Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  After Branwen had greeted King Óengus and Queen Eseult, she retreated to a quiet alcove. Essy stood with her parents in the center of the hall, ringed by representatives from the Mumhanztir clans, which included Lord Conla, her previous infatuation. If the Champions Tournament had been announced a season earlier, would she have pinned her hopes on Conla rather than Diarmuid?

  Keane and Fintan stood sentry behind the princess and the queen, their kladiwos blades jangling against their hips. Tonight, the Royal Guard sported the emerald-green tunics of peacetime. Their sleeves were trimmed with saffron-colored piping, however, to denote that war was only ever a dice throw away.

  Branwen’s ribbon was still attached to Keane’s sword. She presumed that after she’d made clear she didn’t reciprocate his feelings, he would have gotten rid of it.

  “Why are you hiding, my lady?” Tristan asked, sliding into place beside her.

  Her chest tightened as she realized how much she wanted him to touch her again. Hope and fear bit her heart, deep and sweet.

  Breathlessly, Branwen answered, “I’m not hiding. I’m used to fading into the background.”

  Tristan frowned. Oh, he was gorgeous when he frowned. He wore leather trousers and an ecru-colored tunic trimmed with black velvet—the royal Kernyvak colors. Ever so faintly, she could make out the muscles of his torso beneath the tunic. His dark locks had been tamed with beeswax this evening, although they were longer than when he had arrived for the Champions Tournament. Branwen liked it.

  He leaned into her. “Is that why I’ve seen so little of you?”

  Branwen inhaled deeply, finding it hard to utter a verbal response. Her eyes skimmed his features. Candlelight from the chandeliers warmed his bronze skin in the most alluring way. Belatedly, Branwen wondered if Tristan felt uncomfortable in a sea of pale faces; not that he seemed anything but confident. The Aquilan Empire had given up its campaign to conquer Iveriu before it had begun and their island received few merchant ships from the southern continent. Would Monwiku be comprised of more diverse courtiers?

  Tristan’s gaze dropped to his chest, where the Rigani stone pendant used to dangle. “I’m sorry I lost your promise to me, Branwen. I scoured the entire tournament pitch for it, I assure you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The amulet served its purpose.”

  “Yes—it brought me back to you. We’ve come a long way from the cave.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Emer,” and her body sizzled with panic and something else, something akin to yearning. The whole of Castle Rigani could have been illuminated by the energy that coursed between them.

  Branwen saw Keane regarding them from the center of the festivities. He always observed his surroundings vigilantly. It was doubtless why he was selected as a bodyguard, yet it unnerved her. She took a step away from Tristan. Glancing over her shoulder, he twisted his lip as his eyes settled on the Iverman’s leery stance.

  “Sir Keane watches you closely,” he said. Too closely.

  Anxiety spooled through her. “Out of duty.”

  “Nothing more?”

  Surreptitiously, Branwen reached out and took his hand, pulling it behind her back. She slid her sweaty fingers between his, even though it was unwise. The compulsion to touch him was stronger than her sense. Tristan closed his eyes for a beat and sighed.

  “The memory of that darkened stairwell keeps me up at night,” he said in gravelly voice. “I hope the princess realizes how lucky she is to have as concerned and loyal a cousin as you.” Branwen felt a tickle in her heart at the words, followed by the urge to squirm. Essy’s letter to Diarmuid burned a hole in her skirts. No matter what she did, Branwen always betrayed someone she loved.

  “Prince Tristan!”

  Queen Eseult raised her goblet from across the hall, beckoning him over. Branwen immediately released Tristan’s hand and her palm ached for the feel of his skin. The gossiping quieted to a dull roar as Tristan processed toward the queen. No one in the kingdom doubted her authority, or that she and King Óengus ruled the land together, as partners. Branwen prayed King Marc would defer to Essy in the same way.

  She followed Tristan, keeping a step behind, her cheeks and chest tingling. The queen had asked her to be circumspect, after all, yet she burned not to be. Essy smiled at Branwen as she joined the guests at the front of the hall, then compressed her lips at the Kernyvman.

  When Queen Eseult was satisfied she had the attention of her subjects, she said, “Prince Tristan, in addition to being a warrior, I’ve learned, is a poet. He promised me a song when he first arrived in Iveriu.”

  “I always keep my word, Lady Queen,” Tristan said, inclining his head.

  She flicked her wrist in one precise motion. Fintan instantly materialized holding a krotto harp between his meaty palms. Recognition flashed in Tristan’s eyes.

  “This krotto belonged to my sister, Lady Alana of Laiginztir—Lady Branwen’s mother. It has been passed down for generations, and now I gift it to you on the eve of your voyage,” the queen declared.

  Essy released a small gasp, annoyed on her cousin’s behalf. Queen Eseult would always be queen before mother or friend, as the princess would learn to be. She didn’t need Branwen’s permission. Lady Alana’s harp was the queen’s to gift. Still, Branwen inferred a deeper meaning.

  Tristan’s eyes skittered to Branwen, uncertain whether to accept the token. To rebuff the hospitality of a regent would be a huge offense. And yet, he sought her permission. She gave a small nod.

  “I am honored, Lady Queen,” he said.

  Queen Eseult looked from Branwen to Tristan. “The honor is mine.” This was as close to a public blessing as her aunt could give them, whether Tristan realized it or not. The queen clapped her hands together once, reminding Branwen of Essy. “Now, the song.”

  Tristan accepted the krotto from Fintan. Another servant brought him a stool. Seating himself, he set the harp upon his lap, plucking at the strings and tuning each one methodically. Unbidden, the image of Tristan plucking the laces of her bodice with the exact same precision skipped through Branwen’s mind.

  He scanned the faces of the crowd, smiling archly. “Do the ladies have any requests?” he asked.

  “Étaín,” Essy said, a croak in her voice. “Étaín’s song.” A little louder now.

  The queen scowled. “That is such a sad tale.”

  “It’s what I’m in the mood for,” her daughter replied. A pinkish mustache of frothed ale adorned Essy’s upper lip. Branwen had to refrain from wiping it away out of habit.

  King Óengus folded his arms across his chest, glaring at his only child. Étaín’s name meant “jealousy.” If the bard was anyone other than Tristan, he might take it as a slight against his king and his people.

  Tristan smiled a tad more nervously. “‘The Wooing of Étaín,’” he said, stroking a chord. “A wonderful choice, Lady Princess. Let’s see if we tell it the same way in Kernyv. Maybe Étaín will get a happy ending.”

  “None of us gets a happy ending,” Essy countered, glancing in Diarmuid’s direction. Branwen had seen him arrive late and position himself as far away from the princess as he could. She flashed her cousin a smile that was sympathetic yet tinged with warning.

  Strumming the first few notes, Tristan said, “Maybe tonight we can change our fates, Lady Princess.”

  Essy responded by rolling her eyes. Tristan caught Branwen’s gaze as he expertly teased the strings. She swallowed. “Étaín—in jealousy was I born and named,” he began in a mellow baritone. Branwen was immediately entranced, as was the rest of the audience. “Étaín—destined to bring my lovers pain.” The elegy was usually sung by women, but the timbre of his voice captured the heroine’s plight completely. An exquisite despair. The rough, masculine edges to his words hinted at the violence that jealousy provoked.

  Branwen flicked a glance at her cousin. She was utterly still, as if she were paralyzed, and her eyes were wet with tears. The queen watched her daughter, too.

  “How co
uld I have known my heart’s true home lay with another?” sang Tristan, studying Branwen’s face, calling back her gaze, and her pulse hurtled toward the stars. Beneath his ready smiles, she glimpsed the deep sorrow he kept buried. He couldn’t prevent it from staining the melody.

  “For love of me, his own heart he refused to tame.”

  Although all the revelers knew how Étaín’s story would end, they clung to Tristan’s every verse, hoping this time the outcome might be different. Even Keane looked stirred. A low gasp escaped Essy as the wife of Étaín’s lover cursed her to become a fly, then conjured a storm to blow her away.

  Branwen’s attention drifted to Lord Diarmuid. She picked a sliver of skin along the bottom of her thumb, red and raw. He looked handsome enough in a pale blue Uladztir tunic, but he certainly wasn’t worth the peace between two kingdoms. She winced as the cuticle tore.

  “I did not ask for the love I was given: the love for which I must be forgiven.”

  While the other guests were distracted, Branwen melted back into the crowd. This would be her best opportunity to speak with the northern lord.

  “Lord Diarmuid,” she whispered, sidling next to him. He startled, confusion on his face. “Follow me.”

  Diarmuid hesitated. “Now,” she said. And he did. Branwen’s stomach turned over several times as she led him through a passageway concealed by a tapestry depicting the ancient Queen Medhua of Conaktir.

  “Fate-tossed, far and wide was I blown.” Tristan’s dulcet voice rang in her ears, lamenting how Étaín was lost among the mists of time. “A thousand years, sealed with a kiss.” That was normally where the tale ended.

  Branwen heard Tristan pluck the strings for another verse as she snuck into the courtyard beside the hall, Diarmuid at her heels. She was too far away to make out his words. Without the moon, the only light in the quadrangle came from the banquet. Strange tawny shadows were cast over the night. The presence of the Otherworld was palpable, ready to be unleashed.

  But first Branwen had to deal with Lord Diarmuid.

  “Where are you taking me?” he said, tone arrogant. She felt his breath on her back as he exhaled. “I’ve left Essy alone and I’m not in the humor for another scolding.”

  She stopped short, whirling toward him. “There’s nothing funny about this, and she is not Essy to you, Lord Diarmuid,” Branwen reminded him harshly. “Princess Eseult is your sovereign—and nothing more.”

  Diarmuid’s shadow flickered as he shifted his weight. “If that were true, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

  Branwen wanted to knock the smugness right out of him. Her eyes whizzed around the courtyard. She couldn’t hear or see another living soul. On the ramparts, a few grisly skeletons glared down at them.

  “Alas, Lord Diarmuid, you are not altogether wrong about that.” She threw her shoulders back. “Your princess requires that you return the token she gave you for the Champions Tournament.”

  “The handkerchief? Essy wants it back?”

  Branwen heard the hurt in his words. Maybe Diarmuid did have real feelings for her cousin. It didn’t matter. Nobody was worth a war.

  “Your princess wants it back,” she said.

  In the darkness, she sensed their gazes collide. Branwen could just about make out the whites of his eyes. Then he blinked. There was a rustling of cloth as he retrieved the handkerchief from a pocket.

  Essy would hate Branwen if she discovered what she had done. She hated herself a little. “Do you truly love my cousin,” she demanded, trying not to touch his fingers as she accepted the handkerchief, “or simply her crown?”

  Diarmuid swallowed loudly enough for her to hear it. A strange wheezing sound. Branwen asked because Essy wanted to know, but she needed to know, too.

  “Would you lay down your life for her love?” Branwen tucked the handkerchief away. He seemed at a loss for words. “Would you abandon your lands and titles if she asked you to?” she prompted.

  He coughed, hard. “I love the Lady Princess Eseult as a vassal loves his lord,” he said, after another lengthy pause. “As is only right.”

  It was done then. Diarmuid was relinquishing his claim on Essy’s heart now that he could no longer have her crown. The Loving Cup would bring her cousin greater love than she would have known in Iveriu.

  “In that case,” Branwen said, straightening her spine, “may the Old Ones watch over you.”

  “And you, Lady Branwen.” Torchlight moved like a pendulum across his brow. “Please give the princess a kiss good-bye for me.” Diarmuid planted a firm closed-mouth kiss on her cheek. He smelled of roast pork and too much ale.

  “Farewell, Lord Diarmuid.”

  Branwen turned on her heel and walked away, leaving her cousin’s fair-weather lover in perplexed silence. She would burn both the handkerchief and the letter, and there would be nothing left of the affair but smoke and ash. He never could have been the lover Essy desired.

  Just as she was about to rejoin the celebrations, a hand shot out and pulled Branwen roughly into one of the servants’ stairwells. Down below, she heard the jangling of pots and pans from the kitchen. The pungent aroma of sow’s milk filled the air.

  Branwen found herself pressed against a cold, slick stone. Condensation tickled her neck. Excitement pulsed through her body that Tristan might have followed her to steal another kiss. It was quickly replaced by dread that he might have seen her with Diarmuid.

  The damp of the stairwell seeped into her pores as her eyes adjusted to the scant candlelight.

  “Three darknesses into which women should not tread,” Keane rasped in her ear. “The darkness of mist. The darkness of a forest. And the darkness of night. You’ve ventured into all three, Lady Branwen.” He sank his body into hers. “You’re not a lady at all.”

  Keane reeked even more strongly of spirits than Lord Diarmuid had. Angrily, she pushed him away. In his inebriated state, he stumbled back against the other wall but regained his footing in an instant.

  “What’s wrong, Branwen?” He sneered. “It seems I’m the only eligible bachelor at Castle Rigani you don’t tryst with.”

  On impulse, Branwen raised her hand to slap him and he caught it, gripping it tight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” she whispered furiously.

  Keane had seen. Keane had seen her with Diarmuid. He thought they were trysting.

  “Does your bastard Kernyvak lover know you also enjoy a good, stiff northern breeze?”

  Branwen’s jaw tensed. His spite could ruin everything. “Prince Tristan is a friend,” she protested, breath ragged. “Soon to be family.”

  Keane’s laugh was so hateful it made her skin crawl.

  “Until this moment, I thought it was only the Kernyvman who wanted to be more than your friend. Your expression tells me you want it, too. Are there any lines of decency you won’t cross?”

  Incensed, she tried to strike him with her other hand. Keane caught that, as well, and pinned both of them over her head, jostling her back against the wall. A new kind of terror struck her.

  “Keane, you’re drunk.” Branwen tried to reason with him. “Let me go.” He made no move to release her and dread slithered around her like a creeping vine, stomach roiling at his touch. Desperation colored her voice as she said, “This isn’t you, Keane,” and she hoped she was right. On the Rock Road, Branwen had sensed the rage inside him as he spoke of his murdered parents, but she’d had no inkling it might be turned against her.

  “Please, stop. Release me,” she said, “I thought we were friends.” Her voice strained on the final word.

  He grimaced at that. “Friends? Like you are with the pirate? Branwen, you were never my friend. You were playing me the whole time. You never intended to keep the promise you made me,” Keane fumed. “I am drunk—a drunken fool. And it’s your fault.”

  His anger crashed into her, a rabid beast. Branwen did genuinely regret leading him on when she knew her heart was spoken for, but it didn’t justify his behavior. His grip w
as tight on her wrists as she tried to placate him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Keane shook his head in a violent gesture. “I’ve watched you for a long time, Branwen. Waited. Made sure you were safe—I would have given you everything I had. But then the joke would have been on me.”

  She stared at him. “Safe?”

  “Yes, safe. Who do you think was watching over you when you would sneak out to your cave? I know it wasn’t only a fox you met there.” He snorted. “I heard you speaking with a man. I didn’t want him to take advantage of you.”

  Renewed terror numbed her. Could Keane have realized it was Tristan? Branwen’s throat went tight. “Why protect me, Sir Keane, if you think me so without virtue?”

  “Because I wanted to be the lover you invited to your cave,” he said miserably.

  Untold relief flooded Branwen that Keane had only guessed what she did at the cave, that he didn’t know anything certain about Tristan. She would protect him with her life, and her honor. Branwen had already made that oath when she placed the kladiwos blade in his hand to fight her own people.

  Keane’s eyes bored into her. The noise of the carousing next door filled the space between them. After a few more tense moments, he said, “Maybe creed doesn’t matter to you. Is that it, Lady Branwen? I’m just not highborn enough for you?”

  “Love doesn’t care about a noble birth, only a noble heart,” she said, her voice deepening, becoming more authoritative. “Which is why you’ll never have mine. Now release me.”

  He looked as dazed as if she had punched him square on the nose. Keane relinquished his hold on her, and Branwen thought he was coming to his senses. Then, brutally, he forced his mouth onto hers, parting her lips heatedly with his tongue.

  In that fraction of a second, Branwen knew the exact taste of anguish. Life had crimped Keane’s heart, made it greedy and unyielding, but she hadn’t realized it had also twisted his soul. She beat against his chest with her hands while he roamed the outline of her bodice with his. Vitriol flowed through her veins.