She stumbled down the hill into the gardens and watched dawn light the water.
From behind her came a familiar voice.
“You went through with it.”
Tristan came to stand shoulder to shoulder with Branwen. She could smell drink on him. She peered at him sidelong. His eyes were bloodshot.
“I told you that I would.”
He jammed his eyes shut. “You kept the peace with your body.”
Almost. Wheeling on him, Branwen said, “I gave up my honor for peace because it was the only honorable thing to do.”
Believe me. Believe me. Believe me.
But if Branwen had followed the seers’ rules, the rules would have broken her—and the peace.
The only way to satisfy the lie of the Mantle of Maidenhood was with another lie.
Tristan fell to his knees before Branwen. “You are the True Queen of Kernyv.”
“Get up, Tristan.”
Branwen hauled him to his feet. He tripped and clutched at her shoulders. “I don’t care that you lay with Marc. I don’t,” he said. “Just tell me if you could ever love me again? The way you did in Iveriu.”
The solace she’d found in Ruan’s bed was fading, making way for resentment.
“In Iveriu, you told me Marc had no time for family life,” she reminded Tristan. “That wasn’t true. He’s in love with a merchant who spent last winter at Monwiku.” It wasn’t hard to discern that the Xandru who sent Marc flowers for his garden was also his karid.
“I wanted to tell you. So many times, I—”
“You upheld your duty to your king—to your brother, and I don’t blame you,” Branwen told him. Tristan hung his head at her words. “We were never free to love each other first.”
“But there’s nothing keeping us apart now, Branwen. You know all of my secrets.” A tear slid from the corner of his eye. “You paid for my mistakes tonight, and I will spend every day for the rest of my life earning your forgiveness. And Marc’s.”
The laments of the sea howled in her ears. Branwen might know all of Tristan’s secrets, but he could never know hers. If she told him that she hadn’t given her body to Marc, she didn’t trust that Tristan might not one day tell Eseult, and Eseult needed to believe Branwen’s sacrifice had been real if there was any hope of keeping the lovers apart. Branwen wouldn’t risk the peace merely to unburden herself, to save her reputation in Tristan’s eyes.
“Do you remember, the night you returned to Iveriu—what you said at the welcome feast?” she asked. Tristan scrubbed a hand over his face. “You said that if keeping me safe meant marrying me to your uncle, you would do it. Even if my presence tormented you every day and you could never show me your heart.”
Brow furrowed, “I don’t—” Tristan started.
“Tell me that isn’t how you feel now.” Branwen stepped toward him, very close. “Tell me you’re not protecting Eseult by pretending not to love her.”
The strain in his jaw, the hesitation in his dark eyes—that was all Branwen needed to see. “You have your answer,” she said, and Branwen had hers. “We will never love each other again as we did in Iveriu, Tristan. I am not selfless enough to share you.”
“Emer,” he rasped.
“Stop, Tristan. Please. Emer and Tantris were only ever a dream. And now we’re awake.”
Branwen left Tristan on his knees and walked to the sea. The chimes in the trees called back to the lonely waves.
PART II
INTO THE WRECK
QUICKENING
A CROWD OF VILLAGERS STREAMED toward the beach to catch a glimpse of the king and queen.
Branwen held herself back. Ruffling Senara’s forelock, she tied the palfrey’s reins to a wooden post. In the past month, Branwen had traveled across most of the Kernyvak peninsula, accompanying her cousin as King Marc introduced the new True Queen of Kernyv to his people. The welcome tour had been exhausting and she was grateful that the festival they were attending this morning would be the last event.
Inhaling, she wended her way toward the water. The wind carried a hint of spring. At Castle Rigani, they would soon be celebrating Imbolgos, the feast sacred to Goddess Bríga. The Iverni believed it was Bríga’s fire that melted the frost, sending winter on its way and quickening the land.
How much had changed since last Imbolgos—before she’d met Tristan, when Keane had asked her to dance.
Up ahead, Tristan stood at a protective distance from the True Queen. Both he and Branwen had been present for the inspection of the Mantle of Maidenhood. Branwen watched as Seer Casek inspected her blood and declared that the union between King Marc and Eseult had been sanctified.
Branwen had returned the kordweyd’s tepid smile with a dark one of her own. Where he saw victory, she saw only his defeat. She had outmaneuvered the seer. She wouldn’t underestimate the threat Casek posed, but neither would she play by his rules again.
“You look rather miserable, Healer Branwen.”
Branwen jumped. Seer Ogrin chortled at her side. “Dymatis,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I come to the festival every year.” His smile was open. “And I brought some friends.” He pointed to a thatch of auburn hair in the crowd. Lowenek was walking with one crutch to support her weight, Talorc holding her other hand.
Branwen’s lips tilted upward. “She’s recovering well.”
“She is. Thanks to you, Healer Branwen. We’ve missed you around the temple.”
“I’ll come for a visit as soon as I can.”
In truth, Branwen would be delighted to escape her duties at the castle and the constant, silent friction between her, Tristan, and Eseult. They had succeeded in their deception but there was no triumph in it.
“I know Ailleann would be glad to see you, too,” Seer Ogrin added.
Branwen touched her fingers to Lady Alana’s brooch. Earlier, when they’d been riding through the forest, she’d sensed the White Moor in the distance, as if it were calling to her. On Long Night, she had nearly lost control of the Hand of Bríga and what scared Branwen most was how much she’d enjoyed it—the thrill of her rage.
“I wouldn’t have thought a Wise Damsel and a seer would be friends,” she said, tamping down on the memory of her fire. Too vivid. Too tempting.
Amusement beamed from Ogrin’s round face. “Ailleann was my first friend in Kernyv. Many, many seasons ago.” He rubbed his head. “When I had more hair.”
The seer’s robe dragged in the sand as they came to a halt amidst the press of bodies.
At the water’s edge, King Marc was stepping into a rickety rowboat.
He had tired eyes. Branwen suspected the fact that Prince Kahedrin had departed Kernyv without a formal farewell wasn’t the only thing keeping him awake at night. She suspected Marc’s heart ached from the wedding vows he had made and intended to keep.
The chattering of the villagers petered out as they watched Ruan hand King Marc a pair of oars. Sea foam lapped against his boots.
Branwen’s cheeks warmed. It was a strange thing to know what a man looked like without his clothes—strange in an exciting way. She hadn’t returned to Ruan’s bed, but she’d thought about it. More than once. She didn’t know what she wanted from the prince. Ruan cracked a grin at Marc, chuckling as he said something Branwen couldn’t hear. Warmth spread through her body. She did want something.
King Marc surveyed the crowd, then glanced at Eseult who stood closer inland, out of the tide’s reach. Tristan positioned himself between his grandmother and the queen; Endelyn and Andred just behind. Against Branwen’s advice, the Queen Mother, who grew weaker by the day, had insisted on coming with them.
Ruan passed Marc one half of a pair of antlers and the king raised it above his head. As the crowd cheered, Seer Ogrin explained to Branwen, “Carnonos is the Lord of Wild Things, and that includes the creatures of the sea. King Marc will honor them with an offering. He will ask the Horned One to bless the sea and keep the fishermen’s nets full.”
B
ranwen recoiled. She knew what kind of wild creatures lurked in the sea and they didn’t answer to the Horned One. The vision she’d had of the Shades attacking Monwiku was never very far from her consciousness.
She kept her eyes pinned to the king’s boat, watching for any sign of dark shapes beneath the waves.
Caught up in her own thoughts, Branwen forgot entirely about Seer Ogrin’s presence until he patted her elbow. “Come back to us soon,” said the seer, and wandered over to Lowenek and Talorc.
Branwen moved toward Queen Verica, offering an escort back from the beach to the center of the village, which resembled the coastal settlements along the Rock Road. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Andred working up the courage to speak to Lowenek, bringing the girl one of the fish pies that King Marc had gifted his people to mark the festival.
“What’s making you smile, Lady Branwen?” the Queen Mother asked. She faltered a step, and Branwen secured her with an arm around her shoulders.
“You see the girl with Andred? She was injured in the mining disaster. Andred’s been helping me care for her and the others.”
“He is a clever boy, and kind,” the queen said. “Nothing like his father.”
“He’s a diligent apprentice.” Branwen pressed her lips together, wondering if Andred carried similar scars to Ruan. “Prince Edern, he … I’ve heard he was a severe man.”
“Thank the Horned One he wasn’t the firstborn son. Marrying Kensa made Edern nearly as rich as the king.” She paused. “But it didn’t make him king.”
Branwen mulled over the queen’s words. “Prince Edern married Countess Kensa for her family mines,” she said, pitching her voice low.
“It wasn’t for love,” Queen Verica said as a cough overwhelmed her. “He didn’t know the meaning of the word.”
Branwen had never met the man but she couldn’t help but be glad he was dead.
At that moment, King Marc strolled toward them with Eseult on his arm. He had told Branwen that he’d wanted a partner, someone to share the burden of ruling. Observing them together now, their postures rigid, they appeared more like acquaintances than husband and wife. Tristan and Ruan remained a few paces behind, giving the royal couple privacy while remaining within striking distance.
The Champions never seemed at ease with each other. How had Ruan given Tristan his scar? Why? And what would Ruan do if he ever learned that Tristan had betrayed his king? Branwen cast her eyes back to her cousin.
Eseult’s complexion was wan in the bright midday sun. She’d only picked at her food for the last couple of weeks, Branwen had noticed, but she could detect no sign of serious illness. And while she registered her cousin’s unhappiness, she couldn’t bring herself to offer any consolation. Revealing Branwen’s plan to Tristan was, perhaps, a small betrayal compared to others. Still, it had slammed a door in Branwen’s heart.
Marc smiled at his mother in greeting and, more tentatively, at Branwen. “Lady Branwen, are you enjoying the festival?” he said.
“The start of spring is always welcome,” Branwen said, somewhat stilted. She’d been in Marc’s company nearly every day for the past month, and he’d made many attempts at conversation. Her guilt warred with her desire to accept his friendship. He had given up much for this peace, and Branwen had wronged him. But, she also knew without a doubt that he had orphaned her.
“Yes,” Marc agreed. “Monwiku will be in full bloom soon enough.”
“Branwen was telling me that some of her patients from the mine are here,” Queen Verica said, ever the diplomat. It was a shame she and Branwen’s aunt would never meet.
“Oh?” Marc looked to Branwen. “How do they fare?”
“Better. Much better, thank you.” He nodded. “Actually, there is a girl. Her parents perished in the disaster,” Branwen said to the king. “Seer Ogrin asked if we might be able to find a place for her at the castle. Perhaps she could help in the gardens?”
“Of course,” Marc answered without hesitation. He held Branwen’s gaze as he said, “It’s a hard thing for a child to lose her parents.”
“Mormerkti,” Branwen said quietly. Did he ever wonder whether the woman he’d watched die left behind children of her own?
“Is the girl from Iveriu?” Eseult asked, her attention being drawn back to the conversation from somewhere else.
“No, Lady Queen,” Branwen told her.
Her cousin flinched at the reminder of who she was to Branwen now. Branwen needed that distance. Loving her cousin was too painful, a pebble she could never dislodge from her boot.
“And the mines,” Eseult said, angling her shoulders at Marc. “Are the working conditions safe?”
“All of the floodgates have been reinforced.” Marc turned to meet his wife’s eyes. “Mining is never entirely risk-free—but I am satisfied with the precautions that have been taken to avoid another calamity.”
Eseult sniffed, not entirely placated. “I see.”
“I can summon the engineers to the castle to make a full report to you,” the king offered. Tension saturated the small gap between the monarchs.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Eseult said. “I have another proposal.” Her eyes latched on to something behind Branwen. Branwen turned and saw that Seer Casek and Countess Kensa approached from behind. Regrettably, they had also come for the festivities.
“What is the proposal?” Marc prompted his queen.
She cleared her throat. “During the past month, I have seen much of Kernyv. There are many people—both Iverni and Kernyveu—whose livelihoods prove dangerous. Whether they be miners or fishermen.”
“Indeed.” Marc kept his eyes steady on Eseult, listening attentively.
At Branwen’s side, she also felt the Queen Mother tilt forward to hear what the True Queen would say next.
“I would like to care for my people as we do in Iveriu.” Catching Branwen’s eye, Eseult said, “I propose the establishment of a royal infirmary.”
Branwen’s lips parted in surprise.
Casek jerked his shoulders back, as he joined the circle. “But, Lady Queen, the temples already provide adequately for the sick.”
“I don’t believe they do,” the True Queen replied.
He tapped the antler shard rapidly. Countess Kensa displayed no reaction. She watched the king, gaze artful. Was ambition enough to survive marriage to a man like Prince Edern? A cruel husband had been Branwen’s greatest fear for her cousin. Brief, unwanted sympathy flared for Ruan’s mother.
Marc looked between his wife and the seer. He tugged at the bristles on his chin.
“You have a gracious heart, my queen,” he began, choosing his words carefully, like someone trying to avoid woodland snares. “We can certainly dedicate more resources to helping those in need. We could fund an expansion of the clinic at the temple in Marghas.”
“There are many people who would find traveling to Marghas difficult, my Lord King,” Eseult replied. “And it’s far from the mines. It would be better to build an infirmary where it can help those who are most in need.”
“And where would you suggest?” Seer Casek spoke too offhandedly to the woman who was his True Queen. King Marc shot him a dark look. “My queen,” the kordweyd added.
“On the moors, near Seer Ogrin’s temple.” Eseult looked from Casek to Marc. It was a good suggestion. The True Queen had been shy and withdrawn on her official visits, not seeming to take much interest in her new kingdom. Branwen had underestimated her. Hope swelled that her cousin was starting to embrace her duties.
“Building a new infirmary would be costly,” Casek appealed to the king.
“Seer Casek poses a valid concern,” Countess Kensa said. “Especially since the nobles will struggle to pay their taxes this year with the new cost of labor.” The countess’s expression was as sweet as rotting meat.
“A valid concern,” said Queen Verica, looking between Kensa and her son. “But not an insurmountable obstacle. I would be happy to donate a portion of my es
tate to the project.”
“Queen Mother,” said King Marc. “That is very generous.”
“I can’t take it with me when the Horned One calls me to be judged,” she said as she held her son’s gaze. “The True Queen’s project is an excellent idea.”
“Thank you, Lady Queen.” Eseult shifted her weight, taken aback at the support. “I would like Lady Branwen to oversee the plans.”
Eseult’s green eyes shone as she turned them on Branwen. “My cousin’s birthday has just passed.” She had remembered after all. “Lady Branwen always puts the needs of others above her own,” she said, a hitch in her voice, and Branwen felt tightness in her chest. “My cousin is an expert healer and would do much good with a clinic of her own. I can think of no better gift for her—or for her patients.”
Tears pricked Branwen’s eyes. Love and gratitude diluted her anger. Despite everything, Eseult knew her better than anyone. Her cousin discerned the one thing that might bring Branwen joy. Lasting joy. More than a night in a lover’s embrace. True fulfillment.
“Thank you,” Branwen said to Eseult in Ivernic. Since they were girls, her cousin had apologized best with gifts. The gesture levered open the door in Branwen’s heart, just a crack, but enough to let in the sun.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Queen Verica said, turning a cold stare on Seer Casek. “Lady Branwen is perhaps not aware that Matrona, the mother of Carnonos, was herself a healer. It’s why all healers are beloved of the Horned One.”
Branwen quirked her lips. “I wasn’t aware, no.”
“Yes, she was. Isn’t that right, Seer Casek?” prodded Queen Verica.
“Yes, Queen Mother.”
“Queen Eseult,” said Queen Verica. “With my donation, I would like to request that Matrona be made the patroness of the new infirmary.”
“I—” Eseult started, reluctant, and looked toward Branwen.
“I have no objection to that,” Branwen said.
“Do you have any further objections, Seer Casek?” the Queen Mother said. The look in her eye reminded all present that her body might be frail, but she was still a queen. And a formidable one.
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