Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  The frothing waters became tentacles, forbidding her to swim, holding her immobile. Toxic strands that strangled her very being. The Ivernic Sea wanted Branwen to watch. She needed to cut her way free. She whirled an arm wildly for the moon-catcher in her pocket.

  A spray of surf slapped her in the face, laughing. Another swell knocked the moon-catcher from her grasp. The violaceous light of a tempest winked off the blade as the tide carried it away.

  Pain and vengeance wanted to consume Branwen whole.

  The whirlpool sucked her under.

  Branwen was falling, falling through the sea, falling through time. She saw herself on the day her parents died, building a castle in the sand. She saw Essy destroy it in a fit of giggles.

  She sank farther into the abyss-shaded waters.

  Farther through time, even past her own birth.

  Waves turned from black to red.

  Screams like Branwen had never known shredded her ears. The Land was bleeding. The shore was her body; the sea was her blood. Branwen floated at the very heart of the Goddess Ériu.

  She writhed, foaming at the mouth. The Land felt everything—every death, every violation. War raped the Land.

  Now Branwen felt it, too. The agony of her people overwhelmed her. Did Queen Eseult carry this burden at all times? Branwen tried to shut her eyes against the savagery of burning fields, a fire that danced along her skin, even in the middle of the sea. Salt water splashed her eyes, scratching, forcing them open.

  By poisoning Tristan, her uncle Morholt threatened to revisit this misery upon the kingdom. Branwen couldn’t stand for it. The sea began to boil, the bubbling cauldron from which Iveriu was born.

  Leagues below, the sea floor cracked, revealing rivers of liquid fire that raged beneath the earth. In its veins. Destruction. Enough to renew the world or extinguish it.

  A terrible thunder resounded below the surface. The earth quaked. Fire like shooting stars sped toward Branwen, then fizzled out of existence.

  If peace could not be found, this would be Iveriu’s fate. Truly, it was more lethal than a destiny snake.

  It was her duty to prevent this—to protect Iveriu at all costs.

  Otherwise, all that would remain of her beloved homeland was ash floating on a starless tide.

  Branwen stopped fighting. She let the venom infuse her. If she saved Tristan and the Land, the black waves would be sweet—sweet, indeed.

  TONGUE OF HONEY, HEART OF BILE

  WHEN BRANWEN AT LAST REGAINED consciousness, the castle was quiet. A damp cloth was draped on her brow. Her cousin stood by her, silhouetted by a somber wash of gray.

  Essy immediately fell upon her with kisses. The princess’s tears were hot against her cheeks. Branwen’s mouth felt dryer than the desert plains in the Kingdom of Míl. She tried to speak, but her tongue was cracked.

  “It’s all right, Branny. Don’t wear yourself out.” Essy pulled away, and dipped the linen cloth into a pail. She dabbed Branwen’s brow and a trickle of fresh water wended its way to her lips. She licked it eagerly.

  Their eyes met and the princess understood what her cousin needed.

  “Keane!” she called out.

  No. Essy hadn’t understood at all. Branwen’s heart twisted at the mention of his name. She recalled how they had argued at the Champions Tournament. The memory was fuzzy, a bad dream. How long had she been asleep?

  Keane’s head popped out from around the doorjamb. His face was etched with worry, and he looked as if he had aged a few years. Branwen cast her eyes toward the floor. Glancing slowly around her, she realized she was in Essy’s bed.

  The princess scooted next to Branwen on top of the plush quilt. Imperiously, she ordered Keane, “Fetch Lady Branwen a jug of fresh mint water! And ask Treva to send up platters of candied venison tarts from the kitchen.” For once, Branwen didn’t mind her cousin’s haughty tone.

  Keane panned his gaze across Branwen, but she refused to meet it. She heard him cough uncomfortably, then reply, “Of course, Lady Princess. Sir Comgan will be just outside in my absence.”

  Essy released a snort and waved a frustrated hand in the air. Turning back toward Branwen, she said, “Father hasn’t allowed me a moment’s privacy since the Champions Tournament. And the foreigners have all gone home already.”

  Every fiber in Branwen’s body grew taut. She tried to speak. Only a croak came out. Essy’s expression immediately shifted from annoyed to gentle. She pressed the cold cloth against Branwen’s mouth.

  Sucking down a few more drops of water, Branwen managed to rasp, “All?”

  Had Tristan left her without a second thought?

  “No, not all of them,” the princess huffed, blowing out a large breath and feathering her bangs. “That bloody Kernyvman is still here.”

  Princesses shouldn’t say bloody but Branwen was too bleary to admonish her. She swallowed a few more times, the soreness of her throat beginning to ease.

  “Is he well?”

  She counted the seconds until her cousin replied.

  “Oh yes, he’s well enough.” Essy crinkled her brow. “And it seems he won’t be going home without me.” Anger bloomed on her features. “I’ll never forgive him for killing Uncle Morholt or making you so ill, Branny. He nearly took you away from me.”

  New tenacity gleamed in the princess’s eyes. “Once you’re feeling better, I’ll scold you, too, for risking yourself like that,” she promised. “Over a bloody Kernyvman!” Branwen tried to laugh. It still hurt. “You burned with fever for two weeks,” Essy told her. There was fear behind her words. “If you had died, I would have exacted vengeance on Kernyv myself.”

  Branwen sucked a little more on the edge of the wet cloth. “I—I’m not important, Essy. The alliance is what matters.”

  “Stop,” Essy commanded. “You’re more important than any alliance.”

  Tears pricked at Branwen’s eyes. Her cousin’s love was a force of nature. To Essy, she might be more important than the alliance between two kingdoms. After what she’d seen, what the Land had shown her, Branwen knew that wasn’t true.

  She reached for Essy’s hand, her movements still clumsy. “Kernyv will be your home,” said Branwen. She began to trace the hazel symbol. “You will grow to love it.”

  Essy shook her head emphatically. “You’re my home, Branny. Castle Rigani is my home. Not that Otherworld-forsaken land of pirates!”

  “Hush, my dear daughter,” Queen Eseult chided as she swept effortlessly into the bedchamber. Her voice was warm. Saoirse followed behind and it heartened Branwen to see her stride was steady.

  “Welcome back,” the queen told her. She walked around to the opposite side of the bed and stroked Branwen’s brow. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you awoke, dear heart.”

  “As am I.” Saoirse’s eyes glistened as she smiled, positioning herself at the foot of the bed.

  “We’ve changed places,” Branwen said. “I hope I’ve been a good patient?” She coughed a laugh. How strange to be the one needing care.

  “Of course,” Essy insisted, answering for Saoirse. She dabbed Branwen’s forehead again. “Only you would worry about that.”

  Branwen nearly told her to stop fussing, but she remembered how her father would say that the strongest people knew when to accept help. She smiled at her cousin. Of the queen, she asked, “Prince Tristan has fully recovered?”

  “Like magic,” her aunt said. “I’m certain the Kernyvak prince will also be most disappointed not to have been here when you opened your eyes.”

  “He’s been visiting?”

  “Every day.” There was something shrewd in the queen’s gaze. “As soon as he could stand,” she added. Had her aunt recognized the love-knots, after all?

  “Keane, too,” Essy said.

  “Our Branwen is indeed well loved,” the queen agreed. “Iveriu owes you a great debt, my niece.” Heat returned to Branwen’s cheeks.

  Her journey to the Otherworld and healing Tristan were like a disjo
inted dream. She couldn’t tell what was real and what had been a fantasy. Surely, an elderflower couldn’t really have blossomed on her hands? And the sea. The rage boiling in the blood of the Land made her shudder.

  The queen brushed her knuckle along Branwen’s cheekbone. “Alana would be proud of you.” Her eyes watered.

  She was there. Branwen had heard her mother’s voice—hadn’t she?

  “It was the Land,” she protested. “It wasn’t me.”

  “You are the Land and the Land is you,” Queen Eseult said solemnly; Branwen knew that truth intimately now. Her aunt placed a hand on Essy’s shoulder. “As are you, daughter.”

  The princess stiffened. “I’d rather be a healer than share a marriage bed with some old king.”

  Branwen almost noted that twenty-seven wasn’t so old, but she held her tongue for her cousin’s sake.

  Her mother cut Essy with a glance. “The Land has chosen our roles for each of us.” In a lower voice, she said, “We won’t discuss this matter now, when Branny has only just returned to us from a fever.”

  For once, the princess appeared thoroughly chastened, fingers skittering over her scalp. “Of course. I—” She cast Branwen a plaintive look, and Branwen lifted a corner of her mouth. “I’ll go see where that water is,” Essy said. Her neck flushed. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Thank you, cousin.”

  Essy studiously avoided eye contact with her mother as she exited the chamber. Branwen wondered what had passed between them while the fever gripped her. Saoirse traded a brief glance with Queen Eseult before muttering, “I’ll help” and slipping out behind the princess.

  When they were alone, Branwen told her aunt, “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help with the preparations for the voyage to Kernyv, Lady Queen.” She ran the cloth across her chapped lips once more. “There’s so much to be done.”

  “Oh, dear heart, please don’t fret. You’ve already done enough.” Queen Eseult sighed. “Your healing talent has surpassed my wildest imagination, Branny. I wish I could be your teacher, but I know the Otherworld will supply you with a new one. When the time is right.”

  Branwen was rendered speechless; warring emotions surged in her heart. She wanted to tell the queen what she had seen, yet no words came.

  Her aunt continued, “I noticed that Prince Tristan has nearly lost his heart before. It was stitched precisely and tenderly back together.”

  Their eyes locked and Branwen raised the cloth to her mouth.

  “The hand that tied those love-knots, my niece, must have been guided from beyond the Veil. And I think that you may have your own reasons for journeying across the Ivernic Sea.”

  So the queen had guessed. Her aunt knew that she had saved Tristan from the waves and hidden him from her own people. Why wasn’t she angry?

  Seemingly reading the question in Branwen’s eyes, Queen Eseult said, “The Land has chosen her Champion.”

  “Thank you.” She was grateful and mystified at her aunt’s reaction.

  “But, perhaps, it might be wise to let Essy settle into Kernyv before telling her of your … attachment. She has a trying time ahead of her.”

  Branwen nodded, a tendril of shame threading around the knowledge that Tristan was safe and alive, like the honeysuckle and the hazel. The queen might not think her a traitor, but she didn’t think her cousin would feel the same. Not now. Not when the unknown stretched before her. Essy had been the first inhabitant of Branwen’s heart; there would be time enough in the future for her to learn to share.

  Keane reappeared in the doorway with an earthenware jug, knocking lightly. He bowed before the queen and quickly set about pouring Branwen a glass of water.

  His eyes shone miserably. Their fingertips touched over the brim of the cup. “Lady Branwen, I prayed to the Old Ones every day for your recovery,” he said.

  A different kind of guilt bubbled up in her chest. “Thank you for your good wishes, Sir Keane.”

  “They’re the best. I always bear you the best wishes, Lady Branwen.”

  She buried her face in the cup, the minty water cool and sweet. Her cheeks burned, but her thirst was sated.

  Keane stood above her, trailing his gaze longingly along her brow. Branwen could tell he wanted to touch her. Fortunately, he would never take such a liberty in front of the queen. She also noticed that he favored his left leg. He had been wounded in the Champions Tournament, too. Branwen had scarcely paid attention. She’d only had eyes for Tristan.

  “Is that better?” Keane asked, an unwarrior-like quaver to his voice.

  She nodded and he looked immensely relieved. “We should leave you to rest, dear heart,” said Queen Eseult, warming her with another smile. “I’ll keep the princess occupied so you can sleep.”

  Heavy footfalls raced toward the door and the queen looked up from her niece with alarm. Keane spun on his heel, drawing his kladiwos blade. Branwen’s emerald ribbon dangled from its hilt.

  “Tristan,” she whispered.

  He was out of breath, his dark curls wild, and his tunic untucked. But, by the Old Ones, he was glorious. A tiny shiver that had nothing to do with any fever flitted through her body. And her heart.

  “Branwen.”

  There was something so raw about the way he said her name that it made her shiver all over again. Queen Eseult narrowed her eyes at the Kernyvman.

  “Lady Branwen,” Tristan corrected himself. Then he bowed from the waist. “Lady Queen.”

  “Prince Tristan, I see that good news travels fast,” said her aunt. “All of Castle Rigani is elated that Branwen’s fever has broken.”

  Staring at the Kernyvak prince, Branwen wasn’t sure her fever had broken at all.

  “If Lady Branwen had lingered in the Otherworld any longer, I would have ventured there to retrieve her myself,” Tristan declared.

  Keane glared at the Kernyvman as if he could disembowel him with only his eyes. The tension in the room grew thick like sludge, and a vein thrummed in Keane’s neck.

  “It is heartening that the people of Kernyv will consider my niece such a treasure as we do,” Queen Eseult told Tristan. “Branwen is indeed my second daughter. But I have found that men who possess tongues of honey often possess hearts of bile.”

  Keane couldn’t refrain from a smirk at the queen’s remark.

  Tristan dropped dramatically to one knee at Branwen’s bedside. “My heart was indeed full of bile until my fair lady purged it from me.” He moved to take her hand, then stopped himself—catching the impropriety. Branwen herself shrunk back, thinking of the queen’s warning. “Lady Branwen will have all of Kernyv’s gratitude, always,” Tristan proclaimed. “More than even Emer knew from the Hound when she saved him from himself.”

  Finding her voice, Branwen said haltingly, “Prince Tristan, Iveriu is your friend. And the Land always protects her friends.”

  “I am certain that you always protect your friends, Lady Branwen,” he said.

  When their eyes met, the rest of the world fell away. They floated in a glistening blue sea of sky, on the other side of the Veil.

  Straightening up, Tristan turned toward the queen. Keane stood stiller than a statue but Branwen sensed he was prepared to launch an attack.

  “Lady Queen, I want to assure you that if we are fortunate enough to have Lady Branwen accompany Princess Eseult to her new home, she will also be afforded King Marc’s protection,” Tristan said. “She will be as dear to him as your daughter. To all of us.”

  Keane gritted his teeth even more noticeably. He cast a glance at Branwen and she looked away.

  “I would expect nothing less,” said the queen. She rose abruptly. Keane and Tristan stood at attention. “Come, my charming prince, escort me to my chamber and let us at last leave my niece to regain her strength.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said. “Lady Branwen must be hearty and hale for the voyage across the sea to her new home.”

  “I will stand watch,” Keane said, enunciating each
word with a hard edge. The queen hesitated for a moment before nodding her assent.

  Tristan proffered his arm to the queen, gazing back over his shoulder at Branwen. “Until the Old Ones grant us leave to meet again,” he said. “Or tomorrow morning. Whichever is sooner.”

  Branwen failed to conceal a look of delight. Her heart winced as he disappeared from view.

  Keane hung back a beat.

  “Iveriu is your home,” he said. As Keane exited the bedchamber, he touched the ribbon attached to his blade. She could still feel his presence outside the door.

  Castle Rigani was her childhood home, but Branwen had ceased to be a child. The Land needed her to make Kernyv her home, to bring the alliance to fruition.

  The only way to protect Iveriu was to leave it.

  ECHOES

  “OH, BRANNY, IT’S WONDERFUL.”

  Her cousin held the doll’s dress up to the window. A soft, daffodil-colored light streamed into Branwen’s sitting room. Early autumn glowed inside and out.

  “Gráinne will love it,” the princess declared. As Branwen suspected she would, Essy had grown frustrated with the needlework for the doll’s dress she’d promised the orphan.

  “I’m so glad.”

  Running her finger along the clover embroidered on the collar of the dress, Essy beamed a smile brighter than Branwen had seen for weeks. The strain of Branwen’s illness had left marks on her cousin’s body, and demeanor, that she deeply regretted.

  “I can’t wait to see her face,” said the princess, and the expression on hers was all the thanks Branwen needed. Essy had invited the children who lived along the Rock Road to a small celebration at Castle Rigani before her departure.

  Although the event meant more work for Treva, who was forever running from the kitchens to the granaries, ensuring there were enough oatcakes to serve the Royal Guard, honored guests, and key members of the allied clans at Essy’s Farewell Feast—Queen Eseult declared it a marvelous idea. It certainly provided an excellent distraction from the impending voyage.

  “Thank you, Branny,” breathed her cousin, pressing the dress to her chest. Glancing toward the window, she exclaimed, “Oh! I almost forgot. I have an appointment with Noirín.”