The Queen Mother acquiesced immediately to Branwen’s suggestion that she take to her bed, which emphasized how frail the proud woman had become.
She returned slowly to the Queen’s Tower, the air temperate as it teased the wisps at Branwen’s hairline. The Festival of Belotnia was still more than two moons away, but, perhaps, summer came earlier to Kernyv than it did to Iveriu.
Tristan leaned against the archway that led up to the True Queen’s chamber. His sword rested against his hip.
“How is my grandmother?” he asked, tension in his voice. The truth of the old woman’s weakening state was hard to conceal. Still, Branwen had given Queen Verica her word not to make her illness common knowledge.
“She’s having a nap until dinnertime.”
Tristan pressed his lips together at her reply. The wind blew between them. From the gardens, the chimes rang out.
“Thank you,” Branwen said to Tristan in her native tongue. His eyes lit with surprise. “Thank you for defending me.”
“Branwen.” He took a step closer. “I owe you my life many times over. I will always defend you.” He paused, composing his next words. “Please trust in that if you can trust me in nothing else.”
A lump welled in Branwen’s throat. “I release you from your obligation.”
“I don’t want to be released.”
“Then consider us even.”
Tristan gave his head one shake. Branwen didn’t know how to respond but before the silence stretched on too long, Tristan’s shoulder blades drew together. His gaze focused on something behind her.
“Ruan.” His cousin’s name became an accusation.
“I would like to speak with Lady Branwen,” Ruan said. Tristan returned his gaze to her and she clutched her skirts, keeping her back to Ruan.
What did Tristan make of the revelation that Branwen had spent the night with his cousin?
After a beat, Tristan said, “I doubt the lady has anything to say to you.”
“The lady can speak for herself,” Ruan retorted.
“Yes. She can.” Branwen pivoted toward the Kernyvak prince. His complexion was ashen. “What do you want to say to me, Ruan?”
“Alone,” he said, glaring at Tristan. He flicked his lips with his tongue. To Branwen, he implored, “Please,” in Ivernic.
The unbidden memory—the sensation—of his hands, his kisses moving over her body, and the way he smiled at Branwen when she wore nothing but her scars sparked in her mind. But he’d done nothing to prevent such outrageous claims from being brought against her.
“Please,” he repeated.
“I’ll give you a moment, and no more,” Branwen relented. Better to rip the bandage from a wound than to let it fester.
Tristan drummed his fingers on the flat of his sword. “I’ll see if the True Queen needs anything.”
“Like a serenade?” said Ruan. Tristan grimaced as he headed into the stairwell. With his cousin’s footsteps receding, Ruan reached for Branwen. She dodged his hand.
“This is your moment,” she said. “Don’t waste it.”
“I was only doing my duty, Branwen,” he said. “I must do as the king commands.”
“And your mother—do you also do as she commands?”
A breath hissed through Ruan’s teeth. “She arrived at the castle this morning. I had no idea as to the source of her intelligence.”
“Your sister, apparently.”
“Endelyn is … don’t blame her. She thought she was doing the right thing by reporting to our mother.” Branwen crossed her arms, and Ruan blew out another frustrated breath. “My sister and my mother—it’s complicated.”
“From where I stand, it’s very uncomplicated. Your entire family would like to see me branded a traitor to the throne.”
“No, Branwen. No.” Ruan extended his hand toward her once more, then stopped himself. “Andred is devastated. He idolizes you. He’s afraid you hate him.”
“I could never hate Andred,” she said. He was the lone member of House Whel whom she bore no malice. Doubtless the boy had told Countess Kensa the uses of False Heart in an attempt to be helpful. He possessed a genuine passion for herbs and healing, and he craved the approval of both his mother and older sister.
“Why did you cry out when you were in the cell?” Ruan asked. “Did the prisoner hurt you?” Concern infused his question.
“No. I pricked myself with your knife,” she lied. “You could have asked me sooner.” She was glad that she hadn’t disclosed her vision to anyone at the castle.
Ruan’s shoulders rolled forward. “I’m sorry, Branwen. Do you hate me?”
“If you think me capable of murdering the Armorican prisoner—a defenseless man, that I could poison my own cousin, then you should hate me, Prince Ruan!”
“I never believed you did anything of the kind. I feel the opposite of hate for you, Branwen.”
The admission filled the air between them.
“And now everyone in Kernyv knows I shared your bed!” Branwen said, voice rising as her indignation mounted. “Congratulations. Your mother and the other nobles will enjoy gossiping about how you made a conquest of the Ivernic lady’s maid.”
“That isn’t what I wanted. My only thought was to give you an alibi,” he said. “But, why not let me court you openly? It would silence any wagging tongues.”
“I’ve told you I have no interest in marriage. Certainly not to a man who would accuse me of treason!”
“Branwen, I felt sick. I felt sick when the king sent me to fetch you. If anyone has made a conquest, it’s you who has made one of me.” Ruan waved a pleading hand. “But Marc is my king—I have to investigate any and all threats to his crown.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” She held his gaze. “I let you know me more than any other man in this world, and I understand now that it was a mistake.” Branwen had known before the wedding night that making the King’s Champion her lover was a dangerous, foolhardy thing to do—and yet she’d done it, heedless.
She took a step under the archway and Ruan hooked her elbow.
“You said lovers could fight.”
“We are no longer lovers.” Branwen jerked her arm from his grasp and retreated into the darkness of the stairwell.
* * *
Eseult sat alone in an armchair, framed by shafts of streaming light. Her shoulders were hunched; her eyes red and raw.
“Did something happen with the king?” Branwen asked as she closed the door behind her. Arthek yelped and raced across the room, nails clacking, and pressed his nose against Branwen’s ankles like he was digging for something in her skirts.
Eseult absently stroked her belly. She gazed out the window toward the sea.
“Ériu’s Comfort,” she said. “Did my mother give it to you?”
Branwen pinched her lips together at the question. “Some time ago.”
“She never gave it to me.”
“I used to suffer with my monthly bleeding. You know I did.”
Eseult nodded in a vague way. “Mother wants me to bear an heir for Kernyv and Iveriu. It’s all she’s ever wanted.” Her laugh was brittle. “Little does she know I nearly fulfilled her wish.”
“I’m sorry, Essy. So sorry. I would carry this loss for you if I could.”
“Are you?” The True Queen seared her with a look. “Are you truly sorry? This is what you wanted.”
Branwen took several quick steps toward her cousin. Arthek thought she was giving chase and he followed, yipping excitedly.
“You can’t believe I wanted you to fall from your horse. I tried to warn you, Essy. But you wanted to win—like you always do.”
“You’ve won this time, Branny.” Eseult pushed to her feet. “You’re the most gifted healer in generations, that’s what my mother always said. And yet you couldn’t stop me from losing the pregnancy? Maybe you just didn’t want to?”
Branwen’s jaw dropped. “There was no way to prevent nature from takin
g its course.”
Wasn’t there? A voice at the back of her mind taunted. Could the Hand of Bríga have saved Essy’s pregnancy? It hadn’t occurred to Branwen to use it.
“How do I know you didn’t drug me like you did the king on our wedding night?” Eseult charged, and Branwen balked.
“Are you forgetting why I drugged your husband?” She thrust out a hand. “Why I needed Ériu’s Comfort?”
“I haven’t forgotten. But you didn’t do it for me.” She sucked her lips together, expression forlorn. “You did it for Iveriu. And it seems you’ve found other uses for the protection, too—with the King’s Champion.”
Branwen closed the Hand of Bríga in a fist. Her cousin had always known the deepest and most effective ways to cut her.
“I won’t apologize for trying to protect our people—and that includes you, Essy,” she said raggedly. “I won’t apologize for not wanting to see you executed!”
“Was it me you didn’t want to see executed, or was it Tristan? You lied to me about your love for him in Iveriu. Maybe you poisoned me to save him!”
“Essy, how can you say that? I tried to talk to you about ways to keep the baby—you wouldn’t listen!”
“You wanted to give it away! You wouldn’t let me keep it!”
“Of course not! There was no other way!” Branwen shouted. “The chances of getting caught were still enormous—but I would have done it! I would have done it for you!”
“I guess we’ll never know.” Tears collected on the True Queen’s lashes. “Ever since we were girls, I loved you more than my kingdom, Branny. I used to think you loved me more, too.”
I did. The words were stuck on the tip of Branwen’s tongue. She had conjured the Loving Cup because she’d loved Essy more than the Land. And look what her love had done—look what she had done to her cousin, to the king, to the man who had wanted her to be his bride.
“When we boarded the Dragon Rising,” the True Queen said, “you promised me it would be us against the world. I believed you.”
“Essy, please. I would never hurt you.”
Her tears began to fall. “The trouble is, I don’t know if I believe you. I don’t know what I believe. I’m not who I was. And neither are you.”
Branwen’s magic flared. Something deep inside her cracked.
“What are you saying?” she rasped.
“Since you’ve been appointed the Royal Healer, I have asked King Marc to find you accommodation in keeping with your new position,” Eseult told her. “A room in the West Tower beneath Queen Verica’s apartment is being prepared for you as we speak.”
“Essy—”
“I am the True Queen of Kernyv, and this is my decision. You told me that I needed to learn to stand alone, Branny.” She gave her a fierce look. “I’ll have your things sent to your new chambers directly. You may go.”
Branwen stood motionless. “Go,” the queen commanded.
She had no choice but to obey.
She rushed out of the tower faster than even Senara could have carried her and raced into the gardens, nearly colliding with a birdbath made from granite. Her knuckles scraped against the stone.
Cursing, Branwen plunged her hands into the water to soothe the sting.
She watched the ripples as they began to still. The surface of the water reflected a much younger Branwen.
She recognized the scene: Her forehead scrunched as she built a many-tiered sandcastle for her parents. It was the day they died.
A high-pitched giggle trilled across the beach. Essy catapulted toward the castle that Branwen had spent hours building. Long-forgotten anger flooded her.
She knew what came next.
Only it didn’t. This time, when her cousin launched herself at Branwen, just at the moment they tumbled together on top of the castle, Essy disintegrated in her arms.
The castle remained standing and Branwen was left hugging nothing but sand.
Icy sweat beaded on Branwen’s top lip. She removed her hands from the water, leaving a swirl of blood behind.
FALSE FLAG
A WEEK HAD PASSED SINCE the True Queen of Kernyv had exiled Branwen from her apartment. They hadn’t spoken since. The queen informed King Marc that she was feeling too tired to leave her chambers and Branwen didn’t contradict her. Only the sound of Lady Alana’s krotto signaled that her cousin was safe and well.
Branwen paused in the middle of the courtyard and let the music settle over her as it drifted down from the Queen’s Tower. The wistful melody raised the tiny hairs on her arms.
The morning after Branwen’s banishment, Talorc had escorted Lowenek to Monwiku. She was gratified to see that the girl no longer required a crutch to support her weight. Branwen asked King Marc’s permission to have Lowenek attend the Queen Mother and, absently, he’d agreed. His countenance had grown more reticent, brooding.
Late at night, Branwen often spied him from her window pacing the garden. She couldn’t sleep, either. Regret kept her awake, disbelief that her cousin could believe she would ever intentionally harm her.
Branwen had always been the one to soothe Eseult’s pain. She didn’t know how to do anything else, even when it hurt her. Branwen’s longing for her cousin’s company was just the near side of rage.
Queen Verica had sent Lowenek to summon Branwen to her chambers, but she remained rooted to the spot, letting the melancholy chords of Tristan’s song wash over her for a few moments longer.
Somehow Branwen had made new friends in Kernyv and, for the first time in her life, she had an official status and occupation that had nothing to do with being Eseult’s cousin. She should take some satisfaction in that, and yet, her heart was a blue sky with a black hole where the sun should be.
“He’s not half-bad. My cousin.”
Branwen’s eyes flipped open on Ruan. “You make it a habit of startling me.”
“You don’t startle easily.”
“I still have your knife.”
He gave her a long look, but his expression was guarded. “Good,” he said. Ruan hadn’t engaged Branwen in more than pleasantries for the past week. She suspected he was the kind of man who only apologized once.
Ruan thrust his chin at the True Queen’s bedchamber window. “Tristan and Eseult make beautiful music together,” he said.
“Is that what Endelyn tells you?” Branwen replied.
“No.” Ruan caught her eye with a crafty grin. “On the contrary, she says the True Queen is a rather terrible harpist.”
“She’s just learning,” she said. Defending her cousin was the habit of a lifetime.
“And Tristan is a most attentive teacher. She’ll soon be a master musician.”
King Marc was too focused on Armorica to notice how many harp lessons Tristan was giving his queen. The King’s Champion was not.
“Dymatis, Prince Ruan,” Branwen told him, and resumed walking toward the West Tower, leaving him behind. Her palms grew sweaty as her magic tingled in her veins, fiery and cold. Grief was a wounded animal, and Branwen tried to keep her own caged. She feared the queen would let hers run free.
The West Tower’s layout was identical to the others. The room that Branwen had been given beneath Queen Verica’s suite was the same as Endelyn occupied in the Queen’s Tower. The king had been using the space to store his excess maps and manuscripts.
Branwen suspected that Eseult hadn’t offered the room to her before because she wanted to keep her cousin close. And now, she didn’t.
Lowenek opened the door to Queen Verica’s chamber the moment Branwen knocked. From farther back in the room, the Queen Mother said something to the girl in rapid Kernyvak. Lowenek smiled sweetly at Branwen and left.
“I told her to help Andred with his flowering box experiments. We need a moment in private,” Queen Verica explained. “It’s nice to see the children working together.”
Branwen thought Andred would protest at being called a child, but her lips curved as she closed the door behind her. She surveyed
her patient with a critical eye.
The Queen Mother was formally dressed in a gown of burgundy damask and her silvery hair had been intricately plaited. She was seated at the small table near the hearth, dice resting in front of her. She hadn’t left her bed for days.
Queen Verica touched her crown of plaits and smiled knowingly at Branwen’s scrutiny. “Lowenek has agile fingers. She’d make a skilled surgeon,” she said. “I wanted to look my best.” A cough racked the Queen Mother’s diminished frame and she raised a glass of Mílesian spirits to her lips.
Beckoning with her other hand, she told Branwen, “Come, sit with me.”
Branwen pulled out the finely whittled chair opposite the old queen. Rain started to fall as Queen Verica picked up the dice and tossed them. Plink, plink.
Both dice landed on the Aquilan numeral for one: the worst possible pair.
“A gambler must always know when to walk away,” said the Queen Mother. “The time has come for me to do just that.”
She drained the remainder of the spirits.
“I wanted to hold on through the wedding, and I did. I’ve been greedy with time. As you grow older, Lady Branwen, you’ll find it’s the one thing you can never get enough of,” Queen Verica told her. “I wanted more time with Tristan, with my son. I wanted to help my daughter-in-law navigate the Kernyvak court.”
She sighed. “And you, Lady Branwen. I wish I could stay to see all that you’ll accomplish.” The Queen Mother circled her wrists. “But it’s not to be.”
Meeting Branwen’s gaze, she continued, “I am heartened that you accepted the position of Royal Healer. You will be much needed, I fear, in the coming months.”
Branwen dropped her eyes to the Queen Mother’s now empty glass.
“How much time do you have left?” she asked.
“An hour. Maybe two. The kordweyd in Liones prepared an elixir for when my body could take no more.” She smiled. “I feel better than I have for seasons.”
“I’m glad.” Branwen laid her hand atop the old woman’s.
“I apprised King Marc of my illness after the wedding. Thank you for keeping my confidence,” she said. “Lest Countess Kensa should accuse you of poisoning me, I have also told him of the elixir—and my decision.”
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