He, too, walked alone. She followed him as he descended the stone steps to a lower terrace. He looked to either side of him. Deserted. Dragging in another breath, he kept going down to the level of the gardens that met the sea. A secluded part.
Branwen was about to call out to Tristan when she saw that he was no longer alone.
Queen Eseult stepped out from the shadows.
Terror tore through Branwen. From the terrace above, she followed them as Eseult took Tristan’s hand in hers and led him to a bench enclosed by rose bushes.
Fewer lanterns swung from the trees on the lower levels of the gardens. Branwen concealed herself between the spindly tree trunks, clinging to one at the edge of the terrace.
Tristan slumped onto a bench beside Eseult, weariness rolling off him. Eseult began to rub his arm. Neither of them suspected Branwen’s presence.
They spoke quietly, but not as quietly as they should have given the unnervingly still night. Even the lapping tide showed its respect for the dead.
“I found your message,” Tristan said. “We shouldn’t be meeting like this.”
Eseult swept a hand along the line of his jaw. “I didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”
“The castle is full of people.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No.” He sighed. “Thank you.”
“You’ve been the only one to support me in my grief, Tristan. The only one who understands what I—what we—lost,” Eseult said, tender and defiant. “I want to be here for you. I know how close you were with Queen Verica.” Her cousin had always had a talent for loving people, and her love was difficult to resist.
Regret spread through Branwen as she watched them together. Marc had sought Xandru in his hour of need, and Tristan had sought out Eseult. She didn’t want to begrudge Tristan his solace, yet fear held Branwen tight—fear and resentment at her own losses. A bone-deep remorse that she was no longer his sanctuary.
“Thank you,” Tristan repeated. Grazing his cheek with the back of her hand, Eseult told him, “You were lucky to have her in your life as long as you did. Not everyone feels the same way about the woman who raised them.”
Branwen’s guts twisted. Queen Verica had known she needed to raise a king in Marc, but Tristan was her joy. The Queen of Iveriu had also tried to mold her daughter into a queen. Maybe intimacy always fell victim to duty.
Tristan leaned back to meet his queen’s gaze. “Eseult,” he said. “I should go to Liones.”
“I need you here.”
“Monwiku is secure.”
“No, I need you. I have no one else.” Eseult framed his face with her other hand. “Don’t abandon me, too.”
Branwen gripped the tree, its bark splitting her nails. She knew what it was to be needed by her cousin—the temptation of that need. She had done terrible things because of it. Branwen had never left the queen, even when she had devastated her, but her love was never enough.
“If I’m to be trapped here,” Eseult said, leaning in closer to Tristan, “let us be trapped together.”
“I will always serve you,” he told her.
“I don’t want you to serve me. Kiss me, Tristan,” Eseult whispered. “Touch me like you did on the ship. Just once. I miss you every day I’m with you.”
She traced Tristan’s full lips with her finger. “There must be more to life than this—this grief. When I look at you, I see the life I want—just out of reach.”
Something savage tangled itself around Branwen’s guilt. She had once gazed upon Tristan and glimpsed the future she’d wanted, too. But she hadn’t loved him best. She had loved the Land. Perhaps Branwen’s kind of love had never been what Tristan wanted.
“Let me comfort you,” said the True Queen.
As Tristan’s resistance flagged, his fingers weaving through Eseult’s plaits, bringing his lips down to hers, Branwen heard footsteps. They were coming from behind her.
She reeled around and saw Ruan on the stairs, staggering down to her level of the garden. In a few moments, he would be able to see Tristan and Eseult for himself. He would witness their treason with his own eyes and there would be nothing Branwen could do to explain it away.
The wind chimes sparkled in the branches above her. She did the only thing she could think of to prevent disaster. Jumping as high as she could, Branwen slapped the metal chimes with all her strength. The shafts of white lead clanged together, rang out like discordant laments. The lovers broke apart.
Tristan and Eseult both swiveled toward the sound and spied Branwen between the trees. By the starlight, Branwen saw Tristan’s eyes grow wide.
“There you are, Lady Branwen,” Ruan said as he approached. He slurred. “Avoiding me as usual.” He took a sip from his goblet. Tonight his inebriation didn’t seem feigned.
“I wasn’t thinking of you at all,” Branwen countered. She walked out from the trees, willing her racing heart to slow.
“And yet I can’t stop thinking of you.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Perhaps.” Ruan glanced at his goblet. With a shrug, he finished the remainder. “Now? Yes.”
New footsteps distracted him. Tristan escorted Eseult up the stairs, posture rigid. Correct. As a Champion should escort his queen.
“Nosmatis, cousin,” he said to Ruan in his most formal tone. “Lady Branwen.”
“Nosmatis, Prince Tristan,” Branwen replied, acerbic, precise. “Queen Eseult.”
Tristan should know better. They both should know better. She could barely look at them.
“The queen was feeling unwell,” Tristan explained as Eseult showed Ruan an embarrassed smile. “I’ve had too much wine,” she said.
“Haven’t we all?” Ruan’s reply was light, but Branwen heard the danger in its undercurrent.
“Indeed, cousin,” Tristan said, eyeing Ruan’s goblet. “I’ll escort the queen back to her chamber.”
“Lady Queen,” said Branwen. “Would you like some willowbark tea?” How many times had Branwen given her cousin the remedy when she’d pilfered too much of Treva’s elderberry wine?
“No. Thank you,” Eseult answered, voice tight. “Nosmatis, Lady Branwen.”
Tristan and Eseult continued up the stairs. Ruan followed them with his eyes until they vanished from view. He shifted his jaw side to side.
“I wonder why Endelyn isn’t with them?” he mused.
“Doubtless she’s not far.”
Ruan twirled his empty goblet by its stem. “Doubtless. My sister keeps hoping Tristan will look at her the way she looks at him.” He paused. “But my cousin prefers Ivernic ladies—and I can’t blame him.”
“Stop making threats against my queen,” Branwen told him.
“When will you see that I’m not making threats? I’m trying to help you.”
“Help me? By accusing me of treason?”
Ruan threw the goblet to the ground and muttered something under his breath in Kernyvak. “I’m trying to warn you, Branwen. If Xandru’s mission to Armorica fails, we’ll be at war. Marc will insist on fighting beside his men because that’s who he is. And if he dies, whomever the True Queen marries will become the next King of Kernyv.”
Branwen exclaimed, “You think Tristan wants Marc dead so he can be king?”
“People are scared. Armorica has a fleet to match our own.”
“Now you know how Iveriu has felt all of these years!” she said.
“Yes. Yes, we do. The Armoricans are bearing down on us and we have an Ivernic queen on the throne. A queen who—by her own admission—feels like a hostage in our land. And we have a dead assassin in our dungeon.”
“Are you accusing the True Queen of plotting to kill the king now?” Branwen’s fear came out as laughter.
Ruan covered her mouth with his hand. “No. Shh.” He removed his hand as outrage lit her eyes. “Shh. I’m only telling you how it looks when the queen spends more time in the company of her Champion than her husband.”
Branwen’s h
eart rate accelerated once more. “And what do you expect me to do about your suspicions?” she demanded.
“Branwen.” When Ruan said her name, it was despondent. “This is coming out all wrong. I don’t want this court to tear you apart. I want to protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection.”
Tristan and Eseult were trapped together, and it was Branwen’s doing. Hostages to their desire. Only she could release them from it.
If she dared.
Branwen knocked into Ruan’s shoulder and, as she barged past, he whispered, “Wait,” in Ivernic. Her shoulder remained pressed to his. “Wait, Branwen,” Ruan said again. His breath was hot against her cheek. The scent was spicy like the wine.
Ruan dared to run his hand over her plaits and then took a step back, looking her in the eye. “I know you think I betrayed you,” he said. “The only way I see to regain your trust is to give you the power to ruin me.”
“Ruan. You don’t have to.” Branwen had been betraying him since the day they met.
“No, I want to tell you.” He cast his eyes toward the sky. “Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the stars. The last funeral I attended was my father’s,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
On impulse, Branwen took his hand. She understood why he’d feel that way, and why he’d wanted to get drunk tonight.
Ruan blew out a long breath. She waited for him to speak when he was ready.
“After King Merchion died and Marc became king, my father—Edern—grew ever more volatile. I was too old, too strong for him to bully.”
He intertwined his fingers with Branwen’s, and his tension bled into her.
“One night at dinner, he hit Endelyn.” Ruan paused. “You never met Prince Edern. He wasn’t fair-haired.”
Her stomach dropped. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that Andred is his only true son.” Ruan rubbed his thumb along hers. “Endelyn and I—we’re the children of an Ivernic prisoner. A miner. Edern didn’t discover the affair until I was seven or eight.” He began speaking more rapidly. “My father—my real father—died badly. That’s when my whippings began.”
“Oh, Ruan.” Sympathy streamed through every part of her.
“The night he hit Endelyn, my mother finally hit him back. Edern was no longer in his prime, but he punched her so hard in return that she lost a tooth.”
Ruan squeezed Branwen’s hand. “I saw my mother and my sister bloody, and I—I lost control.” Staring into the dark, into the past, he continued, “I hit Prince Edern, and I couldn’t stop hitting him. He was strong enough to hit women, but he was no match for me.”
Branwen swallowed. “You did what you had to do.”
“My mother cleaned up the blood. Hard to imagine Countess Kensa scrubbing a floor, isn’t it?” His laugh was a little desperate. “My mother wasn’t always as she is now. Edern made her life—difficult. I think she truly loved my real father.”
“Your father taught you Ivernic,” Branwen said.
Ruan nodded. “Endelyn was too young to learn much before he died. She doesn’t remember him.”
“What was his name?”
“Conchobar. The knife I gave you—it was his.”
Branwen’s heart panged. The gift had been far more significant than she’d realized.
“You should have it back,” she said.
“You’re the only person I would want to have it, Branwen. Whether you ever let me court you or not.”
She compressed her lips, lost in a bevy of emotions.
“I confessed my crime to Marc,” he said. “My mother was furious. Terrified. Marc forgave me. I owe him my life, and I would die to protect him. He’s the kindest ruler Kernyv is ever likely to know.”
Ruan brushed Branwen’s lower lip with his knuckle.
“Marc knows I killed my father. He doesn’t know Edern wasn’t my father. Neither does Andred. No one knows I’m a bastard except for my mother and my sister—and now you.”
Branwen placed her hand flat against Ruan’s chest. He had given her a weapon that could destroy his entire family. His legacy. Everything.
“I understand your love for the king, Ruan,” she said as she fiddled with the sash that denoted his Champion’s status. “And what binds you to your mother and Endelyn.” Branwen paused. “I was hurt by what happened. And angry. But I understand better now.”
She looked up to meet his gaze. “We all act rashly to protect the people we love. I won’t betray you with what you’ve shared.”
“My entire life is a lie, Branwen. I’m not Prince Ruan. I’m just Ruan: bastard son of an Ivernic prisoner.”
So many things about him made more sense now. Starting with why he saved the Iverman at the mining disaster.
“I’ve always liked Ruan better than the prince,” Branwen told him.
His hand slipped around her waist, splaying against her back. Heat spread through her. “I’ve had enough of the stars,” he said. “Shall we go to bed?”
Branwen looked him up and down. Part of her wanted to go with Ruan. Very much. But he was drunk and vulnerable, and she wondered if he’d regret his confession in the morning.
“Not tonight,” she said. “I’m not saying never. Just not tonight.” Raising herself onto the balls of her feet, she kissed Ruan gently on the mouth.
“I’ll wait,” he said against hers.
Branwen kissed him again. “Nosmatis, Ruan.” Reluctantly, she extricated herself from his warm embrace.
There was someone else who couldn’t wait.
A BETTER PATH
RUAN WASN’T THE ONLY MOURNER who had toasted the stars too much. There would be many sore heads at Monwiku Castle in the morning.
Branwen strode toward the Queen’s Tower. The moon was already beginning its descent. Torchlight illuminated three figures beneath the entryway.
Tristan leaned against one side of the arch beside two other members of the Royal Guard.
“Nosmatis,” Branwen said, looking first at the other guardsmen, then settling her gaze on the Queen’s Champion.
“Nosmatis, Lady Branwen.”
Their eyes locked and she saw every smile, every kiss, every tear that had led them to this place. From the misery etched on his brow, Tristan did, too.
“King Marc ordered extra security for the True Queen while we have so many guests at the castle,” he said.
“Prudent.” Also fortunate for Tristan that she couldn’t speak her mind in front of the other soldiers.
“I need to see my cousin,” she told him.
“She’s—she’s most likely asleep.”
“I very much doubt it, and I’ve brought her a remedy for too much drink. To prevent a headache.”
Tristan inhaled shortly. “Of course, my lady.”
Tiny red crescents marked Branwen’s palms by the time she reached the third landing.
Branwen didn’t bother knocking. Arthek barked as she entered the queen’s bedchamber. Eseult was pacing by candlelight. Her blond hair was loose about her shoulders, one strand taut around her forefinger.
“What are you doing here?” demanded her cousin. “Have you brought the King’s Champion with you?”
When Eseult was in the wrong, her instinct was to attack. Branwen welcomed it. She slammed the door behind her. Arthek barked again.
“What you did was absurdly stupid!” she yelled at Eseult.
“I didn’t ask your opinion. And I don’t need your permission, Lady Branwen.”
Branwen closed the distance between them. “Are you trying to get caught? Do you want to be accused of treason?”
“You’re the one who wants me caught!” the queen volleyed back. “You brought Ruan to spy on us!”
“I saved you!” The Hand of Bríga awakened, stirred to life with Branwen’s escalating pulse. “All I ever do is save you!”
“No one asked you to! Why were you even there? Were you following me?”
&n
bsp; “I was looking for Tristan—to console him!” Branwen shouted.
“He has me.”
“But he can’t, Essy. You’re married to his uncle. His king!”
“I’m sorry it hurts you to see us together.” Eseult’s voice gentled. She exhaled. “Really I am. But whatever you and he shared in Iveriu—it’s finished.”
“Yes, it is,” Branwen agreed. “But that doesn’t change the vows you made. Or the promise you made to me when I went to your husband’s First Night bed.” She thrust out a hand. “You promised never to look at Tristan as more than your husband’s nephew.”
“I tried. I tried, Branny. But then, the baby … it brought us closer again.”
“You didn’t try hard enough. Do you remember when you said a man would never come between us?” Branwen said. “Why can’t you choose me, Essy? You said you loved me more than any kingdom, but you’ve never loved me more than yourself.”
“And you have always loved your kingdom more than me. For what?” Eseult drew in a ragged breath. “War is still coming. It doesn’t matter what I do, it doesn’t matter what you do. I married a man I don’t love. I can’t be with the man I do love. Tell me what it’s all for, Branny!”
“For peace! For your people!” Branwen pleaded. “If we go to war with Armorica, we’ll need the True Queen more than ever.”
“I would trade my royal blood for sovereignty over my own life in a heartbeat.”
The truth filled the space between them. Branwen wished it was within her power to grant. But it wasn’t.
“The Old Ones saw fit to make you sovereign over two kingdoms, Eseult. They chose you for a reason.”
“No, Branwen. It wasn’t the Old Ones who made me a True Queen. It was my mother,” Eseult said, a quiet howl. “My mother who didn’t think it necessary to warn me what I would be facing in Kernyv.”
Branwen pressed her palms together. “She didn’t warn me, either.”
“Yet you’re still loyal to her—and her schemes. Why? Why, Branny?”
“Because she’s my queen. She’s the Land. As are you,” she replied automatically. But, in the most private part of her heart, Branwen had started questioning her aunt’s decisions. She and the Queen of Iveriu shared the blame for the Loving Cup. It was their magic, not the Old Ones, that had tried to steer fate.
Wild Savage Stars Page 32