night just how fiercely her aunt loved. She only wished her cousin could see it.
“I love you more than you’ll ever know,” pleaded the queen, staring up at her daughter.
“You’re right.” Essy scrubbed at her cheeks. “I’ll never know because I’ll never see you again.”
Her mother flinched. The princess launched to her feet, a barely restrained tempest. “Get out of my way,” she told the Queen of Iveriu, who straightened to standing and reached for her daughter’s cheek.
“Please, Essy. I’m losing two daughters today.” Queen Eseult looked older this morning, bereft. A few more gray hairs graced the top of her head. “Let there be peace between us.”
Essy stared at her mother as her breathing slowed. “You can have peace for Iveriu or peace with me. You can’t have both.” The finality in her cousin’s voice stunned Branwen. The princess removed the queen’s hand from her cheek and pushed her from her path.
Pausing in the doorway, she looked from Branwen to her mother.
“You’re mistaken, Lady Queen. You’ve only ever had one daughter to lose—and it isn’t me.”
Essy vanished down the corridor as Queen Eseult sank to her knees. Branwen was instantly at her side. The queen’s flowing wild silk gown gathered around them like waves. Branwen wrapped an arm around her aunt as she wept silently.
“Oh, Branny,” she said. “I came to comfort you and you’ve ended up comforting me.”
“It’s my honor.”
The queen looked at her, a woeful smile on her face. “I pray that Essy will come to realize that what I’ve done, everything I’ve done, is for her—and for the Land. The Land must think of all her children, every soul in Iveriu.”
“She will,” Branwen said quietly. Queen Eseult took Branwen’s right hand in hers, stroking the back, then flipped it over, scrutinizing the welt.
“You and I have always been kindred spirits, my niece. I believe the Old Ones brought us together. I’ve tried to raise you as Alana would have wanted.”
A lump formed in Branwen’s throat. “I’m so grateful.”
“I’m grateful, Branwen, for the privilege of watching you grow into such a strong, fearless woman.” She touched the healing wound. “A leader.”
“I’m not fearless.” At this very moment, Branwen was afraid of countless things—not least herself. There were no books she could study, no recipes she could follow, to understand what was happening to her.
“You are.” The queen covered Branwen’s palm with her own. “You are a brave and fearless young woman. You have Alana’s spark. It’s why you were chosen to bear the Hand of Bríga.”
“What is it?” she asked, almost childlike, sagging against the queen. The older woman smelled of cloves. For an instant, Branwen closed her eyes and the tumult in her heart abated.
Queen Eseult rested her head against Branwen’s in return. “It’s a blessing, but some might see it as a curse. There are two sides to everything in creation, dear heart.”
“I still don’t understand how I did—” she broke off, her memory lingering on Keane’s contorted body, “what I did.”
“Death is a heavy thing. I wouldn’t wish you to carry it, my niece, but the Land has chosen your path for you. Sometimes the way of a leader runs with blood.”
Branwen shivered. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” she said, and she never wanted to repeat what she had done to Keane.
“The power must have been dormant. When you felt the Land under threat, you awakened it.” The queen held her gaze and, in that moment, she would have told her aunt anything she wanted to know. Branwen couldn’t breathe.
After another beat, Queen Eseult said, “There are three aspects to the Goddess Bríga, as I assume Master Bécc taught you.” Branwen nodded slowly, gratitude rushing through her. Maybe the queen didn’t want to know how Keane had threatened the peace. Branwen certainly didn’t want to break faith with her cousin. Sometimes it was better to leave things unspoken.
“When you healed Prince Tristan with the skeakh magic,” continued the queen, “I realized you had been blessed with the Fire of the Hearth: Bríga’s healing powers. As your mother had been.”
Branwen parted her lips slightly, bursting with questions, but her aunt gestured for her to remain silent. “Last night, when Prince Tristan sang for you—yes, for you,” Queen Eseult insisted without letting her argue, “I saw you possessed the Fire of Inspiration. Like our goddess, you are a poet’s muse.”
She blushed such a furious vermilion that she felt it beneath her skin.
“But,” Queen Eseult cautioned, “you also embody the Fire of the Forge—Bríga’s most powerful aspect. The Old Ones would not have granted it to you lightly. I have not heard of a woman possessing all three aspects since the great Queen Medhua herself.” Their eyes met. “One needs all three to form the Hand of Bríga.”
She was too astounded to respond. The queen traced a finger along Branwen’s hairline and discovered another newly whitened strand.
“Using the Hand of Bríga does not come without its toll,” she told her. Queen Eseult twisted one of her own gray hairs. “I will admit to you, my niece, and please never repeat these words, that I have wondered why the Old Ones chose Essy to be queen—and not you. Now their intentions have become clear.”
Branwen pulled at her shift, waiting for her aunt to explain how the Old Ones chose her to kill a man.
“We are sending two Ivernic queens to Kernyv today,” Queen Eseult declared in that confident, nearly divine tone of hers. “One for this world, and one for the Otherworld. Together, you will defend the Land.” She inhaled. “The Old Ones have chosen you as their protector across the sea, Branwen, and they have imbued you with Bríga’s powers so that you may guide mortal affairs.”
“But who will guide me?” The plea leapt from Branwen’s mouth before she could capture it. She had been wandering farther and farther away from this world since her visit to Whitethorn Mound. Was she becoming less human?
“The Old Ones are always guiding you,” her aunt said more gently. “You must believe in yourself, my niece, as I do. I am trusting you to protect the interests of Iveriu above all.”
The queen reached into the pocket of her voluminous skirts. She presented Branwen with a small golden vial. No larger than her pinkie finger.
“The Loving Cup,” she breathed. Branwen had no memory of finishing the spell.
Seeming to pluck the thought from her mind, the queen said, “The Hand of Bríga fueled the magic. You were both here, and not here. The memories should return, I believe. But you are now far more of an adept than I.”
Branwen folded her hands around the Loving Cup. This was her burden, her responsibility. She secreted the vial between her breasts, next to her heart.
Queen Eseult embraced her with tremendous force. “Just a few drops in their wine on the wedding night should be enough,” she instructed, urgency bolstering her words. “It’s in the best interest of Iveriu—and Kernyv—to have a legitimate heir as soon as possible.”
Branwen rubbed her palm, thinking of Essy’s accusation at the children’s celebration. “This will bring the princess love?” Her voice hitched up at the end so that the statement became a question. “Happiness?”
“The love between a man and a woman is a storm. The love of a mother for her child promises a new dawn. A way forward for both kingdoms.” The queen cupped Branwen’s cheek. “There are many kinds of love, my niece, and many kinds of happiness. The Land wants all her children to be happy.”
Branwen saw the love, and determination, in her aunt’s eyes. She trusted her implicitly. She would trust in her wisdom as she had always done. “I understand, my queen,” she said, and she hoped Essy would, too.
Someday.
A shadow darkened the queen’s fa
ce. “I must also warn you to keep your newfound powers to yourself. The Kernyveu are not so fond of the Old Ways as we Iverni. The leaders of the New Religion do not deem women worthy of their Mysteries.” The corner of her mouth edged skyward. “But we women have mysteries of our own.”
Trepidation made Branwen’s stomach lurch. How could anyone question the sanctity of the Land or that women embodied the bounty of Goddess Ériu?
“I will be discreet, and I will do whatever is necessary to keep Essy safe.”
Queen Eseult nodded. “The princess is as much your sister as you are my daughter, Branny. Always.” She kissed her on the bridge of her nose. Her tears fell upon Branwen’s cheeks. “We must prepare you for the voyage.”
“But … but … there are still so many things I need to ask—need to know.”
She laughed softly. “You will be given the answers when you need them. Trust in the Old Ones.” The queen pulled away, drying her eyes. “There is one last thing you can do for me, Branny.”
“Name it.”
“Call me Eseult. We are all queens now. Three queens for Iveriu like in ancient times.”
Branwen was rendered speechless. She cloaked her aunt in an embrace. “Thank you, Eseult,” she said, testing out the name. “Thank you for giving me a home.”
“You will always have a home in my heart.”
Branwen inclined her head, renewed fortitude coursing within. “One Iveriu.”
DRAGON RISING
THE DRAGON RISING WAS ANCHORED in a cove known as Blackford Harbor, not far from Branwen’s cave. Its great sails were a terrifying pair of wings. Branwen had readied herself hastily after the queen—her aunt, Eseult—had departed from her chamber.
Branwen was so honored to call the queen by her true name. Even if she had a hard time believing she could ever be a queen herself. She worried her fingers over her mother’s brooch as she strode along the beach below Castle Rigani. She had wanted to walk to the ship alone. Her steps were sluggish not solely because she was bone-weary.
This was the last time she would gaze upon the Ivernic Sea from the shores where her parents’ spirits dwelled. Would they be able to watch over her in Kernyv? Did the same Otherworld exist beyond the Veil from the island of Albion?
An enormous shadow scudded across the line where the sea met the horizon. Branwen shivered despite her woolen cape. Much as the depths called to her, she had never traveled upon the waves for more than an afternoon of pleasure sailing or fishing. She wasn’t entirely certain what to expect.
The deep indigo waters were as dangerous as they were hypnotic. And Keane would lurk forever beneath the surface. What would happen when he failed to return to the Royal Guard? Branwen didn’t doubt that Queen Eseult would handle the situation, yet she hated making her complicit. Her heart throbbed. Perhaps a leader’s path did run with blood. Could Branwen abide more of it on her hands?
She rubbed the singed heart line beneath her right glove.
The Old Ones were trusting her to protect Iveriu in a foreign land, and she had to trust them. Before she met Tristan, she had never put faith in things she couldn’t see. Love changed things. She no longer doubted that the fox had led her to Tristan’s raft to start their kingdoms on this journey toward peace.
Branwen wasn’t merely accompanying the princess to Kernyv. She had a mission of her own. She could easily imagine the road her life in Iveriu would have traveled had she never met Tristan. Now she was sailing into the unknown. Kernyv wasn’t the Otherworld, but it was a different world—a world she would need to learn to navigate. The challenge was daunting. And, she couldn’t deny, thrilling.
With a sigh, Branwen touched her chest. Beneath her cloak and tunic, secured in her breast bindings, lay the Loving Cup: the drink of peace. As soon as they arrived in Kernyv, everything would be set to rights.
A leather satchel hung diagonally across Branwen’s body. It bounced against her hip as she trudged through the sand. The bag contained her most precious possessions: a strand of dried mermaid’s hair she’d kept from the day she first met Tristan, a waterskin of Treva’s elderberry wine that the cook had pressed into her hands with gleaming eyes, and a beautifully carved miniature fidkwelsa set—her favorite game of strategy—that had belonged to her father.
There was also the moon-catcher the queen had insisted Branwen keep, the wooden sword Morholt had given her, and a fine shawl of Ivernic lace that Noirín had spun for her as a parting gift. The shawl was nothing compared with Essy’s exquisite trousseau, but it made Branwen feel like a princess, if not a queen.
Saoirse had kissed Branwen on both cheeks at the castle gates, her own cheeks damp, and Dubthach himself gave Branwen a surprisingly hearty hug good-bye. Maybe it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. He’d been her childhood playmate and they were unlikely to meet again in this life. It made Branwen hopeful to see Dubthach and Saoirse arm in arm. The world seemed on a better course than it had a few seasons ago.
She was glad that Queen Eseult had bestowed her mother’s harp upon Tristan. He would surely make better use of it than Branwen, and she would enjoy hearing him sing. It was a gift for both of them.
Regardless of what her aunt had said, Branwen could never take credit for Tristan’s talent. Not that she would mind being his muse, especially if that meant feeling his breath on her lips, the cadence of their hearts beating as one, like when he serenaded her as Emer.
Her gaze returned to the sea, skipping along the waves as the surf crashed against the rocks.
The world went black. Terror quickened her heart, incited her fire. A pair of gloved hands shuttered her eyes. She was once more prisoner in Keane’s grip.
Branwen screamed.
The hands spun her around, releasing her; sunlight blinded her. Blinking furiously, she tried to catch her breath.
“Tristan?” She squinted at the silhouette of windblown curls. Her hands were balled into fists.
“Branwen,” he said. “I didn’t intend to scare you. Forgive me.” Concern stippled his brow. His eyes surveyed her up and down. “I only wanted to surprise you. You looked so lovely framed against the sea and sky.”
“Remember what happened when you surprised me in the cave?” she said, lowering an eyebrow, as her dread melted away. “My bite is worse than my bark, I assure you.”
Tristan laughed and stepped closer. “There are no more raiders coming to your coast. I promise.” In an instant, he snaked an arm around Branwen. Her entire body tingled. It was too familiar a gesture for an unmarried couple. Anyone who glimpsed them together would assume they were lovers.
“Tristan,” she warned, although her traitorous lips ached to force his open.
He peered down the length of the beach in either direction.
“Nobody’s around,” he said. The hazel flecks in his eyes winked like stars.
“That’s because they’re at the dock—where we should be,” Branwen told him. It was hard to want to be anywhere other than right here, however, welded against him. “Why aren’t you on the ship?”
“I was looking for you.” Tristan dipped his forehead against hers. She should break their embrace. She should. His mouth was treacherously close. “I’ve been looking for you since last night,” he said. The statement was subdued.
A bolt of panic shot through her. “Why?” she whispered.
“I wanted you by my side when I accepted the Seal of Alliance.” He pressed a palm to her cheek. “It’s as much your victory as it is mine.”
Guilt smothered Branwen. Tristan was generous and noble, treated her as a partner—and she had killed a man. The vision she’d had of them in the in-between, growing wrinkled and white-haired together: Did Keane have to die to make that come true?
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. I think I had too much ale,” she said. “I went to my bedchamber to lie down, and I fell asleep.”
Tristan removed his hand from her face as a scowl seized his own. “You weren’t in your rooms,” he said tonele
ssly.
“What? You came to my bedchamber?” she accused, surprising herself at how tart she sounded when she was in the wrong—just like Essy.
His expression softened slightly, cheeks coloring. “I know it isn’t proper.” Tristan took a deep breath. “You vanished. And then Sir Keane did, too. I went to check on you. You weren’t there.” The wariness of a well-trained warrior lingered in his eyes.
“There is absolutely nothing between me and Keane.” There was nothing left of Keane at all.
“Where were you, Branwen?” The question was rough. Lost.
“Perhaps Sir Keane isn’t the only one who watches me too closely. You’re not my bodyguard, Tristan.” Her cousin’s words surfaced in her memory: Are you my warden, Branny?
Tristan winced with his whole body. “I don’t want to be your bodyguard, Branwen.” He raked a hand through his hair. Blowing out a long breath, he lifted his eyes to hers. “I just want to love you.” His jaw ticked. He reached for Branwen’s right hand.
“Last night, as I was singing to you, I realized I had never spoken the words aloud. I love you, Lady Branwen of Castle Bodwa. I came back for you and I won’t leave Iveriu without you.”
Her heart kicked. Until that moment, Branwen hadn’t known that one syllable could cut so deeply. Love. Bloody and sharp.
His dark gaze drilled into her as he waited for her response. She found it difficult to form words. Not because she didn’t feel them. Because she felt them too much.
Tristan’s face began to crumple, a tinge of regret at the corners of his mouth. Every nerve pulled tight inside her. This time she had to be the one to jump off the waterfall or she might lose him.
“I love you, too, Prince Tristan of Kernyv and King of Liones.”
A masculine laugh of sheer joy echoed on the waves. “Thank goodness. I feared I was less attractive as a prince than as a minstrel,” he said, his jest holding a shred of fear.
“I do love your ballads.”
“I’ll sing to you every night.”
“Only at night?” she teased.
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