Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  “Only a little,” Branwen said, preparing to bolt. What a useless spy she would make!

  He nodded. “I hate and I love,” Tantris began again in Ivernic, appearing to believe her deception. She loosed a breath. “Dark as dawn, light as midnight,” he continued, first in Aquilan—which Branwen pretended not to understand—then in her language.

  “Fire that numbs, rain that burns.” The poet glanced at her for an unbroken moment. “This love that I hate and hate that I love.”

  Tantris leaned his forehead against hers, his lips dangerously close. Her chest swelled, panic and excitement infusing her. She should push him away—she really, really should. The poet tottered beside her.

  “Emer…” Instead of brushing her mouth with his, Tantris collapsed on top of her.

  Branwen let out a sigh and, with enormous effort, lugged the Kernyvman into her hiding spot. Her secret place. The place she’d never shared with anyone.

  Crimson light splayed across the walls of the cave. The dwindling rays made the unconscious poet even more alluring, warming his bronze skin. Most of the Kernyvak raiders who pillaged Ivernic shores were pale like Branwen. Tantris’s family must have immigrated to Kernyv from elsewhere in the now diminished Aquilan Empire, which had ruled Albion until a few generations ago. Perhaps that was how he’d learned their poetry?

  She noticed he had a tiny scar across his right eyebrow, and she found it disconcertingly endearing.

  My enemy, she told herself. It didn’t matter what color his skin was. He’s my enemy.

  He might be a poet not a pirate, but his people had still murdered her parents. Even if his ancestors came from beyond the Aquilan Sea, the poet was a Kernyvman. His charm alone proved it. As Branwen debated with herself, Tantris’s thick eyelashes fluttered. He focused on her face and gave her a smile.

  Refusing to reciprocate, she told him, “You should count yourself lucky, Tantris—lucky that I didn’t know you were Kernyvak.”

  Queen Eseult always said that healers couldn’t choose their patients. The Old Ones expected them to heal whoever crossed their paths, whether they were thieves or princes. Would the queen extend that mandate to Kernyvmen?

  “It was more than luck, Emer, that brought me to you.” His voice brimmed with a confidence Branwen wished she shared.

  The fox, she wanted to say. It was the fox that brought me to you.

  Until today, she’d convinced herself that the fox was simply the figment of a grief-stricken child’s imagination. Until today, Branwen had thought the Otherworld was a bedtime story and the Old Ones nothing but false promises. After today …

  Flattening her lips together, she tore a strip of cloth from one of the underskirts of her gown. This wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss—and definitely not with Tantris.

  “What are you doing, my lady?” he asked.

  She laughed at the hint of scandal in his tone. “I’m going to bandage your wound,” she replied matter-of-factly. The ripping sound filled the space between them. It was good to have something practical to concentrate on rather than his eyes. Honor compelled Branwen to help him, but she would not like a Kernyvman.

  “I’m sorry it’s wet,” she told him. “It’s only temporary. I’ll be back later with my salves.” High tide wouldn’t come till midnight, and she’d return before then.

  He touched her hand, sending tingles all through her body. She fought the sensation. “You’re a healer?” Wonder filled his voice.

  “More like an apprentice.” Queen Eseult was the true medicine woman; Branwen had much yet to learn.

  Tantris tried to support himself with his elbows but he was too weak.

  “Emer, my Otherworld savior.”

  Branwen rolled her eyes. “I’m not from the Otherworld.” But it begged the question: Why did the Otherworld care about this Kernyvman and not her parents?

  He reached toward Branwen and twined a stray lock of her hair around his forefinger. She pulled back, although part of her wanted to be pulled closer.

  “You’re Otherworld-sent,” Tantris pronounced, “and I won’t hear otherwise.” His smile transformed into a grimace as he laughed.

  A few seconds later, he heard nothing at all. Branwen sighed as Tantris succumbed to exhaustion. She finished bandaging his chest and lit a small fire to keep him warm. Before she set off toward Castle Rigani, Branwen skimmed her finger along the scar on his brow.

  He didn’t stir.

  Somehow she knew the fox was still watching without being seen.

  “Odai eti ama,” she breathed.

  HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT

  “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, BRANNY?” the princess complained, seated at her vanity. “Look at the state of my hair!” A crown of lopsided plaits adorned Essy’s head.

  Where had she been? Saving a sworn enemy of Iveriu, that was where. Branwen’s breaths still came in pants from retrieving the basket of mermaid’s hair on her dash back to the castle, dropping it off for the queen, and running up the stairs to Essy’s chambers.

  “I’m here now,” she said, trying to steady her nerves. As usual, the princess was too preoccupied to notice that Branwen’s dress was damp and sea-stained. She was thankful that Keane wasn’t on duty. He would have noticed.

  Essy caught her eye in the vanity mirror.

  “Lord Diarmuid should be here any minute.” She beamed an excited smile. Branwen hardly thought the northern lord deserved it.

  Striding toward the princess, she wiped her grimy hands on her already dirty dress. “Then I’d better get to work,” she said, and pulled the horsehair brush from Essy’s grip.

  As she began detangling the bird’s nest her cousin had made of her hair, she noticed a few tufts missing from the base of Essy’s skull. A few years ago, the princess began pulling at it whenever she was anxious. She’d begged Branwen not to tell the queen. Branwen gnashed her teeth but decided not to bring it up tonight. They both had enough on their minds.

  Essy hissed as Branwen pulled loose the golden and ruby balls the princess had inexpertly attached to the ends of her flaxen braids. “Ouch, cousin,” she cried.

  Ignoring her protests, Branwen unraveled the knots with agile fingers. The princess closed her eyes. Branwen stroked the brush through her cousin’s tresses in a soothing, rhythmic motion, like she’d been doing since they were children. It reminded Branwen of the ebb and flow of the tide. She found it comforting, too—she liked consistency. She did not like strangely pleasing Kernyvmen turning up on her beach.

  Eyes still closed, the princess said, “Branny, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  “Oh?” she replied as she selected vibrant red ribbons from a pile the princess had haphazardly discarded on the tabletop. Whenever her cousin began a conversation in this vein, it most often meant she’d borrowed something of Branwen’s without permission and lost it. She didn’t know how Essy would survive without a castle full of servants to look after her and, fortunately, the princess would never have to find out.

  Branwen swept her cousin’s hair into two loops on either side of her face. She threaded the winter cherry–colored ribbons through the braids, securing them with an intricate pattern called a sweetheart plait. The princess was blessed with a high forehead, which the plaits accentuated. Branwen’s wasn’t quite as high, but her heart-shaped face was pleasant enough. At least, she hoped it was.

  She found herself wondering whether a certain Kernyvak poet would think so, too. My enemy, she repeated in her mind. My enemy.

  “What did you want to tell me, Essy?” Branwen asked to distract herself.

  Her cousin tapped her lower lip, drawing her eyebrows together the way she always did before confessing she’d eaten the last of the lavender candies or let the inkwells dry out.

  “It’s about Lord Diarmuid,” she said, unable to meet Branwen’s eyes.

  Branwen tensed. “What about him?”

  “He … he writes me letters.” Scarlet splotches appeared on her cheeks. T
his was more serious than candies or inkwells.

  “What kind of letters?” When the princess didn’t answer, Branwen bent down to her eye level. “What kind of letters, Essy?” she said again.

  “Love letters,” her cousin admitted as she exhaled. “Wonderful love letters.” A shy smile slipped across her face. “It’s so romantic.”

  “It’s not romantic, Essy! Your father could have his head.” Quite literally. “It’s reckless. What if someone finds them?”

  “Who would find them? You?” She stabbed a finger in the air. “See—this is why I didn’t tell you sooner,” she said, a whine creeping into her voice. “I knew you’d react like this. But you really don’t have to worry, Branny. Diarmuid is a descendant of High King Eógan Mugmedón. And, as eldest son, he’ll inherit Talamu Castle. It’s a fine match. Father will approve.”

  The princess fixed her with a glare, daring her to disagree.

  Branwen opened and closed her mouth.

  “Besides,” Essy said, eyes bright. “I think tonight’s the night that Diarmuid proposes!” She laughed and it held a trace of both exuberance and desperation. “His parents have accompanied him all the way from Uladztir. That must be why. Don’t you think?”

  “Maybe,” said Branwen.

  In order to combat the increasing Kernyvak raids, Iveriu might be forced to seek military help from abroad and the most expedient way to secure that help would be to marry the princess to a foreign ruler. No matter his lineage, Diarmuid couldn’t supply an army.

  Branwen regarded her cousin seriously. Weaving a string of freshwater pearls through the white-blond wisps of her hairline, she entreated, “But Essy, you hardly even know Lord Diarmuid.”

  “And how well am I likely to know any of the men my father chooses for me?”

  She couldn’t disagree. Still, she challenged, “What about Lord Conla? He was your favorite at the Imbolgos festival. You wouldn’t stop babbling about him for months.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord Conla of Mumhanztir,” she said, tying off either end of the pearl strand.

  “Oh him. He’s such a boy. Diarmuid is a man. He’s gorgeous and he said that the first time he laid eyes on me was like seeing the sun after years of night … he has the best turns of phrase. Practically a poet.”

  Branwen’s heart tripped over itself. “Men will sugar you with sweet words until they get what they want.” Especially poets, she reminded herself.

  “How would you know, Branny?” Essy gave her a hawkish glance. “You’ve never been courted.”

  She swallowed. Opening her heart didn’t come naturally to Branwen. She envied Essy’s ability to throw her entire being into everything in her life—not that she would tell her so. Branwen dropped her eyes to the floor.

  “Oh, Branny, I didn’t mean it like that. I—”

  “It’s fine. You’re right. I’ve never been courted.” Flirtatious, half-dead Kernyvmen in caves definitely didn’t count. I hate and I love.

  Essy clasped her hand, tracing her forefinger in a familiar pattern against Branwen’s palm. Her cousin’s nail scratched into her skin. Branwen bit her tongue.

  When Master Bécc taught the royal cousins the alphabet of the ancient language of trees—the first Ivernic writing, he’d pointed to an enormous hazel tree in the castle gardens and the honeysuckle vine wrapped around it. Neither could survive being separated from the other, he’d explained.

  The girls had coupled the letter for hazel, which resembled a four-pronged comb, with the spiral that represented honeysuckle. It became their code, their secret language. To them, and only them, it meant I love you, I understand, you’re not alone—and everything in between.

  “Not you without me,” said the princess as she finished tracing the symbol.

  Branwen lifted her gaze. “Not me without you.” She quieted Essy’s finger, taking her cousin’s hand in her own, and traced their emblem in return.

  The sting of Essy’s remark was gone. She kissed her cousin on the temple. Forgiving the princess her thoughtlessness had become second nature, and it was a small price to pay for her love.

  One side of Essy’s mouth tilted upward. “We’ll find you a kind and swoon-worthy nobleman of your own, Branny,” she insisted. “Don’t be sad.”

  “I’m not.”

  Finding a swoon-worthy nobleman was the furthest thing from her mind.

  “Here.” Essy plucked a wilted blossom from her vanity. “I picked this for you on the way back from the beach.”

  Branwen smiled. As she closed her hand around the honeysuckle, she felt the pollen dissolve, staining her palm. They were the honeysuckle and the hazel tree, and they always would be.

  “Thank you, cousin,” she said.

  Essy stole a glance at herself in the weathered looking glass. “Oh, Branny!” Her lips curved slightly, satisfied. “You have magic hands.” She touched the pearls beaded along her brow. “Thank you!”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  Suddenly, the piercing blare of horns at the gatehouse rent the night. The glass in the narrow windows of Essy’s bedchamber practically shook.

  “They’re here!” the princess exclaimed. “Tonight I’ll find out if he loves me, or he loves me not!”

  Branwen saw in her cousin’s glinting eyes how much she wanted to rush to Lord Diarmuid’s side. She wanted her to be happy, but she also wanted to protect her cousin’s too-eager heart. Admiring her plaits once more, Essy said, “You really are a lifesaver, Branny!”

  Her stomach cramped. There was someone whose life actually was depending on her this very moment. Branwen resolved to slip away from the feast as soon as she wouldn’t be missed. She didn’t want Tantris to catch a chill or go hungry or get a blood infection. Even if he was a Kernyvman.

  Her honor required it. That was all.

  “Go,” she whispered in Essy’s ear. “Go see Lord Diarmuid. I’ll be along shortly. Just be careful with your heart.”

  “You’re careful enough for the both of us, Branny.” Essy giggled, regarded herself in the mirror one last time, and headed for the door. “Don’t dally, cousin,” she said, vanishing down the corridor in a ball of energy.

  Branwen brushed off the petals of the broken flower as she took in her own appearance. Her gown was etched with sea salt, ruined, and her hair was a mess of black tendrils. It was a good thing the princess was so obsessed with Lord Diarmuid that she didn’t ask too many questions.

  She touched her lips, which tingled with the memory of the Kernyvman.

  Spying the waterskin of elderberry wine that lurked beneath the bed skirts, she grabbed it and swigged a healthy gulp. A little buzz took hold.

  It was nothing compared to the kiss of life.

  * * *

  Branwen heard Essy’s shriek of delight before she could see her.

  She squinted. The princess and Lord Diarmuid lingered at the back of the feasting hall, illuminated by guttering candles. In the dim light, she glimpsed her cousin coquettishly tap him on the nose.

  Branwen mustered all of her patience and walked toward them.

  As the northern lord turned around to greet her, his smile seemed forced.

  “Good evening, Lady Branwen.” He dipped his head, raising her hand formally to his lips. Branwen knew the Parthalán clan was an important ally of King Óengus, controlling much of the northern Uladztir province and, for that reason alone, she gave him a curtsy in return.

  “Lord Diarmuid. I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Essy noticed the curtness of Branwen’s tone—although Diarmuid did not—and lanced her with a sidelong glare.

  “Not at all,” he assured her. Again there was something about his civility that seemed contrived. “I was just informing our Lady Princess how we rousted some Kernyvak raiders on our way here.”

  Panic stabbed Branwen. Were those the same pirates who had attacked the vessel carrying Tantris?

  “Oh really?” she said, feigning disinterest.

  “We sent them back to
their ships with their tails between their legs. Although, if you ask me, we should have pursued them all the way to Kernyv.”

  During her shifts in the castle infirmary, Branwen had eavesdropped on guardsmen grumbling in a similar vein. Some of the provincial lords wanted to take matters more into their own hands. Anxiety was growing that King Óengus couldn’t protect Iveriu against Kernyvak attacks.

  There hadn’t been a civil war in Iveriu for generations. How real was the threat? Branwen wondered. Could the king actually be planning on marrying Essy into the Parthalán clan to quell dissent among the lesser lords?

  That outcome would undoubtedly please Essy in her current frame of mind. The princess laid a possessive hand on the young lord’s arm. She was besotted—for now. But Branwen didn’t believe Lord Diarmuid was the lover her cousin dreamed of. No, she suspected he was a crown-chaser, like most other noblemen.

  Branwen was saved from further small talk by the trumpet heralding the arrival of the King and Queen of Iveriu.

  Under the cover of the horn blowing, Essy whispered in Branwen’s ear, “What do you think?”

  She glanced at Lord Diarmuid, who she presumed could hear them. “He has a pleasing face,” Branwen whispered back, which wasn’t a lie. The northern lord was possessed of silver-gray eyes and a square jaw. Although comparing him with the Kernyvak poet was like making a bit of sea glass compete with a star. She blushed at the thought, twisting the right sleeve of her gown.

  “I know!” Essy said happily, giving Branwen a wink. The trumpeting stopped and the princess returned her attention to Diarmuid.

  The queen sought out Branwen with her gaze. She was always utterly elegant and exuded a regal authority. Tonight, however, Queen Eseult resembled her sister, Lady Alana, so closely that it nearly broke Branwen’s heart. It was as if her mother were standing before her.

  Queen Eseult processed toward Branwen and Essy while King Óengus was waylaid near the entrance speaking with other guests, including Diarmuid’s parents, Lord Rónán and Lady Fionnula. She also spotted Lord Morholt, the King’s Champion. Morholt was Branwen’s uncle, but his manner was so unlike that of the queen or of her mother that it was hard for her to see any relation.