Leaning some of his weight against the tabletop, Andred removed the lid of the rectangular box with great care. The flowering box was Aquilan technology, heating the plants inside by trapping the sunlight in the stone. Ingenious. Almost like magic.
“I finally figured out the right amount of sun exposure,” Branwen’s apprentice explained. He’d been experimenting with this particular plant for months, trying to make it bloom. “I want to see if the oil from its petals can really cure a blood infection like the Treatise of Hepius claims.”
Andred plucked a delicate blue flower from within the box.
“It’s beautiful,” said Branwen. The color was the precise shade of the tide just after sunset.
“I can’t wait to show Xandru,” said the boy. “When he returns to Monwiku.” Xandru had brought Andred the box from abroad, and the captain was well loved by Branwen’s apprentice.
Grinning from ear to ear, Andred placed the blossom in the center of Branwen’s right palm. As she admired the vibrant cobalt petals, she began to feel light-headed, as if she’d imbibed too much elderberry wine. Euphoria rushed through her.
Immediately, the gods’ blood started to wither.
The petals faded to a sickly hue, then gray, then white, as they curled in on themselves. Andred’s face fell.
The euphoria dispersed, leaving dread in its wake. “I’m so sorry,” Branwen told the boy. Acid sloshed in her gut.
“It’s not your fault.” Andred twisted his mouth to one side. “The air must be too cool for the blossom to survive outside the box. It thrives in a hot climate.” He tapped his chin. “I’ll try again.”
Her apprentice plucked the dead flower from Branwen’s hand.
The petals had already desiccated.
“I-I need to check on Princess Alba,” Branwen lied. “I’ll see you at dinner.” She wouldn’t be able to swallow a morsel.
Rushing from Andred’s quarters, she caught her own reflection in one of the weathered mirrors that lined the hallway.
Her copper eyes glinted red. And the white streaks in her hair were gone.
Something was very, very wrong.
HAND OF DHUSNOS
THE TIDE WAS LOW ENOUGH to traverse the causeway on foot, and Alba insisted on training in wet sand. Four guardsmen formed a loose perimeter around Branwen and the royal hostage. From the bottom of the hill, Monwiku Castle loomed above them, its towers scraping the sky.
Sand tickled between Branwen’s toes. She ran side by side with Alba around the circumference of the island. Armorican warriors ran barefoot on the beach to build speed and endurance, Alba had explained. Branwen’s thighs burned, her calves ached, but over the past week she’d started looking forward to their daily training sessions.
Ruan assured Branwen that Tutir’s wife posed no threat to her. Still, doubts remained. Except for now, for this hour pushing her body to its limits. She could almost forget everything save the pounding of her feet.
A warm wind teased Branwen’s curls loose from her plaits. The white strands had returned the morning after she’d caused Andred’s flower to wither.
Alba caught her eye, cracked a grin, and broke into a sprint. Breath straining in her lungs, Branwen chased after the other woman. Ruan had laughed at first when she’d asked to borrow a tunic and breeches; when he met Branwen returning to the West Tower hot and sweaty, however, he’d decided she looked better in his trousers than he did.
Branwen loped clumsily, the sand resisting her. Up ahead, Alba moved like an acrobat: spine erect yet fluid, every muscle under her control. On the night of the attack, Alba’s lithe form had been distinct among so many fighting men. Her grace lethal.
Despite all the reasons they had to hate each other, Branwen had begun to enjoy the other woman’s company—to wonder if forgiveness might one day be possible.
The sun was at its peak and perspiration dripped from Branwen’s brow, stinging her eyes, salty on her lips. Alba let out a whoop and dropped, laughing, onto the sand. Her plum-colored tunic was stained black with sweat. Branwen crashed down next to her.
“Beat you again,” Alba declared, triumphant.
Gasping for air, “Next time,” Branwen said between pants. The captain snorted. Unlike her childhood horse races with her cousin, Branwen would never let Alba win on purpose, and she felt sure the princess wouldn’t let her, either.
Wiping sweat from her hairline, Alba said, “Have you been practicing the stances I taught you?”
Branwen nodded. She found tremendous relief in punching her bed cushions when she couldn’t sleep. “Give me a minute,” she said, still trying to catch her breath. To her astonishment, the captain had demonstrated the basic techniques of Aquilan boxing and had yet to break Branwen’s jaw.
Alba laughed. “I meant to thank you for the books. I’m enjoying Cornelius’s annals of the Western Isles. Although the Aquilan opinion of the Iverni isn’t very high.”
“Oh?”
“Cornelius is under the impression that you commit human sacrifice to ensure a plentiful harvest because the Iverni don’t know how to plow properly.”
“Human sacrifice? We certainly do not!” Branwen bristled. “My tutor in Iveriu said that Aquilan histories of other kingdoms serve only to justify their invasions of them.”
“He sounds like a smart man.” Alba jumped to her feet, spraying Branwen with sand. “Ready?” She extended a hand, her grip tight as she pulled Branwen up after her.
Branwen raised her fists. Alba held up her hands, palms flat, facing Branwen.
“Left foot forward,” Alba said, correcting her position. “Knees softly bent.” The captain spoke like someone accustomed to being obeyed. Branwen shifted her feet.
“Good. Now cross punch.”
Branwen double-checked that the bandage was tightly wrapped around her right fist before making contact with Alba’s left palm. Branwen’s knuckles were battered and raw from training. The slap as she made contact with Alba’s skin was satisfying.
“Again,” the captain ordered. Branwen complied. Alba watched her attentively. “Do Ivernic women not learn to fight?”
Keane’s face surfaced in Branwen’s mind. She missed a punch. “I learned a little self-defense,” she said. But her lessons had been focused on evading raiders, getting away, and waiting to be rescued. “Nothing like this.” Alba was a woman used to rescuing herself. In another life, she’s someone Branwen would want to call a friend.
The captain grunted. “Now the left.” Branwen punched. “Use your hip. Hit with your whole body.”
“Do all Armorican women fight like you?” she asked, the small bones in her left hand starting to complain.
“Not many. My mother insisted I train with my brothers.” Sadness passed over Alba’s face. “In the Melita Isles, my mother’s homeland, noblewomen have always hired female bodyguards. The Melita Guardians are famous from Kartago to the Sea of Light.”
Branwen knew nothing about these Guardians, but they made her think of ancient Queen Medhua. “We have many stories of warrior queens in Iveriu. My aunt doesn’t bear arms, but she’s a master of the Old Ways.”
Alba swept a hand toward Branwen’s head from the right, forcing her to duck.
“Good. Now punch.” She did. Alba swept her hand from the other direction. “Duck, punch. Duck, punch,” she commanded.
Branwen’s heartbeat accelerated. “King Marc informed me that my cousin Xandru arrived in Karaez,” Alba said as Branwen found her rhythm. “He and Xandru have always been close. I remember when I was a little girl they sailed together, sometimes coming to visit us at Castle Arausio.” Duck. Punch. “Xandru must esteem the king highly to take up his cause against his own family.”
Duck. “I believe the Manduca family also has an interest in ensur—” Branwen gulped down a breath. “Ensuring their merchant vessels can safely travel through th—” Another breath. “The Southern Channel.” Punch.
“Perhaps,” said Alba. The muscles in Branwen’s back began to mutin
y. She would need a bath of arnica milk this evening. “It seems I’m to be stuck on this island until my father offers sufficient ransom,” the captain mused. “King Marc will find that my father’s anger doesn’t easily ebb. I deceived him and weakened his bargaining position.”
“You’re his heir,” Branwen forced out between punches. “He needs you back—no matter how angry he is.”
Alba raised her fists. “My turn,” she said. Branwen held up her hands. Her palms weren’t as callused as the other woman’s, and the impact made her wince.
“I never wanted to rule.” Punch. “With two older brothers it wasn’t a possibility, anyway. All I’ve ever wanted was the open sea.” Punch. “My father let me sail because I was expendable.” Punch; cross punch. “Now even if I’m ransomed, my life will never be my own again.”
Punch. Punch. Punch.
Branwen stumbled backward. Alba kept coming, driving Branwen closer to a pier where dinghies were moored. From the corner of her eye, she spotted something entirely out of place. She blinked.
At the end of the pier stood a fox with a red-currant coat and snow-tipped ears.
Punch; cross punch. As the fox turned around to face her, Branwen gasped.
The creature had two black craters where its eyes should be, and the flesh had been stripped from its jowls. It was more skeleton than fox.
Just as the hideous beast released a bloodcurdling howl, Branwen doubled over in pain. Alba drove a punch upward into her chest. Before she could recover, the captain landed another blow to Branwen’s left cheek. She toppled into the sand.
“Did you think I’d befriend my brother’s murderer so easily?” Alba fumed. “The Aquilans were right about the ignorance of the Iverni.” She kicked sand into Branwen’s face and sprinted toward the pier. The grains scratched Branwen’s eyes.
Still in shock, she reached for Ruan’s knife, which she’d kept strapped to her thigh beneath her breeches. Branwen wasn’t nearly as naïve as Alba believed, but she’d let her guilt cloud her judgment and the princess had used it to her advantage.
“Stop!” Branwen screamed. “Stop her!” She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
The Royal Guardsmen snapped their gaze to Branwen, alarmed. They hadn’t realized the game had turned deadly. If Alba escaped, King Faramon would no longer be forced to negotiate with Kernyv.
The skeletal fox shrieked and charged toward Branwen. Blood trickling from her mouth, she pursued the other woman, wielding her knife. When the fox brushed against Branwen’s ankles, ice solidified in her veins. The creature spurred her on.
Staggering through the pain, Branwen caught up to Alba, grasping the tail of her tunic. She yanked as hard as she could. The captain wheeled around, sneering at the blade in Branwen’s hand.
“Would you stick a knife in my back, too?” Alba taunted her.
Branwen licked the blood coating her teeth. “We need you alive.”
The guardsmen were closing in. Alba saw them as well. She hooked Branwen’s ankle, and Branwen fell sideways, landing hard on her left shoulder. Branwen cried out. Alba launched herself on top of her, straddling her with her knees.
She wrested the knife from Branwen’s hand and pressed it to her throat.
“Come any closer,” Alba shouted at the guards, “and I’ll slit the Royal Healer’s throat!”
The men stopped in their tracks, swords drawn, uncertain how to proceed.
Branwen ripped the bandage from her right hand. “I would advise you to let me go, Captain.”
“Or what?”
Branwen squirmed beneath the knife. It was true that she couldn’t burn the Crown Princess of Armorica alive—with so many witnesses—despite how much her power was singing, yearning for release.
“How far do you think you can get?” Branwen said through clenched teeth. “Planning to swim to Armorica?”
“Maybe I don’t plan on escaping. Maybe I just want you dead.”
“You’ve had plenty of other opportunities.” To the guards, Branwen yelled, “Arrest her! King Marc needs her more than me!”
Alba’s brow furrowed in disgust. “You’re so ready to die for the king of your enemies?”
“He’s my brother.”
Branwen shoved her right hand against the other woman’s sternum with all her might. The blade bit deeper into Branwen’s throat.
Suddenly, Alba convulsed. The knife dropped into the sand, and Alba fell atop Branwen’s chest. Delirious energy surged through her. The beach began to spin. She felt as if she were back on the Dragon Rising, being pitched to and fro by the waves.
The fox scurried around Branwen, its void-like eyes burning coals.
The Armorican captain was heavy on Branwen’s chest, yet her own body was weightless. In her mind’s eye, she saw Kahedrin. He was younger than when Branwen had met him. He sat on the deck of a ship, tying an intricate knot with a length of rope. He held it out to Branwen, and she felt both irritation that she hadn’t been able to tie the knot and the desire to make him proud.
Kahedrin ruffled her hair, his smile warm.
This wasn’t Branwen’s memory.
It was Alba’s.
She rolled the other woman’s body off her, terror pulsing in every nerve ending. The fox yowled again. Branwen lowered her face close to Alba’s. Thank the gods. She was still breathing.
The Royal Guardsmen surrounded them. Branwen had no idea what exactly they had seen transpire between the two women.
“The princess is alive,” she told them. “Return her to the West Tower.” Branwen retrieved Ruan’s knife from the sand. “I’ll find the King’s Champion.”
Branwen rose to standing, still unsteady on her feet. As she gripped the knife, she noticed that her bruised knuckles were healed. Soft.
She touched her lips. The bottom one was no longer split.
She cupped her jaw. It didn’t ache.
Two of the guardsmen lifted Alba from the beach. Her braid fell to one side.
It contained one thick swath of gray.
The skeletal fox met Branwen’s eye, opened its mouth of bones and shrieked.
Branwen ran, sprinting ahead of the guards, away from the gravelly laughter of the Sea of the Dead. She had offered herself to them. Slayer. Killer.
Branwen buzzed with energy that wasn’t hers. Life that wasn’t hers. Just as she had made the flower wither, she had stolen life from Alba. Just like the Shades consumed the living. And the stolen energy had healed Branwen’s wounds.
It was no longer the Hand of Bríga she possessed.
It was the Hand of Dhusnos.
YOU NEVER SAW ME
BRANWEN’S FEET POUNDED THE COBBLESTONES as she ran up the hill to the castle and through the courtyard to the King’s Tower. She didn’t feel the ground beneath her. Her leg muscles quivered but panic made her fly.
“Ruan!” she called. She hammered a fist against the door to his chamber and barged in. There was no sign of her lover besides an unmade bed and an apple core on a side table. Rushing back into the hallway, she collided with Andred.
“Lady Branwen, is something wrong?” the boy asked as he recovered his footing. Worry creased his forehead.
Everything is wrong. “I need to find your brother.”
“I saw him on his way to the Queen’s Tower.”
“When?”
“Half an hour ago, or so.” Her apprentice touched a hand to Branwen’s elbow. “Can I help you with something?”
She cringed, afraid to leech life from him, too. “No,” she told him, tone curt. His face crumpled. “Thank you, Andred.”
Branwen bolted down the corridor. Fresh perspiration drenched the front of her tunic. A sultry breeze teased the wisps along her brow as she dashed across the courtyard, yet Branwen’s blood remained chilled.
Why would Ruan be heading to the Queen’s Tower at this time of day? Perhaps he had business with Tristan. She scraped her teeth together as she ran.
When Branwen reached the entrance to Tristan�
�s chamber on the ground floor of the tower, she was scant of breath. She knocked more hesitantly on the door of the Queen’s Champion. Hers, she knew, would be an unwelcome face.
No answer.
She knocked again. Foreboding clawed at Branwen’s senses. She lifted the latch and pushed open the door, calling out, “Prince Tristan?”
Empty.
Her shoulders caved as she exhaled. The last time she’d entered Tristan’s chamber uninvited on the Dragon Rising, Branwen had discovered her cousin in his bed. But Tristan’s bed was neatly made; a woolen blanket folded in a square rested atop the sheets.
She’d never been inside his room at the castle, and she couldn’t prevent her eyes from roving over his living quarters. Sunlight glowed on a desk by the window that overlooked the sea. An inkwell and a quill cast shadows on a piece of parchment.
Curiosity lured Branwen closer.
It was music. Notations dotted the pale vellum like black stars: an inverted night sky. The Dreaming Sea was scrawled across the top of the page in Ivernic.
Branwen’s heart cramped. She’d heard the song in a dream, an Otherworld melody, before Tristan had even told her he was composing it. Maybe the Old Ones sung to him, too. The ballad was still only half finished.
She rubbed her jet-black scar. Shaking her head, Branwen turned her back on the music. The past was long finished.
Boots tromped on stone. “Dymatis, Lady Branwen,” said a member of the Royal Guard as he proceeded past Tristan’s door and up the stairwell. Branwen’s smoldering dread flamed to life.
Pushing past the barrel-chested man, she raced up the twisting stairs to the third landing. Five other guardsmen loitered in the hallway that led to the True Queen’s suite. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords, posture stiff, greetings circumspect.
The drumming of Branwen’s heart reached her temples.
At the end of the corridor stood Endelyn. The Kernyvak princess twisted her skirts so tightly between her hands as Branwen approached that the knuckles turned white. “Lady Branwen,” she said. “Did you need me in the infirmary?”
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