A heavier breath lifted Branwen’s chest. The unnatural life force that had sustained her was gone. The Old Ones had taken back all of the magic that had been loaned.
“It’s beautiful,” Tristan assured her. “Like moonlight.” He twiddled a strand between his fingers. “Although I’ll have to change the verse again.”
Branwen pinched her brows together, confused, as he began to sing.
The Hound of Uladztir bites and hisses,
Longing for Lady Emer’s sweet kisses.
She took his hand and pressed her lips to Tristan’s fingertips. “Hair like a raven’s wing,” he continued to serenade her. “Only for her does he sing.”
Branwen’s chest constricted. She had always been the raven—somehow she had forgotten.
Tristan paused, rubbing his eyebrow with his knuckle. “Hmm, maybe, Hair like the wing of a dove,” he suggested, his baritone washing over her. “Only she does he love.”
“No,” said Branwen, with a soft laugh. “I’ve seen a white raven. Bright raven skies led me back to you.”
Tristan gripped her tighter and kissed the spot where her jaw met her ear, nibbling the lobe. Branwen moaned. He continued trailing kisses down the length of her neck; he hesitated at the nape.
“The Shades did this to you,” he whispered, breath hot, with a trace of anger. Branwen’s scars had vanished when she’d withered the pirates in the Veneti Isles.
She lifted her hand to the spot. Touching the soft lump of scar tissue, a laugh bubbled up in her throat.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” A smile ripened on her face. She had missed her scars. They were part of her—her mistakes, her battles. They told the story of who Branwen was. She wanted to see them all.
“Unlace my dress,” she said to Tristan, and it came out like a command.
He laughed, deep and mellow. “You can’t imagine the number of times I’ve dreamed of doing just that.”
“I can.” Branwen leaned down, tracing her nose lightly across Tristan’s cheek. “I’ve dreamed of it, too.”
Tristan emitted a raw, masculine growl. “I’ve always imagined it taking a long, long time.” He untied the knot at the top of the dress, the silk making a smooth sound in the quiet of the cave.
“Not too long,” said Branwen, but this was where Tantris and Emer had always existed—outside time and place. Branwen scratched him lightly as Tristan teased her, loosening one lace at a time down her back.
She slid her finger beneath the gold chain that held the Rigani stone, and he sighed. “You said fate needed a push,” Branwen recalled. “The night you returned to Iveriu.”
“If anyone can give fate a push, it’s you.” Tristan’s eyes were round with desire as he taunted her with another smile, another pull of the silk.
“I think I’ve pushed too much.”
The cave pulsed with memory, remorse—acceptance.
“We’re here now,” Tristan said. He pulled free the final lace and the bodice of her dress slid down Branwen’s shoulders.
Actual moonlight filtered through the mouth of the cave, illuminating her pale skin. The Dark Moon had passed. Tonight the magic between Tristan and Branwen belonged entirely to them.
Reverently, Tristan tugged the dress farther down. He stroked the back of his hand over the swell of Branwen’s breast, across the dip, and she trembled. His touch was like the promise of rain.
Branwen whipped his tunic over his head. Tristan’s skin was once more a rich, healthy brown. No shadow of death was upon him. She teased love-knots across his heart with her tongue, nipping at them.
Tristan surged up, lifting Branwen so he could trail his own kisses from the crease of her breasts to her belly button. He kissed each scar made by the Shades, and she had never felt more beautiful.
Holding her firm, he laid Branwen gently against the floor of the cave. It was smooth and she barely noticed the chill.
“I wish we hadn’t waited so long,” Tristan said. He lowered his chest to hers, skin to skin, and it became nearly impossible to formulate a thought.
Branwen shook her head, driving her fingers through his curls, tugging him closer.
“We didn’t know each other in Iveriu. You didn’t know what I was capable of,” she said. “Neither did I.”
“I know you now, Branwen. And you’re miraculous.”
She kissed him with tongue and teeth, his face no longer untouchable. She reached for the drawstring of his trousers. “I’m still taking the Ériu’s Comfort,” she whispered in his ear, reassuring Tristan that he would not father a child he’d never know.
Tristan had been first in Branwen’s heart, although he was second to lie in her arms. She didn’t feel the same trepidation she had with Ruan, she knew what to expect, but even so, as they shed their final garments, Tristan laying his naked body against hers, Branwen grew shy.
Their love had changed kingdoms, left carnage in its wake.
“Branwen?” said Tristan, worried. He held himself above her, the muscles of his arms flexed. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she breathed. “I just don’t know if I deserve this—you—to share myself with you, after everything I’ve done.”
“I take back what I said—sharing myself with you now is better. My love deeper,” he told her, voice husky.
“If only for a night?” Branwen ran her hand down the length of Tristan’s naked spine, and he groaned.
“Let’s make tonight last forever.”
Forever would never be long enough, but Branwen grinned, pulling Tristan on top of her, crashing her mouth into his. He tasted like the sea, like hope. As she guided him into her, pure pleasure rippled through Branwen. She shed her fears and regrets like a snakeskin.
Their bodies rocked together, their hearts joined. The fire began to burn very low.
Her hair like starlight draped across Tristan’s face as they rolled onto their sides, never letting go. “Odai eti ama,” Tristan whispered as Branwen cried out, sweating and trembling. He panted against her face, and she let her hands roam his thighs, his chest, the curve of his hip.
Tristan buried his head between her breasts, the muscles of his back taut beneath Branwen’s fingers. His cry followed, and she shuddered with his release.
They lay together, legs tangled, counting each other’s heartbeats. Neither of them wanted to sleep.
At some point, Tristan struck a small stone against the floor of the cave, restarting the fire. Dawn would soon be approaching.
“You made us a shelter,” Branwen whispered. Tristan wrapped his arms around her, using her dress to cover them like a blanket.
Kissing her cheek, he said, “You were the one to shelter me first.”
Branwen breathed deeply. She would always remember this: how he smelled, the sweat from their lovemaking, the hazy glow of the fire.
“You could come with me,” Tristan said. “We could explore the world together.”
“I can’t.”
He propped himself on an elbow so that he could peer down at Branwen. The radiance of the moon accentuated the troubled look on his face.
“Because of your cousin?” he asked.
“Eseult is gone,” replied Branwen, and Tristan’s brows shot skyward. “She is dead to the world—like you. It’s what she wanted.”
Nodding, he said, “She always wanted her freedom.” He stroked Branwen’s face. “If not for Eseult, why can’t you join me?”
“Marc made me Duchess of Liones. I’m using the white lead to finance more Royal Infirmaries. Many changes are afoot in Kernyv, and I—I need to see them through.”
“I have never truly envied Marc before this moment.”
“He is the brother I never had,” said Branwen. “But I’m not returning to Kernyv for him.” Tristan’s gaze grew more intense, probing. “On the Dragon Rising, you told me you’d explore if you could,” she said.
“You asked me who I would be, and I didn’t have an answer. Ruan, too, asked me if a life at Monwiku was wh
at I wanted. I didn’t have an answer for him, either.”
“Now you do?” said Tristan.
“I am a natural healer. My blood is the blood of the Land—of all the lands,” she told him, confidence rising. “I want to ensure the Old Ways are not forgotten. That women always have a place to learn.”
Tristan inhaled a sharp breath. “You saved me the day we met. I won’t ask you not to save others.”
“This is how I save myself.” Branwen lifted a hand to brush the tears from beneath his eyes. Extending her right palm, “Look,” she said.
The brand of Dhusnos was gone. Tristan narrowed his eyes at her flesh.
“This scar is from the blade of binding at Marc and Eseult’s wedding,” she said, tapping it with her left forefinger. Next to it, she traced a second line.
“From the Champions Tournament.” Branwen trailed her finger to the next ridge, explaining, “From the siege of Monwiku. And this—”
She touched the freshest wound. “This is from last night.”
“You have bled enough,” Tristan told her, taking her hand in his, curling his fingers around her open palm, protective.
Branwen smiled. “Willow,” she said. “The four marks form the letter in the Ivernic language of trees.”
“Eseult told me about the vow you made: the honeysuckle and the hazel.”
Her smile wobbled as she said, “Willow is the symbol of renewal. Plant a healthy branch in the ground, and a new tree takes root.”
This was her chance to make amends for all the lies and all the blood—to heal the land by training one woman at a time, spreading knowledge, and tending peace like Marc did his garden.
Tristan kissed Branwen’s palm, teased each line with his tongue, and tingles radiated from the spot.
“I saw us once—in the in-between. You an old warrior, and me your wife, sitting by a fire,” Branwen admitted. Her voice quavered. “But that was only one possibility. The paths our lives might take are infinite. Somewhere between fate and chance.”
Tristan toyed with one of her bleached curls. “I will plant a willow for you, Branwen. Everywhere I go. And I will write you a song. I will send it to Castle Wragh, and you will know that I live.”
“Even without my magic, I will know.” She kissed him long. “But you must promise me something else,” she said when she was starved for breath.
“Anything.”
“You were my first love—” she started.
Interrupting, he said, “And you were mine.”
“I don’t want to be your last, Tristan.”
“Branwen, I—”
She silenced him by pressing his lips to his. “Promise.”
“You’ve given me a second chance at life, and I won’t squander it. My life will be long—this time. I will live long enough to make you my last.”
“Maybe, but Tristan, I’m done waiting. I don’t want you to wait, either. I want you to love someone who can cut you deeply.”
“Like you did.”
“Promise.”
The first fingers of dawn crept across the mouth of the cave. “I would promise you anything,” Tristan told her. Their time together was growing short. Branwen drank in the sight of his body, unmasked: the tightly packed muscles of his abdomen, the hard lines of his thighs.
“To seal the promise,” she said.
Branwen merged their bodies, crying with pleasure and the knowledge that as close as Tristan was in this moment, he would soon be across the sea, exploring lands full of strangers she hoped would welcome him into their hearts. She hoped he would find shelter there.
* * *
Birds trilled from all the branches, calling to one another throughout the Brechliant Forest, celebrating the new day.
Branwen and Tristan walked hand in hand, mourning the loss of an endless night.
The horses waited precisely where Alba had said they would be. In the saddlebags of a sable-colored stallion, Tristan found provisions, clothes, gold. He gave a sad smile as he inspected it.
“I hope Alba finds someone to cut her deeply, too,” he said.
Attempting to stifle another sob, Branwen said, “I can’t watch you sail away from me again. I will leave you here.”
Tristan scrunched his lips together, a sigh expanding his rib cage. “The White Stag?” he said, and Branwen nodded.
“The passage is booked in the name of Tantris,” she said, and he made a guttural noise. “Tristan is dead, but Tantris lives. Tantris the explorer.”
Tristan swept Branwen into an embrace, transporting her back to their first goodbye on the beach below Castle Rigani. His first kiss had transformed Branwen into a sea of flames. His last kiss, their last goodbye—unmade, and remade her again. They loved while they burned, and they burned while they loved.
“Possibility is everything,” said Tristan, when he at last tore himself away. He mounted his horse swiftly.
“I wish you love,” Branwen replied.
Her eyes strained until his outline converged with the trees, just as she had watched her cousin. The lovers who had nearly destroyed two kingdoms were no more.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks, but they overwhelmed her. She didn’t notice the tread of the spy’s footsteps until Xandru stood at her side.
“You’ve changed your hair,” he said.
Branwen barked a laugh that was too loud in the quiet forest. “Always so observant,” she said.
“I understand from Alba that you ordered the bodies of both Tristan and the True Queen to be burned.”
“He was a prince of Armorica, after all.” Branwen met Xandru’s watchful gaze. “Marc will understand. We can still hold a funeral.”
Xandru withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.
“Are you ready now? To return?”
“I am.”
THE SONG OF BRÍGA
BRANWEN WORE A BLACK CLOAK, although no bodies would be buried today. It billowed around her like a sail as she rode Senara up the headland toward the final resting place of the kings and queens of Kernyv.
Thousands of black and white stones covered the circular burial mound, dazzling from a distance. Nearly as many mourners dotted the surrounding cliffs.
The wind was fierce on Branwen’s face, and her long white braid slapped against her back. Almost a year to the day that the Dragon Rising had landed at the port of Marghas carrying the Princess of Iveriu, nothing but ashes remained of Prince Tristan or True Queen Eseult.
Branwen had asked King Marc to let her be the one to write to her aunt with the sad tidings. Iveriu had the peace with Kernyv that it had so desperately needed—it only looked different from how they’d thought it would. Branwen promised the Queen of Iveriu that she would learn to love herself in her failures, too.
She tilted a half smile at Lowenek, whose eyes she felt on her cheek, as the girl rode Lí Ban at Branwen’s side. She hadn’t asked Branwen why her hair was now white, but she studied her carefully with intelligent eyes, absorbing everything around her. Branwen thought Eseult would want the girl to have the mare, and Lowenek would need a mount as Branwen’s new full-time apprentice.
Arthek had chosen Andred as his new master, and the Crown Prince was rarely seen without the dog at his heels.
But not today. The young prince was already dismounting his steed closer to the burial mound. Sir Goron stood beside him, watching the crowd. Andred was now King Marc’s sole heir, and the old sword master had been convinced to delay returning to his retirement for a little while longer.
Andred’s grim expression brightened for a second when his gaze landed on Lowenek, then clouded over again as it skipped to Branwen.
She slowed Senara, walking the mare toward the prince, and Lowenek followed.
“Dymatis, Prince Andred,” said Branwen. “Sir Goron.” She dismounted and Lowenek was quick to jump to the ground, taking the reins of Branwen’s horse.
Sir Goron met Branwen’s gaze with a knowing look.
“Dyma
tis, Duchess Branwen,” he said.
Rumors swirled that the affair between Tristan and Eseult must have been real, and that Eseult had died of a broken heart when Tristan was felled. Only Sir Goron had seen the false evidence of its truth—a secret he believed that he and Branwen were keeping for the good of the kingdom.
Andred nodded curtly at Branwen in acknowledgment of her presence. Lowenek tied their horses to the sturdy branch of a thorny gorse bush. The prince held himself more rigid, the weight of being heir already changing his countenance.
“King Marc has arrived,” Andred said, nodding toward the entrance of the burial mound. He wanted Branwen to leave. He extended a hand toward Lowenek, whose cheeks reddened as she glanced between the prince and her teacher.
“I would speak with you a moment,” Branwen said to Andred. “Escort me?”
He frowned, but he complied. However much he now distrusted her, she was still a duchess. As she and Andred walked ahead of Sir Goron and Lowenek, the young prince demanded, “What did you need to talk to me about?”
Branwen swallowed, her gaze drifting over the faces of the mourners. The heads of all the Houses, the petty lords, and many commoners had come bearing small white stones—an ancient Kernyvak tradition to wish the dead peace in the afterlife.
“I am sorry there was no funeral for Ruan,” said Branwen in a quiet voice.
“Nor my mother.” Andred’s glance was sharp.
She made no comment. She stopped, withdrawing a knife from her boot. Behind her, Branwen sensed Sir Goron’s alarm, his steps growing nearer.
“This belonged to Ruan’s father—his true father.” The late autumn sun burnished the blade. “His named was Conchobar. Ruan gave me this knife once, but you are his brother and it should be yours.”
Sorrow fractured Andred’s face. “Ruan wasn’t who I believed he was.” There was gravel in the prince’s voice. “He lost his honor.”
Branwen’s heart panged for her former apprentice. “Ruan was a good brother. All of us are capable of losing our honor when we’re pushed too far,” she said. She pressed the knife into Andred’s hand. “Keep it.”
“You don’t hate him?”
Bright Raven Skies Page 36
