She knew what flashed in the eyes of her former lover when he spotted Remus.
Recognition.
“You kissed me just now,” Ruan said to Branwen. “When you thought I was dead.” He squeezed her hand. “If I make it back to Kernyv, I want to take you to my father’s grave.”
He released her and sprinted toward Bearach.
Branwen felt the wind blow through her as if she were made of straw.
Somehow, Ruan knew the pirate king. She thought he loved her, but he’d thought she loved him. Perhaps they’d never been more than two traitors.
Her heart overflowed with grief, but Bríga gave her no words.
LIVING LIGHT
THROUGH THE SPYGLASS, BRANWEN WATCHED the royal fleets sail into the pirates’ harbor as the Mawort set a course for Kernyv.
The afternoon sun ripened from a buttery yellow to harvest orange and, finally, winter-rose. When the pirate king at last woke he found himself in restraints, and Branwen quenched his thirst with a waterskin laced with enough Clíodhna’s dust to keep him asleep for the duration of the voyage to Kerynv. Otho sat with him belowdecks, in the captain’s quarters, grim-faced. His knife ready.
Branwen dragged a crate to an empty section of the deck. She counted the crests of the waves. She should be as exhausted as the other members of the hunting party. Slayer. She pushed images of the men she’d killed from her mind. They weren’t enough to fulfill her bargain with Dhusnos. She couldn’t offer him a soul she had killed in self-defense or defending another.
The crew of the Mawort went about their activities in a somber manner. They had lost three of their own capturing the pirate king. Alba had climbed up the rigging with the fleet grace of a spider, and she stayed there.
Xandru approached Branwen, the sunset pink on his cheeks. He carried a tunic made from beige linen in his hand.
“I thought you might like a clean shirt,” he said.
She lowered her gaze to her chest. Her tunic was crusted with Diarmuid’s dried blood. With half a smile, she took the fresh tunic from him. Xandru sat down on the crate beside her. Leaning back on his hands, he said, “We lost friends today.”
Branwen fidgeted with the fabric between her fingers. A few days ago, she wouldn’t have called Diarmuid a friend. Now she did mourn his death. He would have been a strong leader for Uladztir.
“We might have lost more if not for you,” said Xandru. He pried Branwen’s right hand gently away from the balled cloth.
“If Marc didn’t need you at Monwiku,” he said, “I would offer you a place on my ship.”
She pictured the wreckage of the Dragon Rising at the bottom of the harbor, Captain Morgawr in a watery grave. “I hope their sacrifices won’t be in vain.”
Could Dhusnos claim a soul devoted to a different god?
“You think you’re cursed,” Xandru said in a neutral tone. “Perhaps, so am I.” He patted the sword at his hip. “We both use the weapons we have, and we do what must be done.”
Branwen drew back her hand and intertwined her fingers.
“Do you think the pirate king will tell us who hired him to attack Karaez?” she said.
“With the proper motivation.”
“Leaving him alone with Alba might suffice.”
Xandru followed Branwen’s gaze to the rigging. He gave one wry laugh. “I think Remus is far more afraid of you, my lady.”
Her cheeks tingled. “Are you afraid of me, Captain?”
“I wouldn’t want you as my enemy,” he replied. “If I thought you were a threat to Marc, I’d promptly throw you overboard.” Xandru said it lightly, as a joke, but Branwen knew it wasn’t.
“How do you know Otho didn’t betray our plans to the pirate king?” Branwen asked, changing the subject. Waves lapped against the hull.
“Otho’s wife and daughter are being held in Kernyv—as collateral.” Branwen flexed her interlocked knuckles. “He didn’t want to live under Remus’s regime, and he doesn’t want to stay for the aftermath,” said Xandru. “When we arrive in Marghas, he’ll be given gold. He and his family can start a new life. He’s half decent, I’d say.”
If Xandru thought Otho was half decent, Branwen didn’t want to meet anyone he considered to be craven. “Does Marc know?” she asked. She doubted he would approve of holding two women hostage to achieve his ends.
The captain gave her a canny look. “A king need not be bothered with the details of all the tasks he delegates.”
Branwen had her answer and she decided not to press the matter.
“What will become of the Veneti Isles if we win?” she said. “There are women and children there.”
Xandru shrugged. “The Veneti Isles belong to Kernyv. Armorica and Iveriu acknowledged Kernyv’s claim in the treaty,” he said. “The people will have to accept Kernyvak rule.”
“I don’t think that will be easy.” And Otho was likely smart not to want to return.
“Governing never is.” Xandru stretched his arms above his head. “One problem at a time, my lady. First we need to get the truth from Remus.”
Branwen gazed down at her lap; she examined the tunic, which had a pattern of concentric squares meticulously embroidered around the collar. A swell of nausea rose from the pit of her stomach.
“How much do you know about the pirate king?” she said, unable to forget Ruan’s reaction upon seeing him.
“Otho confirmed his story that Remus was captured in a raid on Iveriu as a boy.”
“A raid authorized by King Merchion?”
“I’d assume so,” Xandru replied. He leaned forward, tilting his head to give Branwen a level stare. “You should know, I thought Marc was wrong to stop staking the pirates’ raids. I told him he would lose control of them—and he did.”
“I’m glad he didn’t take your advice.” Though Branwen could hardly be shocked by the captain’s expediency. She shifted her weight on the crate. “Has Remus ever visited Kernyv before?” she asked.
“It’s possible.” Xandru’s eyes grew more intense. “Why?”
Branwen twisted the collar of the shirt, pulling the fabric taut. She didn’t want to believe Ruan had been in league with the pirates this whole time. It didn’t make sense. He loved Marc. Still, he knew Remus, Branwen was sure of it.
“What is it?” Xandru said low. Dangerous. “Have you seen him before?”
He pressed his hands over hers.
“No, it’s just—on the beach…”
“What?” he demanded.
“When Ruan spotted Remus on the boat. The look he gave him … he seemed to recognize him.” Branwen’s chest caved as she exhaled. “That’s all.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t know if it means anything.”
“We’ll find out,” he said. “Marc is right to trust you.” Xandru pushed to his feet. “You should take one of the hammocks, sleep a few hours.”
“I’m not tired,” said Branwen, dismissive.
“Your body will give out before your mind. It’s always the way after a battle.”
Branwen watched the sun drop below the sea, then made her way below deck. The crew gave her privacy in the main section to wash herself with a scratchy cloth. She slipped on the fresh tunic, pinning her mother’s brooch to the collar. Crawling into a hammock, Branwen took a nip from the waterskin containing the remnants of the Clíodhna’s dust.
She didn’t want to think about what Xandru might do with information she’d provided him. She didn’t want to think about Ruan fighting in another battle, of his warm lips or the many lies they had told each other.
Branwen closed her eyes and fell into a sleep that was far from dreamless.
Tutir and Bledros were there. The two pirates. Kahedrin. Nameless Armoricans.
And Keane.
Keane opened his arms, and Branwen went to him willingly.
He wrapped her green ribbon around her throat.
A woman after my own heart.
* * *
Though s
he tossed and turned in the hammock, she didn’t wake until just before dawn.
Eyes watched Branwen by lantern light.
“I suppose you think we’re even,” said Alba. She lazed in the hammock opposite Branwen’s. How long had the other woman been watching her?
Branwen swung her legs to the floor, not wanting to remain prone.
“I don’t expect you to change your opinion of me,” she replied.
“Why didn’t you use your—your power on Kahedrin?” Alba gripped the talisman of Ankou, the silver skeleton catching the light.
“Bríga gave me healing magic. Fire that could create and destroy. When you attacked Monwiku, I needed something else.”
The princess squinted at her. “I don’t understand.”
Branwen took a long breath. The ship creaked as the waves rolled against it. Alba had seen her drain the life from two men—had already witnessed enough to betray her to the seers, to the court, to everyone. There was no hiding from the princess. And suddenly she didn’t want to. Here, in the darkness of the hull, she wanted Alba to know how she had forced Branwen’s hand.
“Your attack was brazen—and brilliant. We were losing,” Branwen began, a strange urge, pressure building in her breast. “Iveriu has known war my entire life. I came with my cousin to Kernyv to protect the peace. I couldn’t let it fall apart. I wouldn’t.”
She turned her right palm face up, and Alba flinched, drawing back in her hammock.
“Monwiku didn’t have enough soldiers. It was going to fall,” Branwen revealed to the other woman. The more she spoke, the greater the pressure grew to shrive herself, for Alba to understand what she’d sacrificed. “After I … after I killed Kahedrin, I threw myself on the mercy of the Dark One. The other Old Ones couldn’t help me.”
Alba’s lips quivered as Branwen continued. “Dhusnos took my healing magic and replaced it with this.” She stroked the outline of the mark.
“That’s how you stopped my escape.”
“Yes.” Branwen nodded. “I didn’t realize what was happening at first. I—I didn’t intend to hurt you. I’m relieved I didn’t kill you. Although you might not believe me.” As the truth spilled from her, she grew dizzy. Unfettered.
Alba pulled at her gray strands of hair.
“Maybe Ankou saved me.”
“Maybe she did.”
The two women were so quiet Branwen thought she could hear the flame flicker inside the lantern. Yet part of her wanted to laugh or cry. Perhaps both.
“After I saw Kahedrin felled—” Alba swallowed. “I ran from the gardens. I wanted to find someone important to kill. Someone who would mean as much to King Marc as my brothers meant to me.”
The words tumbled out as if they’d been held in too long, as if Branwen’s confession had induced her own.
“I killed two members of the Royal Guard and it wasn’t impersonal, like in war,” she admitted. “I enjoyed it. I wanted them to suffer.” Her breathing grew more shallow. “I returned to the gardens in time to see a tidal wave destroy all of my ships. My men being devoured.”
Alba shook her head, revolted, a tremor in her hand. “I never took sailors’ tales about the Sea of the Dead seriously. I thought I must be delirious with grief.”
“The Shades are very real.”
Disgust gripped her face. “You summoned them because of me,” said Alba, her voice grainy. “You sacrificed your healing magic because I attacked you—and I was wrong. Kernyv didn’t kill Havelin. All of my men died for nothing. Kahedrin…”
The other woman’s anguish moved Branwen, surprised her. “We’ll get to the truth,” she assured her.
A tear slid over the scar on Alba’s cheek. Branwen wanted to comfort her, although she didn’t know how.
“We’re even,” the princess declared. “I can’t forgive you. But I doubt you can forgive me, either.”
“I have lost count of the mistakes I’ve made in trying to protect the people I love,” said Branwen. “I’m not counting yours, Captain.”
Alba’s lips twitched. “I have no ship, Healer Branwen.” Branwen raised an eyebrow. “That’s what the servants at Monwiku call you, and the guardsmen.”
Branwen had thought it was only Seer Ogrin’s name for her, one she chafed at.
“I am a healer with no magic,” she said.
“Do you only use magic to heal people?” asked Alba.
“No. Tristan was the first.” Branwen paused. “Ask him the story—tell him I told you to.”
She nodded. “I will,” said Alba. “And if you don’t need magic, I’d like you to take a look at the wound on my thigh. It’s throbbing.”
“Of course. My satchel is on the deck.”
Alba pushed to standing, ducking in the low clearance, and she winced as she put pressure on her injured leg.
“You stay here. I’ll fetch it,” Branwen offered.
“I want to see the dawn.”
Branwen knew better than to try to argue with her. Alba climbed the rope ladder first, and Branwen emerged behind her just as the sun skimmed above the waves.
A brilliant green flash streaked across the horizon. It took Branwen’s breath away.
“Living light,” whispered Alba. “Sailors believe it’s a portent.”
“Good or bad?” Branwen asked.
“Auspicious.”
RED RIGHT HAND
THE DOCKS SEEMED LONELY TO Branwen when the Mawort reached the Port of Marghas. Barren. A few fishing boats were moored along the pier, bobbing beside one Armorican vessel—the ship that should have been ferrying Alba and Tristan to Karaez.
The Dragon Rising would not be returning to port. Would Diarmuid’s ship return without him? How many ships had been lost in the battle for the Veneti Isles?
Branwen descended the gangway, taking in the verdant cliffs that had made her heart pang with longing for Iveriu when she’d first arrived in Kernyv. Now her life was here, and her homeland seemed more distant with each passing day.
“Branwen!”
The afternoon was gray yet Tristan’s brown skin glowed, his smile open. Whenever she looked at him, part of her would always see the beautiful stranger on the raft, feel that same sense of wonder. It had been true even when Branwen despised him, and she did not despise him now.
In the next moment, “Alba!” he called, waving frantically. His new wife returned his wave from the deck of the Mawort. Tristan sprinted down the dock, the tide splashing the wood.
Branwen touched her mother’s brooch, biting the inside of her cheek, and forced the past back into the box where it belonged. The right fight. Captain Morgawr had given his life for peace, and it was closer than ever before.
Tristan couldn’t stop himself from clasping Branwen’s shoulders, nearly bowling her over, as if convincing himself she was real.
“You made it back,” he said huskily. He glanced around the empty port. “Where are the others?”
“Still fighting. It was an ambush.” The hazel flecks in Tristan’s eyes glinted with enmity at her words. “Tristan, the Dragon Rising is gone.” Branwen’s tongue grew thick. “I’m so sorry. I know Morgawr sailed with your father.”
“Who betrayed us?” Tristan barked.
“Hopefully the pirate king will tell us,” said Alba. She strode down the gangway, limping slightly. Tristan released his hold on Branwen and rushed toward his wife.
Offering her a hand onto the dock, he said, “Are you injured?”
“Nothing serious,” Alba told him, lifting a shoulder. “Healer Branwen patched me up.” She tilted one corner of her mouth at Branwen, almost teasing.
Tristan looked to her for confirmation. “A few stitches,” she said.
Relief crossed his features, followed by consternation. “I searched for you everywhere,” he said to Alba, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “It seems I’m no competition for a war.”
“I had to be there, Tristan,” she replied. He sighed as he studied his wife.
“I’m glad yo
u’re safe.” Alba darted a glance at Branwen. “Both of you,” Tristan said.
Heavier footsteps on the gangway attracted all of their attention. Xandru descended first, Otho and Cherles holding up the pirate king between them. Remus was upright, but still stumbling. Branwen might have been too liberal with the dose of Clíodhna’s dust.
“I found something you lost,” Xandru said to Tristan by way of greeting. The captain laughed as Alba glared at him. “Marc is at the castle?”
“He’ll be happy to see you,” Tristan replied. With a dubious look, he said, “This is the leader of the pirates?” and jutted his chin toward Remus. The other man’s baby face and hair like dandelion fuzz didn’t make him appear the most likely prospect.
Cherles and Otho half walked, half dragged the pirate king closer. Remus’s hands and feet were both secured with manacles. He gazed up at Tristan drowsily, his pupils moon round.
“The Old Ones must love you, Prince Tristan,” the pirate king slurred. Tristan startled at Remus’s use of Ivernic. “The last time I saw you, you were slit from stem to stern, floating half dead in the Ivernic Sea.”
Tristan cut a panicked look at Branwen. Alba pitched her gaze between the two of them. “What did he say?” the princess wanted to know, her tone a mixture of confusion and annoyance.
Remus bleated his goat-like chuckle. Xandru ordered Cherles and Otho to keep the pirate king moving down the pier.
Alba crossed her arms, waiting for an explanation. Xandru also looked at Tristan expectantly.
“Last year,” Tristan began, addressing his wife in Aquilan, “I was aboard a vessel in the Royal Fleet, practicing evasive maneuvers, when we were attacked by pirates. I was injured and fell overboard.”
“You told me it was a merchant ship,” Branwen snapped, incensed, without thinking.
Tristan pivoted to face her. “We weren’t on a raid, I swear it.” His eyes were beseeching. “A storm blew us closer to Iveriu than we realized.”
Branwen dropped her gaze to her hands. What was one more white lie among so many darker ones? Staring at her palms, her breath caught in her throat. She clutched at her chest as if she’d been struck.
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