“I know.” Tristan had taught Branwen its meaning the day after the only night she’d ever spent in his bed. If she had given all of herself to him that night, would he have been able to resist the power of the Loving Cup? Could love ever be stronger than magic?
Branwen winced at the memory, and Ruan dropped his hand. He stepped back, misinterpreting Branwen’s reaction.
Clearing his throat, the prince cast his gaze to where the sun had just dipped below the horizon. “I must insist that we return to Monwiku,” he said. “I have duties there to attend to—and so do you.”
Branwen didn’t need the reminder, and she didn’t want to go back. Nothing filled her with more dread. Not the Shades. Not even the Dark One.
For the first time, she understood how the princess had felt on the night of the Farewell Feast. Her cousin had called Kernyv a prison. Perhaps it was. But she and Branwen were imprisoned here together.
Branwen had vowed to the Queen of Iveriu that she would place the interests of her kingdom above all else. She would redeem herself to the Land. Her mission was all she had left.
“Very well,” she told Ruan. He offered her an arm, and, although Branwen was mistrustful, exhaustion obliged her to take it. “Who will tend the wounded?” she asked as they began to retreat from the center of the gorge.
“You mean you aren’t going to do it single-handedly?” Branwen tensed, then released a laugh-sigh. “Fear not,” Ruan said. “A messenger has been sent to the nearest temple of the Horned One.”
“There are healers at the temple?”
Now it was Ruan’s turn to look at her askance. “There are no temples in Iveriu?”
“The New Religion has not yet come to our land. We are devoted to the Old Ones.”
Ruan tapped his thumb against his thigh, considering. “I wouldn’t call it new. The Cult of the Horned One came to Albion in the era of the Aquilan Empire.”
“You’re a believer?”
“As much as I believe in anything,” he said, almost under his breath. “But to answer your first question, the kordweyd—seers of the Horned One—are all skilled healers. The temples have cared for the sick since the time of the plague.”
Questions buzzed in Branwen’s mind. She knew that forty or so years ago the island of Albion and the southern continent had been ravaged by disease. The Iverni believed that the Old Ones had protected them from the plague because it never came to their island. The raids on Iveriu were fewer and farther between during that period.
“Only the kordweyd dared to enter the plague-ridden villages,” Ruan expounded. “If the seers died in service of the afflicted, the Horned One would resurrect them for their sacrifice.”
Branwen kept quiet. She could understand why the New Religion was adopted so eagerly in the wake of such devastation.
“I met a woman the miners call the Wise Damsel,” she said. “Is she also a kordweyd?”
Ruan gave a small snort. “Wise Damsels, gifted women—the peasants go to them for herbs and charms. Fool’s hope.”
“And you scorn these women?” Branwen’s tone grew caustic.
“I meant no offense.” Ruan met her gaze. “The kordweyd at the temples have studied the medicine of the Aquilan Empire and beyond. They deal in facts, not superstitions.”
She herself had once spoken with condescension of things she couldn’t explain. Using the Hand of Bríga to save Talorc had been a risky, impetuous thing to do. Branwen understood better why Queen Eseult wanted her to keep her magic hidden.
“You hold the conquerors of your island in very high esteem,” Branwen pointed out.
Ruan lifted a shoulder. “They never conquered Kernyv—and we learned much from them.”
She made a noncommittal noise, wondering if everyone in Kernyv shared the prince’s views. Ruan came to a stop in front of the horses. He must have collected them during the afternoon and tied them to a lone tent pole sticking up in the mud. In the coming evening, the coat of Branwen’s dappled gray stallion glowed like a storm cloud.
“Allow me to help you up?” Ruan said.
“Thank you.” Branwen grabbed ahold of the mane. The prince gave her a boost into the saddle before launching himself onto his own mount.
Branwen surveyed the field of broken bodies and debris. She prayed to the Old Ones that Lowenek and the others would not be taken by infection during the night.
Ruan made a clicking noise and both steeds began to ascend the slope onto the moor. Branwen was grateful their pace was barely above a walk. She pressed a hand to her middle. She would need to clean her own wounds when they reached the castle.
They rode across the moor for a few minutes before Branwen restarted the conversation. “There were Iverni among the miners,” she said. “Men captured in raids.”
Ruan glanced at her sidelong. “Yes. And there are Kernyvak prisoners in Iveriu, are there not?”
“Yes.” Branwen swallowed. Prisoners of war were enemies of Iveriu and they were put to work, usually hard labor. There were fewer Kernyvak prisoners in Iveriu solely because Ivernic raids on Kernyv had been less successful.
“The man you saved from the landslide,” she said to Ruan. “He was Ivernic. A prisoner, I dare say. Why did you risk your life for him?”
The moon began to rise over the moor as Ruan answered.
“He may be a prisoner, but he’s still a man.” The prince’s inflection was heated.
Branwen blinked twice, taken aback, and recalled the day her father had saved a drowned fisherman with the kiss of life. “We Iverni believe that if you save someone’s life, your honor becomes tied to theirs until they return the favor,” she said.
“In that case, Lady Branwen, your honor must be pulled in very many directions.”
Branwen went quiet. Her honor was tied to both Tristan and Eseult in more ways than Ruan could ever discover. Cheeks warming, she raised her eyes toward the moon. “I would like to check on my patients tomorrow,” she told him.
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
He kicked his stallion into a trot, and Branwen’s mount followed suit. Her joints ached as they rode a while longer in a mostly companionable silence.
“This is called the Morrois Forest,” Ruan remarked as they reentered the wood. Thin light through the arches of bowed branches made the contours of his face appear jagged. “When we were younger, Tristan used to follow me and Marc when we came here to hunt, challenging us to duels with scraggly sticks.”
Essy, too, had shadowed Branwen until she had become as essential as a limb.
“You’re older than Tristan, I gather?” Branwen said.
“By four summers.” Which made Branwen wonder why Ruan hadn’t been selected as King’s Champion from the start. Surely being older made him the natural choice?
“My father, Prince Edern, was the younger brother of King Merchion—Marc’s father,” Ruan added, supplying a partial answer to her unvoiced question. “He passed away a year after his brother.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
He nodded in acknowledgment before a false smile crossed his face. “And what of you, my lady?” He tapped his lower lip. “Your family in Iveriu must be missing you already.”
For all his rakish charms, Branwen could almost believe Ruan’s interest was genuine.
“I’m an only child,” she began. “My mother was Queen Eseult’s younger sister. My parents … died when I was a girl.” Branwen choked on the sanitized words, but she decided it was better if the courtiers at Monwiku didn’t know all the reasons she had to hate them. “I was raised by Queen Eseult and King Óengus at Castle Rigani.”
“Princess Eseult is like a sister to you,” Ruan said.
“Yes.” Barely a whisper.
At that moment, they emerged from the forest onto the beach. The horses skirted shallow tide pools where serpent-stars crawled on the bottoms. Dark waves lapped against the glowing sand. Branwen would never be able to look at the sea in the same way. Now she knew what lay beneath.
> Dhusnos had told Branwen she was made of destruction. She didn’t want to believe it—and yet the waves tugged at her.
Goddess Ériu had banished Dhusnos from Ivernic shores long before Branwen’s ancestors were born. The Dark One thrived on Iveriu’s grief, on strife. Had he only let Tristan and Eseult survive the night because he wanted to watch the Land’s carefully laid plans fall apart? War for Iveriu meant more unclaimed souls, more darkness on which Dhusnos could feed.
“We’ll leave the horses here,” Ruan said, jarring Branwen from her thoughts. “The tide is still too high—” He showed her a wicked grin. “Unless you fancy a swim?”
She gave a tired laugh. “Not tonight.”
“Lucky for you, I have a boat.”
The journey across the causeway took less than a quarter hour and suddenly Monwiku Castle loomed above Branwen. Ruan threaded a rope through a small mooring ring. Securing the knot, he jumped onto the dock.
“Welcome to your new home, Branwen.”
He pressed a hand briefly to the small of her back as he helped her onto the dock. “It’s been a long day. Can you manage the hike up the hill, or should I carry you?”
Regaining her balance, Branwen pulled away. “I can stand quite well on my own two feet.”
“In that case I’ll live in the hope that one day I can sweep you off them,” Ruan said with a wink. Branwen’s lips formed a smile without her permission.
Pointing at the stone huts along the shoreline, she asked, “Who lives there?”
Ruan led them along the slipway. “The castle servants,” he replied. “The island has everything the king could need. Livestock, gardens, a granary, a brewery, barracks, stables … Everything.”
Branwen had to admit it was remarkable. Her eyes strained to make out all the details in the faint light. The dock led to a cobblestoned path that passed through an imposing granite archway. Two stone sea-wolves guarded either side of the entrance.
“Why isn’t the island fortified?” she said.
“The castle is, my lady. But there’s no need to worry. Monwiku has never been attacked.”
“That must be a nice feeling. Security has been hard to come by in Iveriu.”
At her side, Ruan strummed his fingers against his thigh but made no reply. Branwen’s legs ached as they followed the path, climbing as it twisted and turned through a canopy of trees. Lanterns were hung at regular intervals to light the way. Her nerves tightened with each step she took closer to the castle, closer to Tristan and Eseult.
They reached the gate of the first perimeter wall and Branwen drew down a long breath. “The king lives at the top,” Ruan said. “As will the queen. Only a little farther.”
Two guards saluted the prince as they opened the gate. He greeted them in Kernyvak. Continuing up the hill, they soon arrived at the last of the terraced levels. The design of the castle was circular. Five rounded towers protruded from the sides, almost like petals on a flower, surrounding the inner bailey.
“The north-facing tower belongs to the queen,” Ruan informed Branwen, following her gaze. “I’ll escort you there before I find my king. I’m sure you’re eager for a hot bath.”
“Are you implying that I smell?” she said.
He sniffed at Branwen’s hair. “You do, my lady. But so do I.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Today had been full of horrors, yet Ruan still managed to make her laugh.
“Branwen!”
A rough voice carried her name across the courtyard that lay beneath the Queen’s Tower.
Speaking so only Branwen could hear, Ruan muttered, “I think you’re in trouble.”
Tristan rushed toward them. He had changed into a black velvet tunic and leather trousers. The white sash that cut his chest at a diagonal was almost too bright. He’d trimmed the curls that had grown long during the voyage.
He looked magnificent. She took a step backward.
“Branwen, are you all right?” Tristan said, stopping only when their toes were almost touching. Then he turned a glower on Ruan.
“I’m perfectly fine, Prince Tristan.” She kept her reply cold and curt, again refusing to use her mother tongue.
He skimmed her profile with worried eyes. “Is that blood?”
“It’s not mine.”
Tristan speared Ruan with another glare. “How is it that you let Lady Branwen come to be spattered with other people’s blood?”
Branwen spied something shutter behind Ruan’s eyes.
“Lady Branwen is rather better at giving orders than taking them,” he told Tristan. “I’d like to see you prevent the lady from doing something on which she’s set her mind.”
His smile was hard. This was the Prince Ruan who had greeted Branwen at the port, not the Ruan of the moors.
Tristan’s shoulders slouched forward. “I’ve never had much success at that, either,” he admitted to his cousin, capturing Branwen’s gaze.
“Nor is it your responsibility to try,” she told him. “You’re the Queen’s Champion. Not mine.”
Tristan flinched, and Branwen scolded herself for caring. “Be that as it may,” he said. “I’ll escort you to Princess Eseult’s apartment.” He stared down Ruan until he relinquished Branwen’s arm.
Taking her hand instead, Ruan raised it to his lips. “Come find me if you’d like a private tour of the castle.” His mouth lingered on her skin. “I’ll make sure it’s extensive.”
Branwen retracted her hand as if she’d been bitten, refusing to be used like a pawn in whatever battle was taking place between the royal cousins.
“I can find my own way around the castle, thank you, Prince Ruan.” There was the tiniest flicker of the muscle in Ruan’s jaw as she emphasized his title.
“Good night, my lady.” He bowed in a supercilious fashion and exited the courtyard.
Branwen started toward the entrance of the Queen’s Tower. Tristan barred her path. “Did you use your magic?” he asked in a whisper. He fingered a strand of her hair: white.
“I’m exhausted, Tristan. Please, leave me be.”
“I’m only concerned for you. Let me help.”
She leaned into him. “You’ve done enough.”
“Branwen.”
“I was wrong in Iveriu when I said you could never fail me. You failed us both.” And so did I. Choking down a sob, Branwen shoved Tristan’s chest, hard, and barged past him toward a spiral staircase.
“It’s the third land—” he called after her. Branwen blocked him out. Her tears sluiced through the dirt on her cheeks as she broke into a sprint. Racing up the tight, candlelit stairwell, face hot, she only stopped to catch her breath at the top.
Branwen leaned her forehead against the cool stone wall until her breathing had returned to normal.
Blotting her cheeks, she walked toward the susurration of voices and, unwillingly, knocked on the door at the end of the corridor. The murmuring ceased abruptly.
A finely attired woman opened the door. She appeared to be the same age as Branwen, her light brown hair arranged in stylish plaits. A bejeweled golden torque adorned her milky neck. Sapphires studded her ears.
“Dymatis,” said Branwen.
The woman took one look at her and wrinkled her nose. Disdain dripped from the reply in Kernyvak, which Branwen didn’t need to understand.
“I am Lady Branwen of Iveriu,” Branwen told her in Aquilan. The woman’s expression changed to incredulous.
“Branny!” exclaimed a familiar voice from inside. Eseult raced to the door, pushing the Kernyvak woman aside.
Taking in Branwen’s disheveled appearance, the princess’s face fell. “What happened?” she said, anxious, in Ivernic. “Are you hurt?” She grabbed Branwen’s hand and pulled her across the threshold as if the other woman didn’t exist.
Branwen wanted to resist her cousin’s touch, but she had nowhere else to go.
“I’m unharmed, Your Highness,” Branwen said. “Thank you for asking. There were many wounded at the mine.�
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The princess squeezed her hand so hard it hurt, eyes doleful.
“Who is this?” Branwen tore her gaze away from her cousin, still speaking in Ivernic. She put on a smile for the other woman’s benefit. Her eyebrow was arched. Branwen determined that the Kernyvak woman didn’t speak her language, either.
“That’s Endelyn. She’s been assigned as my lady-in-waiting,” the princess said. “She won’t stop hovering.”
Branwen turned toward the woman. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said to Endelyn.
“And you. I am Princess Endelyn.” She smiled, and her blue eyes were as cold as the sapphires in her ears. “It seems like you’ve been on quite the adventure with my brother. Ruan never misses the opportunity to welcome the newest lady to court.” Endelyn looked Branwen up and down. “I hope you didn’t fall from your horse? Or were you rolling around in the mud for fun?”
The words were a slap, but Branwen had endured too much to be affected by the spite of some spoiled Kernyvak princess.
“Not at all,” Branwen said to Endelyn in a cloying voice. “It’s hard to tend wounded men and women without getting your hands dirty.” She peered down the length of her body. “Or your clothes.”
Eseult brushed her hand against Branwen’s tangled, knotty curls. “I’ve been so worried, cousin.” She spoke urgently in Ivernic.
“I was in no danger,” Branwen lied.
“Maybe not, but I’m glad you’re back,” Eseult said, lashes fluttering. “Endelyn has just poured me a bath. You go first.” Before Branwen could protest, her cousin whirled toward her new lady-in-waiting. “Branwen is here now,” she said in Aquilan. “You may retire.”
Shock smoothed Endelyn’s brow. She opened and closed her mouth. The Kernyvak princess was obviously unaccustomed to being dismissed.
“Of course, Lady Princess.” Endelyn curtsied. “My chamber is on the floor below if you require anything in the night.”
“Mormerkti, Princess Endelyn,” Branwen said. Eseult barely acknowledged the other woman’s departure. As she retreated toward the doorway, Endelyn threw Branwen a smile over her shoulder that was as deadly as any blade.
A bathing tub cast from copper was positioned in front of a large window with a view of the sea. Eseult led Branwen by the hand and began helping her undress. Branwen didn’t want her cousin’s help. She wanted even less to speak with the princess, however, so she didn’t stop Eseult from loosening the laces of her dress. Branwen’s tunic and under sheath slipped to the floor, pooling around her ankles.
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