She had just lifted her hand to knock when the door to the Wise Damsel’s cottage flew open.
“Enigena,” said Ailleann, expression severe. Cloudy sunlight accentuated the wrinkles around her eyes.
“Greetings,” Branwen said. “Seer Ogrin said you were asking after me.”
“A couple of moons ago.”
The Wise Damsel turned on her heel and retreated inside the cottage.
She left the door open.
Branwen hesitated on the threshold a few moments. She had come here seeking answers, but this woman was not her aunt. She had not raised her. She wouldn’t coax or flatter her. Branwen touched her mother’s brooch and stepped inside.
Ailleann was feeding some twigs to the hearth. The kindling crackled.
“Something happened yesterday,” Branwen started. “Something I don’t understand.”
The Wise Damsel raised her eyes from the fire and peered at her sidelong.
“I saw a Death-Teller.” The Wise Damsel betrayed no reaction at her revelation. “I was traveling with the king and queen,” she continued. “We came under attack in the Morrois Forest. Everything sharpened around me. I saw the skeletal face of a Death-Teller, but it turned out to be a man. An assassin.” The words rushed out of her.
“Have you seen things like this before?” Ailleann asked.
“Since I was a girl, I’ve had dreams. And, in Iveriu—there was a fox. It told me to save the man who was poisoned.” Branwen coughed. “Afterward, I caught glimpses. Echoes of the Otherworld, I think. But nothing so distinct. It felt as if I were both in this world and seeing the Otherworld around me. How is that possible?”
The Wise Damsel fed another twig to the fire. “The goddess you call Bríga, she has three faces.”
“Yes.” Branwen nodded. “The Fire of the Hearth, the Fire of Inspiration, and the Fire of the Forge.”
“Your Goddess Bríga speaks to poets,” Ailleann said. “She transports them temporarily to the Otherworld where they can see truths, connections, that are invisible in this world. This is what mortals call inspiration.” Tristan’s music had always transported Branwen outside herself, somewhere the seas were an infinite blue.
“You are Otherworld-touched, enigena, and your power of sight is growing. Despite your neglect. You see the fissures between the worlds now.”
Branwen strummed her finger along the ridges of the wood, feeling scolded. “I’ve been practicing with the flame,” she said. “Controlling it.”
“Good.” The Wise Damsel glided across the room toward her.
“I think my magic has been flaring when it senses danger,” she confessed. “Could that be?”
“The in-between is a place of rebirth—but first there must be death. Destruction comes before creation. Your power is both. You sensed death approaching,” replied the other woman. “And it senses you.”
Branwen wished she could say the Wise Damsel was wrong.
“Does that mean the Iverni are right about the gods?” she asked.
Ailleann laughed. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I saw the Death-Teller, and she looked the way she’s described in our legends. She was terrible,” Branwen said, meeting the Wise Damsel’s stare. “And her song. It made my bones want to crumble.”
“We see as we believe. You saw the death you expect.”
Branwen curled her fingers, catching her fingernails in the grain. “But what am I supposed to do with this Otherworld sight? If I use all of my magic, you warned that I’ll burn myself out.” A splinter lodged itself beneath a nail. “How do I know when to use it?” Frustration transformed her questions into accusations.
“What do the Old Ones want from me?” Branwen yelled. Instantly, she slapped a hand over her mouth.
The Wise Damsel stared at her a long moment. Then she threw back her head and laughed. Bellowed. Her crimson hair swung about her waist.
“I’m—I’m sorry. Forgive my impertinence, Wise Damsel.”
“We’re not at court now. Magic requires honesty above all—honesty with yourself.” Her gaze bored into Branwen. “What is it that you want?”
“My aunt said I was gifted the Hand of Bríga to protect the Land. I just want the Old Ones to tell me how.” How could she protect Eseult from herself? How could she protect Tristan from the treason she had caused?
“Your aunt is the Queen of Iveriu, is she not?”
“Yes,” Branwen replied, confused as to the question.
“Your aunt has chosen to use her gifts to support her kingdom, as well she might. But your magic is yours, Branwen. You must choose what you want to do with it—you cannot live somebody else’s life. Seeking permission, approval from the Old Ones for your choices will not free you from their consequences,” she said, drawing in a long breath.
“You must be prepared to live with them, enigena. The Old Ones cannot do that for you. They have given you the tools, but we all build the houses we live in.”
Branwen glanced around the cottage. She knew the Wise Damsel was not referring to this collection of red snakestones. The other woman pointed at a bucket next to the door. “Fetch that for me,” she said. “I collected water from the stream this morning.”
Cheeks still aflame, Branwen followed her orders.
“You came here today because you’re scared,” Ailleann said from behind her. “You had no control over your power in the forest because your heart is still divided.”
I know that, Branwen nearly shot back. She carried the pail over to the table, arms straining at the weight.
“With practice, you can choose when to let the Otherworld in, and when to keep it at bay,” said the Wise Damsel. She set a shallow bowl on the table and nodded at Branwen to fill it. The surface of the water was still, orange light from the hearth gleaming atop it.
“Water is neither air nor earth, but something in-between. It acts as a conduit, a focus for your Otherworld sight.”
Returning to her seat, Branwen leaned over the bowl but only saw her own reflection, hazy and darkened.
“I see only myself,” Branwen said.
“That’s a start.” The Wise Damsel leaned across the bowl and tapped Branwen’s chest. “The truth is here. The sight comes from your heart, not your eyes. When you’re honest with yourself about what you want, your magic will obey.”
But Branwen wanted things that couldn’t be. As much as she denied it, she wanted to be Emer again. Emer loved innocently, her conviction absolute. Sometimes Branwen wanted it so much she would be willing to tether her soul to Dhusnos for the chance to reclaim who she once was.
The Wise Damsel stared at Branwen. “What is the question most pressing on your mind?”
So many crowded inside her that she could scarcely choose. Had Prince Kahedrin truly sent the assassin? How long could she continue to hide what was between the True Queen and her Champion? Threats loomed on all sides.
“I want to defend the Land. The people I love,” Branwen told Ailleann. “That is my choice, not my aunt’s. I want to know the greatest threat to peace. I want to fight.”
“Very well, enigena. Seek guidance in the water.”
Branwen gazed down at the shallow bowl. There was a temporary calm in the darkness. She heard the stream and the crackling fire, as if nothing else existed.
Her breathing grew deeper. The stillness, the glow of the water enveloped her. She was both gazing into the bowl and not. The interior of the cottage fell away.
Waves roared in her ears.
Branwen stood on the bow of a ship. Overhead, a kretarv circled. There were men surrounding her, heavily armed, but they didn’t notice her. Almost as if she were a Death-Teller.
In the distance, Branwen spied another vessel. Its sail gleamed white against the horizon. A sea-wolf danced in the wind. The ship must belong to Kernyv.
She glanced back at the sail billowing from her own ship: black. Fear hammered her. Branwen was aboard a war ship. One with no allegiance. Pirates.
The kretarv cawed. Squinting, she recognized a familiar coastline, the silhouette perched atop the cliffs. Castle Rigani.
War was closing in on her home, the seas rough. The ship lurched violently, sending Branwen to her knees.
Who was attacking them? Who was threatening Iveriu?
Tell me!
Her gaze dropped to her hands as Branwen began pushing herself to her feet. She froze. Her hands were red; blood leaked from them, staining the deck of the ship.
A sob racked her body before it became a desperate laugh. Branwen had never needed to look further than herself. Hot tears sluiced down her cheeks.
Branwen was the greatest threat to the peace.
She pounded the deck of the ship with her bloody hands. The vision dispersed as the bowl of water jumped, and Branwen’s fists banged against the table.
Her tears rippled in the water.
It took Branwen a few moments before she risked meeting the Wise Damsel’s gaze.
“Did you get the answer you wanted?” the older woman asked.
Branwen got the answer she needed. The one she should have already known. She dabbed angrily at her damp cheeks and rose from her seat.
“I must return to the castle,” she said. But she didn’t want to. Branwen wanted to run, she wanted to run until she turned to fire, then smoke. She wanted to run far away, too far to hurt those she loved any further.
“Enigena.” The Wise Damsel stood to meet her. “What you see in the in-between is meant to guide you. But it is mutable. Water is not stone.”
Branwen shuddered another breath. Her worst fear had been confirmed. Why had she ever doubted it?
The Loving Cup had set them all on the course for war.
“Darkness is coming,” Branwen said. “I don’t know that I can fight it.”
“Darkness comes every evening, and it leaves every morning.” The Wise Damsel lifted a shoulder, unperturbed.
“What if I’m the darkness?”
“You must choose to be the light.”
* * *
Branwen exited the stable feeling both heavy and empty. She raised her hand against the strong midday sun. Wild, blond hair shone against the shadows of the doorway.
“Ruan?” she said, panic prickling her skin.
“I was about to saddle my horse and come find you,” he said. Worry roughened his tone. “The guards at the gate told me you departed at dawn, seeking a medicine for the king. Where did you go?”
Branwen fidgeted with the strap of her leather satchel. That had indeed been the excuse she’d given the guards, which they’d accepted easily.
“I didn’t realize I need your permission to leave the castle,” she replied, her tone like vinegar. She wasn’t ready to discuss her visit to the Wise Damsel, or her magic, with Ruan just yet.
Ruan scowled, rubbing his lower lip. “Branwen, we were attacked yesterday. You should have woken me. I would have escorted you wherever you needed to go.” He lifted a hand tenderly to her cheek, and Branwen’s pique was mitigated by his concern. She rested her hand on his, lowered it from her cheek and threaded their fingers together.
“You smile in your sleep, you know,” she told him.
“Probably because of who was sleeping beside me.” He squeezed Branwen’s hand with another smile. Then, growing serious, he said, “I need your help. The prisoner won’t wake up.”
“Is he breathing?” Ruan nodded. Branwen straightened her shoulders. “Take me to him,” she said. The Armorican needed to live so they could get the truth from him.
She dropped Ruan’s hand and matched his fleet strides toward the guardsmen’s barracks, which were located halfway up the hill, the dungeon beneath it.
The eyes of the soldiers were alert, their swords ready. They murmured tense greetings.
Branwen followed Ruan down a serpentine staircase lit by a solitary torch. The dungeon had been dug out of the earth and the stone was slippery with moisture from the humid climate.
When they reached the bottom, it remained eerily quiet. The murk was interrupted by oil lamps at intervals along the walls. There were three cells on either side of a corridor, but only one of them was occupied.
“We aren’t used to prisoners at Monwiku,” Ruan said under his breath. A guard stood outside the cell containing the Armorican, glaring at the man who had attacked his king. The Royal Guardsman looked to be around Branwen’s age, with light brown skin and closely cropped hair.
He bowed. “Penaxta.” Ruan replied in Kernyvak, and the guard opened the cell, his twisted lips betraying his unease.
Ruan entered first, hand poised on the pommel of his sword. The prisoner was lying in a heap on the floor, which was covered with a smattering of hay. The cell was compact, and Ruan had to step back to let Branwen pass. She crouched beside the prisoner and tugged at his shoulder to examine him.
Blood leaked from his nose and one eye was swollen shut. The other was framed in black and blue.
“I don’t remember him having these injuries,” Branwen said, keeping her voice neutral. She felt the Kernyvak guardsman’s gaze on her, uneasy, perhaps because she was speaking Ivernic with Ruan.
“He woke last night,” Ruan told her. “The guards tried talking to him.”
Branwen swallowed. When she’d stopped Ruan from finishing off the Armorican in the wood, she’d known the Royal Guard wouldn’t interrogate him by asking politely.
Ruan squatted beside her. “Can you bring him around? The King’s Council is meeting tomorrow. We need to know who his accomplices are and where they’re hiding.”
“I’ll do my best.” Branwen lifted one of the prisoner’s eyelids. The pupil was enormous. “There’s too much pressure in his skull,” she said. “One more punch and he won’t be able to tell you anything. No more beatings.”
“He fought back,” Ruan said, strained. Branwen glanced at him sideways and the conflict in his eyes was plain as day. “But the guards were following my orders. I won’t fail Marc again.”
Under his breath, he told her, “I’m not a brute, Branwen.”
The pain beneath his words drilled into her. Branwen had killed Keane when he threatened Eseult. Yesterday, she had nearly killed the man at her feet to protect her king. And she had watched both her uncles behead Kernyvak prisoners of war. These were the stakes of their world. She was no better or worse than Ruan.
Branwen touched his elbow. “I know you’re not, Ruan. Just give me some space to work.”
“The Armorican’s still dangerous.”
“Not at the moment.” She and Ruan stared at each other. With a grunt, he rose to standing. “You should return to the king,” she said. “I’ll come to his chambers as soon as I’m done here.”
“As you wish. Tutir will stand guard.”
“I can’t work with him hovering. Ask him to wait upstairs.” She removed her cloak.
Ruan ground his teeth. “At least keep this.” He withdrew a small knife from his boot. Its handle was emblazoned with a golden lion.
Reading Branwen’s reaction, Ruan said, “It’s not what you think. I didn’t get it raiding. The blade was a gift.”
She eyed him, innate suspicion flaring. Then she nodded. She didn’t see why he would lie. “Thank you,” Branwen said as she accepted the knife. She also had a far deadlier weapon in her right hand than the blade.
Ruan exited the cell. “Be safe,” he said.
Water dripped from the walls, collecting in a pool beside the Armorican’s head. She set to the work of reviving the prisoner, rubbing some of Andred’s garlic paste into his visible cuts and abrasions.
The water fell in a steady rhythm.
Branwen pressed an ear to the prisoner’s chest. There was no indication of fluid in his lungs. Was this man simply a cutthroat for hire as Ruan believed? He didn’t seem terribly skilled. His attack had been frenzied, not dispassionate or professional. Surely the King of Armorica would employ a better assassin?
Drip. Drip.
Her eyes we
re attracted to the small puddle. She exhaled a long breath. Before Branwen had made a conscious decision, her gaze lingered on the grimy water, her vision growing blurry.
The prisoner was on his feet again, running toward a beach. A beach where a ship with black sails had landed. The tide frothed pink and red, bodies strewn haphazardly across the sand.
The man staggered among the corpses, searching. Branwen felt the thrashing of his heart in her own chest.
He stopped before a girl of seven or eight. Ringlets graced her sunburned forehead. She looked as if she were sleeping.
Blood wept from her middle, soaking her tunic. The girl would never wake up.
A cry of despair rent Branwen’s lips. Feet pounded on the stairs, breaking her trance.
“My lady?” It was Tutir. His sword was drawn.
The prisoner groaned.
“F—fine,” Branwen said, embarrassed. “I’m fine,” she repeated in Aquilan, but her shoulders heaved. Tutir sheathed his sword.
With some difficulty, she pushed to her feet. Dizziness permeated her senses. She was both seasick and voraciously hungry. She swayed as she gathered Ruan’s knife and her jars of salves into her satchel.
Branwen gripped the bars of the cell. “When the prisoner wakes, give him water,” she instructed Tutir. “If he doesn’t vomit, start him on gruel.”
He nodded, but she sensed his suspicion. She hoped he wouldn’t report her outburst to Ruan.
“Mormerkti,” she said.
“Dymatis,” the guard replied. Branwen felt his quizzical gaze on her back until she was out of sight.
* * *
Afternoon had faded to evening when King Marc awoke, ate a small supper, and returned to slumbering. Only then did Branwen allow herself to return to the Queen’s Tower for a much-needed bath. Eseult helped wash Branwen’s hair but she refused to broach the subject of her pregnancy, and Branwen was too tired to push. Despite the utter exhaustion brought on by the Otherworld visions, however, she couldn’t find any rest in the small room that adjoined her cousin’s.
The face of the dead Armorican girl flickered behind Branwen’s eyes. She had no reason to doubt what she’d been shown. The assassin had motive for wanting revenge on Kernyv. The question was whether he’d been sent by either Prince Kahedrin or his father. Was he working alone or at the behest of his king?
Wild Savage Stars Page 23
