Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  Branwen felt Tristan’s eyes on her, and he was smiling because she was smiling. Instantly, she smoothed her features.

  “It seems I’m to be your keeper,” she grumbled into his ear. “Again.”

  “I have no objection to being kept by you.” He pressed her closer, speaking in her native tongue, and Branwen’s body sizzled just like on the day she’d found him lifeless on the raft.

  “And I have no choice in the matter,” she replied in Aquilan. She needed the distance of a foreign language.

  Tristan halted in his tracks, stepping in front of her. “You would not choose it?” he said, switching back to Aquilan, the first crack in his confidence appearing. “I thought I had a friend in Iveriu.”

  “Tantris had a friend.” She scoffed even as her pulse raced. “He led me to believe I’d saved a poet, not a pirate!”

  “I am a poet. I’m not a pirate. But I’m also a prince.”

  As he gazed down at her, Branwen felt small and vulnerable. She couldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t. “Either way, you’re a liar, Prince Tristan,” she retorted. “Washed overboard my foot! Did the waves cut you from stem to stern?” And her honor was still tied to keeping him alive until he returned the favor. Curse the Kernyveu!

  “I’m no liar. My ship was attacked by pirates like I told you. And I was thrown overboard in the skirmish.” His breath tickled her hairline. “Although you lied to me, too, just plain Emer. And you speak more than a few words of Aquilan, it would seem.” Tristan pressed his palm to his heart. “But I still carry your handiwork on me at all times—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  She inhaled sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me who you really were?”

  “For the same reason you didn’t tell me.”

  “Not the same reason. I was afraid you might use me against King Óengus somehow. You’re a prince, for Otherworld’s sake!”

  “I don’t see what difference it makes.”

  “The difference between night and day. You knew the Kernyveu were looking for you. What did you think they would do to my people until you were found?”

  Tristan’s expression darkened. “I suspected, yes, that Marc might send a rescue party,” he said, remorse staining his tone. “I should have left Iveriu sooner than I did, and I regret that but I … I—”

  “You what?” Branwen demanded.

  He lifted his gaze to hers. “I found a reason to stay.”

  His words hit her like a boulder. Her hand flew to her throat.

  “Then you were incredibly selfish, my prince.” Branwen willed away tears as a vision of Gráinne clutching her battered doll filled her mind. “There are many new orphans in Iveriu because you stayed. And if you stayed because of me—” She paused, fighting to keep her voice from breaking. “I’m equally to blame.”

  Could people really have died because Emer and Tantris had been falling in love? A love based on lies was no love at all. Branwen couldn’t live with that. She just couldn’t.

  Tristan’s brow pinched. “Branwen. Branwen, please—”

  She whirled on her heel, drawing on all her strength to force down a sob. She would not embarrass the queen by losing her composure in front of all the foreign dignitaries. “Come,” she said to Tristan, manner brusque. “Queen Eseult bade me to offer you refreshment.” She couldn’t believe she’d jeopardized her aunt’s trust for this silver-tongued Kernyvak prince.

  He followed her in silence.

  The vats of frothed crimson ale on the buffet tables glowed in the candlelight, making her think of blood. It was disconcerting. Branwen didn’t care for it herself, but legend held that red ale was the drink of kingship. King Óengus was honoring his guests by sharing it with them.

  As Branwen glanced around the hall, she saw noblemen from Dyfed and Meonwara, and as far afield as the Frisii Lands. All of these men were here to win Essy’s hand. More importantly, they were here to win an ally for their kingdom. Essy’s male issue would be the legitimate heirs to the Ivernic throne and whoever won the Champions Tournament tomorrow would alter the course of history, bringing power and prestige to his land.

  Tristan stood quietly by her side as Branwen sloshed ale from the vat into a bronze goblet. Somewhat violently, she offered it to him. A few drops splashed across both of their hands. The red starkly contrasted against her pale skin.

  “Thank you.” Tristan brushed the errant drops from her hand as he accepted the cup. She did her best to disguise a shiver. Bringing the goblet to his mouth, he remarked, “In Kernyv, Laelugus is the festival for handfasting.”

  Branwen gulped, darting her eyes away, and poured herself a cup of ale. Handfasting was the ceremony that began the engagement period before marriage. She didn’t know what Tristan was driving at. Didn’t want to know.

  He watched her so closely as she took a drink that she nearly choked on the ale. Squinting, he said, “The symbol of Laiginztir.”

  She ran her fingers over the harp-shaped grooves in the cup. She’d used these goblets so many times that she didn’t even notice the insignia anymore. Funny the things a stranger could see.

  “You are from Laiginztir, then,” Tristan said, sounding pleased, as if he’d solved a riddle. “See, I do know you a little.”

  “Hardly at all.” She dismissed him by taking another sip. Everything they had shared—all of it was half-truths. Wisps of nothing. “Queen Eseult is from Laiginztir,” she relented after a minute. “These were part of her dowry. The finest blacksmiths crafted these goblets for her wedding feast.”

  Tristan touched a finger to the harp emblazoned on his own cup. “You told me that Laiginztir was your mother’s birthplace.”

  “My mother—Lady Alana of Castle Bodwa—was the queen’s younger sister.”

  His lips pursed. “That makes Princess Eseult your cousin.”

  “My only cousin.”

  “Your uncle Morholt has no children?”

  “Lord Morholt is a warrior, the King’s Champion. He has no time for family life.”

  One corner of Tristan’s mouth twitched and a sick feeling gripped Branwen. She’d known her uncle had slain his father, and yet she’d concealed the truth—she’d had to. She’d been protecting Iveriu. But …

  All secrets came out eventually.

  “As it is with King Marc,” Tristan said with a sigh, not belaboring the issue. “That’s why he needs me to win tomorrow.”

  “Of course. You’re here to win yourself a princess.”

  “No.” He lowered his lips to the tip of her ear. “I’m here for you.”

  “Then you’ve got the wrong cousin. I’m not a princess.”

  “You’re right. You have the heart of a queen.”

  “Your charms are growing stale, Prince Tristan.” She would not succumb to his flattery.

  “I swear it, my lady. When I arrived back in Kernyv, there was news of this tournament. I knew you were highborn—even if I didn’t know your real name—and I was hopeful you would be here. Destiny has not yet led me astray.”

  “Wait.” Branwen shot him a glance that could have pierced any armor. “How did you know I was highborn?”

  A canny grin. “Your clothes were too fine for a castle servant,” he said. “Your hands too soft.” Branwen swallowed at the memory of running them over his chest. “But, mostly, Lady Branwen, it was the hazelnuts,” he said with a laugh.

  “Hazelnuts?”

  “In Kernyv, hazel trees are sacred and belong to the king. Cutting them or stealing their fruit exacts a stiff penalty. I presumed the same was true in Iveriu; therefore, you must be highborn.”

  She frowned. A clever deduction. It hadn’t occurred to Branwen that a castle servant probably wouldn’t have access to hazelnuts. Not wanting to admit he was right, she pointed out, “I could have been a thief.”

  “Your heart is far too noble for thievery,” he said in earnest.

  Noble or not, she disliked the way he pulled so easily on its strings.

  “If you suspected I
wasn’t who I said I was, Prince Tristan, why didn’t you say anything?”

  He leaned in. “Because I knew everything that mattered.”

  “We’re enemies.” The proclamation escaped without permission, a threadbare sound. “Your father died at my uncle’s hands. My parents, they…”

  “I told you,” Tristan said, his gaze penetrating, “I could never be your enemy, and I meant it.”

  His answer shouldn’t taste like such sweet relief. He was a liar. A talented, beautiful liar.

  Reaching under his collar, Tristan pulled something from beneath his tunic. A golden chain glittered in the low light. Dangling from one end, her own Rigani stone winked in the light.

  Tapping the dazzling green, he said, “Sometimes fate needs a push.”

  Fear crashed over Branwen. She wrapped her hand around the pendant, concealing it. “Are you so eager to flaunt my betrayal?” she whispered. “Have my head on a pike! Announce to my family that I hid their enemy from them?”

  Her words were underscored with anger, but beneath that anger lay hope. Hope that Tristan had really come back for her—Branwen—and not the Ivernic princess. For the first time, she understood her cousin’s dilemma: how desperately Essy wanted to be loved for herself, and her bitterness that she would never truly know if she was.

  Branwen realized that no amount of gold or jewels would make her trade places with the princess. She was deluged by sympathy and guilt over their quarrel. Instinctively, she scanned the room for her little cousin, whom she glimpsed at Lord Diarmuid’s side. Keane stood a pace behind, wary.

  Her eyes met the bodyguard’s at the same moment as Tristan clasped his hand firmly over hers. “Odai eti ama,” he rasped in her ear. The touch of his skin on hers made her feel totally naked. The Rigani stone in her fist was cold and yet she swore it also burned.

  Alarm registered on Keane’s features.

  “You’ve already used poetry to gain my trust,” she told him. “It won’t work a second time.”

  “Then what will?” He traced his pinkie along her knuckles and a tiny lightning bolt of exhilaration shot down her spine.

  Before Branwen could answer, Tristan was wrenched away. A hand clamped on the Kernyvman’s shoulder, jerking him backward. Keane loomed behind him, his demeanor hostile.

  “Unhand the lady now,” he ordered in a lethal tone despite fumbling with the Aquilan words.

  Tristan reached for his sword. Branwen should have realized sooner why he’d seemed so comfortable with a blade that day on the beach, and with battle. She shook her head at him and he released his weapon—begrudgingly.

  Keane pushed Tristan another step away from Branwen and came to stand between them. “Did the Kernyvman hurt you, my lady?” The anxiety in his voice was clear.

  “No, not at all. Thank you, Sir Keane. And he’s not a Kernyvman. He’s a Kernyvak prince.”

  As royalty, Tristan had the right to demand blood or gold from King Óengus as recompense for being manhandled by one of the Royal Guard. Branwen needed to avoid a scene, and she also felt an urge to protect her countryman.

  “I don’t care what his title is,” Keane spat.

  She widened her eyes in warning. He was usually so unflappable. She’d never seen Keane lose his self-control quite like this.

  “Sir Keane,” Tristan spoke up. “I would never hurt Lady Branwen. I’m sorry if I caused any offense.”

  “Kernyvmen are good at causing offense.”

  “Keane,” Branwen said, low.

  Both men eyed her curiously. She shouldn’t have addressed Keane without his title at a formal occasion. It implied either intimacy or disrespect. Branwen could tell Tristan was trying to figure out which she’d intended.

  “Begging your pardon, Lady Branwen,” Keane said as he sneered at Tristan, “but I would rather lie down with dogs than make peace with the Kernyveu. At least beasts have honor.”

  “Enough!” Branwen exclaimed. This time her voice was several octaves higher. Keeping Tristan safe from the pointed end of an Ivernic blade this evening was proving an almost insurmountable task.

  Fury flared in Tristan’s eyes, but it didn’t twist his words. “Sir Keane, I hope to show you how honorable the Kernyveu can be in battle—and then I hope you might accept our friendship.”

  “That is a very gracious offer,” Branwen began, directing another glare at Keane. “The High King of Iveriu and his court look forward to your display of prowess, Prince Tristan.”

  Keane snorted. Branwen could barely contain the urge to elbow him in the ribs. Challenging the honor of Kernyv, of its prince, could part a man from his head.

  “I’m also formidable with a harp,” said Tristan as he cast Branwen a knowing smile. Heat seared her cheeks.

  Seeing Branwen and the Kernyvak prince exchange something that excluded him, a vein jumped above Keane’s eyebrow. He turned toward her, showing his back to Tristan, and said, “Lady Branwen, I would ask you for a token so that I might wear your colors as I represent the Ivernic crown at the tournament.”

  Branwen’s shoulders went rigid. Maybe he hadn’t forgotten about the discarded Belotnia trinkets after all. Maybe he’d been more serious than she realized.

  She clinched her hands together. To refuse his request could be construed as a rejection of the king. She deeply wished that the princess’s lady’s maid was also prohibited from showing favoritism at the Champions Tournament. Sadly, she wasn’t.

  Branwen decided that the best thing for everyone would be to agree. She couldn’t risk Keane insulting Tristan even more this evening. It’s what Queen Eseult would want. Besides, Branwen couldn’t deny it might be thrilling to make Tristan jealous.

  “It would be my honor, Sir Keane,” she pronounced. With quick fingers, she picked apart one of her plaits and pulled loose an emerald-colored ribbon. Ceremonially, she placed it in Keane’s open palm.

  “May the Old Ones smile upon you and upon Iveriu,” she said.

  Keane’s blue eyes ignited with victory as he tied the length of cloth to the hilt of his kladiwos blade. “One Iveriu forever.”

  “One Iveriu,” Branwen echoed. After a moment, she said, “Sir Keane, would you see if the princess is quite well?”

  His cheeks went a ruddy color. Keane was neglecting his official duties. He was sworn to protect Essy, not Branwen.

  “Yes, certainly, my lady.” He pivoted slowly and disappeared back into the crowd.

  “That’s some guard dog you have there,” Tristan said with uncharacteristic acerbity.

  “I believe it’s the Hound who was the guard of Uladztir.”

  “I recognized his voice.” Branwen crinkled her nose as Tristan elaborated, “Our last night together. The man who followed you to the cave—that was Sir Keane.”

  “What if it was?” Branwen looked him dead in the eyes. “You didn’t ask for my colors.”

  “Let the Iverman have your ribbon. I already have your colors stitched into my heart.” Tristan moved to touch her cheek but then stopped himself. Branwen held her breath. Not an hour ago she knew his—or Tantris’s—colors were stitched into her own.

  “And I intend to keep the promise I made to Emer,” he said with determination. “I promised to bring peace between our peoples.”

  Their bodies swayed toward each other as if pulled by an invisible cord.

  “Emer wanted peace with words,” she countered. “Not steel.”

  Tristan brushed her wrist discreetly with his thumb. “First steel, then words.”

  “In that case, I’m sorry I’m not a princess.”

  Without hesitation, he declared, “I’m not.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because I’m here to win the Princess of Iveriu for King Marc.”

  An airy feeling spread through Branwen’s body, followed by a jolt of indignation for Essy’s fate. “Why are you winning the princess for your uncle?” she demanded to know. “You’re a prince—shouldn’t you be competing for yourself?”

&nb
sp; “My heart is set on someone else,” Tristan said, holding Branwen’s gaze until she couldn’t breathe. “But, more than that…” He sobered as he continued, “Marc is a young king, only twenty-seven. He was my mother’s baby brother. His reign is still new. It’s only been four years since he took the throne. The kingdom needs an heir for stability.”

  “Aren’t you his heir?” Branwen asked.

  A shadow skimmed his face. “If anything, I’m his biggest problem.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When my mother married, she was gifted the territory of Liones, the southernmost tip of Kernyv. Liones is under the protection of Kernyv—and I have no desire to rule—but, technically, it’s independent.”

  “Technically, it’s independent,” Branwen repeated. Realization hit like a tidal wave. “Meaning, technically, you’re the King of Liones?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “In a manner of speaking? I don’t think being king is a half measure.”

  “It’s quite small, really. Liones would never survive without Kernyv,” Tristan hastened to add. “It was more of a gesture—since my mother was the oldest but Kernyvak law prohibits a woman from inheriting the throne.”

  Today had been too full of the unexpected. Tantris was not only a poet or a prince but a king! If she’d let him die, two kingdoms would have waged war against Iveriu.

  Eyes round, Branwen sputtered, “Is there anything else I don’t know about you, King Tristan?”

  “Don’t call me that,” he told her, voice tight, putting a finger to her lips. He seemed more afraid than when she’d told him the Royal Guard was trooping.

  Her mind raced with political calculations. She removed his hand.

  “King Marc sees you as a threat,” Branwen discerned.

  “Not Marc.” Tristan shook his head. “We were raised as brothers. I pledged my fealty to him at sixteen, upon his coronation, and became his Champion. I’m happy for Kernyv to administer Liones. Governing doesn’t interest me.”

  “But until King Marc has a child, you are next in line to the throne of Kernyv, as well as your own in Liones.”

  “I would never betray Marc.” His nostrils flared. “Marc knows that. And yet, there are those who don’t trust my intentions, who don’t trust my … mixed lineage.” Sadness shaded his last statement. “I will win Princess Eseult for Marc, and put to bed any question of my loyalty.”