The Mantle of Maidenhood, if offered willingly, could perhaps be something joyful, as the Queen Mother believed. But this … this was fetid, rotten. Branwen’s courage faltered. She beseeched the Old Ones to show her a way out of this evening that didn’t compel her to choose between compromising her honor—her very self—and starting a war.
The Queen Mother touched Branwen’s shoulder. “Seer Casek loves his own power more than he loves the Horned One, I think. My son did not consult the kordweyd before agreeing to make your cousin a True Queen, and he had to make this concession. A ruler’s life is full of compromises.”
“Of course,” she replied tightly.
Yet men had made these compromises, bartered with the bodies of women without consulting them. Branwen herself had conjured the Loving Cup in an attempt to make her cousin’s heart better suited to the world in which they lived.
Until now, she hadn’t considered changing the world to better suit her cousin’s heart instead.
“Not all the seers are like Casek,” said the Queen Mother, her scrutiny overt. “And the seers were not always men.”
Branwen’s eyebrows lifted. “They weren’t? But I thought women couldn’t take part in the Mysteries?”
“When I was a girl, we could. Some places in Albion, we still can. In the center of Isca, the city where I was raised, there is a shrine to Matrona—the Mother of the Horned One,” the Queen Mother said. “Women pray to her in their hours of need. In childbirth, in grief.”
“I haven’t heard of her,” said Branwen.
Queen Verica sniffed. “Matrona gave birth to Carnonos when she thought she was past her childbearing years. He was a miracle. A bit like me with Marc.” Affection threaded through the old queen’s words. “When Carnonos was first resurrected as the Horned One, he went to visit his mother. He revealed himself to her as a god in order to comfort her. Women were the first to spread the Cult of the Horned One throughout the Aquilan Empire,” she went on. “But men like power. Now that the Cult is powerful, they want it for themselves.”
Branwen touched a hand to her throat. “I am too old not to speak frankly, Lady Branwen,” said the Queen Mother. “And when the Horned One calls me for judgment, I won’t be afraid to tell him my thoughts on the matter.”
Branwen laughed. She didn’t doubt that the Queen Mother would do precisely that. Thinking of her aunt, of everything that she had done to put her daughter on the throne of Kernyv, Branwen said, “I don’t think it’s only men who like power.”
“No, indeed.” Queen Verica gave her an astute look. Branwen shifted in place. “Be careful of Seer Casek once I’m gone, Lady Branwen. And those close to him. He has fought for every shred of his power—and he won’t be easily pushed aside.”
Branwen placed her uninjured hand atop the queen’s. The old woman’s skin was thin, her veins protruding. “I will take your warning to heart,” she said, although she was all too aware of the danger he posed.
“Nosmatis, Queen Verica. Lady Branwen.”
Branwen was greeted by a familiar face. “Nosmatis, Captain Morgawr. It’s good to see you again.”
His charcoal whiskers were more neatly trimmed than Branwen had ever seen them on the ship, and he had donned a black tunic and leather breeches, the standard of the Royal Fleet embroidered over his heart.
“And you.” To Queen Verica, Morgawr said, “You look radiant, Queen Mother.”
“I’ll take the compliment, Morgawr,” said Queen Verica. “Although calling me Queen Mother makes me feel even older than I look. It seems like just the other day that you and Hanno were joining the fleet.”
She and the captain exchanged a smile, lamplight warming his dark brown skin, their rapport easy. Of course, Branwen had forgotten that Morgawr had sailed with Tristan’s father as young men. He would have known Tristan’s mother as well.
“We are older than we were,” Morgawr said. “Seeing Princess Eseult become the True Queen tonight makes all of our losses easier to bear. We have peace at last.”
“Indeed, Captain,” said the queen. “Thank you for bringing Tristan safely home.”
“Lady Branwen deserves some of the thanks.” Fear rippled down Branwen’s spine. Morgawr had seen her use the Hand of Bríga against the Shades, but he’d said he wouldn’t speak of it.
“We have much to thank her for.” Queen Verica patted Branwen’s hand. “Now, I think it’s time for me to rest my weary bones. Captain Morgawr, could I impose upon you to help me to my rooms? Lady Branwen is young and should be dancing.”
“It would be my honor.” He performed a small bow. “Take care of yourself, Lady Branwen. Cadan would be proud to see you tonight. This is what we were fighting for.”
Branwen remained rooted to the chair as the captain escorted the Queen Mother from the hall. She cradled her bandaged hand.
Dhusnos had chased them across the Dreaming Sea because of Branwen, because of her power and her mistakes. Seeing Eseult safely in Kernyv, married to King Marc, provided Captain Morgawr with the comfort that his men’s lives were lost for a greater good.
If Branwen didn’t betray his king tonight, she would take that comfort away. How could she do that to him? To Cadan’s memory? Too many sacrifices had already been made to unite Iveriu and Kernyv.
For peace, for her people, Branwen would sacrifice whatever of her innocence remained.
BEFORE THE BEGINNING
THERE WAS NO MOON AS Branwen crossed the courtyard to the Queen’s Tower.
Eseult had left the feast to ready herself for the First Night a quarter of an hour ago, but Branwen had been delayed by a request to dance from Ruan. She denied him, but there was a part of her, a large part, that didn’t want to.
When she reached the entrance to the tower, a figure stepped out into the torchlight.
“Branwen,” said Tristan.
“Nosmatis,” she replied, barely audible.
Glancing up at the invisible moon, he said, “We’re in the shadow of the short days now.”
“The queen is upstairs?”
“She is.” Tristan stepped closer. “Branwen,” he repeated. The breath from her name grazed her face. “I sang for you tonight.”
She clenched her fists and fresh blood leaked from her injured hand.
“I must attend to the queen, Tristan. I’m late.”
Branwen couldn’t let him delay her, not when she wanted so much to be delayed, for time to stop, to be given any excuse to shirk her duty to the Land.
Tristan took her bandaged hand with his own. He pressed their palms together, and Branwen’s entire body tingled.
“I still love you,” he said. She cast her eyes to their bloodied hands. “I will carry the shame of what I did with me for the rest of my days.”
Tristan pulled her closer. The desire to devour him and to destroy him weren’t nearly so different as Branwen might want.
“Eseult—Queen Eseult told me what you’re planning.” He fingered one of her errant curls. “Please don’t do this. Don’t make my shame yours.”
Branwen stilled. This secret was only meant to be carried by Branwen and Eseult. A secret between only them, like so many others in their childhood.
Tristan didn’t need to know. Nothing good could come of Tristan knowing this truth. But Eseult had told him.
Branwen broke free of his embrace. “I have no choice but to give King Marc what you took,” she said in a quiet roar. “He wants blood.”
She raised her right hand as a drop fell to the cobblestones. “Seer Casek wants blood.”
“Then let him have mine.”
“It is not the blood of men that the kordweyd want. I told you I was my cousin’s Champion. I will save her life, and yours. And the peace.”
Even if her cousin had betrayed Branwen yet again, this was what Iveriu needed.
“You’re a healer, Branwen. If you do this, it will change you—there will be no going back. No undoing this. Not for you, not for Marc—Marc, he … he doesn’t deserve
this.”
“Marc is the king. He makes the rules. He could have chosen differently.”
“Seer Casek—”
“Enough excuses have been made for the king!” she spluttered. “The men wouldn’t accept any excuses for their queen not being a maiden! I’d bet my life Marc has known a woman before, and the seers don’t care about the purity of his sacrifice!”
Tristan didn’t contradict her. A tiny blue flame began to eat its way through the bandage on Branwen’s hand as her rage mounted.
“You can either denounce us all as traitors, Tristan,” she said as the Hand of Bríga smoldered, “or you can let our kingdoms have peace.”
“You know I would never do anything to hurt you.”
Branwen pushed past him. “If you want to help, Tristan, go back to the feast and keep Endelyn distracted,” she said, over one shoulder, tone colder than a frozen spring. “Consider it an order from the queen, if you like.”
“This isn’t a game of fidkwelsa, Branwen.”
She turned her face so Tristan couldn’t see the sweat pebbling her forehead or the tears in her eyes. “No, it’s a game of chance.”
Branwen walked toward the stairs and a very uncertain fate.
* * *
Branwen was waiting in Eseult’s—Queen Eseult’s—apartment when King Marc arrived. She had rebandaged her hand, and everything was in order.
“Nosmatis,” she greeted him.
“Nosmatis, Lady Branwen,” he said. The king’s pallor was closer to the white of his tunic, the creases around his eyes deeper as he attempted a smile. Anxiety radiated from him. It tugged at her own.
At the Champions Tournament, surveying the competitors who had come to Iveriu for glory, Branwen had realized that no amount of gold or jewels could ever tempt her into trading places with the princess.
Sheer desperation had driven her to change her mind.
“Thank you for adhering to the traditions of the Iverni tonight, my king,” Branwen said, not quite meeting his gaze. Apart from the Mantle of Maidenhood, King Marc had deferred to Branwen regarding all other matters.
She motioned for him to be seated in an armchair by the window. The room was illuminated by the glow of Aquilan oil lamps and beeswax candles. He toyed with the bandage around his hand as he walked toward the chair.
Branwen retrieved a crystal decanter and a single silver goblet from atop a chest of drawers in the corner of the room. There was a small water bowl on the floor beside it. Arthek had been exiled to Tristan’s quarters for the night.
“For we Iverni,” Branwen began, “our Goddess Ériu is not only the goddess of the Land, she is the Land itself. Her body is our island. As Princess of Iveriu, my cousin also embodies the Land.”
“Yes,” Marc said.
“Ériu has a sister named Bóand, the goddess of rivers.” Branwen poured mead from the decanter into the goblet as she spoke. The tart and sweet spice with which the Kernyveu flavored their wine would mask the taste of Medhua’s tears.
“To celebrate the love between the goddesses,” Branwen continued, her voice growing thick with emotion, “on a woman’s wedding night, her sister or other close female relative offers the new husband a drink before they share the marriage bed.”
Whomever Eseult had wed, Branwen had always known she would perform this ritual for her younger cousin. When she left Iveriu, she’d believed it would be an uncomplicated matter to serve King Marc the Loving Cup. Branwen’s own arrogance knocked the wind from her.
But was there truly a difference between the love potion and Medhua’s tears?
Both were conceived in despair, an attempt to reclaim power where it had been stripped away. The herbs required for Medhua’s tears were not commonly held knowledge, but Branwen’s grandmother must have taught her daughters. In a world ruled by men, women shared knowledge like warriors donned armor.
Would women always need magic or potions to take back a shred of control?
Girding herself, Branwen went on, “The drink is both a blessing and a request that her sister’s husband supports his wife the way the rivers nourish the land.” The king looked from the goblet to her. “Eseult has been my sister since the day she was born,” Branwen told him. “King Marc, I offer you this drink with my blessing. I trust you to take care of her as I have.”
The king stood. “Mormerkti. On my blood, I will hold your cousin as dear as my own heart,” he said, pressing his hand across it.
As she leaned forward to offer him the goblet, Branwen noticed a tiny cut right where his beard met his earlobe. King Marc must have nicked himself shaving. Was it from nerves?
Branwen smothered her empathy. If she wavered, many more deaths would be on her head. “Sekrev,” she told King Marc. “Please, sit.”
She didn’t know how quickly the Medhua’s tears would take effect. She could only hope she’d mixed the proportions correctly. Her grip tightened on the neck of the decanter. “With Lugmarch’s blessing,” Branwen added, and the king’s lips twitched in a partial grin as he noted, “You’re learning our customs, too.”
She answered with a modest smile. Her knuckles began to ache from clutching the tainted drink.
Lowering himself back onto the chair cushion, Marc said, “You look like you want to ask me something, Lady Branwen.” He took a long sip of the mead.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Branwen pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth and held her breath as she watched him swallow his drink. After a moment, the question that had been troubling her for weeks spilled from her lips.
“Why did you agree to make my cousin a True Queen?”
Marc’s shoulders grew even more taut as he drained the rest of the mead in one gulp, and Branwen feared she’d been too bold. He set the empty goblet on the window ledge.
Then the king surprised her. “From the time I could speak, I knew what was expected of me.” Marc lifted the crown from his head. “That I was born to rule.” He turned the golden circle in his hands. “And, I imagine, it was the same for my new wife.”
The word wife was formed uncertainly on his tongue.
Branwen could only nod. She would never reveal how hard Eseult had fought her fate. How she fought it still. And Branwen could no longer blame her cousin for that as much as she once had.
“We…,” the king started. “We’ve both been raised to put our peoples first, as it should be.” He coughed. “I believe that my wife and I carry equal burdens. Therefore we should have equal power.”
Something wrenched violently inside Branwen at his words. That was not an answer she’d anticipated. King Marc was completely sincere. She heard it in his voice. She saw it on his face. And yet she mistrusted her own senses.
“But why?” she challenged him. “Why give up your power when Kernyv was in a position of strength? You have superior ships, superior numbers. If you’d sailed the Royal Kernyvak Fleet into Blackford Harbor, I don’t know what King Óengus would have done.”
“You sound like my barons.” Marc gave one bleak laugh. “I’ve heard the rumors that Tristan negotiated the treaty without my consent. Unhappy nobles who want to blame him. But it’s not true.”
The king’s eyes were beginning to dilate—the silver replaced by hungry black, becoming two new moons.
“I didn’t give up my power, Lady Branwen. I’m sharing it,” he said. “I know that I will rule better with … a partner. It’s what I wanted.”
Blinking back tears, she turned to the window and picked up the goblet. Branwen had never heard of a king wanting to share power in this way.
Could she have been so very wrong about Marc’s character? Had the Dark One sent her the vision of her parents’ deaths merely to torment her?
She blew out the candle on the windowsill.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, my lady. Forgive me if I spoke harshly.”
“You didn’t. You haven’t,” she assured him, throat raw. Branwen carried the goblet and decanter back to the chest of drawers, then s
nuffed out the oil lamps in that section of the room as well.
She hated that King Marc hadn’t overruled Seer Casek, yet she could see that he had changed the rules as much as he dared. If given the chance, he and Eseult might bring about a lasting peace for both their peoples.
But only deception would give them that chance.
“Lady Branwen?” said the king. Fighting for her composure, she pivoted to face him. Marc was on his feet. He took a step toward her, and he wasn’t unsteady, but—in the same way that Sir Fintan had walked and talked without issue on the night of the Farewell Feast—King Marc didn’t seem to wholly inhabit his body, either.
“Lady Branwen, I know that you and my wife are the closest of sisters,” King Marc said. “Now that we are wed, I consider you my sister, too. I hope you might come to see me as a brother.”
Branwen bit the inside of her cheek, pinched the flesh tightly between her teeth. She blew out the rest of the candles until only a solitary flame remained.
Light glowed on the intertwined sea-wolves and lions that decorated the bedspread.
“After tonight, you will be my brother,” she said.
He nodded. As if only just occurring to him, he said, “Why have you blown out all the candles, Lady Branwen?”
Offering a drink to a sister’s new husband was a true Ivernic tradition. What Branwen told King Marc next was a lie.
“In Iveriu, the groom awaits his bride in total darkness. The darkness represents the time just before the beginning of the world, before Kerwindos created us all in her cauldron. Before the land. Before the sea. Before the stars. The queen will come to you soon.”
Branwen extinguished the final flame, leaving only smoke behind.
* * *
The True Queen of Kernyv admired her First Night gown as she slipped it over Branwen’s head. Branwen quivered, the silk soft and cold, barely able to speak.
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