He had no way of knowing Branwen was the greatest threat to the True Queen’s safety this evening.
She proceeded purposefully to the third floor. Its corridor was also empty. No sign of the Queen’s Champion.
A low, dark laugh rumbled at the back of Branwen’s throat as she pushed open the door to the queen’s suite. Her gaze fixed on the intertwined form of Tristan and Eseult.
They stood in the center of the bedchamber, the Champion embracing his queen, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
“I wish I were surprised,” Branwen remarked.
“Branwen.” Eseult made her name a gasp.
Tristan instantly dropped his hand, breaking the embrace, and moved back from Eseult. Turning toward Branwen, he took a step in her direction, hands up.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” he said. “I’m saying goodbye. I’m leaving for Liones tomorrow.”
Ignoring him, Branwen walked toward her cousin. “Didn’t expect to see me again, did you, Lady Queen?”
Eseult’s brow creased. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Surveying Branwen’s disheveled state, Tristan asked, “What happened? Where have you been?”
“Where have I been?” Branwen repeated. “Where have I been? Trying to cover up for my queen yet again. For my selfish, spiteful queen!”
“Branwen, I’m sorry for what you saw last night. It was a grave mistake.” Tristan captured her gaze. “It won’t happen again.”
“This woman you think you love.” Branwen slashed a hand through the air at Eseult. “She just tried to have me killed.”
Shock blanketed his face. “No!” Eseult protested. “No, Branny. How could you think that?”
“Last night you threatened to have me executed for your miscarriage. And this afternoon, I was attacked in the forest by two Royal Guardsmen—on your orders!”
“Eseult?” Tristan whispered.
“What? Oh, Branny!” She reached a hand to Branwen’s elbow, and Branwen jerked away. “You can’t believe I would try to have you killed! I was furious last night. You threatened me, too. But I would never—could never do that!”
“Lady Queen, I don’t believe you.”
Eseult’s lips quivered. She took Branwen’s hand in hers and began tracing a symbol with her finger. Branwen didn’t know what it was.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
Eseult traced the pattern with more force. Her touch stirred something within Branwen, some kind of echo—but the meaning slipped like sand between her fingers.
“Not you without me,” said her cousin. “Not me without you.” Branwen could only stare at her blankly. “We promised that to each other,” Eseult insisted. “No matter what, I wouldn’t hurt you, Branny.”
Branwen shook her off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lady Queen. I’ve never made such a promise to you. The oaths I’ve sworn have been to the Land.”
Her cousin made a low, wretched sound. She stepped back a pace. Tears began rolling down her cheeks. “Don’t be cruel, Branny. Since the day we carved our names into that tree, it’s been you and me. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about!”
“What tree?” Branwen was genuinely mystified. “I don’t know anything about a tree! But I do know that your assassins failed.” The True Queen hiccuped a sob.
Looking from her cousin to Tristan, Branwen said, “Did you know? Did you pick the guardsmen yourself?”
“Of course not!” he roared. “I’ll kill whoever attacked you!”
Branwen held up the Hand of Bríga. Exhilaration soared through her.
“No need,” she told him.
Eseult let out another gasp. “Branny? Branny, you’re on fire!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” Branwen said. “The Old Ones gave me this power to protect Iveriu.”
The queen’s eyes were as big as moons. “How long have you known you had magic?”
“Since I saved Tristan at the Champions Tournament.”
“When you were in the fever,” said Eseult. “I thought you were in the Otherworld because you were close to death. But it wasn’t that. You—” Her cousin looked from the flame in Branwen’s hand to Tristan. The tendons protruded from his neck, but his expression remained stoic.
“You knew?” rasped the queen. Tristan gave a swift nod.
“I killed Keane because he found the letter you wrote to Diarmuid,” Branwen told Eseult. “He threatened to announce your treason to your father—and to Tristan.” She swung her gaze from her cousin to the man she had once loved.
“You think you’re the first man my cousin wanted to betray her kingdom for?” Branwen laughed. “No, she pinned her heart on that crown-chasing northern lord long before she met you, Tristan. She wanted to elope with Diarmuid on the night of the Farewell Feast.”
Eseult pulled at her hair. “You read the letter?”
Branwen’s flame grew brighter. “Keane found it and threatened to ruin you. I made him a Shade.”
Tristan cursed and ran a hand through his curls. “You never told me,” he said to Branwen, disbelief shearing the edges of his words.
“I told you Keane threatened the peace. I spared you the details because I wanted to protect my cousin. I traded my heart to protect hers—and look how I’ve been repaid!”
“Traded your heart?” said Tristan.
“The wedding toast you two drank on the ship.” Branwen swept her gaze back to her cousin. “It wasn’t one of Treva’s spirits.” Something akin to a smile played on her lips, an unhinged smile at the absurdity of what had happened—at the tragedy.
“Remember how you asked me to make a love potion for you and Diarmuid?” she said.
Eseult brought a hand to her mouth. “No.”
“Yes.” Branwen curled her fingers, extinguishing the flame. “I begged Queen Eseult to help me. I didn’t want you to live your life without love, Essy. I wanted you to be happy. More than I wanted anything for myself. Only now, I can’t remember why.”
The revelation was cruel, and part of her—a growing part—reveled in that cruelty.
Eseult fell to her knees. “No. Please, no.” She began to bawl in earnest. Arthek scurried to her side, whimpering.
Tristan squared his shoulders, staring at Branwen. “You never trusted me,” he said. “If you had only told me of your plans, I—”
“You would have what, Tristan? Let me work magic on your king?”
“We’ll never know. No wonder I could never reach you, Branwen—you built a wall of lies between us.” Tristan looked at Eseult, waving a hand. “You did this to her. You did this to me!”
Tristan hammered a fist against his heart. “For so many months, I’ve hated myself. I’ve asked myself how I could betray you. Betray Marc. But you knew, Branwen. You knew how it was possible and you still let me believe it was my fault. You let me think I was a man without honor!”
“It was the only way to preserve the peace.”
Tristan made a face like he was going to spit. “You are not the woman I thought you were. Your heart isn’t noble. You kept telling me you weren’t Emer. I didn’t believe you.” He sneered. “Now I do.”
“This woman has brought peace,” Branwen retorted. “She’s killed for it. She would die for it.”
His lips twisted further. “We’re not friends or lovers or allies. We’re not even enemies, Branwen. We’re nothing.”
Tristan’s words struck her like daggers, and Branwen threw hers right back at him.
“I’ve tried to protect you, Tristan. Both of you. I gave my body, my heart—all of me.” Branwen whirled on her cousin. “My allegiance is to the Land. Not to you. Come after me again, Lady Queen, and I will end you.”
Tristan’s hand moved to his sword. “And you,” Branwen told him, spearing him with a look over her shoulder. “Peace above all.”
The right fight was for Iveriu. For far too long, she had confused her cousin with the Land. No more.
&nbs
p; “I can’t look at you,” Tristan said to Branwen. Glancing at Eseult, he added, “Either of you.”
He fled from the queen’s chambers.
Branwen continued to glare at her cousin, who was dry heaving on the floor. “I didn’t send those men after you, Branny. I didn’t. I swear!” the True Queen managed between shudders. “Why didn’t you tell me about the love potion?”
“Because I wanted you to believe your love for King Marc was real.” Branwen scoffed, mostly at herself. “You’ve always wanted to be loved for yourself, Essy. You threw yourself at feckless Diarmuid because of it. At Lord Conla before him. But you never were. All these months, you thought Tristan loved you—but that wasn’t real, either. It was only a spell.”
A sob rent Eseult’s entire being. “But why didn’t you tell me what I feel for Tristan wasn’t—isn’t…”
“Would you have believed me?”
“I—” Realization settled in her cousin’s green gaze. “You didn’t trust me. You’ve never trusted me.”
“You were never worthy of my trust.” Branwen dipped into a curtsy. “Nosmatis, Lady Queen. Sleep well.”
She swept out of the queen’s chambers as her cousin began a fresh round of weeping. As she exited the tower, a familiar profile approached her.
Lantern light beamed on Ruan’s hair. “I didn’t see you at dinner.” His eyes searched Branwen’s face. “You’re crying. Again.” He nodded across the inner bailey. “I saw Tristan running from the tower a minute ago. He always makes you cry.”
She wiped the tears from her cheeks.
Ruan’s gaze panned across Branwen’s cloak, her sullied dress. His eyes landed on her right wrist, which Tutir had bashed against the ground. It was starting to swell.
“Did something happen?” he asked, anger in the question. Branwen could guess where his thoughts would lead him.
“I went for a ride and fell from Senara,” she said. “It’s nothing.”
Ruan lifted her injured wrist gingerly to his lips. “Whatever it is, you can tell me, Branwen,” he said. But she couldn’t.
The True Queen had tried to have Branwen killed, and yet the Land needed her cousin to remain on the throne of Kernyv.
Perhaps there was no way to serve your kingdom without betraying someone who trusted you. Perhaps that was the real Truth of the Ruler.
Branwen stroked her bruised hand across Ruan’s chest, then slid it around his neck. “Don’t speak,” she said. “I don’t want to speak.” She kissed him hard, biting his lower lip.
“Don’t speak,” she repeated.
She took his hand and led Ruan to her room. Branwen needed to laugh, and she needed to scream. She didn’t need to speak.
NO EXIT
THE STARS HAD FANGS. BRANWEN dove into the blackened waters to escape them. The songs of the drowned bubbled along her skin.
Her arms pulled her through the depths, her legs kicked with ease. The waters welcomed her, beckoned her. Farther, deeper, plunging toward the bottom.
She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t need to breathe. There was a secret on the sea floor, just out of reach—a prize she wanted.
Branwen glanced upward, something pulling at her mind, a cord she needed to cut.
Fire danced upon the waves. On the surface lay a ring of fire and devouring stars.
She dove faster into the dark.
* * *
A man’s scream startled Branwen awake. Ruan bolted up in the bed next to her. The candle on the bedside table was guttering. The flickering flame was enough to reveal the fear on Ruan’s face. Each of his muscles tensed.
The man shouted again in Kernyvak. It was coming from the courtyard below.
“Attack,” Ruan said. “The castle is under attack.” He stroked the curve of Branwen’s cheek, a frantic gesture. Leaping out of bed, he searched the floor for his breeches.
“Stay here,” he told her. “I need to find the king.” He cursed as he pulled on his trousers, tying the strings of the waistband.
Branwen threw the quilt aside. “I’m coming with you.” The stone was cool beneath the soles of her feet as she sprang to the floor.
“No, Branwen. We don’t know what we’re up against.”
Ruan had no idea how dangerous Branwen could be—the damage she could do to whoever was attacking them. “I’ve faced pirates before,” she reminded him. “And assassins. I’m a healer. The guards might need me. Or the king.”
Tristan would get the queen to safety; King Marc would fight. Branwen rummaged on the floor for the gown she’d hastily tossed aside a few hours earlier, and slipped it over her head. There was no time to bother with breast bindings or her undershift.
“Help me with the laces,” Branwen said to Ruan.
“You do like giving me orders.” His hand hesitated against her spine; his touch on her naked skin sent tingles rushing from the spot, memories.
“Please,” she said.
With a harsh exhale, Ruan threaded the laces of Branwen’s dress and tied it closed. Swiftly, he reclaimed his tunic, then his boots.
Heart thumping, magic thrumming, Branwen pulled on her own boots. Danger was nearby, and her magic wanted to meet it. Anticipation invigorated her.
“Take the knife with you,” Ruan said. Cautiously, he opened the door. He peered into the hallway, then nodded back at Branwen.
“I—I’m not sure where exactly it is,” she replied. Liar. His father’s dagger was somewhere in the Morrois Forest. “I’m sorry.”
Ruan grunted. “We’ll find it later.” He unsheathed his sword. “Stick close to me.” He took Branwen’s hand and pushed her behind him, shielding her with his body.
The din of fighting men grew louder as they hurried along the corridor, and down the two flights of stairs toward the inner bailey. Wind agitated the torches; shadows wavered across the courtyard. Ruan and Branwen sprinted together for the King’s Tower.
Running up the stairwell, they nearly careened into King Marc on the first landing. He brandished a sword, as did Andred, at his side. The boy’s jaw was set, determined.
Branwen’s mind returned to Cadan. Not again. She couldn’t watch another boy die in battle.
“Rix,” Ruan said, terse. “Are you hurt?”
Marc gripped his sword, thumb tapping its crossguard. “I’m fine.”
Ruan nodded, glancing at Andred. “I’m fine, too,” his brother assured him. “Have you seen Endelyn?”
“No, scamp. I’m sure she’s safe in the Queen’s Tower.”
“Lowenek?”
Ruan glanced at Branwen. “She’ll be safe in the servants’ quarters,” Branwen told Andred, hoping it was true.
“The castle is surrounded,” King Marc informed his Champion.
“How?” Branwen asked. The king shifted his gaze from Ruan to her. He showed no judgment at finding them together in the middle of the night.
“Dinghies. Fishing boats. Clever. Brazen,” Marc said. “The waters around Monwiku are too shallow for long-distance ships.” He shook his head. “I thought we were safe from siege.”
Andred stepped forward. “They’re landing in the gardens. I saw the men from my window.”
“Who is it?” Branwen asked, dreading the answer. “Pirates?” Her voice trembled with hope.
“They’re flying Armorican colors,” Marc said. He pressed his lips together. “Xandru is too late.”
Ruan swore. “How did our fleet miss them?” Frustration and guilt knitted his brow.
“Nobody was looking for dinghies. Brazen,” Marc repeated, something close to respect tinting the word. “One storm and they would have been sunk. And nobody expected an attack on our northern coast.”
“Can we get a message to Captain Morgawr? Signal his convoy to return?” Branwen asked.
“Not in time,” said the king. “We’re alone in this.” To Ruan he said, “How many guardsmen reported for duty at last watch?”
“Three companies. Although two men failed to return to the barracks.”
“Which two?” Marc gritted his teeth.
Branwen tasted acid at the back of her throat. “Tutir and Bledros,” Ruan replied. Bledros must have been the man with the scar. “I’ll find out where they are, Rix.”
“Three companies. Sixty men,” Marc said. “Not enough to defend the circumference of the island. Not nearly enough.” He tapped his thumb against his sword’s crossguard more rapidly. Looking at his Champion, he said, “Ruan, I need you to secure the True Queen.”
“Tristan is more than capable of protecting her,” Ruan countered. For once, he didn’t sound jealous. His cousin’s talent with a sword could not be denied, and he was relying on it.
“I promised Eseult she’d be safe in Kernyv. Tristan is just one man,” Marc said. He took a heavy breath. “If I should fall, she must live. An empty throne would spell disaster for the kingdom.”
“But, Marc—”
“That’s an order. Defend the True Queen with your life. Keep her alive at all costs.”
Ruan nodded. Branwen could see how much it pained him, but he deferred to his king.
Marc returned his attention to Branwen. “Go with Ruan,” he said. “He’ll keep you safe, too.”
She swallowed. If Marc should die, Branwen doubted whether Eseult could hold on to her crown. Civil war in Kernyv would mean more chaos for Iveriu.
Her right palm throbbed. Branwen was her mother’s daughter and she would do anything to ensure King Marc survived the night.
“I’m the Royal Healer, and I will be needed,” Branwen said. “I’m coming with you, Rix.”
“So am I,” Andred chimed in.
“No.” Ruan’s reply was unyielding.
“I can fight. You taught me,” protested his brother.
“You’ve never been in a real fight, scamp. No.”
“We’re outnumbered.” Andred raised his sword. “The castle needs every man.” He shot a pleading look at King Marc.
“Andred, go with Ruan. Help him keep the queen safe. And your sister.”
His chest deflated as he obeyed. “Yes, Rix.”
Wild Savage Stars Page 34
