“I know exactly to whom I’m speaking, Prince Ruan.”
“Prince Kahedrin,” said Marc, deepening his voice. “The pirates do not sail under my banner. I don’t condone their actions.” The Armorican prince only sneered.
Branwen tapped her mother’s brooch, pulse accelerating. “Prince Kahedrin,” she interjected. His eyes caught on hers as if he’d forgotten Branwen was there.
Holding her nerve, she said, “My prince, the king’s own nephew, Prince Tristan, was on a vessel attacked by pirates and thrown overboard. Surely you don’t believe that King Marc would authorize such an action?”
The king’s gaze shifted to Branwen, and the corner of his mouth ticked upward. She didn’t want his gratitude. The king had taken part in raids; he was no more innocent than she. Branwen only defended him to defend Iveriu.
The damp air grew heavy.
Prince Kahedrin puffed out his chest. “My people are slaughtered by pirates who reside in your kingdom, King Marc, and my father’s patience is at its limit. The raids have only grown worse since you succeeded King Merchion.” He looked between the king and his Champion. “Either you are not willing—or not able—to curb the pirates’ attacks.”
Ruan hissed a breath. He couldn’t assault an invited wedding guest without breaching all rules of hospitality and risking a war, but Branwen saw how much he wanted to do just that.
“If you refuse to leash your pirates, King Marc, Armorica will have to take matters into its own hands.”
“And if you sail the Armorican fleet into Kernyvak waters, Prince Kahedrin, I will view it as a declaration of war.”
Branwen heard the cold steel in the king’s voice.
“Don’t force my father’s hand,” Kahedrin shot back.
A high-pitched trill rang out from above. In the blink of an eye, it had stopped. Ruan had nocked his arrow against the bowstring and let it soar.
The rixula fell from its branch and landed at Branwen’s feet.
“I always catch my quarry,” Ruan said to the Armorican prince, stone-faced. He crouched down and collected the little creature, pulling the arrow from its breast. “Striking first is far more effective than making threats.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Kahedrin.
Ruan held out the bird to Branwen. “I offer you a year without death, my lady,” he said. Blood from the rixula’s wound trickled between his fingers.
Branwen looked from Marc to Kahedrin, and she knew it was a lie.
* * *
King Marc dined in his study that evening with only Tristan and the Queen Mother for company. Branwen could guess at their topic of conversation.
The mood in the Great Hall was generally subdued, the wedding guests tired from the day’s hunt. Prince Kahedrin seated himself beside the King of Ordowik, who was also no great friend of Kernyv. Branwen recalled how fearsomely he had clashed with Tristan at the Champions Tournament, with true rancor.
Kahedrin was unmistakably sending a message in his choice of feasting companion. He and Ruan watched each other with razor-sharp glances. If Armorica and Ordowik allied against Kernyv, they could squeeze the kingdom from both above and below.
When Eseult feigned a headache to leave the feasting hall, Branwen was only too happy to accompany her. Her own temples throbbed.
The princess’s marriage would end one war for Iveriu; but what if it was the beginning of a new one? Branwen hadn’t considered the possibility of an alliance between Kernyv’s other enemies before.
Arthek jumped into Eseult’s arms the moment she pushed the door to the suite ajar. The lifeless rixula was laid on the vanity where Branwen had left it, out of the puppy’s reach. Her cousin screwed up her nose at the sight of the bird.
“What in the Otherworld is that?” she said.
“It’s the bird we were hunting. The Kernyveu call it rixula. A little queen.”
The princess shivered, and Arthek licked her cheek. “It’s horrid. Why do you have it?”
“Ruan caught the rixula. He offered it to me—it’s meant to ward against death.”
“Oh.” Eseult’s face softened. “He … He seems eager for your company.” She set the puppy down on the bed. “Are you eager for his?” Her cousin’s question was a mixture of doubt and hope.
“No,” Branwen said dismissively, although that wasn’t entirely true. At least Ruan could make her laugh. But she couldn’t think about the company of other men while the wedding night loomed before her.
Branwen shuddered. Better to divorce her mind from her body.
“No,” she repeated.
The princess was quiet, chewing her lips, and then she nodded. “I understand.”
She crossed toward Branwen, and Branwen saw her cousin reflected in the looking glass on the vanity. For a moment, she glimpsed two Eseults, one on either side of her.
She shook her head, trying to clear the double vision. It was the same as the premonition she’d been given on the night she stole the traitor’s finger for the Loving Cup. The portent she had failed to recognize.
“Branny,” said Eseult, barely above a whisper. “Branny, tonight’s my last night as an unmarried woman. And tomorrow night, you’ll—” She choked on her breath. “Let me take care of you tonight. Can we just forget—pretend that what’s happened hasn’t happened? Just for tonight?”
The princess ran a hand over Branwen’s knotty, windblown curls.
“Let me brush your hair,” she offered.
“You never brush my hair, Essy.”
“Let me start now.”
Her cousin plucked the brush from the vanity and began to detangle Branwen’s dark locks. She didn’t resist.
“I hated Tristan for making you so ill after the tournament,” Eseult said quietly. “I hated that you suffered—but I liked taking care of you. I liked you needing me.”
Eseult still believed the lie that her mother had told her. The Queen of Iveriu had spread the tale that it was an accident Branwen had been poisoned while she was treating Tristan’s wounds; not that her niece had summoned Otherworld magic to leech it from his veins. Her aunt had wanted to protect Branwen, and Branwen hadn’t wanted to burden her cousin with her newfound powers. Now it seemed too late to tell her.
The princess sighed, stroking the brush through Branwen’s curls. “I wish you’d—I want to take care of you more, Branny. If you’ll let me.”
Branwen didn’t know if they’d ever find their old ease together. But tonight she needed comfort.
“I’ll try,” she said. Tonight, Branwen would let herself be loved.
Once her hair was as smooth as it ever was, Branwen and Eseult dressed for bed. Branwen crawled into the grand canopy bed without being asked.
So many nights of their childhood, the cousins had held hands as they fell asleep. Branwen intertwined their fingers one last time. She felt her baby cousin’s breath on her face as she began to snore.
She kissed the princess on the forehead and closed her eyes. This was childhood’s end.
DRESSED IN FIRE
TRISTAN’S RICH BARITONE ECHOED OFF the fire-washed walls of the Great Hall.
Goddess Bríga was the patroness of poetry as well as marriage, and a bard always performed a ballad at Ivernic weddings.
Princess Eseult processed slowly, with grace, toward her waiting husband as Tristan’s fingers teased the strings of the krotto. The cousins had embraced for a long, silent moment before the doors to the hall were flung open. They were both afraid, but they weren’t alone in their fear.
Branwen walked behind the princess, carrying the train of her gown. She willed her hands to remain still. She forbid her thoughts from racing ahead to what came after the ceremony.
Seer Casek stood in the center of the dais where the king’s table usually lay, King Marc to his left and Tristan to his right. His expression was solemn yet victorious.
The guests watched in silence, lining either side of the hall. Their faces were earnest as they listened to the music.<
br />
Odai eti ama
Tristan had selected a song in the Aquilan language so that all those assembled would understand. But Branwen knew he was singing for her—for Emer.
I hate and I love
In another life, he might have serenaded her at their own wedding. Each of Branwen’s choices had led them to this moment.
Dark as dawn, light as midnight
Because she loved too wildly.
Fire that numbs, rain that burns
Brides in Iveriu dressed themselves in the color of fire, seeking Bríga’s favor for a long and happy marriage. They hoped their love would be as eternal as a flame, as warm as winter evenings by the hearth. Fidelity in its purest form.
This love that I hate
Eseult reached the end of the hall. Torchlight flickered on King Marc’s face as he flashed his wife-to-be a nervous smile.
And hate that I love
Tristan captured Branwen’s gaze as he held the last note of the song. It reverberated in her very core. Taking her place beside him, she pivoted to face the audience. She and Tristan would bear witness to the marriage. Every detail of the ceremony had been painstakingly negotiated with Seer Casek.
Branwen would represent the Iverni, and Tristan would represent the Kernyveu. With a full and open heart, their peoples would give their consent to the union of Princess Eseult and King Marc.
With no knowledge of why the marriage should not take place.
The song ended, Tristan passed the krotto to Andred for safekeeping. The feasting hall had been cleared of tables for the ceremony, standing room only.
King Marc stepped forward and joined Princess Eseult, turning his back toward the wedding guests. He was dressed in a tunic and breeches of thick, white velvet. Marc’s crown was simple, made from solid gold. It was the first time Branwen had seen him wear it.
Seer Casek raised his hands toward the ceiling. He wore opulent robes. Staring out at the wedding guests, he began, “We give praise to the Horned One for bringing us together this Long Night.” He made a small noise in his throat. “And to the Old Ones revered by the Iverni.” The kordweyd couldn’t entirely mask his distaste at mentioning the Old Ones. At least, not to Branwen’s ears.
“Under the eyes of all the gods,” he continued, “we are assembled to join together King Marc of Kernyv and Princess Eseult of Iveriu as husband and wife until the end of their days. As well as to crown a new True Queen of Kernyv.”
Eseult glanced at Branwen sideways, seeking reassurance. Not you without me, Branwen mouthed. It was the first, the oldest—the deepest vow Branwen had ever made.
The princess nodded, and a diadem of Rigani stones winked atop her blond plaits.
“Princess Eseult,” said Seer Casek, focusing his gaze on her. “Do you consent to love and honor King Marc without impediment or guile, and to bleed for him if the Horned One wills it?”
Tristan shifted his weight, his elbow grazing Branwen’s for the briefest moment. She couldn’t look at him.
“I do,” answered the princess. Branwen felt a tremor of relief even as she saw a tear glide down her cousin’s cheek.
“King Marc,” intoned Seer Casek. “Do you consent to love and honor Princess Eseult without impediment or guile, and to bleed for her if the Horned One wills it?”
For a moment, Marc’s eyes grew unfocused. Then, “I do,” he said with conviction.
The kordweyd reached behind him to where a small altar had been positioned on the dais. He selected a silver knife with a jeweled hilt, and a matching goblet.
“The marriage will be sanctified with blood, because blood flows from the heart,” Seer Casek pronounced. He handed the blade to Tristan. “First, the blood of the witnesses,” he said. As Tristan accepted the knife, a ribbon of light cut his face.
“Prince Tristan of Kernyv, on behalf of the people of Kernyv, do you give your blood willingly in support of this union?” asked Casek.
Tristan lifted the blade and traced its point across his left palm. “I do,” he said.
He squeezed a trickle of blood into the chalice. Branwen saw Eseult begin to pale.
“Lady Branwen of Iveriu,” Casek said. “On behalf of the people of Iveriu, do you give your blood willingly in support of this union?”
“I do,” Branwen declared. She held out her right palm. Tristan looked between Eseult and Branwen before his dark eyes locked with hers. She could no longer stop her hands from trembling.
Quick and gentle, Tristan reopened her scar. The blade was so sharp it didn’t hurt.
Her blood mixed with his in the chalice, and Branwen was transported back to Kerwindos’s Cauldron. She would give anything to return to that moment—to never have conjured the Loving Cup. But no one had that power. Not even the Old Ones.
Marc took the knife from Tristan. “I offer you my blood and my life,” he said to Eseult as he cut himself. His blood swirled into the cup.
The princess chewed her lip. Branwen was afraid her cousin might be sick.
“I—I offer you my blood and my life,” Eseult stuttered. She looked away as the king pricked her skin. Then he handed the knife back to Tristan.
King Marc pressed his bleeding palm to his bride’s, and Seer Casek wrapped them together in a length of white satin that he’d taken from the altar.
“With your shared blood, you begin your life together as husband and wife.” He dipped his forefinger into the chalice.
“With the blood of the witnesses, you are anointed in love and made anew.” The kordweyd drew the mark of the Horned One on each of their foreheads in blood. The princess paled further.
Branwen took two more lengths of silk from the altar. She tied one around Tristan’s hand before tying the other around her own.
“Princess Eseult,” said Casek. “You are now the true wife of our king. He will make you a True Queen.”
Following the instructions that the kordweyd had previously given her, Branwen approached the couple. She carried a fourth length of silk in her hands. Carefully, she untied the knot that bound Marc’s and Eseult’s hands together, then retied it tightly around just Eseult’s. Her cousin flinched. “Sorry,” Branwen whispered.
Next, Branwen turned to Marc and secured the last bandage around his palm. His hand was clammy, as was hers. From the altar, he picked up an elegant golden crown studded with onyx and diamonds.
“Princess Eseult of Iveriu,” said the king. “Please kneel.”
Eseult’s eyes flitted once more to Branwen. She sank to her knees.
“You arrived in this land as the Princess of Iveriu. From this day forward you will be the True Queen of Kernyv.”
Branwen plucked the diadem of Rigani stones deftly from her cousin’s head. She saw her chin tremble. Branwen stepped backward and replaced the tiara on the altar.
“My wife,” said Marc. “I offer you my blood, my life, and my crown.” His hands shook once as he laid the crown upon Eseult’s head.
“Arise, Queen Eseult of Kernyv.”
Seer Casek peered at Branwen sidelong. His smile was ruthless.
She’s not a True Queen yet, it said.
Peace was made with women’s bodies. Branwen had spoken the words as she offered her magic for the Loving Cup.
She hadn’t asked herself why. Who made the rules? Was it the gods, or was it merely men?
Her cousin had been crowned, and yet she still needed to bleed to become a True Queen. She still needed the seer’s permission.
Branwen smiled back at Casek, imagining it to be a razor that could slice him from ear to ear.
Tonight would be the last time that either of the women bled for him.
* * *
Queen Verica insisted that Branwen be seated next to her at the wedding feast, much to the annoyance of Countess Kensa. The wedding guests were treated to mead, ale, and Mílesian spirits as the servants rearranged the tables in the Great Hall for the meal. Platters of hazelnut bread in the shape of lions were also passed throughout the hall.
The Queen Mother showed Branwen a watchful smile. “You’re young, Lady Branwen,” she said, nodding toward the laughing guests. “You should be out there dancing, not sitting here with an old woman.”
“I’m happy where I am,” Branwen replied.
“Are you?”
Branwen took another sip of mead. Her eyes roamed involuntarily toward King Marc, who was standing at the edge of the dance floor with his wife by his side, together with Ruan and the King of Ordowik.
“My son’s not much of a dancer. Too like his father in that respect.” Queen Verica rattled a cough. “Perhaps your cousin can change that?”
“Perhaps.”
The Queen Mother’s gaze landed once more on Branwen. “The beginning of a marriage between rulers is always a delicate dance in and of itself,” she said, and Branwen met her stare. “You needn’t worry for your cousin. She and Marc may disagree, but I have raised a kind son.”
“He has been very generous since we arrived in Kernyv,” Branwen told the queen, the words sticky against the roof of her mouth.
The Queen Mother leaned into Branwen. “I wanted to thank you for keeping my secret this past week.” The stomping feet and rowdy laughs from the revelers made it hardly necessary to lower her voice.
“And I’ve been impressed at how you’ve handled Seer Casek. The True Queen will need a trusted friend by her side,” she said. “Your cousin is blessed to have you.”
Guilt stabbed Branwen. This woman had been nothing but welcoming, and Branwen was about to betray her son.
“Thank you, Queen Mother,” she said in a small voice. “I will do my best.”
“You objected to the Mantle of Maidenhood—”
“I—” Branwen interrupted, fear cooling her anger.
Queen Verica lifted a hand. “I don’t rebuke you, Lady Branwen. These are not your ways,” she said. “For true followers of the Horned One, the ritual is a joyous occasion—a bond between husband and wife. It ought not to be otherwise.”
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