“Essy. Treva made this especially for the wedding toast and entrusted it to me for safekeeping,” she lied. “You’ll enjoy it then.” Branwen tapped the princess’s nose as if she were a bad puppy. “But not before.”
“Ah, yes, my perfect wedding.” Essy sneered. Branwen tucked the vial farther down the front of her bodice. “Maybe a kretarv will put me out of my misery before I set foot in Kernyv!”
Branwen inhaled through her nostrils. “Tristan assures me that King Marc is a loyal and kind man,” she replied in a level tone.
“Of course he is. Pirates are known for being courteous and steadfast!”
A nervous cough interrupted the cousins. Cadan loitered in the doorway. “Pardon me, Lady Princess, Lady Branwen,” he said, licking his lips and keeping his eyes pinned to the floor.
“What is it?” Essy demanded, not bothering to mask her temper.
“It’s … it’s…,” the boy stuttered. “It’s only that there’s a rip in the sail. Captain Morgawr sent me to ask if you might have a spare piece of cloth.” His cheeks turned brighter than Treva’s wild strawberry tarts.
“Finally, a use for all your dresses,” Branwen teased the princess, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Give them my First Night gown, Branny. I’d love to have a reason not to use it.”
Cadan flexed his knuckles taut against his trouser pockets.
“Hush,” Branwen reprimanded. Poor Cadan. His Ivernic was apparently proficient enough to glean Essy’s meaning. He had no idea where to look or how to react to the mention of her marital bed by the lady who would be his queen. Taking pity on him, Branwen said, “I’m sure we can find something.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he answered, concentrating very hard on the floorboards.
“I’ll be up in a minute, Cadan.”
He raised his eyes in alarm. “The deck is still slippery. Unsafe.”
At that moment, Branwen wanted nothing more than a fresh gulp of salty air. Essy was looking for a fight and, after three days in the cramped cabin, Branwen might have been, too. She felt like a hunting dog caged in the kennels beneath Castle Rigani.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” Branwen repeated. She would not be dissuaded.
Frowning, the cabin boy nodded and retreated down the corridor as Branwen hopped off the bed and began rummaging through the princess’s many leather-bound trunks. She selected a ruby-colored gown that she knew her cousin didn’t particularly favor. A winter dress cut from thickly woven wool.
Bundling the heavy garment in her arms, Branwen crossed the compartment, seeking out Essy’s gaze, not really asking for permission. The princess twisted a sun-bleached tendril around her forefinger. Tight. “Please be careful, Branny,” she said. Her eyes had rounded. “You’re all I’ve got.”
Branwen shot her a comforting smile. Her cousin’s irritation had been replaced by genuine concern, but they both needed some time apart.
“Don’t worry. I’ve found my sea legs.” And, hopefully, Essy would lose interest in the golden vial while she was gone. “Why don’t you try reading something? Everything will be right again soon.”
The princess’s voice carried after Branwen as she made a brisk exit, although it was no more than a whisper.
“Nothing will ever be right again.”
* * *
An overcast sky hung above the mast when Branwen reached the top of the rickety staircase. The saltwater-warped wood creaked like an old man’s bones. She spied Tristan talking with Morgawr on the bow, their backs to her. Their discussion was animated and they didn’t notice her approach from behind.
“I know every star above the Dreaming Sea, my prince,” the captain was saying to Tristan. “I don’t recognize any of these.”
“I have faith in you, Morgie.”
He grunted. “Your father was the only navigator better than me. Hanno could see his way through fog without a lantern.”
Tristan clapped the older man on the back. “We’re only a few days late.”
Branwen halted mid-stride, alarm streaking through her. “Have we been blown off course?”
Both men swiveled toward the sound of her voice. They exchanged a brief glance. “Only a delay,” assured Tristan, taking a step in her direction. Surprise stenciled on his face, he dropped his gaze to the bunch of cloth.
“For the sail,” she said.
Captain Morgawr scowled. “I sent the boy for that.” Grumpily, he took the dress from Branwen. “Oi! Cadan!” he hollered in an ornery tone. “Where’re you hiding?”
“Don’t scold the boy, Captain. I insisted.”
Tristan cracked a grin. “Lady Branwen can be quite insistent.” His eyes were warm like a summer’s night.
“I doubt any of your crew is as agile with a needle as I am,” Branwen said to Morgawr.
“The lady’s work is unparalleled,” Tristan vouched to the captain. He placed a hand to his heart and glanced at Branwen. “I’m intimately acquainted with it.”
“Suit yourself, my lady. After you.” The captain carried the dress to where the damaged sail had been stretched against the deck, hovering over Branwen as she used a small knife to open the crude stitches one of his men had made. Morgawr watched a few more minutes before regarding the horizon like a friend he had once known well but hadn’t seen for years, then walked away.
Tristan squatted beside her. He handed Branwen an ungainly needle threaded with leather cord. “You must be freezing,” he said, concerned.
The wind whorled her dark hair, unbraided for once, around her shoulders. She should have been cold. She’d forgotten her cloak. She wasn’t. Ever since the night she’d killed Keane, Branwen had been consistently, uncomfortably hot.
She shrugged. “The captain seems jittery.”
“That’s his job.” Branwen canted her head, holding Tristan with her gaze. “Sailors spook easily,” he deflected.
“But you don’t. Spook easily?” It was only a fraction of the question she wanted to ask him: Could you accept my magic? Could you accept me?
“No, Branwen. I don’t.” Covertly, he caressed her cheek. She didn’t dare press for more of an answer.
Focusing on the task at hand, she said, “Hold the flaps straight if you want to help.”
“As you wish.” Tristan smoothed the burgundy slip of fabric between the folds of salt-bitten white. He was quiet as Branwen began to sew the first strips together.
Over, under; over, under. Loop, cross; loop, cross.
“Morgawr knew your father?” Branwen asked leadingly. She saw Tristan nod from the corner of her eye.
“They joined the Royal Fleet together, as young men. A lot of Kartagons do. My father met my mother at a ceremony for new officers.”
Branwen’s head bobbed rhythmically with each prick and entreaty of the tide. “That sounds like the beginning of a ballad,” she said.
“Everyone says they were very much in love—it wasn’t a politically advantageous match.” She slid her gaze toward him, urging Tristan to carry on, as her hands flew over the sail. “The Aquilan legions never fully conquered Kernyv as they did other kingdoms on the island of Albion,” he explained. “When the empire began to crumble, some of the Kernyveu wanted the peoples whose ancestors had originated on the southern continent—Kartagons, and others—to leave. But, like my father’s family, they’d been in Kernyv for many generations. They’d only seen Kartago on a map.”
Tristan went quiet for a moment. He lifted his gaze to the clouds, which effervesced a purple gray as twilight usurped the sky.
“It’s been nearly a hundred years since Great King Katwaladrus decreed that the southerners could remain. Still, some of the Kernyvak nobles resent them, especially the wealthy and influential families. And to marry a princess?” He scoffed. “I see my grandmother’s hand. She’s strong like you, Branwen. She told me my father was the only man in Kernyv worthy of her daughter, and that was that.” Affection underscored his tale. “I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
Branwen glanced up sharply. “Meet her? She’s alive?”
“Yes?” he said, befuddled.
“But—back at the cave, you told me it was just you and Marc?”
Tristan grimaced. “We were both dancing around the truth then. I’m glad we don’t have to do that any longer.”
Branwen’s face softened even as her chest constricted. She swallowed, eyes trailing back to the sail. “The raids on Iveriu started under King Katwaladrus,” said Branwen. The Iverni didn’t call him Great. “Do you think he sent the Kernyveu to fight us so they wouldn’t fight each other?”
Tristan laid his hands on top of hers, pausing Branwen mid-stitch.
“This sail is like the wound between Iveriu and Kernyv. Together, we have healed it.” Goose bumps lifted on the nape of Branwen’s neck. Not yet. Tristan tipped his forehead against hers. “Kernyv will love Iveriu as much as I love you,” he promised.
He lowered his mouth to hers, gathering her bottom lip between his teeth. Branwen dropped the needle. She gasped as he bit her with exquisite tenderness. Tristan tasted sweet and fresh as he whispered her name, and Branwen scrabbled at his chest with yearning. Her pulse pounded in her ears, reaching for the stars. Surrender. This was what surrender felt like.
A light drizzle tickled the crown of her head. She forgot where they were—when they were—everything but the need to know him, feel him, make him hers. Strong arms encircled her, pulling her closer, bleeding into her.
Branwen. His voice was rough like the sea. Branwen. His voice was deep like the sea. Branwen. She would follow him to its very bottom.
“Branwen!”
Her eyes snapped open as if from a trance.
“Already embracing our new homeland, I see.”
Essy.
CHOICES
ONE MOMENT OF WEAKNESS. WAVES smashed against the hull, buffeting Branwen’s heart. She gurgled a breath. The phantom ribbon tightened around her throat.
“Princess Eseult,” said Tristan, his tone remarkably steady despite his startled expression. He met her gaze, head unbowed.
“I’d thank you to take your hands off my lady’s maid.”
Essy spoke with a cold rage, thin as the ice that covered the rivers of Iveriu on winter mornings. She loomed above the lovers, radiating a disapproval that perforated Branwen like a thousand flying knives. With the bleak, silver horizon thickening behind her, the Princess of Iveriu incarnated the Goddess Ériu in her death guise: the destroyer of unfit kings.
Tristan removed his arms from around Branwen’s waist. He skimmed his hand along her cheek, undaunted.
“Lady Princess—” he began, and Essy silenced him with an outstretched finger.
“I don’t care to hear any Kernyvak lies today.” Her voice shook with fury. She peered down her nose at Branwen, expression deadening. “At least now I understand why you’re so eager to hand me over to our enemies,” she said. “You were the one person I trusted, cousin. I thought you were so selfless, giving up a life in Iveriu for me. But you’re just like everyone else—you’ve betrayed me for your own gain.”
Branwen lurched back as if her mare had kicked her straight in the chest. She wanted to scream that it was Essy who had planned to desert her, to forsake two kingdoms for a callow crown-chaser. No, she wouldn’t. Branwen pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She wouldn’t betray the princess. Not even to defend herself in front of the man she loved.
“You’re as big a hypocrite as my mother,” Essy charged. Branwen’s hands fell to her sides, curving like claws, fingernails chiseling into her skin. “No wonder you always defend her. So pious, so dutiful. Both of you use the Old Ones as an excuse to get what you want!” she continued, pummeling Branwen with her words. “How dare you tell me whom to love when you’ve given yourself to our enemy! You disgust me.”
“That’s quite enough.” Tristan launched to his feet. “Don’t speak to Branwen that way. You’ll regret your words when your temper abates.”
Essy’s laughter tinkled like icicles. “I’ll speak to my lady’s maid however I see fit. The only regret I have is not seeing through her deceit sooner.”
Branwen remained on her knees, tethered to the spot. She grasped at the Loving Cup beneath her shift. If only Essy knew. She couldn’t tell her. She couldn’t. Branwen had to brave her cousin’s scorn. The Old Ones had placed their faith in her.
“Your cousin loves you,” Tristan told the princess when Branwen still found no words of her own. She could only stifle a sob.
“I was wrong when I told you Branwen was my only family, Prince Tristan. I have no family. I love no one and no one loves me.”
Warm, not-quite pleasant tingles erupted on Branwen’s palm, burning away the shock, reminding her of what she had already done for love.
“You know that’s a lie,” Branwen ground out, meeting the princess’s stare. She rose to standing.
“Do I? You’re the liar!” Essy shouted. “You said you’d never let a man come between us.” Her teeth clacked together. “You said you were choosing me—coming to Kernyv for me.” She thrust a finger at Tristan, skewering him with a spiked glance. “You were choosing him.”
“I wasn’t,” said Branwen. At her side, Tristan stiffened. “I would follow you anywhere, Essy.” She flung a pleading look at Tristan as she took a step toward her cousin. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I’ve loved you since the day you were born. Hurting you is the last thing I would want.”
The princess’s breath came in fits and starts, her shoulders hitching toward her ears. Raindrops spattered her cheeks, mixing with the tears that streaked from her eyes. “All you do is hurt people, Branwen. You hurt me. You hurt Keane.” She lifted her chin. “He knew, didn’t he? That’s why you parted in anger.”
Tristan balked, back straightening in surprise. He looked to Branwen for confirmation. Essy laughed, and it was a discordant sound.
“You didn’t know, though, did you?” she said to Tristan. “It’s comforting that I’m not the only one Branwen keeps secrets from. And she keeps so many.”
Anger exploded in Branwen’s chest. “Essy, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” She pictured Keane in the stairwell, dying at her hand, dying to protect her cousin’s secret. “You don’t know anything,” she growled.
“If I don’t know anything, it’s because you never tell me anything!” The princess’s gaze wavered between Tristan and Branwen. “What I do know is that you’re a traitor. You chose your enemy over your own blood.”
“Essy—”
Her cousin’s shoulders deflated inward. She trembled where she stood. An avenging goddess no longer, she resembled a child lost in a wood. Branwen reached out to soothe her as she had done all her life. Essy backed away.
“Don’t touch me!” Her pitch was high, hysterical. Savage. “You might think you’ve won. That I don’t have any choices left. But I do—I do!”
Essy wheeled around, plum-colored skirt billowing like a bruise, and fled toward the other end of the ship. Wet wood squelched beneath her boots, her leather soles skidding several times.
“Let her go,” Tristan said to Branwen in a tired voice. Consternation stained his features. Branwen tunneled her fingers through her damp locks. She welcomed the rain, fresh on her face. How could she have let the princess discover them? They should have arrived at Monwiku by now; then she wouldn’t need to hide her heart.
Never before in her life had Branwen looked at the sea and seen an enemy. Never had the waves made her feel trapped. This ship was her floating prison.
“Your cousin is wrong,” Tristan said. “About so very many things.”
“She’s young.” Branwen defended the princess out of habit, standing there eviscerated as she was. She swiped at her eyes.
“She’s going to be Queen of Kernyv.”
Branwen slanted her gaze to his, and she saw misgivings there. “She’ll grow into it.”
“You’re the most loyal person I know.” He crossed t
o her side and took her hand, his smile rueful. “And you deserve to be happy. If your cousin loves you, she should want you to be happy, too.”
“I will be happy, Tristan,” she said, defiance sparking in her heart. The later didn’t need to be said aloud. He read it in her stance.
“Happiness indefinitely postponed is no happiness at all.” His thumb grazed the back of Branwen’s hand, pleasure fluttering through her and, somehow, it did feel traitorous. “You also have a duty to yourself,” he said. Shivering a breath, she jerked away and Tristan nailed her with a question: “Unless you are ashamed of me?”
“What? How could you think that?”
“What the princess said—about Keane. Is it true? Did you part in anger?”
“Yes,” she replied carefully, crafting her thoughts. She pressed her palm against her skirt. “He wanted more from me than I could give.” Looking Tristan square in the eye, she said, “I couldn’t give him my heart because I had already given it to you.”
His jaw went slack. He loosed a breath. “It’s not your fault you’re so easy to love,” he said, voice tender, but Branwen was no longer sure it was easy to love anyone. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” Tristan asked.
“Because it’s done. It’s over. And I’ve come across the sea—with you.”
His lips twitched. “You would have come across the sea without me.” It wasn’t a question. “The princess is wrong about that as well.”
“She is.”
The rain began to fall harder, pattering against the deck.
“You’re as fierce as any warrior, Branwen.”
She sighed. The war with Kernyv had made her fierce. Being orphaned at six years old had made her fierce. She thought of Gráinne clinging to her doll when they first met on the Rock Road, prepared to defend the charred toy with tooth and claw. Gentle people did not survive in the world as it was. Branwen wanted to make a better one.
“If you weren’t a prince, Tristan, what would you do? Who would you be?”
His eyebrows shot up. Whatever he’d been expecting Branwen to say, it wasn’t that. “I would explore, I think. See what lies beyond the southern continent. Sail to the edge of the map—maybe beyond.”
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