Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

Keane’s smile grew chagrined. “I’m aware, my lady. Although I would have accepted the mission to spend time alone with you.”

  Her eyebrows lifted skyward. Keane had never said anything so bold to her before. Was it being outside the castle that allowed him to speak more freely?

  He coughed into his fist, seeming to realize his error.

  “But on this occasion, I bring welcome news. Saoirse is awake. And she’s asking for you.”

  Fear for Tantris momentarily abated and a true smile split Branwen’s face. “That is most welcome news, Keane!”

  “Then I’m glad to be the one to deliver it.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” They shared a moment of elation before Branwen wondered, “How did you know where to find me?”

  Keane shifted his weight. “The princess isn’t the only one I keep an eye on.”

  Oh no. Of course she wasn’t. How often had Tantris nearly been exposed because of Branwen. So arrogant. She thought she’d been so careful, so clever, but she’d brought the Royal Guard right to his door.

  Suddenly, the fox darted through the dangling lianas and barked up at them. Keane laughed in surprise. The guardsman wasn’t half as surprised as Branwen. Her heart stopped and started again. The fox had materialized from nowhere—unless the cave was an entrance to the Otherworld?

  “Whom do we have here?” said Keane.

  Smoothing the shock from her features, Branwen said, “This is one of my patients. I found it trapped in one of the sand pits. I’ve been caring for the fellow here at the cave.” The lie rolled altogether too easily from her tongue.

  Keane creased his forehead. “I set those traps to catch Kernyvmen, not foxes. Although they can be one and the same.” He reached a hand toward the fox in a conciliatory gesture. The animal nipped his fingers.

  Hissing, he drew back his hand. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt, my lady.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Maybe not.” A pause. “But I do.” A swell of surf broke against the shore. “Come,” said Keane. “I’ll escort you to the infirmary.”

  “I can make my own way.”

  “It’s grown dark. I insist.”

  Branwen didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye to Tantris, but she couldn’t give Keane any further reason to wonder about the cave. As if speaking to the fox, she raised her voice and said, “Stay here. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  The creature yapped once, its eyes glowing like candles in the dark, and dashed inside. Keep Tantris safe, she pleaded.

  “The beast seems quite devoted to you,” Keane remarked as they walked back toward the castle gates.

  “Maybe so.”

  “Just don’t forget it’s wild.”

  In the torchlight, Branwen nicked him with a glance. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning it’s when you think you’ve tamed a wild thing that it can cause you the most harm.”

  She didn’t reply. She knew Keane was right.

  Her heart was the wildest thing of all.

  SEA OF FLAMES

  SMOKE SWIRLED IN HER LUNGS. Panic licked her gut. At her feet, briars were stinging, scrambling, clutching at her—keeping her in place.

  Branwen saw a brilliant light far out at sea, crystalline and hypnotizing. It winked at her, signaling her. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

  And then, fire danced upon the waves.

  No! She tried to call out, but she had no voice.

  Something feather-soft brushed her ankles. Ebony eyes became amber. The fox.

  The creature growled and barked, angling its head toward the water. She knew it wanted her to follow, but Branwen was trapped. Thorny roots held her prisoner.

  The fox barked again. What’s a little blood? it seemed to say.

  Time warped around her. The stars touched the horizon and the sea boiled.

  Branwen yanked her feet from the sharp-toothed vines, jagged claw marks crisscrossing her calves. She bit down on the pain and broke into a sprint. The fox nipped at her heels as she ran.

  As she neared the shoreline, she made out the silhouette of a man against the starlight and the flames. He moved with casual grace.

  Her heart overflowed.

  In the next moment, the glint of something silvery and deadly caught her eye. A broadsword. Raised high, drops of blood oozed toward its hilt.

  Branwen knew the hand wielding that sword. Morholt. Her uncle.

  He whirled it above his head. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound sliced the night.

  As the death-bringing edge bore down on its victim, Branwen regained her voice.

  Tantris!

  But it was too late.

  * * *

  “Tantris.” She tasted his name on her lips in the sunlight. He had to go. Last night was too close. The dream was another warning. He would be discovered and Branwen would be branded a traitor.

  You’ll miss him. It didn’t matter. She had to send the Kernyvman away.

  Branwen was sure she must have woken the entire castle with her cries but, as she stretched and stumbled toward the window, she saw Castle Rigani was already bustling. Below, she spied the Royal Guard assembled in the inner ward. They were dressed in the saffron-colored tunics of war. Uncle Morholt, Lord Diarmuid, and Lord Rónán were among them. Fresh fear like the first snowfall settled over her body.

  Was she too late? Had Keane returned to the cave and discovered Tantris? Did her family know how she’d betrayed them?

  Branwen finished dressing in double time, then carefully opened her door and peered down the corridor toward Essy’s apartment. She hated to abandon her cousin with trouble obviously afoot, but she needed to warn Tantris. Not seeing anyone, Branwen sprinted past Essy’s door and, as if she summoned him with her thoughts, slammed straight into Keane at the top of the stairs. He caught her in a tight grip, startled, his posture battle-ready.

  “Are you quite well, my lady?” Keane asked. His eyes gleamed with worry.

  “Yes.” At least he wasn’t here to arrest her. She swallowed, wriggling under his grasp. “Thank you.” Realizing their chests were still pressed together, Keane immediately relinquished his hold on her, reddening, and took a step backward.

  “Keane,” said Branwen, breaking the tense silence. “Why is the Royal Guard trooping?”

  Please don’t let it be Tantris. Please.

  Wrath burned in his eyes as he answered. “Kernyvak raiders. Twenty leagues. We’re going after them.” He was itching to get in on the action.

  Branwen gasped, raising a hand to her mouth.

  “Don’t be afraid, Lady Branwen. You’ll be safe within the castle walls. No man has ever breached Rigani.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, my lady, but—” Daring to take her hand, Keane pulled Branwen closer, speaking low and urgently. “Promise me you won’t visit your patient in the cave today.”

  “Patient?” she choked out.

  “The fox,” said Keane, his brow creasing. “The critter can live without you for one day. I want you—I don’t want anything to happen to you.” The admission was nearly a command. He stroked the back of Branwen’s hand with his thumb, insistent. Although she’d made no promises, guilt flared as she thought of Tantris, of his serenade.

  “I promise.” The lie strangled her voice. “Be safe, Keane.”

  The Iverman squeezed her hand, then took a step down the stairs. “One Iveriu,” he said. His eyes flashed as he disappeared and Branwen recognized the battle lust. She waited until she saw him exit the south tower through the turret window before she made her own escape.

  Branwen had to get to the cave. She had to find Tantris.

  What’s a little blood?

  If she didn’t, the sea would turn to flames.

  * * *

  The waves crashed, coming in fast and furious. She remembered her dream: Tantris had been swimming. Queen Eseult told Branwen to listen carefully to the messages from the Otherworl
d. She rushed toward the beach, where she had first laid eyes on him.

  Her skirts caught on a piece of driftwood as she sloshed through key-cold sea-foam. Thick nettles scratched her legs. There was blood in the water. In the foam she spied a shard of Rigani stone and pocketed it quickly.

  She prayed it would bring luck. Not to her, but to Tantris.

  The sun rising like a fireball above the horizon was nothing compared with the sea of orange bodies dotting the cliffs along the coastline. The Royal Guard was under attack, trying to beat their enemies back to the beach. In no time, the cave would be surrounded.

  Branwen realized that the only way to save Tantris would be to return him to her enemies. Her own countrymen would kill the Kernyvman, and she knew he would choose death before dishonor. He was far too brave for a poet.

  There was a glimmer among the whitecaps. A wink. A signal.

  The Otherworld bled into the sea as well. From the depths below, a dolphin leapt up over the booming waves. Coastal villagers believed these creatures protected the waters of Iveriu, but it seemed to be protecting the Kernyvman, too.

  “Tantris!” Branwen called out, running as hard as she could against the tide, dragging the kladiwos that she’d stolen from the armory behind her. “Tantris!”

  A new shape in the swell went utterly still. “Emer?”

  All of the air rushed from her lungs. He was still alive. Tantris was still alive—for now.

  His eyes landed on Branwen as he emerged from the waves. The howling of swordplay carried on the breeze, and he dashed toward her with equal speed.

  Branwen’s hair was loose and wind-tossed, shadowy tendrils down her back. She’d pulled a simple shift over her nightgown, fawn-colored—the better not to be seen in the wood. Brandishing the kladiwos, she looked less like a noblewoman and more like a warrior.

  “Emer,” he called out, pointing at the blade. “Have you come here to kill me?” Tantris cracked his usual sly grin, but there was doubt in his eyes.

  She held out the weapon solemnly. It trembled between her sweaty palms. “My countrymen have,” she told him. “I thought I told you not to leave the cave.”

  “I’m sorry, Emer. The fox wouldn’t let me rest until we’d taken a dip in the sea.”

  She darted a glance to where the creature scampered in the foamy surf. The Otherworld wanted him away from the cave. How close was the Royal Guard?

  When at last Tantris stood only a handswidth before her in the sand, Branwen felt her cheeks turn a wild shade of scarlet.

  Salt water dripped down the firm ridges of Tantris’s naked chest. His britches were soaked, clinging to his muscular thighs. Branwen could well believe he belonged to the races of Old Ones said to dwell beneath the sea, disarming and dangerous. A yearning for the unknown coursed through Branwen and she fought the urge to touch him.

  She had seen him shirtless most days as she tended his wound, of course, but she was no longer looking at Tantris the way a healer regarded a patient.

  Branwen sucked in a breath as he stepped in closer. Her eyes snagged on the tiny love-knots stitched over his heart. The scar was her mark. Tantris would always carry part of her with him, back across the Ivernic Sea.

  “What is it, Emer?” he said. “What’s happened?”

  She held out the sword to him once more. “Tantris, listen to me.” Branwen forced her eyes to his face. “The Royal Guard is trooping.” She gestured at the cliffs. “Kernyvak raiders are within reach of Castle Rigani. They’ve never dared to come so close before.”

  He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath. Grimness set over his features. And something else: guilt. As if Tantris thought he was somehow responsible for the attack.

  “Take the blade,” she said sternly. “Go. Find your countrymen. The Iverni will be taking no prisoners today.”

  He put his hand over hers and they held the sword together. His touch was rough and kind at the same time, and Branwen didn’t want him to ever let her go.

  “Are you telling me to fight your own people?”

  “No, Tantris. I don’t want you to fight them. But you’re my friend, and I want you to live.” Her voice nearly broke as she spoke the words.

  His fingers threaded through hers, and his back straightened as he took hold of the kladiwos. Tantris looked comfortable with a sword in his hand. Strong. His pose graceful.

  He should run. Tantris needed to run. Why did he seem rooted to the spot? Why did she?

  “There isn’t much time,” Branwen told him, trying to catch her breath. “Around the next bend in the shore, beneath the cliffs, you’ll find fishing boats moored. Take one. Please.”

  “You’re not safe here, either. I won’t leave you defenseless.”

  “I’m not defenseless.” She pulled down the collar of her dress to reveal a protective curiet of boiled leather that she’d also pinched from the armory.

  He flipped the sword over, glowering. “Kernyvak or Ivernic, men at war aren’t to be trusted.” Air hissed through his teeth. “I won’t thank you for your kindness by abandoning you.”

  Damn stubborn poet. “Thank me by living, Tantris,” Branwen told him, that unfamiliar authority bolstering her voice once more.

  At the edge of her vision, Branwen glimpsed horses pounding the craggy cliffs with their hooves, drawing closer, closer. “Leave me, Tantris.” She was almost yelling now. “You need to go!”

  Such tenderness washed over his face that Branwen nearly choked on her next words. “Please, Tantris. Go back to your homeland knowing you made a friend in Iveriu.”

  “I would have peace between our peoples,” he said with a conviction that was indisputable. Branwen wished ardently in that moment that Tantris were a king rather than a minstrel. Neither he nor she would ever have the power to truly bring peace.

  “The peace between us is a start,” Branwen said with a feeble smile. “But there will be no peace if you’re dead.”

  “There is much more than peace between us, Emer. Let me fight for you.”

  With a shake of the head, she said, “This is me fighting for you.” She withdrew the Rigani stone from her pocket and pressed it into his palm. “To remember me by.”

  “It would be easier to forget my own name than it would you.” Tantris closed his fingers in a fist around the stone and held it to his chest. “But just in case—” He broke off and his lips were suddenly on hers.

  Time stood still. There was no blood or fire, no Iveriu or Kernyv. There was only this—only this kiss. It was enough to make Branwen believe in things she couldn’t see, to exist by feeling rather than thinking.

  She allowed her hand to explore the finely packed muscles of his stomach, damp with seawater. Tantris tunneled his fingers through her loose black locks, pulling her closer, sharing the same sweet breaths. She wanted nothing more than to pull him down on top of her, let the tide rush over them.

  If Branwen didn’t break away now, she would never be able to let go. Maybe in the Otherworld, beyond the sea, lay a place where they could be together, but it wasn’t in this world.

  She pushed Tantris away and he stumbled backward in the wet sand.

  “Emer—”

  “You promised me you’d live.”

  Determination sparked in his eyes. “I will live and I will see you again.”

  She didn’t know what she would have done then—maybe follow Tantris back to Kernyv—if she hadn’t spied her uncle Morholt on the cliffs directly overhead.

  “Go,” she commanded.

  And then she ran away, and she didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Regret suffused her with each step she took away from him. Tantris would never know her true name.

  Branwen was the sea of flames.

  SERPENT AMONG THE WAVES

  WHOOPING AND HOLLERING RESOUNDED FROM the inner ward as Branwen snuck back into the castle, making her way toward Essy’s apartment, in the south tower. Her body buzzed from the fresh memory of the poet’s mouth on hers.

  She was
terrified about what would happen to Tantris if he found his countrymen—they were pirates, after all.

  She was even more terrified about what would happen to him if he didn’t. And then there was her fear for the lives of the Royal Guard and the villagers along the coast.

  An unholy howl slashed the air. It was animal. And another. Branwen needed to go hide herself with Essy before Keane realized she was missing. Yet there was something about the tormented cry that paralyzed her.

  Dubthach burst from beneath the archway, nearly knocking her over. His eyes shone and there was a frenzy upon him.

  “Lady Branwen,” he said. “Beg your pardon.” Then, excitedly he told her, “They caught some. They caught some of those bloody Kernyvak bastards down on the beach.”

  Ice spread though her veins, freezing her heart. “Where?”

  “They’re bringing them to the keep. Come on, Lady Branwen—let’s go see them behead some Kernyvmen!”

  Dubthach tugged on her shoulder. She followed him, but she felt as if she were watching the scene from somewhere else, floating. Far above Castle Rigani. Far above the waves battering the shore.

  The throne room was on the ground floor of the keep. The Royal Guard dragged men across the courtyard, black hoods covering their faces. Her stomach flipped several times as she pictured Tantris’s chiseled features beneath one of those hoods. Several of the prisoners had kladiwos blades dangling impotently from their belts.

  That doesn’t mean it’s Tantris, she told herself. Plenty of Kernyvmen carried a kladiwos. The argument was almost convincing.

  Dubthach pulled Branwen through the crowd that was forming to glimpse the prisoners. Not to mention the inevitable executions. “We beat them back,” he recounted enthusiastically. “Now they’ll know Ivernic justice.”

  She nodded faintly. As Branwen and Dubthach pushed their way toward the front of the throne room, her ears filled with the sounds of disdain and condemnation, jeering and whistling. She couldn’t remember the last time prisoners had been brought to Castle Rigani. King Óengus obviously wanted to find something out. Somehow, this raid must have been different.

  Branwen scanned the ten hooded men on their knees before the king. Their heads were all bowed, pressed to the floor, their hands bound behind their backs with coarse rope. They looked so weak, so helpless, crouched there like that. Which, she realized, was precisely the point.