Branwen rolled the queen onto her back, lowering her face to her cousin’s. Thank you, Bríga. Eseult was still breathing. Branwen poked the queen’s thigh, and her foot twitched involuntarily. Praise Ériu. She would walk again.
“Eseult!”
A man’s voice sheared the forest, so agonized it was nearly bestial.
Branwen glanced up. Tristan drove his stallion straight for them—for his queen. For the woman he didn’t want to love, and the woman he had loved first. King Marc and Ruan were less than a horse length behind the Queen’s Champion.
Tristan’s mount hadn’t fully halted when he jumped down beside them.
“Branwen,” he said. Her name was a question, and it was full of terror.
“She’s alive.”
Tristan stroked the line of Eseult’s cheek; blood leaked from a few shallow cuts on her forehead. There was no mistaking the tenderness with which he touched the queen, the affection—like a lover would.
A shadow fell over them. Ruan. He watched as Tristan caressed the queen.
“What happened?” the King’s Champion demanded.
“Essy tried to jump her horse over that boulder,” Branwen replied between uneven breaths. She directed a glare at Tristan. Recovering himself, he removed his hand.
Ruan glanced at the enormous rock. “She’s unconscious,” Branwen said. “But nothing seems broken.”
“By the Horned One’s mercy,” Marc said, still atop his horse. He cut the air with two fingers. All of the color had drained from his face. “Ruan, help me down.” His shoulder prevented him from dismounting on his own.
The Royal Guardsmen surrounded their king and queen as Ruan helped Marc from the stallion, one-armed. He approached his wife, anguish knitting his brow.
“Forgive me, brother,” Tristan said to Marc. His voice was hoarse.
“It’s my fault,” said Branwen. “I should have let her win.” Tears leaked from her eyes. “Why didn’t I let her win?” she whispered. Before she could wipe them away, Tristan had lifted his hand to her cheek.
“It’s not your fault, Branwen,” he said, and Ruan grunted faintly as he watched them.
Marc dropped a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “It’s no one’s fault. Just an accident.” He squatted next to Branwen. “What does the queen need?”
“Rest.”
“I’ll carry her on my horse,” Tristan said.
“Mormerkti, Tristan. I would, but—” Marc pulled at his sling, exhaling in irritation.
“Of course.”
Ruan looked from his king to Tristan. “I’ll help,” he said. “Saddle yourself and I’ll lift the queen up to you.”
Tristan jammed his lips together, grieved, then nodded. He rose to his feet.
Branwen kissed Essy between the eyes and retreated, allowing Ruan to gather the queen into his arms. Marc pushed himself to standing and offered Branwen a hand, which she accepted.
“Branwen,” said Ruan with the icy calm of true fear. Her jaw dropped as she lifted her eyes. One of Ruan’s arms supported the queen’s shoulders, the other her upper thighs.
Beneath the queen’s traveling cloak, the back of her gown was stained with blood.
Tristan pivoted at Ruan’s tone and let out a shout, instinctively reaching for his sword. “What did you do?” he screamed at his cousin, brandishing his weapon.
Ruan’s mouth fell open at the accusation. Tristan had never shown such rage.
Marc looked from Tristan to Eseult to Branwen. Her own knees went weak.
“I’m sorry, Rix. I’m—” She paused, trying not to lose her composure completely. Branwen had been right about the pregnancy. She wished she wasn’t—so very much.
“My Lord King,” Branwen started again, inhaling through her nose. “It appears Queen Eseult is miscarrying.”
Tristan audibly swallowed. “She’s pregnant?”
“She was.”
His gaze remained fixed on Branwen, and for the first time, he looked at her with true suspicion.
“Will she live?” King Marc said in a hush, eyes running up and down the length of Eseult’s inert form.
Branwen willed away her own fears. She couldn’t let them control her. Not when her cousin needed her. “Miscarriages are common,” she told Marc, taking his hand and squeezing it as if he were any other worried husband, as if the bleeding woman was not the sister of her heart.
“But we must make haste for the castle. When she wakes, there will be pain.”
Marc shouted at the guards in Kernyvak. Tristan jumped onto his mount, and Ruan lifted the queen into his waiting arms.
There would be blood and there would be pain, and Branwen would stay by Eseult’s side, clinging to her like a vine.
MATRONA
WATCHING TRISTAN CARRY ESEULT UP the stairwell of the Queen’s Tower, unconscious and bleeding, Branwen’s guilt consumed her like shadow-stung flesh does the healthy tissue that surrounds it.
Many boots tromped on the stone steps behind Branwen. Endelyn popped her head out from the door to her chamber on the second floor landing. Alarm rippled across her face when she saw the blood trickling from the True Queen’s skirts.
Arthek barked, his nails scrabbling against Tristan’s ankles as he flung open the door to Eseult’s suite. He hastened toward the canopy bed and lowered his queen onto the coverlet with great care.
Branwen was immediately at his side, watching as her cousin’s eyelids fluttered. Eseult made a soft moaning sound as her eyes opened on Tristan. Disoriented, she lifted a hand to his face. “Tristan,” she said. “You’re here.”
The longing in her voice cleaved Branwen in two.
“I’m here,” he replied.
Branwen stood next to Tristan, but he was all her cousin could see. And beside Branwen, Ruan and King Marc had stopped in their tracks. In her peripheral vision, she saw Ruan curling and uncurling his hands. A breath caught in her throat.
“Where am I?” Eseult asked her Champion.
“We’re at the castle. You fell from your horse.”
Voice tight with fear, she said, “Branny?”
She stepped closer. “I’m here, too.” Eseult let her hand float from Tristan’s face down to the quilt, reaching for Branwen.
Eseult gripped the quilt beneath her fingers and cried out, writhing as a fresh bout of pain overtook her. “Branny,” she said, her name almost a gasp. “What’s happening?”
Arthek whined at his mistress’s suffering. Branwen pushed Tristan to the side and took her cousin’s hand. “Get the dog out of here,” she told him roughly.
“No,” said Eseult. “Don’t go, Tristan. Not again.”
Branwen gave Tristan a stern look. Eseult was too delirious to censor her feelings. As her Champion, he needed to protect the queen from all threats—including herself. Tristan met Branwen’s gaze, his eyes tormented. With tremendous effort, he nodded woodenly.
“I won’t go far,” he promised his queen. Eseult clutched at her stomach with one hand, moaning, and dug the brittle fingernails of the other into Branwen’s palm, gripping her tight.
Arthek barked again as Tristan scooped the puppy into his arms, heading for the door. Branwen lowered herself beside Eseult on the bed, feeling her brow with her free hand. It was clammy. “Branny—it hurts,” the queen mewled.
“I know, Essy.”
King Marc took one step closer to the bed. “It’s worse than on the ship,” Eseult said to Branwen, scarcely aware of her husband’s presence.
“It will pass.”
Eseult shook her head back and forth on the pillow, her pallor a terrifying white. “I feel like I’m dying.”
Marc muttered something in Kernyvak under his breath. Branwen could only make out the word Matrona.
“You’re not dying, Essy,” Branwen said, voice firm. “I won’t allow it. Not you without me.”
“I know you won’t.” Then Eseult’s eyes trailed down the length of her body for the first time.
As her gaze fixed on
the blood between her legs, the True Queen let out a heartrending sob.
“Please,” King Marc said into Branwen’s ear. “What can we do for her?”
“What about the tea she takes for her nerves?” Andred asked.
Immediately, he covered his mouth with his hand. His cheeks went pink at having betrayed her confidence.
“It’s not strong enough,” Branwen replied tersely. Pointing toward the door that led to her small room, she said, “In my healing kit, find a glass vial. It contains a crushed root. Purplish-brown. Bring it to me.”
Andred moved toward the door. “I’ll help,” Endelyn told her brother. He snapped, “I don’t need your help,” as she followed at his heels.
Returning her attention to Marc, Branwen explained, “It’s the same pain reliever I gave you before I removed the arrow.”
He nodded. Eseult wailed again. “What can I do?” the king asked Branwen.
Branwen gestured to the other side of the bed. “You can comfort her,” she said. Marc immediately complied. He lowered himself on the other side of his wife and gently took her hand.
Branwen felt a hand press against the small of her own back. She whipped her eyes up. It was Ruan. A wounded look crossed his face at her reaction. He removed his hand, and she missed the reassurance of his touch.
The door clicked as Tristan reentered the queen’s bedchamber.
“Arthek’s locked in my room,” he announced. He walked a straight line toward Branwen and Eseult, his brow creased with worry. Ruan retreated toward the window.
Endelyn hurried toward Branwen, holding out the vial of derew root. Andred was a half a pace behind his sister. “Andred,” Branwen said. “Just a pinch will be enough. Dissolve it in water.”
His sister scowled as he pried the vial from her grasp. Endelyn accompanied him to the sideboard where a decanter of water rested beside two bronze goblets.
“Branny,” Eseult said in a whisper. Branwen leaned in closer to her cousin. “Branny, was it … is the baby—” She broke off when she saw the expression on Branwen’s face, and she clenched her eyes shut.
Andred approached Branwen, holding out the goblet. Mormerkti, she mouthed.
“Essy,” she said in a coaxing tone. “I need you to drink this. It will ease the pain.”
Her cousin didn’t reply, but she allowed Branwen to cup a hand behind her head and set the goblet to her lips. She drank eagerly.
Stroking Eseult’s forehead, Branwen said to the room, “The queen needs to sleep.” Ruan looked to Marc, who nodded at his Champion.
“I’ll be just outside the door,” Tristan said. As he moved to leave, Eseult said, “I love you,” although her eyes were closed. Tristan’s posture went rigid.
“I love you, too, Essy,” Branwen replied, and Tristan kept walking. She prayed it was enough to cover the moment.
Ruan exited next, followed by Andred and Endelyn. It only took a few minutes for the derew root to send the queen into a deep slumber.
Branwen continued holding Essy’s hand, as did the king. They both listened to the hum of her breathing.
Branwen’s mind kept spinning like a potter’s wheel, replaying the same memory. She had been nine or ten years old, and she’d just begun helping her aunt in the infirmary at Castle Rigani. One of her first tasks as an apprentice was to restock the jars of herbs and bottles of tonics. Dubthach often harassed Branwen and pulled on her plaits while she worked because he didn’t dare take revenge on the princess for her many practical jokes.
On a particularly hot summer’s afternoon, Dubthach snatched at Branwen’s braid, throwing her off balance as she stepped onto a footstool with a bottle of disinfectant in hand. The thick glass hit the stone floor, and Dubthach vanished down the corridor. At first, it didn’t appear to be damaged, so Branwen put it back on the shelf. Only later, when the fresh scent of juniper that filled the room was potent enough to make her eyes water, did Branwen realize there was a crack in the glass.
She should have reported the damage to her aunt. She should have—but she didn’t. She was afraid that the queen would determine Branwen was too young or clumsy to be her apprentice.
Later that evening, the Queen of Iveriu came to the garden beneath the south tower where Branwen and Essy were playing.
“The infirmary smells like winter,” said her aunt. “Would you know anything about that, Branny? Did you spill the juniper tonic?”
Branwen had stared at the grass between her toes, shamefaced. Before she could muster a reply, Essy told her mother, “I did it. Dubthach and I were playing leapfrog.”
The queen had frowned, giving her head a little shake of exasperation.
“How many times have I told you not to play in the infirmary, Essy?”
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” Her cousin’s tone had been contrite, and yet she couldn’t refrain from a grin.
“See that you don’t,” the Queen of Iveriu had scolded her. “And Branny, next time, tell me. I can’t fix what I don’t know is broken.”
After her aunt was gone, Branwen had asked Essy, “Why did you lie for me?”
She’d simply shrugged. “I don’t mind when Mother scolds me. But I know you do.” Then her cousin had kissed Branwen on the cheek, yanked her plait, and chased her once more around the hazel tree.
As her cousin moaned in her sleep, Branwen could only see the girl who had lied for her, who had taken her scolding. She would do anything to suffer in Essy’s place now.
King Marc raised his wife’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. Menantus. He murmured a word in Kernyvak that Branwen had learned was both an apology and the name of a particularly rapid brook that never froze, not even at Long Night.
Becoming aware of Branwen’s gaze, Marc said, “I don’t like feeling helpless.”
A season ago, she never would have believed the King of Kernyv could ever feel powerless. “Neither do I,” she said.
“You always know what to do, Lady Branwen.”
“Would that it were true.” Her heart twinged. “I’m sorry for—your loss,” she said. “But there is nothing to prevent you from having another heir.”
Marc gave one sad laugh. “Heirs have a cost,” he said. “Men die in battle and the bards praise their bravery. I was with my sister just after she gave birth.” He dragged down a breath. “Gwynedd was dying, and she knew it. She put Tristan in my arms and told me that he was mine to protect.”
The king’s eyes had grown wet with tears. “I was only seven, but I gave her my word. Gwynedd was braver in that moment than I have ever been.”
His admission affected Branwen deeply, and she understood yet another reason why he wasn’t pressuring her cousin to visit his bed.
“Eseult will recover,” she told him. “You will share more than this loss.”
Under any other circumstances, Branwen would have welcomed the chance to love Essy’s child, a niece or nephew she would never know. But she had loved her cousin first, and she would never trade her cousin’s life for that of another. Eseult would survive this loss, and then she would be safe. Tristan would be safe.
“Mormerkti, Lady Branwen,” said the king. “Like Tristan, your cousin is also mine to protect. I would rather die than let harm come to her. And yet, I find myself a man without weapons.”
“You called on Matrona earlier,” Branwen said. She reached across the bed and touched his elbow. “I don’t know your gods, but I believe you’re a man worth helping.”
“Will you call on yours as well?” Marc asked. She held his gaze, then nodded.
Branwen and the king watched the True Queen sleep as day faded to night, the room filled with silent prayers.
LIKE A DRAGON
THE HOUR HAD GROWN LATE when King Marc insisted that Branwen take a break from her ministrations of the queen. Fastening her cloak around her shoulders, she’d only taken a few steps down the corridor when the sob she’d been suppressing racked her body. Essy. Her cousin had been dealt yet another heart wound today
. It was too late for Branwen to apologize for the pain she’d caused her with the Loving Cup—it was too late to explain.
She gripped the wall and broke a nail against the stone.
“Branwen.” Her eyes were lured toward Tristan’s voice. His stance was battle-ready, and he didn’t move to soothe her.
“Tristan.” She breathed in his name. “The queen is sleeping. Nothing has changed.” Branwen blotted her tears with her sleeve.
He prowled toward her in the same manner he had his competitors at the Champions Tournament, with a lethal kind of grace. The hazel flecks of his eyes glittered with a hardness that Branwen had never seen in them.
“Did you know?” he said. She didn’t reply. Tristan only stopped coming closer when they were standing toe-to-toe.
“Did you know the queen was pregnant?” he challenged her again.
Branwen’s torrent of emotions coalesced into anger: familiar, powerful.
“Yes,” she told him.
Tristan emitted a tsking sound. “Of course you did. You hoard secrets like a dragon.”
“I’m not the only one.” She stared at him hard.
“I’m the Queen’s Champion, Branwen. Protecting her is my duty. I deserved to know.”
“The truth wasn’t mine to share. Like you, I serve the queen first.”
“Maybe,” he growled. “Or maybe you just don’t let yourself trust anyone. Maybe you like not trusting anyone!”
The words were a blow. Raising her voice, Branwen said, “We were trying to protect you!”
“Protect me?” Tristan said, incredulous. “Why would you need—” He clamped his lips tight. Fear brightened his eyes. Tilting his face down to Branwen’s, close enough to kiss, he started, “Was it—”
Branwen pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Yes,” she said.
She watched as several emotions passed over Tristan’s face. Nearly six weeks had elapsed since Long Night. He must have assumed that Marc and Eseult had shared a bed. Tristan took a step backward, pressing a fist to his chest as understanding settled in his heart. Then he swung it sideways, pummeling the wall.
Wild Savage Stars Page 26
