“In Iveriu, a man’s closest male relative drinks his Final Toast for him. We believe it’s the first drink the departed will take in the Otherworld,” Branwen replied to Andred. “I would like to share Ruan’s Final Toast with you.”
Andred gripped the knife. He nodded, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. Branwen let him walk away as he composed himself.
King Marc waited for Branwen together with Xandru and Seer Ogrin. He held a golden urn in either hand.
Branwen accepted murmurs of condolence for her cousin as she moved through the crowd. Baron Kerdu and Baron Chyanhal seemed genuinely grieved at Tristan’s loss. Baroness Neala, now head of House Julyan, wore black to honor Tristan and Eseult, but also her father who had passed beyond the Veil while Branwen was in Armorica.
Doane, the restless head of House Gwyk, stood beside Baron Dynyon—whom Xandru would be escorting directly to the Veneti Isles tomorrow morning.
Lowenek shadowed Branwen until she reached the king, when the girl sought out Talorc. The elderly Iverman caught Branwen’s eye, pressing a fist to his chest, his mouth forming the words, “One Iveriu.”
“Sister,” said King Marc, leaning forward and kissing Branwen lightly on the cheek. His beard was longer. He wore a suit of black velvet, a white sash across his chest. His eyes were red from lack of sleep.
“Healer Branwen,” Seer Ogrin greeted her. He took her right hand, patting it. “We have lost a great queen.”
The edges of Branwen’s mouth flickered. Eseult might have been a great queen if that had been what she had wanted. Only Branwen knew that Eseult was in the process of becoming an extraordinary woman. And an extraordinary woman was worth as much as any queen.
Before she could reply, Xandru said, “The True Queen’s legacy will be one of peace, and she gave her heart for it,” as he stared Branwen straight in the eye.
They hadn’t spoken of what Xandru knew, or suspected, during the return voyage from Armorica. He had suggested a blackthorn dye for Branwen’s hair—spycraft, she supposed. But Branwen had demurred.
The white raven had led her to her end—and her beginning.
“Peace will be the legacy of both Tristan and Eseult,” Branwen said, looking from Xandru to Marc.
The king audibly swallowed. He held out one of the urns to Branwen. Delicate ivy leaves had been etched into the gold, the vines overlapping from one urn to the other.
“Sister,” said King Marc. “Would you do me the honor of laying the True Queen to rest?”
A small breath escaped from Branwen. “But I’m not a member of the royal family.” Only the descendants of the ancient Kernyvak monarchs were permitted to enter the burial mound.
“You are.” The king’s tone brooked no compromise. Andred had joined them in silence, and Marc looked between his heir and Branwen. “You will always be my family,” he told her. “Both of you.”
Branwen’s throat grew so dry it was painful. She took the urn, tears rushing to the surface. King Marc believed that his wife was contained within, and Branwen’s heart twisted at the betrayal. She hadn’t asked Alba whose ashes they were, but in all the ways that mattered Eseult was dead; it was Graínne who had mounted the horse in Brechliant Forest to take her chances in the world. Branwen’s longing for her cousin was outmatched only by her pride.
Seer Ogrin lifted his hands toward the clouds and began to chant. The mourners fell silent.
When the kordweyd had finished, King Marc stepped forward.
“Today we lay to rest my nephew, Prince Tristan of Kernyv and Armorica. The most honorable man I have ever known. Tristan put his kingdom and his family above his heart. Above any desires of his own.”
The king’s voice boomed over the clifftop. “The Horned One blessed me to have such a man, a true brother in my life—even if it wasn’t for nearly long enough.”
The surf broke against the rocks. Tristan had always been wed to the sea in Branwen’s mind, and now whenever she heard the waves, she would know he was somewhere upon them—exploring.
Slanting his gaze at Branwen, King Marc said, “We must also bid farewell to the first True Queen of Kernyv, Eseult of Iveriu. But the love and peace she has brought to our kingdom will never be forgotten.”
He paused, and Branwen clutched the urn to her chest.
“Kernyv bosta vyken!” declared the king. Then, to her surprise, he added in Ivernic, “One Iveriu!”
Seer Ogrin began to chant once more. The king pivoted on his heel, processing into the burial mound. Branwen followed just behind him. She glanced back over her shoulder, but Andred remained with Xandru.
Branwen had expected the inside of the burial chamber to be pitch black, like the long night of death that graced the Kernyvak flag.
Instead, sunlight showered the interior from a hole at the top of the mound that was invisible from outside. The bones of King Marc’s ancestors lined the walls, interred into the dirt, reinforcing the structure.
At the far end of the cavern was an altar, piled high with colorless quartz pebbles, their edges jagged.
Marc stopped before it, holding the urn of what he believed to be Tristan’s ashes. His knuckles grew white around the gold.
Alba sat vigil just as she’d promised and when his body vanished, another was found. Branwen asked no details.
“My forbearers came here to commune with their ancestors,” said Marc, grief leaking from the words. He set the urn atop the altar. “I believe in the Horned One’s resurrection, and yet I would also like to believe I can find my family here.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save him, brother,” said Branwen. Marc’s shoulders quaked and he wiped tears from his eyes.
Branwen hadn’t arrived in time to save Tristan. She could only save Tantris.
“You have lost your sister, and I have lost my brother,” said the king. He traced a finger along the filigreed ivy on the urn between Branwen’s hands.
“I comfort myself with the knowledge that they both knew great love, and that they were well loved.”
Branwen’s heart stuttered, unable to decipher the emotion in Marc’s silver eyes.
He unsheathed the blade of binding, which adorned his belt.
“I gave this to Eseult on our wedding night,” he said. “I told her she was the keeper of my honor. But I was never able to give her the love she deserved.”
The king placed the blade on the altar beside Tristan’s urn. “I hope Eseult will find love in the Otherworld, if that’s where she is.”
Again, his expression was inscrutable.
Branwen nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She touched her lips to the urn. The metal was cold.
Sister of my heart, always in my heart. Branwen would always miss Eseult, but she would never be without her—not truly.
She set the urn on the altar, the blade of binding resting between the ashes of Tristan and Eseult.
“My cousin would want you to be with someone you love,” said Branwen, finding her voice. Marc’s eyes shone.
“Mormerkti, sister.” He cleared his throat.
Branwen reached a hand into her pocket, turning over a smooth stone between her fingers.
“My rule has been divisive,” said King Marc. He glanced from one urn to the other.
“We have the Crown Charter,” she said.
“We do. But the kingdom needs more than that. It needs a leader who all of the people can love.”
She clenched the stone in her pocket. “Peace is a constant battle. Circumstances shift like sands. You have reacted as best you can—it’s all anyone can demand of a king.”
Marc placed a firm hand on Branwen’s shoulder.
“In a few years, when Andred comes of age, I will step aside. It’s what I believe will be best for Kernyv, and for the alliance.”
The news came as a shock but, after a moment, Branwen realized it was exactly what Marc would do. One of Kensa’s sons would sit on the throne of Kernyv, although she had not lived to see it, and Branwen wouldn’t regret t
hat.
“You have always loved your kingdom more than yourself, brother. I will support you however I can.”
His gaze was level. “You signed the Crown Charter this morning,” he said. “Healer Branwen.”
“That is who I am.”
“Yes, it is.”
King Marc kissed the crown of Branwen’s snow-white head. As he offered her an arm, she took the stone from her pocket—the stone she’d discovered there as she retreated from the Brechliant Forest—and laid it on the altar. A speck of gray amidst the white. Three words carved with a crude knife.
Odai eti ama.
* * *
Branwen remained on the clifftop long after the other mourners had departed for Monwiku to celebrate the Feast of the Dead. Every now and then, the ageless doe skittered into her peripheral vision.
She stared west toward Iveriu, alone as twilight purpled the sky, stars beginning to appear. She breathed in and out, on the precipice between the land and the sea. They would always exist together, inside her: the starless tide and the spring’s promise of renewal.
She smelled the salt of the sea and the sweetness of honeysuckle.
“You found your balance.”
Branwen’s cloak slapped the breeze as she turned. The Wise Damsel surveyed her, creases forming around her eyes.
“You have accepted your gift,” she said.
Lifting her bleached braid, Branwen shook her head. “My magic has returned to its source. I have no more.”
Ailleann threw her head back in a laugh. “You know who you are now, Healer Branwen. Your true purpose.” She took a step closer. “That is the greatest magic of all.”
Branwen brushed her fingers along her mother’s brooch. She’d pinned it to her cloak today for the first time.
The Wise Damsel smiled. “Safe travels, enigena.”
She opened her mouth to protest that she was staying in Kernyv, but the words didn’t come. She didn’t know what her future might hold.
A ferocious wind rolled across the cliffs, whipping Branwen’s cloak over her eyes. When she beat it back, the Wise Damsel was gone.
She looked out at the Dreaming Sea, and she knew that somewhere under the jeweled sky, Tristan and Eseult were alive.
They were dead to the world so that they might live in it as they chose.
The song of Branwen’s heart was the song of Bríga, and it would be for seasons to come, but not forever. Her losses were deep—and so was her hope.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Dear Reader, thank you for coming on Branwen’s journey with me and for wanting to know how it ends. Your support means everything to me. As you now know, Branwen’s story is only at its beginning and she can live a thousand different lives—the only limit is your own imagination. I’m excited to leave her in your hands.
My heart is full of gratitude for the many people who have worked tirelessly to bring this trilogy to its conclusion. Once again, it was a joy to work with my brilliant editor, Nicole Otto, who championed both me and Branwen in telling a dark, unflinching story about women trying to claim power for themselves in a world dominated by men. I couldn’t have asked for a better home than Imprint for my trilogy. Profound thanks to Erin Stein, Brittany Pearlman, Jo Kirby, and Katie Halata. Thanks to Linda Minton and Ilana Worrell for their eagle eyes. A round of applause for Devin Luna, Kara Warschausky, and the entire international sales team. On this side of the Atlantic, I’m buying champagne for Jamie-Lee Nardone and Laura Dodd.
A thousand thanks to my early readers: Carlie Sorosiak, Lucy Hounsom, and Kelly deVos. For sending out a zillion ARCs, always giving me a place to stay, and making sure my parties have panache, I couldn’t do any of this without you: Deborah McCandless, the Harvey Family (Kitty, Kazie, and John), Ame Igharo, Brooke Edwards-Plant, Suzanne Lynch, and Georgina Cullman. Love to my parents and extended family for spreading the word on three continents.
There are now so many wonderful writer friends in my life that I can’t possible list them all and for that I feel eternally grateful. This past year has been one of transition and I want to give a special shout-out to everyone who has lent me an ear: Kamilla Benko, Rhoda Belleza, Annie Stone, Sarah Gerton, Romina Garber, Stacey Lee, Amy McCulloch, Ashley Poston, Susan Dennard, Jen Cervantes, Karen M. McManus, Elizabeth Lim, Marieke Nijkamp, Ali Standish, Rebecca Schaeffer, Beth Revis, Natasha Ngan, Mia García, Bree Barton, Joy McCullough, Chelsea Mueller, Rosalyn Eves, Nonieqa Ramos, Katya de Becerra, Sara Faring, Rena Rossner, Corrie Wang, Nisha Sharma, Mary Watson.
And, Jack: En vus ma mort, en vus ma vie.
GLOSSARY
A NOTE ON LANGUAGES AND NAMES
The languages used in the Sweet Black Waves Trilogy are based, fairly loosely, on ancient and medieval languages. As I have adapted the Tristan legends for my retelling, Ireland has become Iveriu, Cornwall has become Kernyv, and the Roman Empire has become the Aquilan Empire. I have taken liberties with history and linguistic accuracy while trying to postulate how the political realities of my world might influence the development of its languages.
Today, nearly half the world’s population speaks what are known as Indo-European languages. This group includes English, most of the European languages, but also Sanskrit and Persian. One branch is the Celtic languages, which are now spoken primarily in northwestern Europe: Ireland, Cornwall, Scotland, Wales, Brittany, and the Isle of Man (as well as small diaspora communities), but during the first millennium BCE these languages were spoken as far afield as the Iberian Peninsula, the Black Sea, and Asia Minor. The Celtic languages are further divided into two groups: the Goidelic (Irish, Manx, and Scottish Gaelic) and the Brittonic (Cornish, Welsh, and Breton).
Since the nineteenth century, scholars have been working to re-create the Proto-Indo-European language—the hypothesized common ancestor to all Indo-European languages. Celtic linguists have also made significant headway in the reconstruction of Proto-Celtic, the language from which all Celtic languages derive.
Therefore, my fabricated Ivernic language is based on Old Irish and Proto-Celtic, whereas my Kernyvak language is based on Proto-Celtic and the Brittonic languages. For the Aquilan language words I have looked to Proto-Italic—the forbearer of Latin—for inspiration. Given that the Aquilan Empire occupied the island of Albion for hundreds of years before Branwen’s story begins, I have also allowed for there to be some linguistic influence of the Aquilan language on Kernyvak. Since the Aquilan Empire never invaded Iveriu, their languages would have remained quite separate. Although, of course, Branwen and the rest of the Ivernic nobility speak Aquilan as a second language.
In creating the place names for Branwen’s world, I have tried to incorporate relevant aspects of the Celtic tradition. For example, rīganī is the reconstructed Proto-Celtic word for “queen,” and since the Land is a female goddess in Iveriu, it made sense for me to name the seat of power Castle Rigani. Likewise, bodwā is the Proto-Celtic word for “fight,” which is fitting as the name of Branwen’s family castle given that their motto is The Right Fight.
The ancient language of trees that Branwen calls the first Ivernic writing is a reference to the Irish Ogham alphabet. It was devised between the first and fourth centuries CE to transfer the Irish language to written form and is possibly based on the Latin alphabet. Ogham is found in approximately four hundred surviving stone inscriptions and is read from the bottom up. In addition to representing a sound, the letters of the Ogham alphabet have the names of trees and shrubs. The Ogham letter coll translates as “hazel” and represents the /k/ sound as in kitten. The Ogham letter uillenn translates as “honeysuckle” and represents the /ll/ sound as in shell. Hence, when Branwen and Essy trace their private symbol, they are only writing two letters rather than a whole word.
The legend of Tristan and Isolt has been retold so many times in so many languages that simply choosing which form of the character names to use also poses somewhat of a challenge. Two possible origins for Tristan’s name include Drustanus, son of Cunomor
us, who is mentioned on a sixth-century stone inscription found in Cornwall, or a man named Drust, son of King Talorc of the Picts, who ruled in late eighth-century Scotland.
In the early Welsh versions of the legend, Drust becomes Tristan or Drystan. Tristan was the name propagated by the French poets, who employed its similar sound to the French word tristesse (“sadness”) for dramatic effect. Another consistent feature of the legends is Tristan’s disguising his identity by calling himself Tantris—an anagram of his name—and I therefore decided to do the same.
While the name Isolt is probably the most easily recognized, it is in fact derived from the Welsh name Essyllt. The French poets translated her name as Yso(lt) or Yseu(l)t(e). I have therefore synthesized the two for my Eseult.
In the Continental versions of the story, Isolt’s lady’s maid is usually called Brangien or Brangain. However, this is a borrowing from the Old Welsh name Branwen (br.n “raven” + (g)wen “fair”). This choice was also inspired by another Branwen from the Middle Welsh Mabinogion, the earliest prose stories in British literature. The Second Branch of the Mabinogi is called Branwen uerch Lyr (“Branwen, daughter of Llŷr”), the meaning of the patronym ap Llŷr being “Son of the Sea,” and the connection that the Branwen of the Sweet Black Waves Trilogy feels for the sea was inspired by this forerunner.
The Branwen of the Mabinogion is a member of a Welsh royal family who is given in marriage to the King of Ireland to prevent a war after one of her brothers has offended him. When Branwen arrives at the Irish court, the vassals of the King of Ireland turn him against his new queen and she is forced to submit to many humiliations. Her brothers then declare war on Ireland, and Branwen is the cause of the war her marriage was meant to prevent.
Several prominent Celtic scholars have made the case that the Welsh Branwen can trace her roots to Irish Sovereignty Goddesses or that both the Welsh and Irish material derive from the same, earlier source. Particular evidence of this is that Branwen’s dowry to the King of Ireland included the Cauldron of Regeneration, which could bring slain men back to life, and which served as the inspiration for Kerwindos’s Cauldron in my own work.
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