Conflict brimmed in Ruan’s eyes. He wanted to believe Branwen; she knew he did. He fidgeted the knife handle back and forth.
“Why did you walk back to the castle?” he asked.
“Night was falling and Senara had run off.”
His gaze locked with Branwen’s. “Why were you in the forest alone when we were on the brink of war?”
Because she’d wanted more than anything to make amends. Branwen had resolved to conjure an antidote to the Loving Cup—to release Tristan and Eseult from their false love, from the spell she had cast because she wanted her cousin to know happiness in her marriage to King Marc. The drink of peace that now promised more bloodshed.
But, why had Branwen cared so much for Eseult’s happiness? Why had she risked her life time and again for a woman as selfish as the queen?
No answer came.
She swallowed several more times. It was wrong to use Ruan’s feelings for her against him, but she saw no other option. Yet another thing her cousin had stolen from her. Softly, she said, “Remember when I told you I had a favorite cave in Iveriu where I liked to escape?”
Ruan nodded. “I know it was foolish, but I—sometimes I feel caged on Monwiku,” she continued. “I wanted to feel free. For an hour or two. Can you understand that?”
Ruan’s jaw slackened. “I can. But, Branwen, something grisly happened here. And I think Senara returned to the last place she knew you were.”
Branwen took a large step backward. “Is this when you accuse me of treason again, Prince Ruan?”
He inhaled shortly. She had intended to wound him with the use of his title—his fake title.
“Ruan!”
It was King Marc. Panic streaked across his Champion’s face. He tucked the knife into his waistband.
Branwen prayed the king wasn’t in danger but she couldn’t be more appreciative for the distraction.
“You take Senara,” Ruan barked at her. “We’ll come back for the stallion.” In a blur of motion, Ruan tied the reins of the horse Branwen had been riding to a branch.
“Don’t leave my sight,” he said as Branwen flung a leg over her mare. Senara neighed.
“Treason it is, then,” Branwen concluded.
Ruan growled something that might have been her name or maybe a curse. He slapped Senara into a canter and jumped back into his own saddle. He kept Branwen’s mount in front of his, driving them both hard toward the direction where Marc’s voice had originated.
In a matter of minutes they joined a group of Royal Guardsmen, dressed in the black and white that indicated the king’s service, clustered around a tree.
Could it be Tristan or Eseult?
Marc stood with his guards, sword at his side. Normally the king didn’t bear arms, trusting his retainers to protect him. But Marc no longer knew whom he could trust.
Someone had provoked the war with Armorica—and it wasn’t the king.
“Ruan,” Marc said, glancing toward his Champion. He was a young king, only twenty-seven, but he looked completely haggard. His silver eyes were dull, and he tugged at his beard. He said something to Ruan rapidly in Kernyvak, and then switched to Aquilan for Branwen’s benefit. The Aquilan Empire had ruled the island of Albion, as well as much of the southern continent, until a century ago, and its language was still the common tongue among the nobility of many kingdoms.
“We’ve found an Armorican,” he told her. “We need a translator.”
Branwen released a heavy breath. Did the Armorican know where the True Queen was? Doubtful. But at least the discovery of her cousin’s betrayal had been delayed for another day.
Branwen dismounted and came to stand beside Marc. She heard Ruan grunt but he shouldn’t complain. She hadn’t left his sight. Branwen tilted her head at the king, asking for permission to approach the prisoner. He stepped aside, letting her into the circle.
The prisoner was slim. His knees were tucked into his chest, head bowed, leaning against the trunk of a tree. Eight sword tips were pointed at him.
Branwen’s eyes were drawn to the prisoner’s hands, folded over his knees. The fingers were tapered, his skin golden-brown. Elegant. She slid her gaze upward to the yellow knit cap on the Armorican’s head, then darted it back down to his hands.
Branwen stepped toward the prisoner. “Don’t get too close,” Ruan cautioned from behind her. She snorted.
“Sister,” King Marc said. Branwen’s heart clenched. He genuinely regarded her as such. She crouched in front of the prisoner. Gently, she touched a hand to the Armorican’s scraped knuckles.
The prisoner snapped his head up and Branwen saw that his nose was broken.
She also realized that the prisoner was a woman.
“I’m a healer. Are you in pain?” Branwen said in Ivernic, reaching toward her nose. She repeated the question in Aquilan, and recognition blazed in the woman’s eyes.
The captive had understood Branwen, which meant she was no common sailor. And there was no need for a translator.
The woman flinched as Branwen leaned closer and her cap skewed to one side, a messy braid falling against her shoulder. A few gasps rose up from the Royal Guardsmen.
Hatred shone in the woman’s eyes as she watched Branwen watching her.
Frenzied memories from last night rushed through Branwen. The lithe Armorican who had assaulted King Marc, the woman’s scream when Crown Prince Kahedrin was felled, and Kahedrin’s final words.
Now … you’ll deal …
“Princess Alba?” Branwen said.
The other woman bared her teeth and spat in Branwen’s face.
“Onward, Armorica.”
LAMENTS OF THE SEA
AN EERIE QUIET SETTLED OVER the rescue party as they returned to Monwiku, not with the True Queen or Prince Tristan, but with the Armorican princess.
Branwen watched Alba closely, wiping the spit from her cheek as Ruan bound the princess’s hands and saddled her on his mount, seating her in front of him as the stallion carried them along the coast.
Kernyv comprised the southwestern peninsula of the island of Albion, and they rode directly into the setting sun. As Branwen squinted, she could almost make herself believe that she glimpsed Iveriu’s silhouette across the water.
Alba rankled at Ruan’s touch, chafed against the ropes around her wrists. Branwen didn’t know whether women in Armorica could inherit the throne, but it didn’t matter. She was King Faramon’s last living child. Faramon would want—need Alba back. Branwen’s own mother had killed herself rather than give the late King of Kernyv a highborn hostage, and Lady Alana was the only sister to the Queen of Iveriu.
Branwen stayed close to King Marc throughout the journey, as vigilant as any of the Royal Guard. The wound on his thigh that he’d received from Prince Kahedrin leaked blood as dark as mead. She wanted to examine it as soon as they reached the castle, but Marc bade her attend Princess Alba’s injuries first. He was too noble to speak aloud what they both knew to be true: If Alba died, Kernyv lost significant leverage in any negotiations with Armorica.
Marc was perhaps too noble to be king.
The tide was out when Monwiku Castle came into view. Both the last rays of sunset and the first pale moonglow shimmered on the sand as the horses traversed the causeway. The rescue party left iridescent hoofprints behind them.