Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  The princess blew out a shaky breath. “No one ever asked me what I wanted.”

  Branwen’s gaze skated over the waves, darkening as the sun set, and thought of her parents. There was an Otherworld that supposedly lay beyond the waves. Were they there? Were they happy? The only thing Branwen knew for certain lay beyond the waves was the island of Albion and their enemy, the kingdom of Kernyv, on its western peninsula.

  “We seldom get what we want, dear cousin,” she said.

  Essy followed her gaze to the beach. “I didn’t forget what today is…” She nodded toward the water. “Are you all right, Branny?”

  There was a pinch in Branwen’s chest. She shouldn’t have doubted her cousin. Essy knew her better than anyone. Branwen sighed. “This day happens every year.”

  “That’s not an answer.” A line appeared on the bridge of Essy’s nose. “Just because we seldom get what we want doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” said the princess, raising her chin.

  Nothing would ever bring Branwen’s parents back, and nothing would ever change the fact that Essy was born to royalty. Her blood dictated her future. Branwen squeezed her cousin’s elbow. She’d try to be more understanding.

  “If you don’t feel like entertaining tonight,” said Essy, “I’ll make your excuses at the feast. You don’t always have to be so stoic.”

  A small smile parted Branwen’s lips. The princess might be self-centered at times, but she loved deeply in her own way. For months after Branwen’s parents died, Essy would crawl into her bed so Branwen wouldn’t have to face the dark alone. Branwen had been so angry—at the world, at Essy for still having a mother—that she wouldn’t share her covers. But Essy still came, night after night, and slept in the cold.

  “Thank you,” said Branwen. The last thing she wanted to do was play hostess for pleased-with-himself Lord Diarmuid, but she was part of the royal household and she would perform her duty. Stoic was the only way she knew how to be. “I’ll be fine, Essy. Truly.”

  “If you’re certain.”

  “I’m certain.”

  “In that case … Will you fix my hair?”

  Branwen laughed. “Never fear,” she assured her. Essy always pushed her luck.

  “You’re the best, Branny!” the princess sing-songed as if she hadn’t been on the verge of tears moments ago. Her cousin’s moods came as fast and feverish as a tempest but broke just as quickly.

  Branwen shoved Essy toward the castle. “Off with you!” She flicked a glance in Keane’s direction. He inclined his head.

  “Promise you won’t stay too long by the waves,” said Essy. “The coast isn’t safe at night.” She was right. The Kernyvak raids on Iveriu had begun when the Aquilan Empire retreated from the island of Albion to the southern continent, and they had intensified with each passing year.

  Nevertheless, Branwen waved her hands, unperturbed.

  “Perhaps I should leave Keane with you,” said Essy.

  “Nice try.” The princess was forever trying to evade the vigilant eyes of her bodyguard.

  Stubbornly, Essy complained, “I’d give all my jewels for a tenth of your freedom, Branny.”

  “Ah, yes, the freedom to collect seaweed and fungus from the forest floor. You would just love that.” Her cousin’s study of herbal remedies had ended precipitously after she forced Dubthach to drink one of her concoctions and he lay in bed with a stomachache for two weeks. Branwen stroked Essy’s brow in a tender motion. “Jewels for mushrooms!” she teased. “Bards will sing my ballad far and wide: Branwen of the Briars!”

  “Fine.” With the speed of a falcon, Essy’s pout dissolved into a mischievous grin. “Don’t let the mermaids get you!”

  Branwen watched Essy walk in the direction of the main gate, still a bit unsteady from the wine. Keane filed closely behind her. Just before the princess disappeared from view, she called back, “Love you, Branny!”

  A laugh followed, which was echoed by the surf.

  “Love you, too,” Branwen whispered, but the sea beckoned to her.

  Dying sunlight swirled around her. Some of her countrymen believed it was filled with invisible sprites. They believed you could cross the Veil into the realm of the Old Ones through hills like Whitethorn Mound, a short distance from the castle.

  Branwen believed in what she could see. She believed the existence of sprites or Old Ones was about as likely as having one true love. The only true love she felt was for her aunt and her cousin. And for Iveriu.

  Mermaid’s hair was strewn across the wet sand. Branwen liked the feel of the slick granules as she picked up the seaweed and placed it in the basket. She had been on the beach the day her parents died, building them a sandcastle.

  She remembered how she’d hollowed out the sand into a circular moat with the earnest concentration of a master builder. The first line of defense. Her people had been at war with the kingdom of Kernyv since before Branwen was born. At six years old, she’d already understood the importance of protecting what you loved.

  The sandcastle was to have been a gift, an apology to her parents. She’d been very cross with them for leaving her behind, and she had refused to say good-bye. While they were away, she had longed for her mother’s embrace, to bury her face in dark mahogany curls—Lady Alana always smelled of rosemary. She longed for it still.

  Right as Branwen was packing the final sand wall of the intricate terraced structure, a tiny blond projectile had catapulted herself into Branwen’s arms. She had lost her balance and they both collapsed on top of the castle.

  You’ve ruined everything! Branwen had shrieked. Essy took no notice, rolling in the glistening grains merrily—completely oblivious to the destruction she had wrought. To her, it was just a game.

  A rustle in the undergrowth surrounding the beach jolted Branwen back to the present. She gasped as her gaze caught a familiar shape.

  The basket of mermaid’s hair fell to the sand.

  It was a fox, poised and curious. The same fox she’d seen the day her parents died. Thirteen years ago today. Impossible.

  The fox barked as if it sensed her skepticism. Branwen had never told anyone how the creature appeared on the beach, its eyes intent, a story behind them, moments before Queen Eseult came bearing tidings of her parents’ deaths. At the time, she’d wondered if it was a messenger sent by the Old Ones, like in the legends of her people. When she was older, she’d dismissed the memory as childish whimsy—a foolish hope that anyone in the Otherworld cared about her.

  Regardless, Branwen would recognize the fox’s gleaming red-currant coat anywhere. And its white ears. So beautiful, so unnatural. Dusk shimmered around the creature, making it seem more illusion than flesh and bone.

  The fox stared out to sea, indicating something with its nose and barking again. What was it doing here? What was it looking at?

  She sucked in another sharp breath as she spotted it: a raft. She could just make out the form of a man sprawled across it.

  Turning toward her, the creature regarded Branwen with Otherworldly grace. Save the man, it implored with ebony eyes. She shook her head. That was a ridiculous notion.

  The fox swished its bushy tail in annoyance.

  Her chest tightened with the urge to obey. Move, the beast seemed to say. Exhaling, Branwen ran toward the water, still apprehensive, and waded into the chilly depths.

  When she was submerged halfway up to her chest, Branwen managed to seize one corner of the makeshift raft. She couldn’t see the man’s face but he wasn’t moving.

  She kicked as hard as she could, guiding the large plank of driftwood toward the shore. It took all of Branwen’s strength to haul the raft onto the beach. As she felt the sand once more beneath her feet, she dropped down beside the stranger, shivering from exertion and the freezing waters. Scanning his body, she looked for injuries the way that Queen Eseult had trained her to do.

  Hurriedly, she turned the man over. His tunic was in shreds, stained with blood. A gash started at his shoulder and s
liced diagonally across his heart to his abdomen. It didn’t seem too deep, but, unfortunately, his chest wasn’t heaving. He wasn’t taking in any air.

  Branwen didn’t know how long the stranger had been unconscious. There was a chance she could still save him if it hadn’t been long enough for his soul to depart. The kiss of life, her father had called it.

  She’d been on the beach with her father one afternoon when the villagers brought a drowned fisherman to him for help. Branwen watched in awe as her father revived the man. All of the peasants had loved Lord Caedmon. As a little girl, Branwen had understood that although he ruled over them, he never placed himself above them.

  Trying to remember that distant day, Branwen began pounding on the stranger’s chest. His wounds wept blood all over her hands. Nothing was happening. Fighting her panic, she raised her face above the man’s.

  She had not yet allowed herself to take in his features. But when she did, her own breath buckled in her throat. He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, even with his cuts and bruises. A foreigner, certainly. Dark curls, wet and bloody, framed elegant cheekbones and a mouth that was almost too perfectly formed.

  Collect yourself. Branwen’s training was intended for a moment like this.

  Without further delay, she felt the stranger’s neck for a pulse. His brown skin was flaky like a snakeskin from the sun. Could he have been aboard a trading vessel from the southern continent?

  Summoning all of her courage, she pressed her lips to his. They were salt-stained and irresistibly sweet. She pinched his nose with her fingertips and breathed life into him.

  More than Branwen had wanted anything since her parents died, she wanted to save this stranger. She beat his chest again, shuddering as he took in her breath. Instantaneously, he coughed hard and sprayed her with seawater. Despite the cold seeping into her body, her cheeks burned hot. The stranger wheezed and spat so much water out onto the sand that it seemed as if he’d swallowed the entire Ivernic Sea.

  After an eternity, the stranger opened his eyes. Hazel flecked a darker brown, matching the last glimmer of evening light on the waves. He regarded his savior as he rasped for air and gurgled salt water.

  Branwen stepped back because for the first time in her life, she felt a pull she couldn’t control. A pull stronger than the sea.

  And then he smiled. “That was some kiss.”

  She touched her flaming lips as the words reverberated in her mind. The stranger’s voice had an odd lilt to it. He spoke her language but he wasn’t Ivernic.

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. The beautiful stranger was a Kernyvman.

  Branwen had just saved the life of her enemy.

  ODAI ETI AMA

  “WHY ARE YOU STARING AT me like that?” the Kernyvman asked, still struggling for air. She turned on her heel, heart pounding, and prepared to make a break for the castle. “Wait. Wait, lady—wait,” he pleaded.

  Branwen hesitated and she hated herself a little for it. She wouldn’t be ensnared by the wiles of some striking Kernyvak pirate. She would not. She owed her parents’ memory more honor than that.

  “Please, dear lady,” he said, voice low and grainy. “By my troth, no harm will come to you.”

  She whipped around to face him. “What good are the promises of Kernyvmen?” she demanded, and he flinched as if she’d slapped him.

  “On the graves of my parents, I swear it.”

  His declaration gave Branwen pause. The day Lord Caedmon had restored the fisherman to life, her father explained he was now responsible for the man until he returned the favor. If her father failed to protect him, he would lose his own honor. It was the way of the Old Ones.

  Branwen could help her enemy or leave him bleeding on the beach. Either would mean dishonor. Curling her hands into fists, she hissed, “If anything untoward should befall me—it will be the last thing you do.”

  The half-drowned man chuckled. “I’d rather lose a limb than let anything happen to you.”

  “That could be arranged.”

  “If you were injured on my account, I would deserve it.” He wasn’t laughing now.

  “Very well,” she said shortly. Branwen knew which choice her father would make in her position. “It seems a shame to have saved you from the waves only to let you die on the shore.” She thrust out a hand.

  “A shame, indeed,” he said, accepting her hand, the callused pads of his palms startlingly soft. She began to lift him up when the Kernyvman flashed her a half smile. “One day, I hope to be able to repay you for saving me. If not with a life, then with another kiss.”

  Of all the nerve! Branwen relinquished her grasp and he tumbled back into the sand.

  “Death is preferable to kissing a Kernyvman,” she told him.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying that if you’d known who I was that you would have let me drown?”

  Branwen didn’t answer. She honestly didn’t know. When she saw him on the raft, she’d wanted to save him the way no one had been able to save her parents. But if an Iverman washed up on the coast of Kernyv, would anyone help him?

  At the back of her mind, Branwen could practically hear her father’s reproach that it didn’t matter what the Kernyveu would do—only she was responsible for her own honor.

  Curse them all!

  Getting to his feet with great difficulty, the bedraggled stranger said, “What is your name, my lady? I should like to know to whom I owe my life.”

  She bit her lip, afraid to trust him with her name. If he knew she was the niece of King Óengus, he might kidnap her to gain concessions for the kingdom of Kernyv.

  “Emer,” Branwen said at last. That was her favorite heroine, the wife of the most famous Ivernic hero. “Just plain Emer. I’m not a lady.”

  The Kernyvman studied her face intently. Could he see through her lies? She turned quickly, feeling exposed.

  “Follow me,” she called over her shoulder.

  If Branwen left him on the beach and he was discovered by the Royal Guard, it would mean a hasty end for the Kernyvman. She might as well toss him back into the murky depths. Against her better judgment, she led him to a cave concealed within the cliff face.

  At high tide, it became inaccessible from the beach. She’d discovered the cave when she was a little girl. She used to come here to hide herself. Especially after her parents died. Essy could never find her here when they played hide-and-seek, and it used to drive the princess mad.

  Branwen didn’t look back at the stranger as they walked, but she listened to his labored breaths. Each of his footfalls seemed weightier, less assured than the last. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the fox monitoring their progress toward the cave.

  She blinked. The creature was really there. And he was no common fox. What interest did he—or the Old Ones—have in this shipwrecked stranger?

  The Kernyvman suddenly staggered beside her, knocking into Branwen’s shoulder. On instinct, she reached out to steady him. The stranger wore a brave face but his pupils were dilated. He was becoming woozy from so much blood loss. Queen Eseult had taught her the signs when she let her assist in tending to the Royal Guard. The Kernyvman might pose a danger to her—but not in his current condition.

  Tentatively, hoping she wouldn’t live to regret it, Branwen looped an arm around his shoulders and took his weight.

  “Come along, Sir—?”

  “No sir.” His tone was teasing as he wheezed. “Just plain Tantris. I’m a minstrel.”

  She gave her head a little shake. “Right. Keep up, just plain Tantris.” Branwen gripped him harder as they walked, and he winced. She’d never been wedged so closely against a man before. He shivered with cold and she shivered with … because he shivered.

  “Tell me,” she said, an edge to her voice. “How does a minstrel come to be floating half dead in the middle of the Ivernic Sea?”

  “Pirates.” His jaw clenched. “I’d caught passage on a merchant ship. We were attacked.” A few strained breaths whist
led through his teeth.

  His story was plausible. Kernyvak pirates menaced all of the northern seas, including their own kingdom’s ships.

  “Your countrymen do you proud,” she said.

  Tantris stopped short. Branwen lurched forward, then rocked back against him. “Not all Kernyvmen love bloodshed, Emer,” he said.

  Icy-hot prickles of mortification spread across Branwen’s chest before she remembered she shouldn’t care if she’d offended her mortal enemy.

  “What do they love, then, Kernyvmen?” she wanted to know.

  “Poetry.” He gave her a shameless wink.

  Ugh. Tantris could barely stand, yet his attempts at charm didn’t flag. “Poetry?” Branwen repeated.

  “I suppose I can’t speak for all Kernyvmen, but I, myself, have a weakness for verses.”

  She cast him a withering look. “Is that so? Recite me one of your favorite poems.”

  “You ask a lot of a man with a sword wound who’s just returned from the dead.”

  “If you can’t even recite a single verse, how am I to know you aren’t a pirate rather than a poet?”

  They neared the entrance to the cave and fresh fear gnawed at her gut. Was Branwen foolhardy enough to trap herself alone with him? Surely the fox wouldn’t have wanted her to save a pirate. But then, why was she following the advice of a fox? A fox!

  Breathing raggedly, Tantris said, “I suppose it’s the least I can do for the selfless maiden who rescued me from the sea.”

  “Indeed.” Although, to be fair, he was slurring slightly and looked increasingly poorly.

  “Odai eti ama,” he began, his voice rich and rolling like the waves, and Branwen became inordinately grateful for her lessons in the language of the Aquilan Empire.

  “I hate and I love,” she whispered, almost to herself.

  Tantris glanced at her, taken aback. “You speak Aquilan?”

  Branwen froze. Aquilan was spoken by the nobility across the southern continent, the Western Isles of Albion and Iveriu, and as far north as the Skáney Lands. If Tantris entertained at royal courts, he would have a reason to study it. A commoner, such as she claimed herself to be, would not.