Retrieving a slender blade from her bag, Branwen sliced through the fabric around the wound. The sound of ripping filled the room. She cut the sleeve free and exposed the sea-wolf tattoo on King Marc’s forearm.
She couldn’t help but purse her lips. Marc noticed. “Wolves of the sea,” he said. “I know that’s how the Iverni view us. And, it would seem, the Armoricans, too. Is that all that we are?”
Their eyes met. Branwen had posed the same question to herself many, many times.
“I think that depends on you, my Lord King.”
His face darkened. She saw grief there. “I got this tattoo when I was Andred’s age. Before my first raid.” Branwen couldn’t breathe as Marc spoke. “Our bards sing of glory in battle. They don’t sing of the hollow that grows inside you when you take a life—of how it’s never refilled.”
The king blanched. “Forgive me, Lady Branwen.” His lips quirked. “I didn’t mean to—to … unburden myself with you. The pain must be addling my mind.”
She broke his gaze. “I’m going to feel around the entry point,” Branwen told him, focusing on the task before her. The arrow was embedded in the muscle at the top of the shoulder. She needed to determine if the head had pierced the bone.
Marc hissed as Branwen twirled the arrowhead. “Your god has favored you,” she announced. “The tip failed to spear the bone. If I enlarge the wound, I should be able to slide it free.”
King Marc gave a soft laugh. “I think the Horned One favored me with your presence, my lady. If you hadn’t seen the assassin, I might yet be on the forest floor. I don’t know how you spotted him.”
Branwen inhaled. She didn’t understand how she’d seen the assassin, either. Not truly. It was as if the Otherworld had layered itself over this one, like when she was on Whitethorn Mound.
This was different from the fox or the blackbirds she had seen in Iveriu. The Wise Damsel was the only person Branwen knew who might have answers. She’d been avoiding her, but she could stay away no longer.
“I won’t soon forget that you put yourself in harm’s way for me, Lady Branwen,” Marc said, tilting closer. “But, why? I wouldn’t blame you if you agreed with the Armoricans.”
She met his probing stare. “You’re my king. My cousin’s husband. I am loyal to you. Iveriu’s fate is now tied to yours.”
He drew in a heavy breath at her statement. “Yes. We are all of us bound together.” Taking Branwen’s hand in his, Marc turned it over and nodded his chin at the scar from the wedding ceremony. “You have bled for me, Lady Branwen. Believe me, I would bleed for you.”
“I do.” The flesh of her palm tingled as she realized she truly did. “I believe you. But I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Branwen said as she withdrew her hand from his. “I’m going to give you something to dull the pain. It won’t be pleasant when I remove the arrowhead. You may feel woozy.”
She turned toward the table and began to search her satchel. Marc released another groan.
Her hand closed around a vial of ground derew root. Without the other ingredients she’d used to prepare Medhua’s tears, the root would solely numb Marc’s mind to the pain in his body.
A decanter of Mílesian spirits and several goblets rested on a sideboard. With precise movements, Branwen poured the spirits into a glass and added the derew root.
“Here,” Branwen said to the king. “Drink.” Marc put the goblet to his lips with the same trust as he had on the night of the wedding.
Perhaps it was guilt that led Branwen to confess, “I understand the hollowness.”
Marc finished the spirits and set down the goblet. He waited for her to continue.
“I killed a man once. In Iveriu. I was defending myself.”
“A Kernyvman?” he asked.
“No.”
His posture loosened, either in relief or from the effects of the derew root.
“I’m sure it was justified,” Marc said. “But I’m sorry you feel the hollowness, too.”
“It’s a hungry kind of empty,” she said.
“It is.” The king sighed. “I didn’t expect Prince Kahedrin to make good on his threats so soon.”
Neither had Branwen.
A knock came at the door. “Enter,” said the king. Tristan’s face appeared in the entrance. He looked from the protruding arrow to Branwen and walked toward them. “How is he?”
“I’m about to take the arrow out,” she replied.
“Can I help?”
“No—yes.” Branwen changed her mind when she saw how the king was slumping in his chair. “Lift him onto the table for me.”
Coming to stand beside her, Tristan said, “How are you?” His dark eyes searched her. She felt them as keenly as if he were touching her.
Many responses ran through Branwen’s head. “Uninjured,” was all she said.
“In the forest, she was fearless,” Marc told him, his words slurring slightly, eyes dilated.
A smile wavered on Tristan’s face. “I don’t doubt it.”
“Help the king up,” Branwen said, unsmiling. His smile vanished as well.
Tristan was lifting Marc to his feet when the door banged all the way open and Ruan strode toward them. “The prisoner is secure,” he reported.
“Mormerkti,” said the king. He blinked rapidly.
Ruan skidded to a stop before Marc. “Here, let me—”
“I’ve got him,” Tristan interrupted, rebuffing his cousin, as the king sagged against him.
“He’s not your responsibility,” snarled Ruan. “Go back to the queen.”
“The queen is safe, and Marc is my brother,” Tristan told him. “How did you let an assassin get so close to him?”
Ruan shrunk back as if the other man had struck him. Marc looked from Ruan to Branwen. “Red-hot ashes,” the king murmured. “It’s what you said to me in the garden.” His thoughts had started to skip like a stone across a brook. “We still haven’t played Little Soldiers.”
His gaze slid toward the fidkwelsa board in the corner of the room. “I have a feeling you’ll beat me.”
“For Otherworld’s sake,” Branwen exclaimed at the two Champions. “Both of you, lift the king onto the table!”
Bristling, Ruan knelt down and grabbed King Marc’s feet. “Be careful,” Branwen warned. She moved her satchel to the sideboard together with the candelabra that had already been lit for the coming evening.
With extreme caution, Tristan and Ruan set their king on the long wooden table.
“Hold him down,” she ordered them.
“I won’t move,” Marc tried to protest, the words growing more sluggish. Tristan looked to Branwen; she shook her head.
“What did you give him?” Ruan asked.
“Something for the pain,” Branwen said, flustered.
“Branwen is very skilled at potions,” Tristan told him.
“I know how skilled the lady is.”
Tristan looked between Branwen and Ruan, brow creasing.
“Do it now,” Branwen ordered the Champions in a furious whisper. Tristan pinned one of Marc’s arms to the table, and Ruan pinned the other. Branwen picked up the same slender blade and held it to the candle’s flame. She grimaced as heat traveled down to the handle.
She pressed the tip of the blade to Marc’s shoulder, just above the entry point, and made an incision the length of a knuckle. Then she repeated the procedure beneath it.
Fresh blood began to stream from the wound. Marc grunted and Branwen dashed a glance at his face. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep. She’d given him a very liberal dose of derew root. The knife made a clattering sound as she laid it on the sideboard.
Tristan and Ruan watched her avidly. The love that both men had for their king was fierce. Ruan tensed as Branwen wrapped her hand around the shaft of the arrow.
Gently, she levered it back and forth, trying to pry the arrowhead loose.
The king was lucky to have received only one arrow wound. Most well-trained archers could sh
oot more than ten in a matter of minutes.
With the same gliding motion as she would pull a needle through a piece of embroidery, she dislodged the arrowhead.
She stared at the blood-covered steel. Such a small thing—the size of her pinkie finger—and it had the power to destroy three kingdoms.
“You did it,” Tristan said, exhaling with relief. Ruan met her eyes and his shone with gratitude.
“I still need to stitch up the wound.” Branwen dropped the arrowhead on the sideboard and plucked a salve that prevented infection from her satchel. She rubbed it into the wound, Marc’s blood covering her fingers. The scent of the salve was fresh.
Branwen poured some of the Mílesian spirits over her hands. Ruan gave a small laugh. “I believe that vintage was a gift from the King of Míl himself,” he said.
She shrugged. “Tristan, your sash,” she said.
Tristan removed it immediately. As the Queen’s Champion, his sash was embroidered with the standards of both Iveriu and Kernyv. Branwen used it to dry her hands. Smearing the lion and the sea-wolf with the king’s blood.
“I will need clean bandages when I’m done stitching up the wound,” Branwen said, avoiding Tristan’s eyes, and rummaged in her satchel for a needle and thread. “Can you find something in the castle laundry?”
His boots clicked on the stone, and she only turned back to her patient when she heard the door close.
The king groaned as Branwen began to sew his flesh together with the same love-knots she had used on Tristan. Sweat beaded on her top lip as she worked. Her own shoulders and neck began to ache from the meticulous work. Finally, she tied off the last knot. She rolled her shoulders as she inspected her web of stitches.
“Marc’s going to be all right,” Ruan asked in a quiet voice.
“The herbs I gave him for the pain will likely make him sleep through the night,” Branwen told him. “It will be safe to move him to his bed once I’ve bandaged the shoulder.”
Ruan nodded. “Thank you, Branwen.” The look on his face was one of misery. “I’ll treble the guard outside the king’s chamber. Andred, too, I suspect, will insist on standing watch. The scamp’s furious with me for ordering him to stay with the Queen Mother. I didn’t want him getting in your way.”
“Andred is very capable.”
Ruan’s expression grew even grimmer. “Then I’m sorry I kept him from helping.” He ran a hand through his now-matted locks. “I’m failing everyone today.”
“You didn’t fail anyone, Ruan. The king is still alive.”
“Tristan was right. The assassin never should have got so close.”
Branwen put down the needle. She placed a hand on his elbow. “Tristan was wrong. He did his duty and you did yours.”
“I should have taken Kahedrin’s threats more seriously.”
“We can’t be certain it was him.”
“Of course it’s him. Who else could it be? The assassin proclaimed it himself.”
“But doesn’t that strike you as strange? Why send an assassin to murder a foreign king and let his people know whom they should invade? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I know you liked Kahedrin, Branwen. But Marc’s death only serves Armorica.”
Branwen flattened her lips. Could it be that Ruan was unaware of the threats from within Kernyv that King Marc had spoken about on the wedding night?
“We’ll find out when he’s regained consciousness, I suppose,” she said.
Ruan’s face softened somewhat. “Branwen, about before, with Tristan. I’m sorry. I would never do anything to compromise your honor.”
She stepped toward him. “Do you think I’ve compromised my honor, Ruan? By making you my lover?”
Ruan pushed one of Branwen’s loose curls behind her ear. “Today you fought an assassin with your bare hands. You saved my king.” He stroked the edge of her ear with his thumb. “I’m in awe of your honor.”
He tilted forward until Branwen felt his breath on her face. She wanted nothing more than to lean into him.
“I won’t use what we have as a weapon against Tristan. It’s beneath me.”
“Thank you.”
The door creaked open. Branwen and Ruan split apart as Tristan returned. Cheeks burning, she blew out a large breath. Branwen bandaged King Marc’s shoulder while he slept, and then the two Champions carried him to his bedchamber.
She would have preferred to stay with the king, but she retreated toward the Queen’s Tower. Branwen and her cousin had many things to discuss, and she had no inkling where to start.
She would rather face another Death-Teller.
THE WORLD YOU THOUGHT YOU LIVED IN
ARTHEK BARKED FROM QUEEN ESEULT’S lap as Branwen pushed open the door to the royal apartment. Her cousin sat at the window, expression weary, picking at a plate of cured meats. For a moment, Eseult resembled her mother completely.
Quieting the puppy with a kiss atop his wrinkled head, Eseult said, “How’s the king?”
“Sleeping. I removed the arrow. He’ll recover,” Branwen replied, and her cousin nodded, face brightening a smidge. She crossed toward the queen, stretching her shoulders. “He was more concerned for your safety,” she said.
Eseult stroked Arthek between his ears, her chest deflating further. “He’s been very attentive. Considerate.”
“He has. You should visit him in the morning. I think—I think he would make a steadfast friend.”
“I will. I was worried, but I knew you’d heal him.” The queen lifted her eyes to her cousin as Branwen took the seat opposite hers. “In the forest, I was so scared for you, Branny. I told Tristan to go back for you but he … wouldn’t.”
The flame of a beeswax candle flickered on the windowsill. Outside, night had stolen over the sea. “Tristan was following the king’s orders,” Branwen said.
“But he’s the Queen’s Champion and I wanted him to save you.”
“Tristan will always choose the queen first.” Branwen swallowed. “He must. It’s his duty to his kingdom.”
“You matter more to me than any kingdom,” said her cousin.
“But I shouldn’t.”
“Not you without me,” Eseult said stubbornly. With a sigh, Branwen answered, “Not me without you.”
Her cousin coiled a flaxen strand around her finger. “Are you—are you pleased about the infirmary?” She gave Branwen a small, hopeful smile, with a hint of mischief. It reminded her of the times her cousin would fill Master Bécc’s inkwells with honey.
“I am. We’ll create a bit of Iveriu in Kernyv.”
Eseult nodded in satisfaction. Taking a breath, Branwen steeled herself and said, “We need to talk about what happened at the festival.”
The queen cast her eyes downward. “There’s blood on your sleeve. Would you like me to have a bath drawn?”
“Perhaps later.”
“You must be hungry.” She pushed the plate of untouched food across the table toward Branwen. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Eseult.” Branwen glanced around them. “Where’s Endelyn?”
“I sent her away. I wanted to be alone.” The queen gripped the strand of hair tighter. “But I don’t think I could be pregnant, Branny,” she said in a whisper. “It’s probably just indigestion, like you told the king.” Her cousin gathered Arthek closer to her breast, clutching the puppy as if it could protect her from the truth.
Leaning across the table, Branwen said, “Men have very little understanding of women’s bodies.” Although she wondered whether Queen Verica or Countess Kensa might suspect the cause of Eseult’s nausea.
In a cajoling tone, she asked, “Do you remember precisely when you had your last bleeding?”
“I—I think it was the week of the Farewell Feast.”
“King Marc hasn’t shared your bed since the wedding.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Branwen had to be certain. She hadn’t seen the king visit the Queen’s Tower at all.
“No.” E
seult pressed her lips together. “He said—he said he would wait to be invited. The king is kind to me, Branny. But I don’t love him.” She scratched Arthek between his ears. “I wish I could.”
The hungry emptiness Branwen had spoken of with Marc expanded inside her. If there had been no Loving Cup, might Eseult have learned to appreciate Marc for his own qualities?
“You have time to get to know him,” Branwen said, but observing her cousin, she noticed her cheeks were a little fuller than normal. They had arrived in Kernyv slightly less than three moons ago. In a few weeks, the queen’s condition would become apparent to the untrained eye.
She dragged her chair closer to the queen’s. “Essy,” she began. Since the wedding night, Branwen had used her cousin’s title as a weapon, but she couldn’t do that anymore. If not for the Loving Cup, Essy wouldn’t be facing impossible choices. Guilt threatened to devour Branwen like a wolf.
“Essy,” she repeated. She traced the symbol for hazel on her cousin’s hand. “I can fix this,” Branwen told her. “No one ever need know you were pregnant.”
The queen’s lips trembled.
“There are herbs that will bring on your bleeding,” she explained. “They’ll make you ill for a few days, but it will pass.”
Eseult lurched back in her chair. Arthek leapt from her lap in protest, letting out a small whimper.
“Branny, no. I can’t.” She dropped a hand to her belly. “This is Tristan’s child.”
Branwen dug her fingernails into her palms as surprise turned to terror. She had assumed the queen would be relieved. “I know, Essy. But he’s not your husband,” she said. How could her cousin not see the danger they were both in?
The danger Branwen had put them in.
“I’ll stay by your side the whole time,” she promised Eseult. “Don’t be scared.”
The queen squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She traced her belly in concentric circles.
“What Tristan and I shared, it was joyful. More joy than I thought I’d ever know.”
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