“What’s going on?” Branwen asked.
Ruan showed her a pleading look. “I was explaining that the gate on the dam broke, flooding the gorge. It was a horrible, tragic accident.”
Eseult gestured at the boy and then at Talorc, who leaned against the wall beside the cot. “The miners say the accident happened because they were being pushed to go too fast—that white lead is becoming harder to find.”
“Is this true?” Branwen glanced crossly at Ruan, then Tristan.
“It’s true that we’re having to dig deeper to find white lead,” Ruan replied. “But we’re looking into the causes of the accident. I swear to you, Lady Princess, Lady Branwen, I will find out what happened.”
“I would hope so,” said the future True Queen of Kernyv. “It’s only a shame you didn’t care for these people sooner. I’m going to speak to the king about the working conditions of the miners.”
“House Whel has always managed its own affairs,” Ruan told her, chest expanding. “I am responsible for these people and I take that responsibility seriously.”
“The wounded in this room would indicate otherwise.”
Ruan recoiled as if Eseult had slapped him. To her own surprise, Branwen found herself coming to his defense. “Prince Ruan put himself in harm’s way to save an Iverman from drowning. He does care.”
“Not enough, Branny.” Her cousin began to lose her composure, speaking rapidly in her native language. “No one cares enough. I’m supposed to be the only Ivernic hostage in Kernyv!”
Earsplitting silence rent the room. Ruan’s eyes bulged, speechless, and Branwen realized that he’d understood Eseult’s outburst.
Then, from the far end of the infirmary, a woman moaned.
“Everyone needs to leave,” Branwen declared. “I need to see to my patients, and they don’t need an audience while I tend to them. Everyone except for Andred, please leave.”
Shock splayed on Endelyn’s face. Eseult sulked while Ruan looked disconcerted, and Tristan—Tristan didn’t look at Branwen at all.
The puppy scuttled into the room, its nails clacking on the stone floor. Ogrin rumbled with laughter. “The Lord of Wild Things has given this creature an extra dose of wildness.” The puppy barked, pawing at Eseult’s skirts. She scratched it behind its floppy ears as the others exited.
The princess waited a beat before she left. “I’m sorry, Branny. I didn’t mean to lose my temper. Seeing our people wounded, imprisoned—how can I be queen of the kingdom that did this to them?” Her chin wobbled. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Neither do I.
Branwen blinked back a tear and turned to her next patient with a smile.
STONE OF WAITING
RUAN’S STALLION CANTERED TO BRANWEN’S side as they began to traverse the moor in the direction of Monwiku, leaving her apprentice in the rear. Tristan had escorted Eseult and Endelyn back to the castle earlier while Branwen remained at the temple with Andred. Ruan had insisted on staying behind as well, but he’d kept out of Branwen’s way, uncharacteristically taciturn.
“Your cousin isn’t happy about being in Kernyv,” he said.
Every muscle in Branwen’s body tensed, and she took a moment, composing her thoughts.
“She’s … overwhelmed.”
Ruan leaned closer. “She thinks she’s a hostage.”
“Your Ivernic is better than you let on.”
“I told you the day we met that I’m never a disappointment.” He grinned. “But,” he said, turning serious. “There are many at court who wouldn’t take kindly to their True Queen thinking herself a hostage.”
“The princess is only seventeen and she’s been sent to marry a man she’s never met in a kingdom that has been at war with ours since before we were born. Eseult will do her duty.” Branwen looked Ruan in the eye. “I would simply ask you to make some allowances for her … misgivings.”
Defending her cousin, Branwen felt a pang. She had always known the sacrifice being asked of the princess—and her magic had only made it worse. Yet she still couldn’t find the strength to forgive Eseult.
“Spoken like a true politician, Lady Branwen.” Ruan gave a small laugh. “But you make a valid point. Consider her words forgotten.”
“Mormerkti,” said Branwen, although she doubted she had truly persuaded him so easily.
“And what about you?” he asked. “Did you have qualms about coming to the land of your enemies?”
“Of course.”
“And now? Do you think you could be happy here?” Ruan looked at her, the wind wreaking havoc with his burnished hair.
Branwen touched her mother’s brooch. “I take satisfaction in helping my patients,” she said. “But I didn’t come to Kernyv seeking happiness.”
Liar, whispered a voice in her head.
“See there.” Ruan pointed to a tall, dark green standing stone. It was tilted at an angle, like a crooked forefinger. “That’s the tallest longstone in Kernyv.”
“What’s its purpose?” Branwen said. The stone stood alone on the moor with nothing else around it. “Who carved it?”
Ruan shrugged. “Giants, perhaps. We call it the Stone of Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Nobody knows who erected the stone or why,” he admitted. “But some people believe if you wait there long enough under a full moon, you’ll see the face of your true love.”
Could it be a place of in-between? Neither this world nor the Otherworld, like Kerwindos’s Cauldron.
“I don’t believe it,” she told him.
“It’s just a story.”
“No. I don’t believe true love is something you find by waiting.” Branwen’s whole life had been waiting: waiting for her parents to return when she knew they never would, waiting on the princess’s every whim and mood, waiting to share herself with the man she loved—waiting too long, waiting until it was too late, waiting for nothing.
“Oh no? How do you propose to find it, Lady Branwen?” Ruan asked.
“I don’t plan to find it at all.” She kicked Senara into a gallop, letting dirt and heather spew toward the prince.
When Branwen, Ruan, and Andred returned to the stables some time later, the grooms informed them that the Queen Mother had arrived at the castle that afternoon. They were all expected immediately in the King’s Tower.
Branwen’s heart beat rapidly as she ascended the hill—and not solely from following the steep path. The Queen Mother was Marc’s mother and Tristan’s grandmother, the woman who had raised him. He had described her as formidable. Branwen tucked the flyaway strands into her plaits as she walked and smoothed her skirts.
Noticing her fidgeting hands, Ruan commented, “Don’t worry, my lady. You look more than presentable.”
Branwen didn’t respond. Andred, who was keeping pace beside her, said, “Queen Verica lives at Castle Wragh now, in Liones. She hasn’t traveled much since King Merchion died. But of course she would come for the wedding.”
Long Night was still several weeks away, and Branwen wondered if there was some other purpose to her trip. Or perhaps the Queen Mother simply wanted to get a closer look at the Ivernic princess before she wed her son? The Seal of Alliance had already been signed, but the approval of the king’s mother could only help Eseult’s standing at court.
This was Branwen’s first invitation to the king’s quarters since she’d come to live at the castle, and she was glad to have Andred by her side.
She and the princes entered a large reception room. Branwen noticed a desk and a few bookcases at the far end, as well as an oblong table for council meetings. In one corner, she spied a finely carved fidkwelsa set on its own table. The king must use this room as his study.
“Forgive our lateness!” Ruan boomed in a jovial voice as he strode across the room. His self-confidence seemed an inexhaustible font. Several people standing with their backs toward the door turned to greet him.
“Ah, my Champion returns at last!” said King Ma
rc, one of his rare smiles on his face.
Tristan stood beside his uncle, his bearing far more pensive, while Seer Casek regarded the newcomers with scant interest, not sparing a glance for Branwen. Light glittered off the precious stones that encased the antler shard around his neck. While his robes were the same brown as Seer Ogrin’s, Casek’s were cut from brocade silk. Endelyn had positioned herself beside Tristan, but she had a pout on her face, and paw prints covering the front of her gown.
Eseult immediately hooked Branwen with her gaze, her shoulders rigid, as if she’d stepped into a hunter’s trap. She was standing as far away from the king as she could manage, and she made a discreet beckoning motion at Branwen with her hand.
“Let me see my nephews,” said an older, female voice.
Marc stepped to the left, revealing a stately woman seated in a velvet armchair. Her once dark hair was now mostly silver, and age had softened the line of her jaw, but the resemblance to the king was immediately apparent. She surveyed the room with the same inscrutable, gray eyes.
“Dymatis!” Andred exclaimed, and rushed to embrace the Queen Mother. She kissed the boy fondly on the cheek. Branwen presumed that she saw him as another grandson, even though he was truly her nephew. Countess Kensa must have been considerably younger than her deceased husband.
Ruan bowed dramatically before the Queen Mother, taking her hand and kissing it.
“You’re looking lovelier than ever, Queen Verica,” he said, beaming her a smile. The old woman laughed, bemused.
“You certainly didn’t inherit your charm from Edern.” Ruan’s smile froze for a fraction of a moment at the mention of his father. “It must be from the Whel side of the family,” she said.
“It must be.”
Queen Verica turned her attention to Branwen. “And who is your companion?”
“I am Lady Branwen of Iveriu, Queen Mother.” Her eyes flicked to Tristan as she sank into a curtsy.
“Ah, the healer.”
She nodded. “Yes, Queen Mother.” From the corner of her eye, Branwen saw Seer Casek sneer. Ogrin appreciated her help at the temple, but the chief kordweyd showed Branwen nothing but contempt.
“Welcome to Kernyv.” The Queen Mother shifted her gaze between Branwen and Eseult. “I was a foreigner, too, when I first arrived from Meonwara to wed Merchion, but now I see myself as a Kernyvwoman.”
Tristan hadn’t mentioned that his grandmother had also been a foreign queen, sent to forge an alliance with Kernyv. She must be at least sixty summers old. When the Queen Mother was a girl, the older Meonwarans would have remembered King Katwaladrus setting their capital city alight.
“In time,” the Queen Mother said to Eseult, “I hope you will, too.” Then to Branwen: “And you.”
Marc had told Branwen that he wanted to build a different legacy from his father. What did his mother think of the raids King Merchion had sanctioned against Iveriu? She didn’t comport herself like a woman used to holding her tongue.
Tristan took a step toward his grandmother, dropping an affectionate hand on her shoulder. “Lady Branwen and Princess Eseult are proud Iverwomen, Grandmother.” He held Branwen’s gaze, his expression pained. “But their hearts are big enough to bear Kernyvak colors as well.”
He touched a hand to his own heart, to the spot where Branwen had sewn it back together. She looked away.
“My favorite grandson is quite the poet,” Queen Verica said.
“I’m also your only grandson.”
Wrinkles formed around the Queen Mother’s lips as she smiled. “A mere technicality,” she said. The closeness between them was tangible, and Branwen dropped her gaze. If not for her magic, this introduction could have been to her grandmother-in-law. She’d never known any of her own grandparents.
“King Marc,” Eseult said, her consonants crisp. He instantly gave her his full attention, as did everyone else. “My Lord King,” she started again. “I would like to ensure that the Iverni in Kernyv are able to celebrate our marriage.”
“Of course.” He took a hesitant step toward her. “What would you suggest, Lady Princess?” The king smiled at Eseult, but it was the kind of smile given to a passing stranger in the marketplace.
“After visiting the injured miners today,” she said, “I am concerned for their welfare. They are no longer prisoners—they shouldn’t be forced to work in dangerous conditions.”
Marc slanted a gaze at Ruan. “As I told the princess,” the King’s Champion began, “we’re investigating the cause of the accident and how to prevent it in the future.” He skated a knuckle over his lips.
“Good. I’ll go with you to inspect the mines in the coming weeks.” Ruan nodded, touching his Champion’s sash, and the king glanced back at Eseult. “Your people are my people now,” Marc told her. “I will protect them as my own.”
Branwen heard conviction in the king’s voice. Yet she wondered how difficult the other Kernyvak nobles would make it for him to keep his promise.
“I would also like to offer hazelnut bread to the Iverni across the land,” Eseult said, which Branwen hadn’t expected. “And the Kernyveu,” she added, after a moment. A genuine smile parted Branwen’s lips. It was the kind of gesture that her aunt would make. What a True Queen would do.
“It’s customary to serve hazelnut bread at royal weddings in Iveriu,” the princess explained to Marc. “I would like to carry on the tradition.”
Branwen felt Tristan’s gaze on her, but she kept her eyes averted. When he was close to death in her cave, she had brought him hazelnuts to eat. He had told her it was the food of poets in Kernyv. It was also how he’d gleaned that she was a noblewoman, since hazel trees were sacred to the king.
“An excellent idea, Princess Eseult,” Marc said. “I’d be happy to share in your customs.”
“Thank you, my Lord King.” Her shoulders deflated, and she smiled weakly. Branwen recognized when her cousin was braced for a fight, but no fight came.
Seer Casek coughed in a deliberate manner. “This returns us to our earlier discussion of the marriage ceremony. As chief kordweyd of the largest temple in Kernyv, I will perform it.”
Branwen swiveled her gaze toward the seer. She hadn’t given any thought to the wedding itself. She had assumed it would be in keeping with Ivernic tradition.
“What does a Kernyvak wedding ceremony entail?” she asked Casek.
“It will be performed according to the rites of the Horned One.”
Eseult flashed Branwen a worried look. “But the Iverni do not follow the Horned One,” Branwen said to Seer Casek. “We believe in the Old Ways.”
“We’re living in a new era, Lady Branwen,” the seer replied. “And surely the queen will take up her husband’s beliefs?”
“I was under the impression that there were Kernyveu who still worshipped the Old Ones,” Branwen said, shifting her gaze to Tristan.
“There are,” he agreed, voice strained.
“But the king follows the Horned One,” Casek told her.
He did? The question must have been written on Branwen’s face, because Marc said, “I do, but my people may worship whom they choose.”
Casek angled his body toward the king, blocking Branwen from his line of sight.
“My Lord King,” he said. “This is a momentous occasion. You must show Kernyv that its king adheres to the teachings of the Horned One. You are their shining example. You will lead them to his truth.”
Marc visibly swallowed. He was someone who hid his emotions well—a useful quality in a leader—and the shadow passed over his face in an instant. Branwen thought the kordweyd perilously close to giving the king an order.
“I am to be a True Queen, Seer Casek,” Eseult said. Her voice grew in strength as she spoke. “I would have my own beliefs honored. Bríga is the goddess of the hearth and marriage. I wish her favor on my wedding day.”
Eseult appealed to her future husband. “If my people are your people, King Marc,” she told him, eyes gleaming, “then
my people’s beliefs are also yours.”
Seer Casek’s eyes rounded, and he opened his mouth to object, when Queen Verica silenced him by pushing to her feet.
“I agree with the future True Queen,” she said, leaning on the back of the chair for support. “I see no reason why we can’t honor all of the gods at the wedding.”
Casek pivoted toward Queen Verica. “You follow the Horned One, Queen Mother.”
“Indeed, Seer Casek. And I do not find my beliefs shaken by allowing another to follow hers.” The Queen Mother’s voice rang with authority. “When I was anointed, I accepted the Horned One’s mercy. Nothing changes that.” She paused, then intoned: “From his blood, I know mercy; in my blood, I am worthy.”
The Queen Mother cut the air twice with her right forefingers, in two diagonal lines that intersected. Captain Morgawr had often done the same aboard the Dragon Rising. He’d explained to Branwen that it represented the stag’s antlers upon which the Horned One had been impaled.
“Of course, Queen Mother,” said Seer Casek hurriedly. “His mercy is eternal.”
With a bracing breath, King Marc declared, “Then it’s agreed. My wife—” He captured Eseult’s gaze. “My wife and I will honor our gods together on our wedding day.”
The Queen Mother raised her chin, satisfied. “Andred, my dear boy. Let us toast,” she said. Andred moved toward the court cupboard and returned with a silver tray of exquisitely crafted goblets and Mílesian spirits.
“Yes, with Lugmarch’s blessing, let’s drink,” said Ruan with an exuberant laugh. Marc looked at him appreciatively. As Andred passed out the glasses, Ruan wandered to Branwen’s side. Taking a sip, he whispered in her ear, “Overwhelmed isn’t the word I would use to describe the princess.”
Branwen’s throat burned as the strong desert spirit slid down it. A True Queen would have many enemies—starting with several people in this room.
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