Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  Branwen tipped her chin upward so that their eyes met. “I beg your pardon, if I haven’t been myself,” she said. “The attack has brought into the present, memories better left in the past.” The only comfort she took lately was giving solace to the wounded—and the infirmary was filled with them.

  Keane’s face creased, disappointment replaced immediately by anger, like a storm changing course. His fist pounded his thigh. “Forgive me. It was on the Rock Road that your parents were felled.”

  Nodding, Branwen said, “I should have been there that day, you know. I was furious that they refused to let me travel with them.”

  Branwen’s countrymen believed that when the spirit departed from the body, it would live on in the Otherworld, waiting to be reborn. Right after her parents were killed, Branwen had wished she’d died with them so they could all be reborn together. Later, she grew incensed that her parents hadn’t found their way back to her. By her twelfth birthday, Branwen had stopped believing in the Otherworld altogether. Now, she supposed the Old Ones must have their reasons for keeping her parents beyond the Veil.

  “Never wish that,” Keane nearly barked, snapping Branwen out of her memory. “If anyone had hurt you … I would have killed as many Kernyvmen as it took to turn the Ivernic Sea red.” The hatred that laced his words made them terrifying rather than flattering.

  Keane scanned the retinue again, checking on the princess before allowing his gaze to settle once more on Branwen. His shoulders were tensed, nearly raised to his ears.

  “We have more in common than you think,” he said, softer now. The breeze toyed with his short chestnut-colored bangs. “I was only a little older than you were when I lost my own parents to the Kernyveu. I grew up not far from here.”

  Branwen fiddled with the reins. She realized she knew nothing of Keane’s life before he came to Castle Rigani. Why had she never inquired?

  “The day my parents died was the day I decided to join the Royal Guard.” Keane set his jaw. “It was also the day I killed my first Kernyvman. And I lived up to my name.”

  His name could mean either “a battle” or “a lament,” the song of Bríga.

  “What happened?” Branwen asked, half afraid of the answer.

  “I was playing on Skeleton Beach when I saw the ships approach.” He shivered as if he were back in that distant moment. Branwen shivered, too. The Skeleton Beach massacre was infamous throughout Iveriu. It was rumored that the dead washed ashore for months afterward, unburied souls who now belonged to the Sea of the Dead, claimed by Dhusnos—the Dark One.

  “I ran,” he said. “The pirates ran faster.”

  Need radiated from Keane as he spoke, and there was violence beneath it. On instinct, Branwen took his hand. He squeezed hers back. The surf climbed the side of the cliff before crashing back into the sea.

  “By the time I reached my home, the thatched roof was on fire,” he continued, visibly pained, the cords of his neck taut. “I didn’t have a weapon, so I grabbed a rock. The raider didn’t notice me enter. I flung myself on his back. He smelled of rotted fish.” Keane screwed up his nose. “I bashed him over the head, again and again.”

  Branwen’s throat went dry as she pictured the scene.

  “It was for nothing. My parents were already dead. Sprawled by the hearth, throats slit.” He swallowed. “Their hands were touching … like they’d been trying to say good-bye.”

  Branwen pulled back gently on the reins of Keane’s mount, which he’d allowed to go slack. As they came to a halt, Branwen brushed her hand against his cheek in sympathy. “I am so sorry for your loss.” She also comprehended more fully why Saoirse’s suffering had unsettled him so much.

  The sharpness in his eyes dulled. “I didn’t mean to distress you, my lady. Only to say that I think we understand each other.” Keane traced her cheekbone in return. His wasn’t a sympathetic gesture, however; it was an intimate one. “Great things are built on understanding,” he told her.

  Branwen gulped because she knew it was true. Her love for Tantris had grown once she let herself see who he was inside—even if it was a love neither of their peoples would ever be able to understand.

  “One Iveriu,” she breathed.

  “A woman after my own heart,” said Keane, and she offered him a fleeting smile. Branwen could never be a woman after Keane’s heart, however, because she was already fashioned after another.

  And if an Ivernic heart could be made from the same stuff as a Kernyvak one, perhaps all was not yet lost.

  * * *

  As Branwen accompanied Essy into the scene of desolation, it was hard to maintain any lofty hopes. The hardest of hearts had brought this village low and rent it asunder. The princess walked among the ruins while a dozen Royal Guardsmen distributed supplies to the remaining able-bodied adults.

  Branwen spied only a few men amidst the survivors; raiders always killed the men first. The rational part of her brain understood their strategy: Women were less likely to resist. But the pirates had underestimated her countrywomen—to their peril. Several overconfident invaders dangled from the trees by their toes, heads severed.

  Any satisfaction at the sight dissolved as she surveyed the haunted faces of the village children. Branwen had been inconsolable even without seeing her parents murdered before her very eyes. She could only imagine what Keane was feeling as he directed his men with curt orders; he must have seen himself in each face.

  Branwen noticed one small girl, graced with sunset-colored ringlets, who hung back from the other children greedily gobbling up Treva’s famed apple cake. She stood and watched, clinging to the charred husk of a doll.

  Essy made the rounds among the villagers, offering embraces and words of comfort. Tempestuous as she could be, the princess loved ardently and that love extended to her people—especially the children. All of the servants’ children at Castle Rigani loved to listen to Essy’s stories, and she loved telling them. They demanded nothing more of her than her imagination.

  Another one of the princess’s joyful squeals carried on the breeze as she called the youngest villagers closer for a story.

  The children raced toward her, scrambling around her skirts. All except for the red-haired girl. They grabbed saltwater caramels from her palms like overexcited squirrels. And they laughed.

  Essy smiled, laughing with them. Then her gaze drifted toward the quiet girl.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked, approaching the child.

  The girl’s eyes went moon-round. She clasped the burned doll to her chest, wrapping her arms fiercely and protectively around it. The flinty look in her eye told Branwen she wouldn’t let anything part her from her possession. Branwen’s heart ached; a child shouldn’t be that leather-tough.

  Essy crouched down so that she was at eye level with the girl, who couldn’t be more than five years old. Again, she held out a candy. No reaction.

  Pointing toward the doll, she asked gently, “Who’s your friend?”

  The girl shrank back, holding Essy’s gaze. Looking from the princess to the doll, she listed her head, considering. “Eseult,” she answered finally, in a rasp. Branwen recognized a voice hoarse from too much screaming. “I named her for the princess.” The redhead squinted. “Is that really you?”

  Essy nodded once, closing her eyes for the briefest instant. “And what about you—what’s your name?”

  The girl glanced self-consciously around her at the other children, who had stopped feasting to gawk at her. “Gráinne,” she said. Her chin wobbled.

  “Gráinne is a lovely name,” Essy told her. “Where is your mother?”

  No answer.

  “Your father?”

  No answer.

  “I see.” The princess took a nibble of the caramel. “It’s delicious. Are you absolutely certain you don’t want to try it, Gráinne?”

  The little girl’s cheeks blazed a rosy pink. “A princess shouldn’t see my hands.”

  Essy’s brow pinched in concern. “Let me b
e the judge of that.” Still, Gráinne hesitated. “I’m your princess, aren’t I?” she persisted with a wink, resembling Queen Eseult completely.

  Gráinne relented. Keeping one hand clutched around her doll, she showed Essy the other palm. It was peppered with tiny cuts, probably from brambles, that had become infected.

  The princess worked her jaw. She really couldn’t stand the sight of wounded flesh. Her eyes imploring Branwen for aid, Essy asked Gráinne, “Would you let me help you?”

  The girl bit her lip uncertainly as Branwen joined them, squatting down beside Essy. She’d had the foresight to bring a wound-cleansing salve with her, just in case her cousin suffered from a similar injury on the road. Fishing the jar from the pocket of her heavy traveling skirt, Branwen warned, “It might hurt.”

  “Gráinne is brave,” Essy declared. Then to the girl, she said, “But it’s all right to cry.”

  Gráinne shook her head, fiery curls bouncing. “Mama told me not to cry. She made me promise.”

  The cousins shared a meaningful look. Essy turned her eyes downward, kissing the top of the child’s head so she didn’t see her princess blinking back tears.

  “You kept your promise, Gráinne. Your mother wouldn’t be cross. I’m your princess, and I would know. You’re safe now.”

  But Branwen knew Gráinne wouldn’t be truly safe until Essy was married. Perhaps the royal family—herself included—had been wrong to shelter the princess. If Essy was to rise to the occasion, she had to be given the chance.

  “Ready?” asked the princess. Gráinne bobbed her head. Essy opened the jar and applied the salve liberally to the girl’s right palm. Air escaped through her missing baby teeth and her lips trembled, but she did not cry.

  When Essy reached for Gráinne’s other hand, she yanked away. Inferring the problem, the princess said, “Eseult is your good-luck charm, isn’t she?” The girl nodded. “Branwen is mine. Can she hold Eseult for you?” Essy stroked the singed dress of her effigy. “Only for a minute.”

  Reluctantly, Gráinne consented. Branwen accepted the doll, casting her cousin a sidelong glance, infinitely touched.

  Essy finished applying the ointment and a dimple appeared as the girl smiled. “I’ll have my candy now,” she announced.

  The princess plopped it in Gráinne’s mouth with a chuckle. Then she tucked another into the pocket of her tattered skirt. “For later. Because you’re so brave.”

  “Thank you, Lady Princess.”

  Essy frowned. It was the first time Branwen could remember that her cousin didn’t appear pleased with her title. Essy pressed the doll to Gráinne’s heart.

  “Since we have a mutual friend, you may call me Princess Essy.” Assessing the state of the doll, she added sweetly, “It seems as if your Eseult is in need of a new dress. Would you allow me to sew her one?”

  “Oh yes!” Gráinne replied instantly, throwing her arms around Essy’s waist but careful not to hurt her palms. Branwen smiled, although she knew she would end up sewing the dress; the princess detested needlework.

  Keane had edged closer throughout the exchange. He lifted his eyebrows at the sun climbing through the sky. They had several more villages to visit before nightfall.

  “We need to go now, Gráinne,” Essy said, kissing her cheek. She drew herself up to standing. “Never forget that your princess loves you.”

  “I won’t,” Gráinne promised. She waved the doll excitedly as Essy and Branwen returned to their mounts.

  Just before the princess hopped on to her palfrey, she said, “I will never forgive the Kernyveu for this. Not ever.”

  A fist closed around Branwen’s heart.

  RIPPLES

  ESSY CRIED HERSELF TO SLEEP on Belotnia Eve, littering her bed cushions with golden strands. While the princess had been providing relief to the victims of the attack, King Óengus decided her marriage could no longer be delayed and proclaimed that a Champions Tournament would be held at the late summer festival of Laelugus for her hand. Suitors were to be given three moons to travel to Iveriu from all over the known world.

  The Festival of Lovers came and went, and Lord Diarmuid didn’t ask Essy to be his wife. He sent no more love letters or tokens of esteem. In fact, he’d absented himself from Castle Rigani altogether. Branwen suspected his father had ordered him to stay away. Lord Rónán’s ambitions didn’t trump his sense.

  Branwen had cried on Belotnia, too; but for an entirely different reason. She wished she could confide in her cousin who was, after all, her best friend. No, it wasn’t safe, she’d decided. She couldn’t implicate the princess in her betrayal.

  A welcome breeze tickled Branwen’s damp brow. An unusually hot summer had begun with Belotnia and showed no signs of abating for the past three months.

  Oxblood smoothed over the ebbing tide, casting deep shadows on the water. Branwen allowed herself one last look from the castle gates before heading to the south tower to prepare the princess for the champions’ welcome feast.

  Tomorrow, the tournament would begin.

  She walked up the twisting stairwell apprehensively, taking her time. Essy had been in such a foul temper of late that she hadn’t noticed how much more quiet and withdrawn Branwen had become. The only person who noticed, she thought, was Keane.

  Last night, the princess had purloined far more elderberry wine than was wise from Treva’s private stock, and Branwen spent the wee hours holding back her hair as she retched into a chamber pot. Guilt weighed on Branwen that she couldn’t heal her cousin’s wounds—neither those she could see nor those she could not. Caring for Essy after her parents died had relieved some of the grief that threatened to crush Branwen from within; she was the first true love Branwen had known. Before Tantris, the only time she felt she truly belonged—anywhere—was at Essy’s side; now that he was gone, it was true once more.

  When Branwen reached the landing, Keane was posted outside the princess’s apartments. “Beautiful night for a walk,” he said. “Late summer evenings are my favorite.”

  “Mine, too,” she admitted. The midnight sun wasn’t so very far north of Iveriu and this summer Branwen sat up strumming her harp longingly.

  Keane’s continued gaze was an invitation.

  “What is it you do on the beach by yourself every day, my lady?” he teased, but he also seemed genuinely mystified.

  Branwen smiled in a way that was perhaps a touch flirtatious. “Look at the waves, of course.” Tantris and the sea would forevermore be wedded in her mind.

  Keane sighed and muttered something low under his breath as he closed the door behind her. Branwen had received a token from him on Belotnia Eve, but she had declined to dance; he never pressed her about it.

  “Branny!” the princess squealed as she entered. “Come here right this instant!” Clapping her hands together, Essy said, “Tonight, I want to look like a queen!”

  Branwen’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. This was not the same red- and puffy-eyed girl she’d left nursing a headache earlier. She hadn’t seen her cousin in such good spirits since before the Champions Tournament had been announced.

  “I thought you didn’t want to be trussed up like some roasted boar,” she reminded Essy, tone blithe.

  “Tosh.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure you told your mother to just stick an apple in your mouth and be done with it.”

  Essy waved a hand in the air. “I never said that,” she protested, laughing. Hope sparked in Branwen that the princess had resolved to put her people before herself. She had spoken often about Gráinne and the other children along the Rock Road, after all. Then, with a sudden burst of urgency, her cousin swiveled toward Branwen and clasped her sweaty hands on Branwen’s forearms.

  “Diarmuid is coming!” she exclaimed. Branwen’s stomach dropped. So that accounted for Essy’s dramatic shift in mood. “He’s going to compete in the tournament.” Pride, hope, and fear swirled in her voice. “Just like in a ballad!”

  “Your life isn’t a ballad, Es
sy,” said Branwen, unable to keep the frustration from her voice. Her cousin wasn’t the only one who’d barely slept.

  “Why shouldn’t my life be a ballad?” Her eyes burned into Branwen’s. “I want you to make me a love potion, Branny. For me and Diarmuid.”

  “You already seem bespelled to me.” Branwen had hoped the infatuation would fade as the others had, but her cousin only seemed more enamored.

  “Fine. For Diarmuid, then.”

  “I thought you wanted a lover who loved you for you, Essy—not because of a spell.”

  Her face crumpled. “You would use my own words against me, cousin.”

  “Oh, Essy, I can’t,” she told her. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t know how.”

  She’d heard of Otherworld-touched healers who had the natural magic to make love potions—or, at least, aphrodisiacs—but she wouldn’t know where to start. Queen Eseult had never taught Branwen anything remotely resembling a love spell, and she doubted her aunt ever would. The queen was always saying that the duty of a healer was to help nature along, not pervert its course.

  “If you really wanted me to be happy, Branny, you would at least try,” Essy shot back. “I know Diarmuid’s the one.” Branwen bristled.

  Her cousin sounded brash and a tad petulant. Exactly like the day she challenged Branwen to leap from a waterfall. They’d been visiting one of the king’s vassals in Conaktir. His son was the same age as Essy, just turned eight, and he declared that no girl was brave enough to take the plunge.

  Outraged, Essy told him she wasn’t a girl, she was a princess. Branwen could still hear the water rushing in her mind. She showed Branwen a fierce smile and jumped.

  Watching her cousin fall, she’d never felt so helpless. The splash as Essy hit the river below was louder than a punch. Her cousin survived with only a broken arm, and she wore the sling like a badge of honor.

  Weren’t you scared? Branwen had asked Essy afterward.

  No, I was flying.

  Branwen could see how much her cousin longed to fly again.

  “Please, Branny.” Essy’s grip began to chafe. “My father’s a coward, but maybe if he sees how in love we are, he won’t make me marry somebody else.”