Branwen allowed herself a few steadying breaths. “If you give birth to Tristan’s child, you will both be executed as traitors,” she said. “The child will likely be put to death. Kernyv will be plunged into civil war and Iveriu along with it. I don’t want to lose you—please.”
“This isn’t fair,” Eseult rasped, tears springing to her eyes. “Every choice has been taken away from me.”
Her words enlarged the hollow inside Branwen, a void in which lay only darkness. Fate had taken away her cousin’s choices, but so had Branwen.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s not fair. But, Essy, do you even want to be a mother?” she said softly. She reached for her hand again. “You’ve always hated the idea.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t before,” Eseult admitted. “I didn’t want my sole value to be producing heirs.” She pulled at the fabric over her stomach. “But now … this is different. Being with Tristan, it wasn’t because I was useful. It wasn’t because of politics. And he—he would be a loving father.”
In the back of her mind, Branwen heard a low keening. Having a family of her own had never been a goal; she had always thought her place would be by her cousin’s side when she became queen. Perhaps it had been fear, too, of orphaning someone else. Tristan had been the first man to make her reconsider.
“One day, Tristan will get the chance,” Branwen said. “But he can’t know you’re pregnant. Not ever.” Her voice grew harder with each word. “Tristan would die to protect you. There would be no stopping him from lying to King Marc about what happened between you—from saying he forced himself on you. Marc would have no choice but to put him to death.”
Eseult moaned and rested her head against Branwen’s shoulder. “You’re right,” she whispered. “He would. We can’t tell him.”
Branwen edged closer. She stroked her cousin’s back as she wept.
“Oh, Branny. I don’t want this to be true. I’ve tried so hard to pretend that Tristan is nothing but my bodyguard. I just … carrying his child, it doesn’t feel wrong.”
“In another world, it wouldn’t be, perhaps,” Branwen said, tongue growing thick. “But you are who you are, and he is who he is. Your love was never meant to be.”
Eseult pulled back. “I don’t know if I can believe that.”
Desperation burned through Branwen’s guilt. “Essy, I know this is a hard thing. We’ve both done hard things for peace.”
Her thoughts spiraled. It couldn’t all have been for nothing. If the True Queen gave birth to a child born too early to be King Marc’s, who looked like the king’s nephew, both Tristan and Essy would be sentenced to death. No matter the hurt they had caused each other, Branwen didn’t want to live in a world without her cousin.
Eseult tugged at her scalp. “Why is everything always taken away from me?”
“I’m still here.”
Tears dripping down her cheeks, she nodded. “I—I need time. Time to think.” She swiped at them. “Maybe you’re mistaken, Branny. Maybe my bleeding will come naturally.”
“Maybe,” Branwen allowed. She watched the conflicting emotions on her cousin’s face: both hope and fear that she wasn’t carrying Tristan’s child.
“I’ll prepare Ériu’s Comfort for you, Essy, and then you will have a choice.” She cupped her cousin’s cheek. “You won’t have to do it alone. I’ll be here, whatever you decide.” Branwen knew what she would choose, what the safest choice was, but it was not her body. If Eseult chose not to take the herbs, Branwen would find a way to protect her—and Iveriu—somehow.
Eseult nodded again. She glanced toward the darkened sea outside.
“I think I need to sleep.”
There was a chill to her cousin’s words. A lifetime had taught Branwen that further talking would do no good tonight.
“Rest well,” Branwen said, and kissed Essy’s brow.
The last thing Branwen could do was sleep. She exited the Queen’s Tower in a rush and nearly lost her footing on the last stone step. She caught herself before flying into Tristan’s arms.
“Lady Branwen?”
“The queen is fine. I’m going to check on the king.”
Tristan’s shoulders immediately relaxed. “Thank you for what you did today.” He dared a step closer and lowered his voice. “Did you have to use your magic on Marc?”
Branwen wet her lips, eyes falling to the Hand of Bríga. “No,” she said. “The wound didn’t require it.”
“You would have, though, to save him.”
Tristan’s gaze fixed onto a few snowy strands amidst the raven-black that Branwen had tucked behind her ears. It didn’t matter how often she plucked them. Since the Shades’ attack, the hairs always grew back white.
“Yes, I would have. I’ve come to agree with you, Prince Tristan,” Branwen told him. “King Marc is a good ruler. A fair one. I wouldn’t let him die.”
“I always told you how alike you and Marc were,” Tristan said, almost smiling, but not happily.
“You did.” Inhaling, she said, “I’m—I’m glad you weren’t hurt,” and stepped past him.
“Wait.” Tristan touched a tentative hand to her elbow, then dropped it. “Bran—Lady Branwen, I’ve accepted that you can’t forgive me. You will never look at me the same way and I will learn to live with that.”
Branwen bit her lip. She had also caused him great harm—and she was keeping yet another secret from him this very instant.
Tristan straightened his spine. “All I hope is that we might become allies once again.” She recognized the determination in his stance, in the set of his jaw.
“Allies are hard to come by,” she said.
“Especially at court.”
He held her with his eyes. Branwen darted a glance up the stairwell, toward where Endelyn dwelled. She tugged at Tristan’s tunic, pulling him through the archway into the courtyard.
“Ruan thinks the assassin was sent by Prince Kahedrin,” Branwen told him in a whisper.
“You don’t?” he said, confused. “He declared he was doing it for Armorica. Everyone heard him.”
“I’m aware. But when I spoke with Kahedrin at the wedding, he seemed like a man who wanted to stop his people from being attacked. Not someone who would provoke an all-out war by assassinating Kernyv’s king.”
“There’s been tension with Armorica for some time.” Tristan ran a hand through his curls; Branwen used to love that gesture.
“I know. Still, not all of the barons are happy about the alliance with Iveriu. There are, perhaps, others who could benefit from a Kernyv in chaos.”
“The person who has the most to gain by King Marc’s death is the queen—followed by me,” Tristan told her.
“What do you mean?”
He lowered his voice further. “Eseult is the True Queen now. She would remain sovereign in the event of Marc’s death. And, after Eseult, I am the next-in-line since they don’t yet have a child. Not that the nobles would let me take the throne without a fight,” Tristan said in a rush. “House Dynyon resents that their lands in Liones were given to my mother, and Baron Gwyk dislikes anyone not of pure Kernyvak blood.” His lip curled.
Branwen pressed a hand to her heart. If anyone ever discovered Tristan and Eseult had conceived a child together … it was more disastrous than she had even imagined.
“Why can’t the king control the pirates?” Branwen asked.
“My grandfather used to fund them in exchange for a percentage of the … spoils.” He swallowed. “It allowed him a degree of control. Marc refused to continue staking their raids. Now he only controls the Royal Fleet.”
By trying to do the right thing, King Marc may have brought his kingdom to the verge of war.
“There’s something amiss here, Tristan. I don’t know what it is.” Branwen let herself meet his eyes. “Ruan’s guilt is clouding his judgment. If you’re sincere about us being allies, you will counsel the king caution. I don’t want Iveriu swept up in another war.”
“I am sincer
e, Branwen,” he said, switching into Ivernic for the first time in weeks. “I don’t want war for either of our kingdoms. I—we have already done so much for peace.”
She could see how heavily Tristan’s betrayal of Marc weighed on him, left dark smudges beneath his eyes. The betrayals clawed at Branwen, too, as if there were a beast beneath her skin. Scratching, always scratching, clamoring to get out.
“We have. We’re so close. Let’s try being allies,” Branwen replied in Ivernic. The corners of her mouth flickered. “Thank you, Tristan. I’ll go see to the king’s bandages.”
“Branwen—” he said, and she stopped mid-step. “I see how Ruan looks at you. You may not think I’m in a position to judge, but I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Like you hurt me?”
“Yes.” It was guttural. “Like I hurt you.”
“You once said I deserved some happiness of my own.” Branwen canted her head. A gust of wind teased her loosened plaits. “You don’t get to tell me where to find it.”
“I’m not. That’s not—”
“Ruan told me he gave you that scar.” She skimmed it with her forefinger. “What did you do to warrant it?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Nosmatis, Prince Tristan.”
* * *
Eight guards were posted outside the king’s bedchamber. It would require a small army to breach. Inside, Branwen found Andred and Ruan. King Marc’s chest was rising and falling at a steady pace. The king’s canopy bed was very similar to the queen’s, but the rest of the furnishings were sparse. As if he’d only just moved in.
“I’ve checked the bandage,” Andred informed her. “No pus. Just blood.”
Branwen gave her apprentice a tired smile. “Well done.” She swayed slightly on her feet. Ruan’s brow crinkled. He rounded the bed and stood next to her.
Ruan stroked Branwen’s upper arm. “You look weary.”
“I’m flattered.”
He grinned. “Andred, I’m going to take Lady Branwen to find some refreshment.”
“I’ll be here if the king needs anything,” the boy said earnestly. Ruan ushered Branwen past the guards to find refreshment—in his chambers on the ground floor of the tower.
“I thought you had retired to the Queen’s Tower for the evening,” he said as he filled two goblets with wine.
“I was restless,” Branwen said. The settee in the center of the room was large enough for two. Branwen flung a spare tunic that was draped across it onto the floor and sank against its maroon velvet cushions.
“That tunic was clean, Lady Branwen,” Ruan said with faux-admonishment. He handed her a silver goblet.
“Was it?” She accepted the goblet and took a sip, trying not to sneeze. She’d almost become accustomed to the spice the Kernyveu put in their wine. Almost.
Ruan shrugged. “Maybe not.” He laughed and drank from his own goblet, ensconcing himself beside her. They drank in silence for a minute or two. Then, gently, he traced the slope of Branwen’s cheek. “What’s making you restless?”
“Besides the obvious?”
“Besides the obvious.” Ruan fixed his eyes on hers. Tonight, in the light of the oil lamps, they were a less brilliant topaz. More mellow, like thick honey.
“In Iveriu,” Branwen began, “Eseult and I lived in the same tower. But I had my own rooms. When that wasn’t far enough, I had a favorite cave.” She took a sip of wine, putting the man she’d shared it with far from her mind.
“Ah. I see.” Ruan pressed the goblet to his lips. “Growing up, when I was restless, I would escape to the mines. The land around Villa Illogan is depleted now. As a boy, I preferred the fields to being cooped up indoors.”
“Is that how you learned Ivernic? From the miners?”
“Mostly.” He nodded. “Branwen, whenever you need a place to escape—feel free to come here.”
Not knowing what to reply, Branwen kissed Ruan, feather-light, on the lips. He kissed her back fiercely. She became liquid fire.
Ruan’s goblet clinked as he set it on the stone floor; then he plucked Branwen’s from her hand as well. Ravenous fingertips caressed the outline of her torso. She released a soft moan before rapping at the door startled her.
“What is it?” Ruan yelled. A male voice replied in Kernyvak.
Branwen looked up in alarm. “It’s all right,” Ruan assured her. “Nothing to do with the king. Just something I need to deal with.” He kissed her again, nipping her lower lip. “Stay—will you stay? I’ll be right back.”
She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. But Branwen was too worn out to go anywhere else. “I’ll stay,” she said.
He smiled at her like he did the first time she called him just Ruan. He dashed another kiss on her forehead and leapt to his feet. When he was gone, Branwen’s eyelids fluttered and before she knew it she was asleep.
Sometime later, she became aware of a warm embrace, of strong arms lifting her and laying her atop a bed. “Good morning,” Branwen said dreamily.
Ruan laughed. “Not quite morning yet.”
“Oh, good,” she said.
He laughed again and stroked her brow. “You can keep sleeping.”
Ruan pulled his tunic over his head and threw it on the floor. Unable to stop herself, Branwen reached out and brushed the back of her hand against the finely packed muscles of his abdomen. He let out a groan.
“Did that hurt?” she said, perplexed.
“Only in a good way.” He lay down on the bed, turning onto his side to face her. “I think we could both do with some sleep.” Ruan gave her a wicked grin. “I want you to experience me at my best.”
“I thought you told me you were never a disappointment.”
Ruan stroked her cheek, sobering. “You’re the first woman I’m afraid I might disappoint.” He held her gaze, and she felt a pinch in her chest.
“I asked Tristan why you gave him his scar,” she said. “He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Branwen,” he said, inhaling her name. “I’ll tell you—if you’ll tell me what’s between you and Tristan. From the moment you stepped off the ship, I’ve known there was something.”
Her thoughts whirred. So many lies, too many. So many shades of truth that Branwen had become color-blind. “There might have been something between us, under different circumstances,” she told Ruan. “Now, we’re allies. We serve the same queen.”
“Allies,” Ruan said. “Nothing more?”
Branwen rolled onto her back and stared up at the canopy. It was a green so dark it was nearly black.
“Sometimes you wake up and the world you thought you lived in is gone.”
Ruan twirled one of her curls around his pinkie, considering her words. Branwen snuggled into the crook of his arm and traced her finger around his belly button.
“Tristan caught my father beating me,” he said. Immediately, she darted her eyes to his. “I was twelve. Tristan about eight. He threatened to tell.”
“Tell who?”
“I don’t know.” A regretful laugh. “I just knew it would be worse for me if he did. And I was twelve—I thought I was a man, that I should be able to take it.”
“Did your mother know?” Branwen said, gentle.
His eyes grew unfocused. “There was nothing she could do. I’d rather he hit me.” Branwen kissed his shoulder. Ruan inhaled. “I found Tristan, and I punched him, threatening him with worse if he told. He fell and cut his face on a flagstone.”
Ruan twirled and untwirled Branwen’s curl. She let the silence surround them.
“I became my father in that moment,” he said. Gazing down at her, he said, “I swore to myself that I never would again. And I haven’t. I won’t.”
She propped herself up on her elbow. “I know you won’t. I don’t see that rage in you.” Branwen had seen it in Keane, even before he had turned it against her.
“When the Armorican attacked Marc, all I felt was rage,” Ruan said quietly.
She stroked th
e line of soft, pink scar tissue that traveled across his collarbone.
“You are not your father, Ruan.”
He wrapped his hand around her neck and pulled her into a kiss that was deep, yet gentle as the spring rains that brought the buds to life.
His breath on her lips, Branwen said, “Why do you and Tristan still dislike each other? That was years ago.”
“I was … vicious to him for a long while after that. I was scared he might change his mind and tell. I feared what he thought of me and my father. I felt ashamed every time I saw the scar, saw what I was capable of.” Ruan sighed. “And I was jealous. Queen Verica has always adored him, as did King Merchion. I was closer in age to Marc, but Tristan is his brother. His best friend. I’m not proud of my behavior.”
“You must have been hurt when he chose Tristan as King’s Champion.”
He gave her a chagrined smile. “Furious. I thought I deserved it. But I failed him today so perhaps he was right to appoint Tristan.”
“We all underestimated the threat, Ruan. If you failed the king, then so did I. And I failed my queen, too.”
“You fought like a Champion, Branwen. And you didn’t even have a weapon,” he said. Her heart panged. Could she ever reveal her magic to Ruan? She feared what his mother or Seer Casek would do with the knowledge.
“Although I might wish you weren’t so brave,” Ruan added, kissing her ear. “Most Champions don’t die gray-haired in their sleep.”
“But then I wouldn’t fascinate you.”
“You do more than fascinate me.” He drew Branwen back against his chest. “I’ve never told anyone any of this.” Shaking his head, Ruan said, “You must be a healer, because I feel better when I’m with you.”
“I feel better when I’m with you, too.”
The shadows from the lamplight flickered as the oil ran out.
Branwen was lulled to sleep by the thump of Ruan’s heart.
WAYS OF SEEING
THE STREAM GURGLED BENEATH A TINKLING OF BELLS.
Branwen had sensed the dawn and left Ruan sleeping. She had been selfish to seek out his company last night. She knew it—she knew it, and yet she could only half regret it.
Wild Savage Stars Page 22
