Down below was carnage. Shouts and screams pierced the air.
The prince looked ashen. “The gate must have broken,” he said, mostly to himself.
Branwen saw people—bodies—strewn on either side of the man-made gorge. Mud had swept away everything in its path. The water from the small lake had caused a landslide. If miners had been working in the crevasse when the dam burst … Branwen swallowed. The poor men would have drowned where they stood.
King Marc had said there had been an accident. This was a disaster.
Water continued to stream into the valley.
Branwen probed Ruan with a glance. He scrubbed a hand over his face, anguish tightening his lips. “Stay here,” he barked as he met her gaze.
“I came to help.”
“I won’t be responsible for injuring the queen’s lady’s maid,” he said and, without waiting for her response, raced his mount down the hillside. Dirt spewed into the air from its hooves.
Branwen’s temper spiked. Lady’s maid she might be, but she was not Ruan’s to command. She gave her mount a swift kick and descended into the shadow of the great arches, the howls of the wounded erasing any fear she might have for herself.
Before Branwen discovered her magic, she had medicine. The healing arts she had painstakingly studied for years were skills she could trust. Helping these people was something she knew how to do—something to balance the scales of her grievous mistake.
As Branwen advanced toward the chasm, the screams and groans multiplied. Some muffled. Her ears struggled to hear them. Buried. Men were trapped beneath the wreckage—alive. Others were digging through the piles of rubble to free them with their bare hands. Many would hear a Death-Teller’s shriek before they were unearthed.
Branwen’s mount began to stumble in the thick, uneven ground. She pulled up on the reins. The stallion nickered in something like complaint. Patting his shoulder, “Mormerkti,” Branwen said and jumped down to the soggy ground.
Debris was flung in all directions: broken tent poles, chairs, tools, ceramic jugs. There must have been makeshift resting places for the miners here before the flood. She spotted a banner floating in a dirty puddle: the same red hand on black as worn by the messenger at Monwiku.
A higher-pitched, female scream broke through Branwen’s thoughts. She spun toward the sound and launched into a sprint. She picked her way through the ruins, tripping several times.
Her gaze caught hold of the mud-spattered skirt first. It wasn’t a woman. It was a girl. Twelve years old at most. What was she doing here?
The girl writhed on the ground, skirt twisting around her. Her ankle was pinned between two large stones.
Branwen froze, just for a moment, as if she were back on the deck of the Dragon Rising. Cadan’s corpse haunted her. The cabin boy had been her friend, and Branwen hadn’t been able to save him last night.
She shook her head. Despair was futile. Branwen heard her aunt’s calm voice telling her to find those she could help, to focus on what she could do.
She dropped to her knees beside the girl. Thrashing her limb would surely be making her injury worse. Placing a firm hand on the girl’s shoulder, “Stop,” Branwen said in Aquilan. The girl stopped to stare—but not in comprehension. Of course a peasant wouldn’t speak the language of the court.
Did she also fear Branwen’s Ivernic accent the way little Gráinne in Iveriu had once feared Tristan’s?
Holding the girl’s gaze, Branwen willed her to understand that she wanted to help, that she meant her no harm. The Kernyvak girl released a shaky breath and nodded. Branwen brushed a reddish-brown lock from her face, then turned her attention to the girl’s trapped ankle.
The weight of the stone would doubtless have broken it. If the girl was fortunate, the bone would only be fractured, not fragmented. But it was impossible to assess the damage while her leg was still pinned under the rock.
Branwen gave the stone a firm shove. Her shoulders ached, and the wounds on her neck and stomach chafed. The rock didn’t budge. She swore.
Tears streamed from the girl’s dark blue eyes. Her freckled cheeks were white with pain.
Branwen pushed again with all her might. Still the stone resisted her. She beseeched the Old Ones to help this Kernyvak girl.
“I thought I’d told you to stay put,” Ruan said, squatting beside her. Branwen glanced up, leery. She’d lost sight of him in the chaos.
“As you said, I’m the queen’s lady’s maid. I don’t take orders from you.”
“Clearly.”
The self-satisfied prince wasn’t the aid she’d hoped the Old Ones would send, but she’d take it. “Help me get this rock off the girl,” Branwen said.
He cocked his head. “I think you like orders just fine when you’re the one giving them.” She snorted at that. “Together,” he said.
Ruan and Branwen shoved the stone, and their combined strength was enough to topple it into the mud. Branwen leaned back on her heels, panting. The girl’s yellow skirt was soaked with blood around her right calf.
The girl cried out at the sight and immediately tried to get up. “Tell her to lie still,” Branwen barked at Ruan. Without the pressure from the stone, the blood flowed freely.
“And ask the girl her name.” Branwen cursed her inability to communicate. Just speaking in Aquilan was taxing enough while a thousand other thoughts swirled in her mind.
Ruan seemed dubious, but he did as she asked. “Lowenek,” the prince told her a moment later. “It means ‘joy,’” he added. Joy. Branwen’s chest pinched.
“Lowenek,” she repeated, pressing a hand to the girl’s wet cheek, shushing her. Then, to Ruan, Branwen said, “Give me your sash.” He puzzled at her. “I need to stop the bleeding.” Why hadn’t she thought to bring any of her herbs or bandages with her?
As Ruan whipped the sash over his head, Branwen told him, “Find me a stick. Or something firm. I need to splint it.” He arched a brow at her curt tone, glanced around them, then dashed away.
Branwen worked quickly, tying the sash tightly around Lowenek’s calf. The girl mewled. The swelling around her ankle was the size of Branwen’s fist. Branwen detected the bone just below the surface of the skin, almost pushing through.
When Ruan returned brandishing a broken piece of tent pole, Branwen snatched the wood from his grasp. A few splinters bit her skin.
“Hold her shoulders and keep her still,” Branwen said. Ruan nodded. “I’m going to set the bone.” Setting it would be agonizing for Lowenek, and she dearly wished she had some Clíodhna’s dust to put the girl to sleep. Clíodhna was an Otherworld queen whose song was believed to heal the sick.
Instead, Branwen began humming an Ivernic lullaby as she placed the shaft of wood beside Lowenek’s calf. The wild moon is high, my love, come away with me. In a distant recess of her mind, Branwen could hear Lady Alana’s dulcet contralto singing the melody to her, night after night. The wild moon is high, my love, follow me into the Otherworld of sleep.
Aiming her gaze at the spot where the bone pressed against the skin, Branwen positioned one hand above it and one below.
She flicked her eyes at Ruan. “One … two … three.”
The snap ripped through Branwen, reverberating in her skull. Lowenek cried out—a bloodcurdling scream—before she slumped into unconsciousness. Branwen tied the tent pole to the girl’s leg, her breathing labored.
Feeling Ruan’s eyes on her, Branwen tilted her head in his direction. He wore a mystified expression.
“What?” she demanded.
Before Ruan could answer, there was a commotion from farther into the center of the gorge. The valley quaked as if a thunderclap had come from the earth itself. Ruan sprinted toward the fracas.
Branwen gave Lowenek a rapid assessment. The girl was safe enough for now. There was nothing further that Branwen could do for her, and there were others who needed her help. Following Ruan’s lean form with her eyes, she leapt to her feet.
She wiped the gir
l’s blood on her dress as she ran.
The rumbling had been a fresh landslide. Rescuers had become victims. The flood must have destabilized the exposed soil.
Branwen rushed toward the edge of the chasm and saw a man trapped in mud up to his chest. He flailed his arms as if he were drowning.
“Help!” he bellowed. “Help!”
It took Branwen a moment to realize she’d understood him. The man was calling out in Ivernic. This was one of her countrymen.
Ruan ran headlong toward the man, putting himself in the path of the burst dam. Several other miners rushed alongside him. The prince’s feet disappeared into the mud, then his knees. He waded toward the Iverman, fighting against the sludge.
Another tremor passed through the valley.
Branwen watched in suspense as Ruan reached the Iverman first, looped his arms through the miner’s, and yanked. The trapped man hollered.
He was calling on the Old Ones.
A cascade of falling rock showered Ruan and the Iverman from above.
One of the other miners, also shouting in Ivernic, secured his arms around Ruan’s waist. Five other men joined them, forming a chain of bodies, and, several great heaves later, the submerged Iverman was free.
Once Branwen saw that Ruan and her countryman appeared unscathed, she scouted for other patients.
Walking among the injured, Branwen heard groans and prayers in both Kernyvak and Ivernic. She stopped beside a white-haired man. A thin tree branch protruded from his belly. It was a mortal wound.
His eyes opened and latched onto Branwen’s. Smiling, he reached for her hand.
“Goddess Ériu,” said the man in her native tongue. “Have you come to take me home?”
Branwen felt a jolt in her chest. Another Iverman. He was delirious, close to death. The numbing kindness had already relieved him of his pain. She folded her hand around his weathered, age-spotted one.
“How long is it since you’ve seen Ivernic shores?” she asked, voice placid.
“Twenty-five winters. I was taken by raiders near Bodwa.” He coughed, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.
Anger roiled in her heart. Branwen fell to her knees beside him. Castle Bodwa was her family stronghold. This man had been under her family’s protection.
“Did you know Lord Caedmon?” she said.
“I pray to the Old Ones daily for his safekeeping.”
Branwen touched the brooch on her muddied cloak. “I’m his daughter,” she said. This man had been captured before Branwen had been born, before her parents were even wed. “I am Lady Branwen of Castle Bodwa.” She decided not to tell him of her father’s death. Squeezing the old Iverman’s hand, Branwen said, “I offer you my protection.”
“Thank you, Lady Branwen.” He coughed again. His eyes were glazed as he looked at her, as if he were already peering through the Veil to the Otherworld. “I am Talorc. My son is Ném. If he survives, ask him to drink my Final Toast.”
“I will.”
Branwen stared down at her scarred palm. Only magic could save Talorc now. Her fire began to stir. Magic was his only hope, and yet Branwen didn’t want to use it. She was afraid to loose that part of herself—afraid of the elation she’d felt fighting the Shades.
If she did nothing, Talorc would soon be in the Land of Youth.
Coming across a man who had served Branwen’s father on her first day in Kernyv was more than a strange coincidence, and she knew what her father would want her to do. “Forgive me, Talorc,” she said.
Branwen’s heart made the decision before her mind knew what her hands were doing. She ripped the branch from the old man’s abdomen, and his blood spurted across her chest and face. Branwen’s skin heated as she felt her magic rise. A flame appeared in the center of her right palm. It wavered, danced, growing higher.
The Hand of Bríga could heal as well as destroy, but Branwen didn’t know which aspect she was summoning. When she’d saved her cousin’s life on the Dragon Rising, it had been more luck than skill.
Goddess Bríga, I implore you, guide my power.
Breathing hard, Branwen pressed her palm to Talorc’s wound. Astonishment filled her as she watched the flesh begin to close. Sweat dripped from her temples. She still couldn’t quite believe what she was capable of.
Light-headedness deluged Branwen and she swayed on her knees. Talorc convulsed, the Iverman’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. Branwen prayed he wouldn’t remember what she’d done for him.
“You are Otherworld-touched, daughter.”
Branwen cringed. Fear shot through her as she lifted her gaze, glancing over her shoulder.
The resonant voice belonged to a woman whose red hair was flecked with silver strands. She too had spoken in Ivernic. Branwen gaped as she approached her from behind. The woman’s skin glimmered like moonlight. A few crow’s feet surrounded her eyes, which were so brown they appeared black.
“I haven’t been anyone’s daughter in a very long time,” Branwen replied, tiny hairs prickling all over her body. The woman halted beside her.
Squinting down at Branwen, the stranger lifted one corner of her mouth. “Healers are daughter, mother, sister to each other in turn—as the need arises.”
“I am not in need of a mother.”
The woman grabbed Branwen’s right hand, exposing the newly inflamed scar.
“If you wield your power bluntly, like a weapon, it will begin to wield you. You will become a weapon, daughter.”
Branwen tried to pull her hand back, but the woman held firm.
“I am a healer. Nothing more.” Looking the woman in the eye, Branwen told her, “I have no power.”
Covering Branwen’s palm with her own, the woman closed her eyes. Elation rushed through Branwen and she gasped in fright. When the woman removed her hand again, the scar on Branwen’s palm was nothing but a threadlike line, smooth and white. It looked like a childhood injury.
The healer woman croak-laughed at Branwen’s wonderment.
“My name is Ailleann. Some call me the Wise Damsel. Those in need are always welcome in my home.”
“You’re an Iverwoman?”
Not answering, Ailleann looked at Talorc, whose eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling in slumber. “He’ll live.”
Branwen rubbed the white line again, licking her chapped lips.
“I can help you tame your power,” the Wise Damsel said.
“I don’t want to tame it—I don’t want it at all.” The Old Ones had made a mistake. Her power was a curse.
The other woman furrowed her brow. “We don’t always want what we need.” Another shout for help rose above the din. “When you’re ready to accept your gift,” she said, “you’ll find me at the White Moor.”
The Wise Damsel held Branwen’s gaze for a long moment before turning on her heel and striding away.
THE WILD MOON
THE SUN HUNG LOW IN the sky, traveling westward toward Iveriu as Branwen moved between the survivors, helping those she was able. The last of the daylight on the great Aquilan water bridge made the stone shine like rubies. Branwen felt woozy on her feet, and she welcomed the sensation. If the Old Ones were merciful, they would let her remain in this hazy, dreamlike state forever.
She stumbled on a loose rock and slipped backward.
She never hit the ground.
“It’s time to go, Lady Branwen,” Ruan said, his strong arms supporting her. She relaxed into him before realizing her mistake.
Immediately, she pulled out of his embrace. Branwen regarded the Kernyvak prince. His tunic was crusted with mud and blood, his hair matted with sweat and dirt. He didn’t resemble the smug nobleman who had met Branwen at the Port of Marghas in the least. The warm light highlighted his cheeks invitingly. She tossed the thought aside.
“There are still wounded that need tending,” Branwen protested.
“Night is falling.”
“I’m not afraid of the dark.”
Ruan laughed. “I d
on’t think you’re afraid of anything,” he said, and Branwen scoffed at how wrong he was. Her fears were too numerous to count. He extended a waterskin in her direction. “Here. You must be parched.”
Accepting the waterskin, she murmured, “Mormerkti,” as she put it to her lips.
His amber-brown eyes glinted. “With Lugmarch’s blessing.”
“The king who killed the giants?”
A nod accompanied a sly smile. “Since Lugmarch defeated the giants with tainted mead, it’s customary in Kernyv to offer a drink with his blessing,” Ruan explained as Branwen took another gulp. “When you’re a guest in someone’s home, the host will take a sip first to prove it isn’t poisoned.”
She lowered the waterskin from her mouth. “I didn’t see you take a sip,” she challenged, but it was halfhearted.
Ruan whisked the waterskin from Branwen’s grip and guzzled the remainder. “Satisfied?” he asked as he wiped his mouth, a single drop clinging to his lower lip.
“I suppose, my prince.”
Catching her eye, he said, “Would you do me the favor of calling me Ruan? We’ve already been through mud together.” He motioned with the waterskin at Branwen’s ruined dress and shawl.
“So we have,” she agreed; his intense gaze provoked a flush. “But I thought you were fond of being called Prince?”
“Sometimes.” Ruan took a step toward her, closing the space between them. “Sometimes I like to be just Ruan.”
He licked his thumb and raised it to Branwen’s cheek.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“You have blood on your cheek, Branwen.” She schooled her features, compressing her lips, and nodded. She hadn’t given Ruan permission to call her by her name, and she shouldn’t be allowing him the liberty of touching her, either. But, just for an instant, she craved physical contact. “I like your freckles,” he told her. Branwen said nothing as he dabbed away another splotch of blood with a tender gesture.
“Mormerkti,” she breathed.
“Sekrev.” Ruan kept his thumb on her cheek. “That means you’re welcome,” he added in Aquilan.
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