“We go now,” said the king, and the four of them raced down the stairwell of the King’s Tower. When they reached the bottom, before Ruan darted out from beneath the archway, he seized Branwen’s hand. “You’re too brave,” he said.
He kissed her fiercely. The kiss of a man afraid it was his last.
King Marc cut the air with two fingers as his Champion loped across the courtyard. Andred followed his brother.
The clash of steel carried on the breeze. “You are too brave,” Marc told Branwen. “But, thank you.”
He lifted his sword, grimacing slightly. His ligaments were not yet fully healed from where he’d been shot. “Pray to your gods,” he said, and dashed toward the gardens.
Branwen followed the king through the shadowy passage between the towers.
The flower bushes were ablaze. Flaming arrows were being fired from the water into the spear-leafed trees. Fighting men bellowed, lunged at one another with hacking blows.
Fire and sea and fighting men. Branwen could never escape her childhood nightmares. The Kernyvak guardsmen were attempting to prevent the Armoricans from reaching the upper levels of the garden. If the invaders reached the top terrace, there would be nothing to prevent them from overrunning the castle.
From one of the towers above, Branwen saw the Royal Guard return fire against the dinghies. There were at least thirty small ships. Several of the square sails burned against the moonlit sky.
King Marc stormed down the steps to the second terrace. The smoke that wafted over Branwen as she followed was both floral and acrid. Marc’s dream of making something grow was being turned to ash.
She had seen this attack coming. The night King Marc announced that her cousin would become the True Queen, Branwen had seen this moment.
Why had the Old Ones warned her if there was no way to prevent it from coming to pass? Why give Branwen foreknowledge if it did nothing but torment her?
She skirted around the legs of a dead man who had fallen face-first into a rosebush. He wore the yellow tunic of Armorica. At least he couldn’t feel the thorns.
Branwen seized the sword that lay on the steps beside him. A kladiwos. The Iverni and the Armoricans shared many things, including their weaponry. The sword was long and thin, and rested heavily in Branwen’s injured hand. The skin of her wrist had purpled while she was sleeping.
A slender figure caught her eye. It streaked toward the king on the second terrace. Another Armorican. In the smoke and starlight, Branwen couldn’t make out the man’s features. He moved with grace, almost like an acrobat.
“Rix!” Branwen screamed. Marc rounded on the graceful Armorican. He waited several long heartbeats, then elbowed the attacker in the face. Branwen heard the crunch of a broken nose. The Armorican crashed to his knees, dead or unconscious.
Marc continued his progress down the steps, racing toward the thick of the fight. Branwen’s momentary relief was erased by the sight of yet more attackers landing on the lowest part of the garden. Why had the Kernyveu never thought to build a wall?
If they lived through the night, many walls would be built all across the kingdom.
“Lady Branwen!” shouted a familiar voice. She had just reached the first of the garden terraces. Branwen turned on her heel toward the voice.
Prince Kahedrin. Any remaining hope that this raid hadn’t been sanctioned by the Armorican crown was shredded. Sweat darkened Kahedrin’s red hair.
“I have no desire to hurt you, my lady. Throw down your weapon!”
Branwen gripped the kladiwos more firmly. “I can’t do that, Prince Kahedrin. You’re attacking my castle.”
“You’ve chosen the wrong side in this war,” said the prince advancing toward her. She held her ground. If the sword was Branwen’s only weapon, she would lose this fight.
But it wasn’t. “This is a mistake!” she told Kahedrin.
“Kernyv made the mistake in murdering my brother!”
“The king didn’t send the pirates,” Branwen shouted back at him. The screams of other men blurred her words. “King Marc didn’t kill your brother!”
Prince Kahedrin—the new Crown Prince of Armorica—gave a jagged shake of the head, holding up his sword. “The time for diplomacy is done, Lady Branwen.”
“Yes, it is, Prince Kahedrin,” said King Marc from over Branwen’s shoulder. “I told you that sailing your fleet into Kernyvak waters would be seen as an act of war.”
Marc pushed Branwen forcefully out of the way. He brought his sword down hard against Kahedrin’s kladiwos.
The Armorican prince bent his knees and used all of his strength to throw off Marc’s blade.
This was Final Combat with no rules. Prince Kahedrin was first in line to his father’s throne. He would either kill or be killed. Branwen didn’t see how King Faramon could ever make peace with Kernyv if he lost both his sons.
Branwen tasted blood as she bit the inside of her cheek. She stood, rapt, watching.
Prince Kahedrin slashed at Marc’s ankles. The king jumped, tucking his knees into his chest. Branwen had seen Tristan use the same maneuver at the Champions Tournament. Of course they must have trained together.
Marc counterattacked. Kahedrin barely dodged the sweep of his sword, leaping sideways. The king grunted. Marc and Kahedrin were evenly matched.
The crown prince forced Marc to retreat a few paces, backing him up against one of the narrow tree trunks. He took a swipe, grazing Marc’s thigh. The king cried out.
He let Kahedrin move in a little closer before bringing his own sword up at an angle; Marc bashed the crown prince on the temple with its hilt. Blood welled from the wound.
“Branwen!” Marc hollered. “Behind you!”
She twirled on the spot. An enormous Armorican with dark hair lunged at Branwen. He snarled something she didn’t understand. She swung her sword at him sloppily; she’d never trained with more than the practice sword her uncle Morholt had gifted her.
The Armorican wielded a double-headed ax. The same kind that Keane had favored. Branwen’s attacker scythed his weapon downward against the length of her kladiwos. The sword fell from her grasp, and he laughed.
Branwen was about to retaliate with the only weapon she had left at her disposal when a flaming arrow pierced the Armorican’s neck. Blood spurted from his throat like a fountain. The ax fell onto the garden path as the man tipped backward, dropping over the edge of the terrace, and landed like a boulder on the flower beds below.
Darting her gaze from the slain Armorican to the king, Branwen saw that Marc had also lost his weapon. He was on his knees. Kahedrin loomed over him.
One solitary blow, and everything Branwen had sacrificed would be for naught.
Gentle people didn’t survive in this world. Branwen was no longer gentle but she still wanted to make a better world for those who were.
A feral cry tore from her lips. She grabbed the double-headed ax with both hands. Battle lust gave her the strength to heft it.
King Faramon might never forgive Kernyv the loss of his sons, but Kernyv couldn’t survive the loss of its king.
Branwen took two long strides and brought the blade down against Kahedrin’s spine. It landed with a horrible cracking sound. The blade embedded deeply.
Dark, wet blood soaked the yellow of Kahedrin’s tunic as if Branwen had spilled an inkwell.
He crashed to his knees in front of Marc. Branwen hoisted the blade from his back, panting. The squelching noise set her teeth on edge.
“Kahedrin!” A woman’s scream sliced the air. Branwen looked to the terrace above but she only saw the slim man whose nose Marc had broken. Even from a distance, Branwen felt the hate in the other man’s gaze, blood smeared against golden-brown skin, features indistinct in the shadows. Then he ran toward the castle.
Branwen released the ax. Kahedrin began to flop forward and Marc caught him. Branwen had broken his back. Marc laid the Crown Prince of Armorica on his lap, and Kahedrin bared his teeth at him. Blood stained the glea
ming white.
“I see Ankou,” he said.
“We’ll burn your body,” Marc told the prince. “We’ll honor you.”
He gurgled a laugh. “Now … you’ll deal … Alba.” Marc and Branwen exchanged a confused look.
Kahedrin drew his last breath. Branwen hoped he would be greeted by the face of his goddess.
Marc’s shoulders curled forward. “Mormerkti, Branwen. Sister.” Panning his gaze across the death-filled gardens, he said, “Someone orchestrated the attack on Armorica so that they would be forced to seek revenge. It seems I’m not the King of Kernyv, after all.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “It will be an honor to die fighting by your side.”
“No,” Branwen growled at him. “I’m not ready to let you die.”
Marc’s smile was sad. “I never thought I’d live to know such forgiveness. We’ve been outsmarted, Branwen. And we’re about to be overrun. Not even my mother would stake a wager with these odds.”
The king was right. The castle was almost lost. Except … except that in her vision, Branwen had seen the Shades streaming through Monwiku.
Could she … dare she … Branwen looked down at the Hand of Bríga: From the same source came creation and destruction. The Queen Mother always gambled with loaded dice.
Branwen’s healing powers couldn’t save the people she loved. Not this time. The Land couldn’t save them.
She pitched her eyes toward the pitiless depths that surrounded the island, that carried enemy ships to their shores. Slowly, Branwen looked back at the king.
Steeling herself, she called forth her flame.
Marc sucked in a breath. “The Old Ones sent me to Kernyv to protect the Land, and her chosen Champion,” Branwen told the king. “You.”
She skimmed her burning palm over the blade of the ax. Blood trickled down her wrist.
“Just stay alive,” she said.
Branwen leapt to her feet and sprinted through the battlefield toward the sea.
BECOME THE DARK
BRANWEN’S PATH THROUGH THE CARNAGE was unimpeded. Almost as if she’d become invisible. Except to the Death-Tellers. She saw them prowling the gardens, and they saw her. Branwen couldn’t hear their cries because they weren’t for her. Not tonight.
She passed the bench where she had spied Tristan and Eseult embracing. She hoped they were safe, she did, but Branwen couldn’t think about them. Or Ruan. Or Andred and Lowenek. If this gambit failed, they would all be dead or hostages in a few hours.
When Branwen was marked with the Hand of Bríga, the Queen of Iveriu had told her that sometimes a leader’s path ran with blood.
She reached the water’s edge. In her dream, before she was woken by the guard sounding the alarm, Branwen had dove straight into the night-shaded waters, eager. They had welcomed her.
There was no time to hesitate. She extended the Hand of Bríga, let her blood flow toward the sea.
Her teeth chattered as the words she’d spoken on Whitethorn Mound spilled from her lips once more.
“This is my body! This is my love!” Branwen’s eyes fixed on the choppy waters. “I give it to the Sea of the Dead. I offer you everything I am!”
She inhaled a long breath, arced her arms above her head, and plunged into the depths.
The coming spring had not yet brought any warmth to the sea surrounding Monwiku. It wouldn’t be long before Branwen’s body grew too numb to move. But she had already offered herself to the dead.
She allowed herself one backward glance at the surface.
Only fire. The stars were hiding.
Branwen let herself sink. She had put her trust in the Old Ones on Whitethorn Mound. Now, if not her trust, she put her belief that the Dark One had been watching her, listening, to the test.
Blinding white flashes illuminated the waves. Thunder shook the darkness. Nobody knew where the Veil between this world and the Otherworld lay in the sea, but Branwen’s senses prickled in the same way as when she neared the White Moor.
A whirlpool opened like a crater in the sea, enveloping her. Branwen’s warm blood streamed more quickly. On Whitethorn Mound, the Old Ones had sent a whirlwind for her offering. The swirling water was even more voracious as it embraced her, consumed her. She was losing too much blood.
Lightning streaked through the waves as Branwen saw the silhouette of a skull emerge from the vortex. A skull with black voids for eyes.
This was the true face of Dhusnos. The face she had seen as she languished with the destiny snake’s venom in her veins. He was the starless tide.
The water quivered with laughter around Branwen, needled her frozen limbs.
Branwen of Iveriu, said the Dark One. His voice resounded in her ears as if she were at the bottom of a well. At last. The Land has asked too much. You’ve come to join my House.
No. Water streamed up her nose, burning.
No? Dhusnos laughed. You hear my call. When you stop lying to yourself, it’s my voice you hear. The water-skull surged closer. Your heart has darkened. The ties that bound you are gone—you severed them. If not to join me, then why?
Branwen clamped her mouth shut. I’m here to ask for your help.
The carrier of the Hand of Bríga asks for my help. You are a curious child.
Thunder rumbled as another bolt of lightning turned the black waters blinding.
My people are dying.
Your enemies.
They’re my people now, Branwen countered. She could have sworn she felt water-skull’s breath on her face, as if it were an excited, rabid beast.
You want me to save your people because the Land cannot help them, Dhusnos surmised. She is too weak.
Yes.
I want something, too, Branwen of Iveriu.
She squirmed as seaweed wrapped around her ankles, itchy tentacles.
You will make me a Shade. To replace the one you destroyed, the god said. Keane, you called him. His rage was beautiful. Like yours.
Branwen thrashed as she saw Shades gathering at the edges of the whirlpool.
You will kill of your own volition. Not in self-defense, not in the defense of another—but because you want to, Branwen of Iveriu. Goddess Ériu also deals death. She condemned me to be what I am. We are not so different. That is my price.
Branwen pictured Marc, Ruan, and all of the other friends she’d made at the castle. Tristan. Even Eseult. They would perish if she didn’t agree.
It was no deal at all, but Branwen told Dhusnos, I accept.
I will give you until next Samonios to offer me my Shade. If you do not procure the soul by the new year, I will take the soul of one you love.
Before Branwen could protest at the Dark One’s added condition, she was being spit out of the Sea of the Dead.
She flew into the air, then smacked against the surface of the Dreaming Sea. It sounded like the crack of a whip. Branwen ached all over; her skin smarted.
Fires glowed from the gardens of Monwiku. At this distance, it was beautiful. She struggled to take in air, spitting out seawater.
Exhausted, she floated atop the waves.
Larger ships suddenly appeared behind the dinghies belonging to the Armoricans. Their sails winked in and out of view. Dark exhilaration coursed through Branwen.
These ships belonged to the Shades. They cast their monstrous grappling hooks onto the fleet of dinghies. The smaller boats didn’t stand a chance against them.
Some capsized immediately. Terrified shouts rose up from the ones that were boarded.
Branwen no longer felt the cold. She felt hotter than the fires of Belotnia. She fought the rough waves, each stroke onerous, as she made her way back to shore.
Overhead, an entire flock of kretarvs circled Monwiku Castle, gliding together like a giant wing. Screams flew out of the mouths of the Armorican fighters as the kretarvs dove toward them, talons ready, beaks open.
Their caws made Branwen’s flesh crawl. She knew that each victim would be lured, enthralled by the kretarv using th
e voice of a loved one. Right before the vile bird moved in for the kill.
Waves buffeting her, Branwen clutched at the rocks surrounding the base of Monwiku island. Her nails broke and bled. Chest heaving, she pulled herself up.
Another ragged breath. She scrambled to standing and raced back into the garden.
Shades charged past her. Branwen had almost forgotten how hideous they were. Half-men, half-kretarv, their bare chests were covered with tiny, insatiable beaks. The souls claimed by Dhusnos left a trail of blood and seawater.
They cried out to be fed.
The Shades stalked the castle gardens, appearing and disappearing at will, more liquid than solid. Branwen watched as the Armorican raiders grew slack in Shades’ lethal embraces, their life forces being drained to sustain the afterlife of Dhusnos’s crews.
The men drowned where they stood, withered.
Branwen’s vision had come true. Shades were using Monwiku Castle as a hunting ground. Only she had been the one to invite them in.
She had asked the Sea of the Dead to obliterate her enemies, and the Dark One had answered her call.
Destruction was the only thing that could save the kingdom. And she couldn’t regret what she’d done.
Not if King Marc survived. Not if the True Queen survived.
Her right palm tingled. Branwen lifted it to eye level. The scar had become a shimmering black. She called forth her flame.
It was the color of a moonless night.
Darkness spread from the scar through her veins, like a vine wrapping around her arm. The Wise Damsel had told Branwen magic required honesty, and Branwen wanted this.
She wanted to watch her enemies burn. She hadn’t felt this alive for months.
A man in a yellow tunic barreled toward her, holding his sword aloft.
She ran to meet him, black flames climbing from her right hand. His mouth fell agape. He looked at her in the same way the Armorican assassin had. In the same way the scarred Royal Guardsman had.
Branwen was the face of his death.
The Armorican hacked the air between them with his sword, and she felt no fear. From behind, a Shade grabbed the man, clutching him with his black-feathered arm.
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