Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  The sea of courtiers parted for the queen, bowing their heads. The esteem in their eyes wasn’t affected. Queen Eseult was beloved by the Iverni.

  One day, Branwen fully expected Essy to inspire the same devotion.

  “Good evening, Lady Queen.” She greeted her aunt with a deep curtsy.

  “Good evening, Lady Branwen. I collected the mermaid’s hair from the infirmary. Thank you.” The queen squeezed her hand.

  “My pleasure.” Branwen swallowed the reply. Mention of the infirmary sent a dart of fear straight through her. A wound like Tantris’s could take a turn for the worse at any moment. She needed to get back to the cave.

  Essy gave her mother a much more perfunctory curtsy. Lord Diarmuid, on the other hand, practically scraped the stone floor with his chin as he bowed.

  “Lady Queen, my family is honored that you have invited us to feast at Castle Rigani.”

  “The honor is mine,” said the queen mildly as she appraised the nobleman standing so close to her daughter.

  Unable to resist needling him, Branwen told her aunt, “Lord Diarmuid informs me that we have him to thank for fighting off some Kernyvak raiders.”

  “Ah, yes?”

  Lord Diarmuid licked his lips, cheeks growing ruddy. “I—I’m always proud to draw my sword for Iveriu,” he stammered. “But my family is, of course, obliged to the Royal Guard for their assistance.”

  “As it is our duty and pleasure to provide it,” said Queen Eseult. “A united kingdom is a strong kingdom. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Essy linked her arm with Diarmuid’s. “I would, Mother.” She showed a briary smile. “Completely.” Unlike the ballads the princess adored singing, in real life, Branwen knew, a noblewoman rarely got to write the ending to her own story.

  Lord Diarmuid coughed as if he’d swallowed his tongue. “One Iveriu forever,” he mumbled as mother and daughter dueled with their eyes.

  Branwen stifled a laugh at his discomfort as Lord and Lady Parthalán joined them. Further pleasantries were exchanged until the feast began, when polite conversation dwindled in favor of boar slathered with ambergris and sides of venison.

  When the acrobats cartwheeled into the hall, Branwen made her escape. Essy was so absorbed with Lord Diarmuid that she wouldn’t have noticed if boulders were being catapulted at the castle. Branwen skulked down to the kitchens, careful to avoid head cook Treva. Hands trembling, she filled a basket with freshly baked bread, tranches of cured rabbit, smoked haddock, and wild blueberries.

  From the laundry, she filched a clean tunic and trousers. She’d already pocketed blood-stanching herbs from the queen’s stores when she delivered the mermaid’s hair. Her aunt wouldn’t mind. She always encouraged Branwen to work on her healing arts; she didn’t need to know her patient was a Kernyvman. Still, Branwen’s heart raced faster than any stallion.

  Now she had everything she needed. All that remained was to gather the nerve to sneak out of the castle. At night. When raiders had been spotted marauding along the coast.

  She cast one last look toward the safety of the feasting hall. Inside lay her family, her countrymen, everyone she loved, everyone who trusted her. Outside lay danger. The unknown.

  Branwen pictured Tantris bleeding and suffering. Essy and the queen weren’t the only ones who trusted her anymore. The Kernyvman had put his faith in Branwen, too.

  He was trusting her to return.

  Just outside the east gate of the castle, in the shadow of the archway, a pair of vulpine eyes flashed in the darkness. Bright yellow like a hungry moon. The fox.

  Branwen sensed that he would protect her, although she didn’t understand why. She drew in a bracing breath. Was she really taking orders from a fox? He barked, hurrying her along. A quavery warmth spread from her heart throughout her body.

  She followed the creature into the night.

  A WOMAN OF HONOR

  BRANWEN HAD WALKED THE TRAIL from the castle to the shore thousands of times, but never alone in the dark. Shoulders tensed, she listened carefully for the snapping of branches or the low rumble of hooves on dirt. But she heard nothing. She moved as swiftly and quietly as she could. The fox followed her from a distance the whole time.

  As she neared the cave, Branwen gazed back at the crenellated façade of Castle Rigani, radiant in the light of the watch fires. This was her home. It was beautiful. She would do anything to protect it.

  So why was she sneaking out in the middle of the night to heal a wounded Kernyvman? Several times she almost stopped and turned on her heel, but the fox urged her onward. Branwen’s thoughts returned to her father’s rescue of the fisherman.

  She’d asked him later why he would risk himself for one of his subjects. “Branny,” Lord Caedmon had told her, “if you want your people to fight and die for you, then you must be prepared to do the same. And if you want to rule in peace, it is better to turn enemies into friends.”

  Branwen had felt the truth of his words in her bones, but the more time that elapsed without hearing her father’s hearty laughter, the more she doubted she could ever be so generous. Her heart wasn’t honorable enough to uphold her father’s legacy. Hers was brittle and more fragile than she liked to acknowledge.

  Farther up the path, the fox made a plaintive noise, somewhere between a whine and a bark. It gave her the distinct impression it didn’t want Branwen to tarry any longer.

  At the entrance to the cave, the fox barked again. There was no light coming from inside. The fire must have burned itself out. With apprehension, she tiptoed inside.

  Quicker than an arrow, a hand was around her waist, and another clamped over her mouth. All the supplies she’d brought tumbled to the ground. Branwen struggled but her attacker held her firm. Fighting the panic that numbed her mind, she recalled Keane’s lessons on self-defense.

  Physically, she was outmatched. Her only advantage was surprise.

  She bit her attacker’s hand.

  He snatched it back. Triumph swelled in Branwen for an instant before a foot hooked her ankle and she fell onto the rocky floor with a thud. The Kernyvman sprawled on top of her.

  “Are all the Kernyveu this mad?” she rebuked him.

  A startled intake of breath. “Emer?” The voice was full of alarm, and shame. Tantris’s voice.

  “Who else would it be?” Branwen’s chest heaved with an odd mixture of fear and relief. Their lips were once again close enough for the kiss of life. A riot of anger—and something else—pulled taut every muscle in Branwen’s body. “Get off me!” She elbowed him in the ribs.

  He yelped from the pain as he rolled to the side.

  “You could have signaled your arrival,” he said, tilting his head so that a thin sliver of moonlight bathed his face. He was both appealing and exasperating.

  “What a wonderful suggestion,” said Branwen. “I’ll run and signal your location to the Royal Guard as well!”

  “The Royal Guard? We’re near Castle Rigani?”

  Curse the Kernyvman! She’d said too much. Who knew what his true purpose was in Iveriu?

  Tantris looked at her thoughtfully. “Are you a servant at the castle?”

  Lady’s maid wasn’t quite the same but Branwen nodded. Let him believe it.

  “The king won’t pay a ransom for me,” she lied. “If that’s what you’re thinking.” How could she have played so easily into her enemy’s hands?

  Outrage followed by anguish gripped Tantris’s features. “You think me a kidnapper, Emer?” he said, a roughness to his accusation. “If anyone’s done the kidnapping, it’s you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Dragging a half-drowned man to your cave. Utterly helpless.”

  “Helpless?” What gall! She gave Tantris another shove. “You should learn not to bite the hand that feeds you,” she spat. He groaned and a wave of guilt crashed over her. Fear for his life had given him the strength to attack her, but he was still gravely injured.

  “I believe you did the biting, Emer.”
>
  Branwen made an indignant noise. Just when she was feeling sympathy for him! “Fine then. You can suture yourself.” She scrambled to her feet.

  Tantris caught the hem of her skirt. “No, wait. Emer, don’t go.” He gazed up at her. “Forgive my rash words.”

  “Why should I?” she said, but she didn’t run. She stood very still as Tantris pushed to his feet.

  “Because what I should have said is how brave you are to leave the shelter of the castle to help a stranger.” There was something so musical and enticing about his voice that he must have been a talented bard, indeed. “And to pull me from the sea.”

  “I know how to swim,” Branwen told him, dismissive. Her father had taught her to swim as soon as she could walk. He didn’t care that noblewomen were never supposed to reveal enough of themselves to swim. Lord Caedmon used to say that they lived by the sea and he wouldn’t lose his daughter to the tide.

  Tantris searched her face. “Regardless, I’m truly ashamed for attacking you. You caught me unawares.”

  She felt a strange thrumming in her chest. “I said I’d return, and I keep my word.” Branwen was rattled by the authority in her own voice—she sounded like Queen Eseult herself.

  Tantris dropped to one knee, the way a knight would before his lady. “You are truly a woman of honor, Emer. I will never doubt your word again. I’m in your service.”

  Her cheeks blazed, and she hoped the moonlight wasn’t strong enough in the cave for him to notice. “Get up, Tantris. Only a knight can pledge his service—and you’re just a minstrel.”

  “Of course,” he answered with a tight-lipped smile, rising with some pains back to standing.

  “Your clothes are in tatters. Here, I brought you these.” Branwen held out fresh linens as a peace offering.

  Tantris’s hands brushed hers as he accepted the clothing, and she felt heat right down to her toes.

  “Thank you,” he said. His dark eyes seared her. She swallowed several times.

  “You’re welcome.” A cough. “Now make yourself useful and kindle a fire,” Branwen commanded as imperiously as Essy would have.

  She expected a smart remark but he simply inclined his head in deference. This Kernyvman was quite the enigma. He set about making the fire as Branwen scoured the cave floor for the supplies she’d dropped.

  With a cluck of the tongue, she said, “Your supper is spoiled, and you have only yourself to blame.”

  Stone struck stone and a spark glittered against the night. The twigs began to crackle. Firelight washed over them. For several suspended moments, it seemed like neither of them was breathing. Her eyes darted to the floor as she pointed at the strips of meat she’d recovered. “Come, you must be hungry. Eat.”

  “Again, I thank you,” Tantris said from beside the fire. “Won’t you join me?” There was uncertainty in his question, and Branwen found it infinitely more enticing than his compliments.

  From within her skirts, she pulled a salve of birch bark, to prevent infection, and arnica petals, to relieve pain. Tantris eyed the jar quizzically.

  “It’s a balm for your wound. It might sting,” she cautioned. Queen Eseult had taught her how to make the remedy. “I will tend to it, and then I must return home before I’m missed.”

  “I’ll escort you.”

  Branwen’s pulse quickened. “To Castle Rigani? Do you have a death wish?” With Lord Diarmuid’s talk of Kernyvak raiding parties, Tantris would meet an unceremonious end within the castle walls.

  “You’ve already risked yourself for me by coming here alone, Emer. I can’t let you do it again.”

  “I didn’t ask for your permission.”

  His eyes were trained on hers, unyielding. “It’s not safe,” he said.

  “You can blame your countrymen for that.”

  “King Marc is a good king,” said Tantris, defensive. He obviously believed it.

  Branwen’s nostrils flared. “As is King Óengus.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s not quarrel, Emer.”

  “No, let’s not. You could barely make it to the cave without my help, Tantris. You won’t be much protection tonight.”

  Shadows clung to his face as he admitted, “I suppose I wouldn’t.” He balled his hands into loose fists. She could tell his muscles ached.

  Branwen crouched down beside him and tugged at the end of his blood-soaked tunic. “Here, let’s see to your wounds.” She began pulling it over his head, but Tantris stopped her.

  “Won’t your father mind you undressing a strange man?” He paused. “Or your husband?”

  His reticence made her laugh. “If I did have a husband, would you prefer that I let your wound get infected?”

  “I would rather die than dishonor a woman who has shown me such kindness,” Tantris replied. His tone left Branwen in no doubt that he would.

  She crinkled her nose. “Tantris, I am an apprentice healer and this is what my honor impels me to do.” Speaking the words, Branwen realized they were true. “You will only dishonor me if you don’t let me help you.” Lucky for him, she wasn’t a princess. The honor of Iveriu itself would be in jeopardy if Essy were ever discovered alone with a man who was neither a relative nor her husband.

  Exhaling, Tantris nodded. Branwen began to remove his tunic and his body went completely still. He smelled of the sea. It was even more intoxicating than the elderberry wine. Worryingly, the makeshift bandage she’d torn from her underskirts this afternoon was bloody and, more critically, tinged with green and yellow pus. His ability to push through the pain was truly impressive, but it could also belie the danger.

  Although his cuts might not be deep, they could still poison his blood. A blood infection could cause a fever and a fever could be lethal.

  She ripped off the bandage. Tantris teetered forward, seizing her shoulders for balance. His forehead pressed to hers, his curls tickled.

  “Sorry,” Branwen said in a hush.

  “You didn’t answer my question about a husband,” he said. The hazel flecks in his eyes sparkled like gold in the firelight.

  “No husband.” For a moment, she spared a thought for her cousin, wondering if Lord Diarmuid had, in fact, proposed at the feast. “No father, either,” she told him.

  Concern filled his gaze. “I’m sorry, Emer.”

  She replied by pushing him gently away from her so she could slather the balm into his wound. Tantris sealed his lips together as she worked the ointment around the puffy flesh. The only sound was the spluttering of the fire. When she was done, Branwen wrapped the wound in muslin and sighed deeply.

  “I shouldn’t like to ever make you sigh again.” Raising an eyebrow, Tantris asked, “What has the patient done to displease his healer?”

  “I hope the salve will be enough to stave off a fever,” Branwen said, drumming her fingers across her chin. “I’ll be back tomorrow—when the water is low.”

  Tantris put his palm to the fresh bandage over his heart. “Don’t fear, Emer,” he said, boldly sweeping his hand along her cheek to calm her agitated fingers, and then he took her hand with his own. “I will live to see you again.”

  He locked his eyes on hers as he kissed her hand with reverence. Branwen had received many formal kisses in her life, but none of them felt like this. The softness of his sunburned lips made her want to laugh or scream—or maybe both.

  Deep inside, Branwen quivered. With her whole heart, she wanted him to live.

  She stood abruptly. “Good night, Tantris.”

  A BLEEDING HEART

  BRANWEN ROSE AT DAWN, BARELY able to contain her unease. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, feeling as if she were still among the waves. Every time she closed her eyes, she pictured Tantris’s lips on her hand.

  All this trouble for a Kernyvman, she scolded herself.

  Her arms sagged from the weight of Queen Eseult’s breakfast tray as she crossed the cobblestoned courtyard of the inner ward. Delivering it wasn’t part of Branwen’s regular duties,
but she needed to speak with the queen and she wanted an excuse. If Treva found Branwen’s request odd, the castle kitchens were too busy for the head cook to mind as she happily handed over the tray piled high with pots of butter and wild fruit preserves, scrambled eggs, bacon, and freshly baked sweet buns.

  Queen Eseult’s apartments occupied the entire west tower, while King Óengus had the north to himself. Branwen and Essy lived together in the south tower, which overlooked the feasting hall. When Branwen had returned from the cave, she found Essy still adhered to Lord Diarmuid. He didn’t ask for her hand at the feast, but the princess had convinced herself that it was solely because he was waiting for Belotnia, the Festival of Lovers, in two moons’ time.

  Her cousin was not an early riser, especially after the wine and excitement of the previous evening, so Branwen knew she should have plenty of time with the queen—if she could work up the nerve to ask her what she wanted to know.

  She flicked a glance toward the east tower, where the Crown Prince of Iveriu would have resided if the queen had given Óengus a son. When the princess was younger, Essy insisted she preferred being an only child but a brother would have made her life easier. Instead, Branwen’s uncle Morholt called the east tower home—although there was nothing genial or homey about him.

  Branwen glided under the pointed, green marble arch at the base of the west tower and began ascending the spiral staircase. The keystones at the center of all the arches in the queen’s tower were engraved with the image of a harp, its body painted gold and its strings silver: the symbol of Laiginztir. Queen Eseult was a proud Laiginztir woman. Just as Branwen’s mother had been.

  She touched the harp with two fingers as she ducked her head in the low clearance of the hallway leading to the queen’s bedchamber. It was both a tribute and a prayer.

  Fintan, the head of the queen’s bodyguards, threw his shoulders back when he saw Branwen. He was a bear of a man with a large nose and thinning hair. He’d survived many battles against the Kernyveu and he had the scars to prove it.