Branwen knelt beside the dead assassin. Even in the dim light, the bloody froth on his blue lips confirmed what Ruan suspected.
She looked up to meet King Marc’s avid eyes. “The prisoner appears to have drowned in his own blood.”
The king swept his gaze over the dead man’s swollen eye and broken nose.
“Could he have succumbed to his injuries?”
Shaking her head, she said, “When I treated him, I believed he would recover.”
Branwen lowered her face to the Armorican’s and took a deep breath. The scent of something astringent clung to him.
Seer Casek took a step closer, peering at the prisoner’s lips. “I concur with Lady Branwen. Poison seems the most likely cause of death.”
Branwen’s mouth parted at the shock of the kordweyd agreeing with her.
Ruan clenched his fists. King Marc drew in a long breath. “Who was last alone with him?”
“I was,” said Branwen, the air trapped in her chest.
“No. Tutir fed him this morning,” Ruan told the king. “He was alive.” His eyes met Branwen’s, and she saw sympathy, ferocity.
“What did he eat and drink?” Marc asked his Champion.
“Lady Branwen left instructions to start him on water when he was conscious, then gruel.” Ruan looked between Branwen and his king. “Tutir informed me this morning that the prisoner was hungry. I ordered gruel to be sent from the kitchens.” Each word grew heavier; she could taste his guilt.
“There must be someone loyal to Armorica within the castle,” said Seer Casek, tone grave. “Someone afraid the assassin would reveal their plans.”
Unconsciously, King Marc touched the elbow of his injured arm.
“Ruan,” he said. “I want you to begin questioning the kitchen servants—but be discreet. I don’t want word to spread. And I don’t want panic.”
“Yes, Rix.”
“Ask Tristan to help conduct the interviews,” the king instructed. Ruan gritted his teeth, but Branwen thought she was the only one to notice. “And make preparations for the body to be removed from the island and interred.”
“The kordweyd in Marghas can arrange the burial,” Seer Casek offered.
“Thank you,” Marc said.
“King Marc,” Branwen began, hesitant. “In Armorica, they burn their dead. There is an Old One that the Armoricans call Ankou. They believe that burning the body makes it easier for her to collect the soul.” Ankou, Branwen knew, was like a Death-Teller but more powerful—almost a goddess.
Seer Casek scoffed. “We’re in Kernyv, Lady Branwen.”
The king stroked his beard once. “True, Seer Casek. But if I die abroad, I would want my body treated according to my beliefs.” He met the kordweyd’s stare.
“I’ll see that the body is burned,” said Casek.
The Armorican’s eyes were still open. Had he seen a Death-Teller approach him? Had he seen the death he expected? Gently, Branwen closed the man’s eyes.
“I can clean the body,” she said to the king. The Armoricans, like the Iverni and the Kernyveu, washed their dead.
Marc nodded in approval. “Seer Casek, thank you for your assistance,” he said, and it was a dismissal.
“The temple is always at your service,” said the kordweyd.
“Ruan, ask the guards to bring water and fresh linen to Lady Branwen on your way out,” Marc said. Another dismissal. Seer Casek headed up the spiral staircase first. Ruan hesitated a moment, hurt welling in his eyes, and then left.
Branwen’s heartbeat accelerated once more, wondering why the king had stayed behind.
When the other two men had disappeared from view, King Marc leaned against the open door of the cell. He groaned.
“Can I give you something for the pain?” Branwen asked.
“No, thank you.” Marc slid his gaze back to the prisoner’s face. “Is it possible to determine the precise kind of poison that was used?” he said.
“I—I suppose that it is, but I’m afraid that I’m not well versed in poisons,” Branwen said, apologetic. Perhaps she would need to make a study of them. “I can tell you that the prisoner’s blood has a bitter scent, which isn’t natural.”
She slowly lifted the dead man’s arm from the floor and let it drop again.
“And the touch of Dhusnos is not yet upon him. His limbs move easily.” Meeting Marc’s eyes, Branwen said, “The Armorican has only been dead a couple hours at most.”
“If I can’t even control what happens within the walls of my own castle, how can I control an entire kingdom?”
Branwen remained quiet. She rubbed her scarred palm. She understood why the king didn’t want anyone to know that the prisoner had died without his command. King Marc was reliant on his councillors holding their tongues, and Branwen thought that highly unlikely.
She raised herself from the floor and walked toward him.
“My king, may I speak to you as a … friend?” she said. At the beginning of last spring, the suggestion that Branwen might one day consider the King of Kernyv a friend would have seemed impossible.
“You saved my life, Lady Branwen. You may speak to me however you wish.”
“Then, as a friend, I would counsel you caution. Someone didn’t want the assassin to be able to speak to you. But whether it was an agent of the Armorican crown—or someone else—we don’t yet know. I—” Branwen swallowed. “I hope you might still consider Tristan’s suggestion of a diplomatic envoy.”
“The line between caution and weakness is a difficult one to tread,” Marc said.
“Yes.”
“Like in fidkwelsa,” he said, and Branwen showed him a small smile. “I won’t be forced to move before I’m ready, Lady Branwen. And I’m not without my own agents abroad.”
“Of course.”
“But, thank you. I am glad to count you among my friends.” Marc sounded sincere and relieved. “I will help you clean the body.”
“You will?”
“This man was my enemy, he wished me harm, but I will honor him in death. I did not honor my enemies as I should have in the past.”
Branwen envisaged the younger Marc leaving her mother where she lay dying, but she no longer felt rage. Only sadness. Sadness for her parents, for herself—but also for the man in front of her.
“Mormerkti,” she told him. “Friend.”
JUST ONCE
WIND HOWLED OVER THE MOORS.
“Here,” said King Marc from astride his new mount, easing the reins back one-handed. His wounded arm rested in the sling that Branwen had convinced him to wear while riding.
“Right here.”
The sun broke through the clouds, casting a cold light on the Stone of Waiting.
Marc glanced at his queen, who rode beside him, and then at Branwen, who was just behind. He had surprised the cousins that morning by announcing that he’d selected the location where the royal infirmary should be built, and that he’d like to show it to them.
Ruan had spent the last week interviewing castle servants trying to find another assassin to no avail. Too many people had had access to the prisoner’s food and water: Everyone and no one was a suspect. It was a relief to leave the castle, if only for a bit.
Sensing that his king had stopped, Ruan raised a hand, signaling the other guards to follow suit. The King’s Champion rode at the front of ten Royal Guardsmen who formed a defensive ring around the king and queen, as well as Branwen and Andred. Tristan rode at the rear of the party. Both Champions scoured the surrounding area for any sign of danger.
King Marc gestured at the flat landscape. Spiky yellow gorse lent the moors a bleak but bright beauty.
“Eseult,” he said, not sounding entirely comfortable addressing his wife without her title. “I believe this spot would be the ideal location for your infirmary. It lies equidistant from the mines and the sea, easily accessible to both.” Beneath his cape, the king pulled at the fabric of the sling. “And the Stone of Waiting is a landmark that can be se
en from leagues away.”
Sunlight sparkled on the dark green longstone like ice.
“Would this—do you find it suitable?” King Marc asked his queen. She bowed her lips into an uncertain smile, looking back at Branwen.
“What do you think, Branny?” she said. Eseult wanted her gift to please her, Branwen knew, but she was growing exasperated with the queen. Her cousin had returned to a state of denial about her pregnancy. Branwen tried introducing the subject of perhaps hiding the baby, giving it to someone trustworthy, but Eseult refused to entertain the discussion.
The king turned toward Branwen as well, gaze expectant.
“I think this an excellent location,” she said, finally, a strain in her voice, as she glanced from Eseult to Marc.
“Me too,” Andred piped up from beside Branwen.
“Well, that’s the important thing, scamp,” Ruan ribbed his brother, joining the conversation. He grinned at Andred. His eyes met Branwen’s and the grin faded.
Ruan had been unusually aloof, his comportment around Branwen diffident, since their disagreement at the council meeting. He hadn’t desired her company, so she hadn’t requested his, either.
Branwen returned her attention to the king. “We’re not far from Seer Ogrin’s temple,” she said. “Perhaps he can also tend to patients here?”
“My thoughts exactly,” said the king. To Eseult, Marc said, “We will build a new, stronger Kernyv—together. Our enemies will not derail our plans.”
The muscles tightened in Ruan’s neck as he agreed, “Of course not, Rix.”
King Marc reached into his saddlebag, emitting a groan, and retrieved a silver flask. Andred immediately sidled his pony next to him. “Has the water been tasted?” he said, eyeing the flask.
Branwen glimpsed Marc’s hesitation in the tightening of lips. Appointing a new cupbearer would be a grave insult to both Andred and House Whel, but the danger in the position now seemed imminent, and the king’s reluctance to put his young cousin in harm’s way was evident to all.
“Rix,” said Andred with a seriousness that belied his fourteen years. “I might not be able to serve Kernyv on the battlefield, but there are other ways to fight.” The boy thrust out his hand. “I swore to protect my king like any other member of the Royal Guard.”
King Marc took a breath. “Indeed you did.” He let Andred take the flask from his grasp. Everyone watched as the boy put its lip to his mouth, and swallowed.
Unconsciously, the king cradled the elbow of his injured arm. Branwen stole a sideways glace at Ruan: His expression was a mixture of pride and fear.
At last, Andred nodded. “With Lugmarch’s blessing,” he said, and returned the flask to Marc. The king expelled a relieved breath.
Taking a drink, he said, “We’ll break ground before summer,” and dropped the flask back into the saddlebag.
Tristan walked his stallion closer to the king, coming to a halt beside Andred’s pony, as the rest of the guardsmen fanned out farther.
“Grandmother will be glad to hear it,” he said. “She was sorry she couldn’t join us today.” Tristan cast a quick glance at Branwen, eyes troubled. Endelyn had surprised her by volunteering to remain with the old queen at the castle.
Everything Ruan had told Branwen about his father inspired sympathy in her for Endelyn, and the princess’s affection for Queen Verica appeared genuine, yet the disdain with which she treated Branwen was hard to overlook.
“The Queen Mother has always loved the moors,” Marc said. He fidgeted with the reins in his good hand. He, too, worried for his mother. Her black cough was growing worse and Branwen doubted she would live to see the foundation stone of the infirmary laid.
“Since we’re not so very far from Seer Ogrin’s temple,” Andred began, the pitch of his voice growing higher, “perhaps we could pass by?”
Ruan shook his head. “We need to return before high tide.”
“Lowenek will be joining us at the castle soon enough,” Branwen told Andred. She patted his elbow, amused at his blush.
“I wasn’t…,” the boy began to protest.
His older brother threw his head back in a laugh. “Oh, I see. Andred’s in love!”
“I’m not!”
“Well,” said King Marc. “We are at the Stone of Waiting.” His expression broke into one of his rare full-faced smiles.
“I’m not,” Andred repeated, muttering mostly to himself.
Eseult wrinkled her nose. “What does the Stone of Waiting have to do with love?”
A chill wind billowed Branwen’s cloak.
Marc coughed. “The Kernyveu believe that if you come here on a full moon, you’ll see the face of your true love.”
Eseult’s gaze swept from Tristan to Branwen. “Oh,” she said. Branwen heard all of her own sadness in her cousin’s voice.
King Marc’s shoulder blades drew together, and he shifted in his saddle.
“Lady Branwen has no interest in true love,” Ruan pronounced.
“She doesn’t?” Tristan said.
“That’s what she told me, cousin.”
Eyes still locked with Ruan’s, Branwen felt Tristan’s gaze on her cheek; she couldn’t meet it. Pressure expanded inside her chest. She flicked a glance at Eseult, instead, and then at the king.
“I’ve never cared for ballads,” Branwen told Marc. “But duty is a true form of love, and I believe in that.”
“As do I, Lady Branwen,” the king said.
Eseult’s mount stomped her hoof. “Lí Ban agrees,” said the queen with a soft laugh, turning the horse to face Branwen. “My cousin is the most loyal woman I know.”
Love bled through her words, and the frustration that had been simmering inside Branwen all week transformed into guilt. “Also serious,” Eseult added. “Too serious. Even when we were girls.”
“That I believe,” said Ruan. Branwen made a small, annoyed noise. She wouldn’t apologize for counseling diplomacy.
Eseult glanced between Branwen and Ruan. “Except when Branny has too much elderberry wine,” she told the prince, while baiting her cousin with a wink.
“Is that so?” Ruan gave Branwen a long look. King Marc laughed. Tristan remained silent.
Cracking a mischievous smile, the queen said, “Come on, Branny, I’ll race you. Like we used to.”
“I’m not sure that’s a wise—”
“See? Too serious.” Eseult surveyed the faces of the men. “I bet none of you can catch us!” The queen gave her horse a swift kick and bolted across the moor. Panic instantly widened Tristan’s eyes.
“It’s me she wants,” Branwen said to him. She slapped her own mount’s rump and Senara broke into a gallop.
The moors whizzed by as Branwen kept her eyes trained on Eseult’s blond plaits. She heard the rumble of hooves, like the gathering of thunder, as the rest of the royal guards began to follow in pursuit. Branwen spoke words of encouragement to Senara and the mare rewarded her with a gait that matched the wind.
In their many childhood races, Eseult had never realized that Branwen had always let her win.
Shock parted the queen’s lips when Branwen came along beside her.
“Slow down! It’s not safe to run off!” she admonished her cousin.
“You run away all the time!” Eseult hollered back, voice frayed by the wind. “Why shouldn’t I!”
“You know why!”
“Admit it, Branny!” her cousin said, words punctuated by hoofbeats. “You like this! You wanted to flee as much as me!”
Branwen couldn’t deny it. She had been desperate to escape the shadow of the Stone of Waiting. Escape from the expectations of Tristan, Ruan, and the king.
“But I’m not the queen!” Branwen shouted.
Her cousin kicked Lí Ban faster. “I wish you were! Then I could be free!”
“Stop, Essy!”
“No! I feel like I’m flying!” Her laughter held a trace of desperation. The memory of her cousin jumping from the waterfall as a little g
irl instantly resurfaced.
The True Queen zoomed ahead, straight for the forest. Branwen released a sigh and leaned her chest against Senara’s neck, digging her heels in farther.
At the forest’s edge, she gained ground on the queen’s palfrey. Senara neighed in complaint at the dirt being kicked in her face. Branwen’s breaths came in pants, nervous energy flooding her. Nervous, but also resolute. Magic bubbled in her veins.
Just once, Branwen didn’t want to let her cousin get her way. She didn’t want to let her win.
Her mount shared her sentiments. Senara nipped at Lí Ban’s hindquarters as she overtook the mare.
“Looks like I’m flying, too!” Branwen taunted Eseult, passing her by. The queen grunted in frustration, puckering her lips.
Branwen let out a shout and pressed onward. The hoofbeats of the queen’s mount pounded in her ears, getting closer, ever closer.
Senara galloped into a copse, and sunlight momentarily eclipsed Branwen’s vision. The palfrey neighed. Branwen pulled back on the reins just before she would have forced her mount into a boulder that reached the horse’s chest.
The True Queen continued to pursue Branwen from behind. “Essy, watch out!” she called, motioning at the boulder.
Her cousin laughed. “You might be scared, but I’m not!” Eseult charged Lí Ban straight for the boulder, and Branwen saw her cousin’s posture prepare to jump.
The front legs of the horse sailed over the craggy rock. Just as Branwen’s shoulders began to sag in relief, one of Lí Ban’s back legs caught on the top of the boulder. The palfrey recovered her stride.
Her rider did not.
Eseult screamed as she toppled to the forest floor. Branwen leapt from Senara’s back. “Essy!” Branwen shrieked, rushing toward her. Her cousin had stopped screaming.
All of the rage, all of the pain, every grievance Branwen had been harboring against her younger cousin—it all melted like snow in the sun.
Twigs snapped as Branwen dropped to her knees beside Eseult.
“Oh, Essy.” The queen had fallen sideways. She lay in a crumpled heap. “Essy, Essy, Essy,” she repeated like a prayer.
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