Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  If Tristan died, the Land would be without a Champion, without a future.

  “Emer,” he choked out, the venom already confusing his mind. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  Branwen refused to let destiny take its own course today. “Hush now, Tantris,” she whispered, showing him a half smile through silent tears. “Save your strength so I can heal you.”

  “You healed me the day we met.” Tristan’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body convulsed. Black tentacles spread out from the wound toward his heart.

  No, no. Not like this! Only the sound of swords being drawn pulled Branwen back from the terror swirling inside her. Lifting her eyes to the crowd, she saw the foreign warriors raise their weapons in the direction of King Óengus. His bodyguards closed in protectively around him.

  The king held his ground, expression black.

  “We came here for a fair contest!” Havelin cried.

  “Not some Ivernic trickery!” added the prince from South Jótland with a growl. The sentiment was echoed by the duke from the Frisii Lands and the Mílesian champion.

  A clash of steel resounded as the Royal Guard raised their arms against the foreigners. If they believed King Óengus had lured them from across the Ivernic Sea to be slaughtered, there would be a riot. A pitched battle at the heart of Rigani—without rules this time.

  “Poison is not a warrior’s death!” hollered the duke from Logres. A fresh round of hisses and jeers ensued.

  Someone jerked hard on Branwen’s shoulder, trying to pull her away from Tristan.

  “Come with me,” Keane said harshly, eyes anxious. She shook her head, wrenching herself from beneath his grip, and he surprised her by dropping to one knee. “Branwen, you aren’t safe here.” He nodded at the increasingly agitated mob.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Keane flicked his gaze from her to the wounded prince and back again. “The Kernyvman isn’t worth your tears.”

  Anger rippled along Branwen’s brow. “I’ll decide who deserves my tears.” She didn’t have time to argue with him. The din from the malcontent warriors grew louder. “Either help me, or leave me alone, Sir Keane.”

  She focused her attention on the spear protruding from Tristan’s shoulder. The hideous black vines of poison coiled themselves tightly around the wound. The longer the Balu Gaisos remained lodged in his body, the faster the toxins would spread through his bloodstream, rotting Tristan from the inside out.

  If Branwen removed the spear too precipitously, however, Tristan might bleed to death where he lay. What should she do? What should she do? She couldn’t lose him again.

  She was decided. She yanked. The Balu Gaisos fought her stubbornly.

  “What are you thinking?” Keane barked. “He’s your enemy.”

  “If you want a man to remain your enemy, then treat him as such,” she retorted, not even glancing up. “Iveriu needs friends.”

  “Well said, my niece.”

  Queen Eseult loomed over them, her golden hair gleaming like the sun itself. Instead of seeing her aunt, Branwen saw the Land. And the Land was dismayed at the agony of her Champion.

  “Don’t remove the spear just yet,” the queen cautioned. She narrowed her eyes at Keane. “Sir Keane, Sir Fintan,” she said, turning to the bodyguard at her side. “Carry the Prince of Kernyv to the infirmary as carefully as possible.”

  Keane’s lower lip twitched but he wouldn’t defy his queen. A grim expression settled over his features as he linked his arms through Tristan’s. Fintan placed one arm dutifully beneath the Kernyvman’s knees and the other under his ankles. Together, Fintan and Keane raised him off the ground.

  The queen’s gaze veered from Tristan to the representatives of Iveriu’s friends and rivals. A shocked silence fell upon the crowd, waiting for her pronouncement.

  “The Land cries out for her wounded Champion. The Goddess Ériu will heal the Son of Kernyv.”

  Branwen clasped her hands together, pressing them to her chest, and realized they were once again covered with Tristan’s blood.

  She burned with renewed rage.

  Only the King of Ordowik dared to challenge Queen Eseult. “You say the Land will heal Prince Tristan. But the Land didn’t protect him—from your own brother.”

  Glancing up at the queen from where she had huddled on the ground, Branwen noticed a single cord of her aunt’s neck jump.

  “Lord Morholt dishonored himself and disgraced his kingdom. The Land no longer acknowledges him. He will receive no Champion’s burial.” There were several gasps from among the Ivernic nobles.

  Queen Eseult’s brilliant green eyes dulled as she spat on her brother’s body. “He is no longer my blood. From this day forth, I will not speak his name. No child in Iveriu will bear his name. He will only live in infamy.”

  Dead silence.

  Then a raucous chorus of cheers. Her aunt had appeased the foreigners. The queen betrayed no reaction; Branwen heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Dear niece, there isn’t much time. If Prince Tristan dies, King Marc will invade our shores.” There was little doubt about it. “You must go quickly,” she told Branwen.

  “Where, Lady Queen?”

  “Whitethorn Mound.”

  “Whitethorn Mound?” she repeated, disbelieving.

  “Prince Tristan will surely die without Otherworld magic. We need the whitethorn bark.” Branwen’s heart skittered. “And we need to make an offering. To the Old Ones,” Queen Eseult said gravely.

  “What should I offer them?” Branwen asked.

  Discreetly, Queen Eseult withdrew a crescent-shaped knife from her skirts. “They will want blood, my niece. The blood of a natural healer. Your blood.”

  * * *

  Branwen slipped through the east gate unnoticed by the rabble. King Óengus had instructed the servants to bring out roasted suckling pigs and several more vats of red ale to sate the appetites of the foreign champions. In the commotion, Branwen spied Essy at Lord Diarmuid’s side and Keane bundling her off to safety in the south tower.

  She couldn’t worry about her cousin right now. Branwen sprinted through the woods, struggling to keep up with the fox, who had reappeared at the castle gate. The creature led her farther and deeper into the forest than she had ever gone.

  All Ivernic children were taught to be wary of Otherworld dwellers, not to trespass on their territory lest they be stolen into their world forever. Some were less than benign. Although Branwen had doubted the truth of the stories, she’d avoided ráithana and lesana all the same—the hills and ring-forts where the Old Ones were meant to reside.

  Her heart pounded and her breath whistled through her teeth like the howl of a Death-Teller, presaging her demise. The Otherworld women who foretold death were the most feared. No, there would be no more death today. She would give the Old Ones whatever they wanted—even stay in their world—to save Tristan.

  Not just because Iveriu needed the Kernyvak prince to live. But because Branwen’s heart would be homeless without him. She had watched him leave her once. She wouldn’t let the man she loved slip away again.

  Branwen tripped over her skirts as she ran up the hill to catch up with the fox. The creature made an annoyed barking noise. She unfastened her outer tunic and threw it to the ground so it wouldn’t slow her down.

  Whitethorn Mound came within view. The burning summer sun turned the branches surrounding the hill into a sea of white flames. The branches were supposed to be imbued with powerful magic. Skeakh, they were called.

  Cutting one of the skeakh was certain death for whoever performed the act. It was worth the risk. She needed the bark of the whitethorn to save Tristan.

  Treading carefully, Branwen approached the edge of the mound. She wasn’t here to steal from the Old Ones; she was here to offer an exchange. A blood price. Her entire body grew taut as she prayed they would accept.

  She lagged behind the unnaturally red fox as it ascended the mound. The gleaming branches parted for Bran
wen, almost as if they were welcoming her. Apprehension warred with curiosity. Then they closed around her again, forming a ring on top of the hill, a glistening white wall.

  The sweeping views down over Castle Rigani, of the leafy coastline, and out across the Ivernic Sea were astounding. From up here, everything was more vibrant. Each color held an almost painful clarity. It was as if Branwen were seeing her homeland for the first time. Her senses heightened. The beauty of the Land provoked fresh tears. Awe suffused her. Was this how Iveriu looked from the Otherworld?

  Was Branwen in the Otherworld? Had she crossed through the Veil?

  The fox trotted anxiously around her legs, nipping at her heels. Hurry, it urged. How? she wanted to ask. Branwen should have asked the queen how and when to perform the sacrifice. As if in answer, a gust of wind came out of nowhere, tangling in her hair and forcing Branwen to raise her arms above her face.

  Chills ignited down her spine. Her grip on the blade Queen Eseult had given her tightened. The fox snarled.

  Branwen focused on the knife. She had only ever seen it in the possession of the queen. Her aunt called it the moon-catcher. She knew the blade was deeply rooted in the magic of the Old Ways, but she didn’t know the details.

  She’d rejected magic so obstinately after her parents died that now, when she needed it the most, she didn’t know how to wield it. She flexed her knuckles around the mother-of-pearl handle until they were also a translucent white.

  Every moment that Branwen hesitated, Tristan was one moment closer to death.

  How could she give the Old Ones the sacrifice they required if they didn’t tell her what they needed?

  Sunlight glinted off the smooth, curved blade.

  Trust. Queen Eseult would tell Branwen to trust her instincts. She’d spent so long spurning them, preferring herbal recipes and well-tested remedies to gut feelings—feelings she couldn’t control. What if her instincts were wrong?

  Shaking and unsure of herself, she lifted the moon-catcher above her head.

  “I have come to ask for the bark of a sacred skeakh.”

  A screaming gale tore at her eardrums. Her limbs grew numb as she stood her ground. “The new Champion of Iveriu is dying,” she yelled into the wind. “The Land embraces him, commands that he be healed. The Goddess Ériu wills it!”

  The wind slapped Branwen in the face. Her fingers began to freeze around the iron crescent. Icicles formed in her veins as if she were being frozen solid. Her heartbeat grew slower, lethargic. She was dying, slowly, like Tristan. Only he was dying swiftly.

  Trust. This time it wasn’t her own voice Branwen heard. It was a voice she never thought she’d hear again. Trust yourself.

  Lady Alana had been a natural healer, too. She wouldn’t have wanted Branwen to turn from the Old Ways, to turn from her own power—power that could help others. Healing was an act of love, she realized, and her mother would want her to share her magic. Branwen had been too angry at losing her to see it until now.

  Trust. She had to relinquish control and embrace the unknown. She had to trust she was strong enough to brave whatever storms might come.

  Using every last bit of energy, Branwen sliced open the center of her palm with the moon-catcher, right across her heart line.

  “This is my body! This is my love!” Branwen hollered, the muscles in her throat constricting. “I give it to the Land. I offer you everything I am!”

  Blood like the darkest wild berries gushed forth. Branwen was too numb to feel the pain. Red rain showered the whitethorns. The fox leapt excitedly, brushing her knees with its bushy tail. She could barely feel that, either. She feared she was petrifying.

  A small whirlwind consumed Branwen, lapping up her blood. From inside the tempest, she heard moans of delight and satisfaction. And then the biting vapor grew hot, steaming hot, thawing her frozen body, her ice-like heart.

  Branwen had never felt so uncontrolled. So free. So powerful.

  Beads of sweat like diamonds glittered across her whole being. These new puffs of wind were like a warm bath: welcoming, accepting.

  She had trusted the Old Ones so they were trusting her. They were appeased.

  And Branwen was exhilarated.

  The fox scurried toward the edge of the whitethorn ring and clamped a skeakh branch between its teeth. She gazed into its ebony eyes. Branwen understood the message. She approached the fox respectfully, raised the moon-catcher, and brought it down in one fluid motion.

  Grasping the whitethorn with her bleeding hand, she gripped it with the heart line she had cleaved in two.

  And then, something even more extraordinary happened. The white bark of the skeakh took root in her palm, infusing her wound with its magic. Heat jolted Branwen to the core. Delicate, translucent blossoms flowed down the length of the branch.

  Branwen understood why the offering had to be the blood of a natural healer. The Land itself flowed through her veins; her blood had quite literally caused the branch to flower. It wasn’t the bark itself that Branwen needed to cure Tristan—it was the magic, and the Old Ones had filled her with it.

  The fox pulled the whitethorn branch from her hand and Branwen saw that a single perfect white elderflower bloomed in its place. She needed to bind her wound to Tristan’s so her magic could destroy the poison. Her muscles spasmed as the magic coursed through her. The intense heat subsided, replaced by a floating sensation.

  She would never again doubt that the Old Ones were listening to her supplications. The whitethorn barricade vanished. Branwen was alone once more with the fox on the hillside. As she glimpsed Castle Rigani, its magnificence had dimmed slightly. She had crossed back into her own world.

  Branwen tucked the blade at her waist and cradled the blossom between her hands. The fox exhaled a frustrated breath. She smiled. The same power that forced buds to wake in frozen earth was alive inside Branwen, fueling her.

  “Let’s run like the wind, my little friend,” she said.

  And they did.

  THE STARLESS TIDE

  QUEEN ESEULT STOOD VIGIL AT Tristan’s bedside. Alone.She looked up at her niece expectantly as she appeared in the doorway of the infirmary. Branwen stretched out her hand.

  The queen took in a short breath. Her gaze traveled from the bloodstained bodice of Branwen’s gown to the nearly healed flesh of her palm. The skin shimmered, a silver sheen glowing in the dusk.

  The elderflower had melted in her grasp, leaving behind this glittering, milky residue.

  Branwen glided across the room toward Tristan. Queen Eseult had stripped his tunic from him and removed the spear tip. His bare chest was tattooed with black swirls, ribbons of hate.

  Over his heart, she recognized her own love-knots. The poison from the destiny snake was dissolving the remnants of her stitches like acid. She glanced sideways at her aunt, fearful she might recognize the embroidery that she herself had taught Branwen.

  The queen’s features gave no hint of it.

  “I have given him derew root to ease his suffering” was all she said.

  Branwen nodded, relieved. The wound on her palm tingled as if the magic knew where it was needed. She leaned over Tristan’s handsome face, his sweaty curls matted like a crown around his forehead. His eyes darted back and forth beneath their lids. There was disquiet in his soul.

  A rich voice rumbled through Branwen’s mind. Female. Imbued with authority and love.

  “I am the Land,” Branwen said, repeating the words being spoken from the Otherworld. “With my blood, Son of Kernyv, I heal you.”

  She pressed her heart line directly against the gaping wound in Tristan’s shoulder on instinct. Branwen gasped as shuddering waves of pearlescent light flowed forth from her being into his. Extreme pressure mounted in her veins, clamoring for release. She feared she might literally burst from beneath her skin.

  The pressure was followed by a heat so intense that Branwen was certain she had been dipped into a boiling cauldron. It was more than burning. It was melting.


  She sank her palm deeper into Tristan’s wound and her essence blurred into his. His body convulsed, as did hers. The weeping midnight veins across his chest began to retreat.

  Just as Branwen had watched a smelter pour liquid fire into a mold, so the Otherworld magic traveled the venomous byways of Tristan’s body, consuming the toxins in its path. The inky swirls converted into white, translucent strands; darkness succumbed to light.

  Tristan’s eyes blinked open, hazel flecks bright. He bolted upright, reaching for her, and let out a tortured cry. The world lurched around Branwen. Her hand spasmed.

  Tristan reached for her again as she doubled over in pain. Too weak, he fell back harshly against the bed. She was in too much agony to scream. Climbing up from her arm was the poison Branwen had taken from Tristan. It traveled up to her neck, constricting her like a snare. Obsidian thorns flowered.

  The Land had saved her Champion by devouring his pain. Now she had to bear his burden for him.

  Branwen’s ankles wobbled; her knees gave out. She crashed onto the unforgiving stone tiles. Years’ worth of grief and hate surged up her throat. Scalding black bile spewed forth. The Land took the worst parts of the human heart and transformed them into something good. Then she had expelled the rest.

  “Branny!” Queen Eseult exclaimed.

  Branwen collapsed in a perspiration-soaked heap at Tristan’s side. Someone called her name from far out at sea.

  She was carried away.

  * * *

  Branwen drifted, drifted among sweet black waves. Had she returned to the Otherworld? Would she be able to find her parents here? Were they calling her?

  A new vortex encircled her, made of sea and death. Death promised to reckless strangers, death too good for mercenary raiders. Castle Rigani became nothing but a collection of jagged shadows, gravestones lining the shore. And Branwen was losing sight of it.