“He is the truest brother any man could want,” Marc declared.
Acid churned in Branwen’s gut. She had always known that using magic on a foreign king was an act of war. She hadn’t wanted to make Tristan complicit in her treason, even though she had fully believed her treason would bring peace. She had believed all would be right in the end. She had believed …
The chair beside hers creaked as Ruan refilled his goblet to the brim.
“Because of Tristan’s bravery,” the king continued, “it gladdens me to introduce you, my friends and countrymen, to the Princess Eseult of Iveriu—your future queen!”
Eseult sat statue-still through another round of tepid clapping.
“The wedding and coronation will take place at Long Night. We will start the darkest part of the year with the brightest joy.”
Marc cleared his throat. His fingers tensed minutely on the scroll. “In accordance with the treaty I have made with the High King of Iveriu,” he went on, “Princess Eseult will not be solely my Queen Consort. Instead, she will be a True Queen in her own right.”
Countess Kensa was only partially successful in concealing a gasp. Others less so. Casek coughed as if he were choking.
Branwen glanced at Tristan with trepidation. The corners of his mouth tightened.
This was even more explosive news than the freeing of the prisoners.
A True Queen held the same status as a king. She was a full sovereign and retained the throne if her king died.
King Marc’s older sister, Tristan’s mother, had been unable to inherit the throne of Kernyv because she was a woman. Even in Iveriu, a woman couldn’t rule in her own right. Only a True Queen could. Queen Eseult embodied the Land, but the Land was the Consort of the High King.
Branwen unfurled her right hand beneath the table. There had been no True Queen of Iveriu since the legendary Queen Medhua. Branwen’s eyes traced the snow-white scar that bisected her heart line. According to her aunt, Queen Medhua had also been the last woman known to possess the Hand of Bríga.
Why hadn’t Tristan warned her?
Throughout the voyage, Branwen had felt her secrets wind around her like a noose. Yet Tristan had still been keeping his own.
King Marc set down the scroll and extended a hand to Eseult.
“Kernyv and Iveriu are equals from this moment forward,” he said. “Likewise, my future queen and I will be partners.”
Eseult accepted Marc’s hand, but Branwen saw the fear in her eyes. Branwen shared that fear. The implications were momentous. Dangerous. Why had King Marc agreed to this? Did he really regret the past so much?
Marc showed Eseult a tentative smile. “Let us raise a glass to the future True Queen of Kernyv, and to peace!”
Andred had refilled the king’s solid gold drinking cup without being asked.
“With Lugmarch’s blessing!” Marc declared. “Kernyv bosta vyken! Kernyv forever!”
To sons! To peace! To the queen! Kernyv forever!
The shouts reverberated in Branwen’s ears as dread coiled around her heart. The Kernyvak nobility toasting to the union had nothing to gain by Eseult’s elevation to a True Queen. They only had personal power to lose.
King Marc lowered himself back into his chair, pressing a chaste kiss to Eseult’s cheek. She stared blankly at the myriad guests. Her future subjects. Conversation swiftly resumed and much mead was poured.
Ruan rested his head against Branwen’s. “The Ivernic king must be incredibly persuasive,” he muttered. “Peace has only just been agreed to and already you’re rewriting all our laws.” The prince smiled as he drank from his goblet.
Not the Ivernic king, thought Branwen. The Ivernic queen.
Only Queen Eseult would be bold enough to suggest such a risky gambit.
Her aunt had seen the opportunity to endow her daughter with more power than she would ever possess—and she had seized it. The treaty may have been signed by two kings, but its terms had been orchestrated by a queen. Noblewomen rarely got the chance to control their own destinies. Queen Eseult had moved the men—Tristan, Marc, her own husband—around the board as if she were playing fidkwelsa.
With a True Queen, an Ivernic queen, upon the throne of Kernyv, the power and influence of Iveriu would become manifold.
But in augmenting Iveriu’s might, Queen Eseult had also painted a target on her daughter’s back. Enemies would crawl out of the woodwork. Branwen had always hoped her cousin would grow into being a leader, but the weight of being a True Queen might break her. Branwen peered down the table at her cousin, who had gone whiter than a Death-Teller.
This was why her aunt had at last agreed to conjure the Loving Cup, she realized. It wasn’t so that Eseult would know love or happiness. It was insurance against King Marc changing his mind.
Branwen recalled how, on the day of their departure, Queen Eseult had said that the Land must think of all her children. Her aunt was the Queen of Iveriu first, a mother and aunt second. She couldn’t afford to rule with her heart.
Still, why hadn’t her aunt trusted Branwen with her plans? Why, when she knew everything Branwen was willing to risk for the Loving Cup?
A second realization punched her, swift and painful.
Queen Eseult must have feared that, deep down, Branwen loved her cousin more than her kingdom. And Branwen had proved the queen’s fears justified. She’d jeopardized peace by loving her cousin too much. She took an imprudent gulp of mead.
“So much for your wits,” Ruan remarked.
“To the Otherworld with my wits.”
He lowered an eyebrow and laughed.
Branwen drained the goblet dry.
KERNYV FOREVER
EACH OF THE NOBLE KERNYVAK Houses approached the king’s table in turn and offered their congratulations to the future True Queen of Kernyv.
Branwen observed them carefully as they introduced themselves, keeping in mind the details that Endelyn had provided to the princess before the feast. The five oldest and largest baronies had been created by King Katwaladrus who ruled Kernyv at the time of the Aquilan withdrawal from Albion. Emboldened by the departure of the Aquilan legions, Kernyv’s neighboring kingdom to the east, Meonwara, had staged an invasion.
Katwaladrus and his allies beat them back across the River Dubras and burned half of the Meonwaran capital of Isca to the ground. The Kernyveu called him Great King Katwaladrus, but he was also the king who began the raids on Iveriu. The Iverni didn’t call him Great, and Branwen couldn’t bring herself to, either.
The descendants of Katwaladrus’s victorious allies now bowed their heads before King Marc and Princess Eseult.
Baron Gwyk and Baron Dynyon offered perfunctory salutations to the king and his bride-to-be. The head of House Gwyk was an exceptionally tall man with one piercingly yellow-brown eye, like a cat’s; the other was made of cloudy glass from the Serene Republic, Ruan whispered in Branwen’s ear. He had lost it fighting the Iverni.
Branwen wanted to say he’d lost it raiding her homeland, but she smiled at him instead. Baron Dynyon made a habit of touching his carmine mustache as he talked and, if he was a friend of Countess Kensa, Branwen was predisposed to dislike him.
Baron Kerdu offered his congratulations to Eseult in Ivernic, eliciting a small smile from the princess. They sounded sincere. He lingered a few moments to ask Tristan about his journey from Iveriu.
“You’re a true Kartagon warrior,” the baron said with approval, wrinkles creasing his dark skin as he smiled, and shook Tristan’s hand. “You’ve made us proud.”
Tristan thanked him, seeming touched, and Branwen tried not to be touched as well. His happiness was no longer her affair.
Baron Chyanhal also appeared to be of Kartagon descent. When the Aquilan military left Albion, Tristan had explained to Branwen during the sea voyage, King Katwaladrus allowed the legionaries to stay if they wished. Which struck her as a strange decision. Why allow trained, foreign fighters to remain in his kingdom?
Branw
en wondered if, perhaps, the price of remaining was to join his campaign against Meonwara.
The head of House Chyanhal was younger than the other barons, tall and slim, amicable but self-contained. Branwen couldn’t ascertain his allegiances.
The last baron to come forward had a long, white beard. His waxen skin was flecked with liver spots. He walked with some difficulty and seemed to resent the finely whittled cane on which he leaned.
“House Julyan offers our very best wishes on your engagement.” The baron smiled at King Marc in a grandfatherly way. Indeed, he was more than old enough.
“I never thought I’d live to see peace with Iveriu,” he said. “Perhaps that is why the Horned One has yet to call me for judgment.” He rattled a warm laugh and shifted his smile to Eseult. “Long may you reign, Lady Princess.”
Pressing his cane toward his heart, the elderly baron declared, “Kernyv bosta vyken!”
“Kernyv forever,” King Marc repeated, and Branwen detected a hint of relief in his tone. Tristan’s shoulders also noticeably slackened. Baron Julyan’s support must carry great weight at court.
Tristan and Marc were attempting to change Kernyv’s future with this marriage—and it was evident they hadn’t consulted the barons beforehand. King Marc wanted to make peace grow like his garden but, glancing around the Great Hall, Branwen wondered how many weeds would first need to be pulled up by the root.
The king stood. Gazing down at Eseult, he held out a tentative hand.
“Would you do me the honor of a dance?”
Eseult nodded, eyes downcast. She took his hand, and Baron Julyan released another chesty laugh. Dutifully, Branwen and the others followed them down from the dais to the space that had been cleared for dancing.
King Marc gestured at the musicians and they broke into a boisterous tune. The instruments looked almost identical to those used by the kelyos bands in Iveriu. Before she’d met Tristan, Branwen had never considered that the music of her enemies could be so like her own. She swayed to the beat.
The nobles formed a ring around the king as he began guiding the princess through the steps of a Kernyvak dance. Marc held Eseult as if she were a bird who might fly away. Eseult stared at her feet. The awkwardness between them was palpable, painful to watch.
“Join us!” King Marc invited the crowd. “Join us!”
Several of the courtiers answered his call. Eseult’s eyes sought out Tristan, but he didn’t notice because Baron Dynyon had him engaged in what appeared to be an animated conversation. Branwen spied Endelyn trying to capture Tristan’s attention as well. While Endelyn’s mother might have wanted to see her married to Marc, the Kernyvak princess had evidently set her sights on his nephew. She settled for an invitation to dance from Baron Chyanhal whose features were angular, yet pleasing.
Ruan cocked an eyebrow at Branwen, and she edged backward through the crowd as more couples joined the king and future queen on the dance floor.
“Lady Branwen?”
Andred appeared at her side. “Nosmatis, Andred,” she said.
His jaw tightened as he shifted his weight onto his right leg. “Nosmatis,” the young prince echoed. “I’ve heard you’re a healer.”
“I am.” Discreetly, Branwen marked his profile. She had assisted her aunt in treating a girl with a similarly twisted foot. “But I don’t know of any cures—”
“No,” Andred interrupted. “Not for me. I—I’ve been studying—reading…” He ran a hand over his dark curls. “I grow herbs in Marc’s—the king’s garden. I was wondering if you would teach me?”
“Teach you?”
“Healing. Medicine. I’d like to go with you when you visit your patients.” He scrunched his lips together. “I know all of the herbs in Kernyv, and I can suture wounds. I can help.” Determination in his eye, Andred told her, “I’d make a good apprentice.”
Branwen was taken aback. She still considered herself to be Queen Eseult’s apprentice. “You don’t want to learn from the kordweyd?”
Andred frowned. “The kordweyd don’t share their knowledge outside the temple. They also don’t marry or have families. Once a kordweyd is Consecrated, he has no family apart from the Horned One.” The boy rubbed his left hip, which appeared stiff. “I’m not ready to be Consecrated. Give me a chance, Lady Branwen,” he said.
Branwen didn’t know if she was in a position to teach anyone anything, but she said, “I would be very happy for your help, Andred.”
He showed her a heartrending grin. “Thank you, my lady.” The grin grew cheeky, making him look even more like Ruan. “Maybe I can teach you something, too?”
“Oh?”
“Kernyvak. You’re living here now. You need to speak our language.”
“Yes, I do,” Branwen agreed. “I think Prince Ruan is tired of playing translator.”
“I think he likes the excuse to speak with you.”
“Mmm. Your brother likes hearing himself talk.”
“You’re not wrong.” They shared a laugh.
The courtiers clapped as the dance came to an end and King Marc bowed to Eseult. He led the princess toward where Countess Kensa, Ruan, and Seer Casek were standing. The musicians struck up another song, and the dancing continued, accompanied by cheers and laughter.
The princess’s cheeks glowed from twirling. She looked almost like the cousin Branwen remembered. Catching Branwen’s eye, Eseult beckoned her to join them, and she was in no position to refuse.
Resigned, she excused herself from Andred’s side. Ruan smiled, running a thumb over his mouth, as Branwen joined their group.
“Lady Branwen,” King Marc said. “There is another matter to do with the treaty that concerns you.”
“There is?” She clutched the sleeve of her dress, sneaking a glance at her cousin. Eseult looked as mystified as Branwen felt.
Countess Kensa and Seer Casek leaned forward as the king spoke.
“You are the heir to Castle Bodwa and lands in the Laiginztir province of Iveriu, are you not?” Branwen nodded. “Your uncle, King Óengus, requested that you also be provided with territory in Kernyv for a dowry that befits your status as cousin to my queen.”
“I…” Branwen took a deep breath. “I have no interest in marriage.”
Ruan laughed. “I’ve never heard of a woman with no interest in marriage.”
“Perhaps you don’t know what women truly want,” she said, and the words came out more snappish than she’d intended. Ruan’s smile faltered.
“Which lands are to be gifted to Lady Branwen?” Countess Kensa prompted the king. Her voice was breezy and false.
King Marc’s gaze traveled across the room to Tristan. “My nephew has bequeathed Lady Branwen estates in Liones, near his own Castle Wragh.”
“He did?” Branwen whispered.
“I hope these are welcome tidings,” King Marc said. She swallowed. If not for the Loving Cup, it would have been. Just then, Tristan walked toward them, Baron Dynyon at his heels.
Countess Kensa looked over Tristan’s shoulder, meeting the baron’s eye. “You’ve missed the happy news,” she told him. “Prince Tristan has gifted some of the estates near Castle Wragh to Lady Branwen.”
Baron Dynyon’s face turned as red as his mustache. Tristan froze.
To Branwen, the countess said, “House Dynyon originally controlled much of Liones—a reward from Great King Katwaladrus.”
“In the time before House Whel existed,” Ruan remarked, and his mother glared at him.
“I suppose Liones is Prince Tristan’s sovereign territory,” Kensa continued, ignoring her eldest son. “He may do with it as he pleases.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. Only a monarch had the power to redistribute lands. King Marc spoke before his nephew could take the countess’s bait. “Liones has been under the protection of Kernyv since Tristan pledged his fealty to me—as you well know, Countess. I authorized all of the terms of the treaty with Iveriu, including the land bequest to Lady Branwen.”
&nb
sp; There was a hard edge to his words. “Furthermore, we are looking to the future,” King Marc said, shifting his gaze between Countess Kensa and Baron Dynyon. “Not the past.”
“And as we look to the future,” said the baron, “will the Houses be compensated for the loss of labor from the freed prisoners—whom we have clothed and sheltered? Or will our taxes to the crown be reduced?”
Branwen marveled that the nobleman would make such a thinly veiled threat.
Tristan stepped closer to his king, taking umbrage on his behalf.
“My esteemed baron,” said King Marc. “I am building a new future for Kernyv. The Iverni are free to remain in Kernyv or return to Iveriu. If they choose to stay, I expect them to be compensated for their labor.”
“And you expect the Iverni to treat the Kernyveu in Iveriu so fairly?” he spluttered. “Didn’t the King’s Champion cheat in the Final Combat? I heard he coated his spear with poison.”
Outrage shone on Eseult’s face as she drew in a breath. Branwen felt a spark in her right palm. The marriage ceremony hadn’t yet been performed and there were already so many ways this alliance could unravel.
“My uncle Morholt acted with dishonor, Baron Dynyon,” said Branwen, trying to restrain her own ire. “The Queen of Iveriu denounced him and denied him entrance to the Land of Youth.”
“Yes,” Eseult said. “We’re all grateful Prince Tristan survived. Do not suppose you know the heart of the Ivernic people.” Branwen barely masked her surprise at the princess’s words. Before she’d drunk from the Loving Cup, her cousin had sworn she would never forgive Tristan for slaying their uncle.
Tristan turned on Baron Dynyon. “King Óengus is a man of honor,” he said roughly. Gesturing at Eseult and Branwen, he continued, “As is his daughter and his niece. Lady Branwen purged the poison from me herself.”
“Indeed,” said King Marc. “I am beholden to the Iverwomen for bringing Tristan back to me. He’s as dear to me as my own life.”
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