Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  “Good morning, Lady Branwen,” he said gruffly, tipping his head as he opened the door for her. The warrior’s deepest scars, however, came from losing his wife in childbirth a decade ago. He had no interest in remarrying, he said, and Branwen occasionally wondered if his dedication to her aunt went beyond duty.

  Queen Eseult stood beside her court cupboard, mixing herbs with a mortar and pestle, as Fintan announced Branwen’s arrival. It looked like she’d been awake for some time. The queen dismissed Fintan with a nod and turned her attention to her niece.

  “What a nice surprise,” she said.

  Performing a swift curtsy, Branwen asked, “Where would you like the tray?”

  “Oh anywhere.” She waved a hand toward the sideboard.

  Branwen set down the tray and her gaze traveled to her aunt’s furrowed brow. “Would you like some tea?”

  A beat passed before Queen Eseult said, “Tea?” She ground the herbs with some force. “Oh yes.” She lifted her eyes to Branwen. “Forgive me, I’m a little out of sorts today. Tea would be lovely.”

  “Not at all.” Anticipation bubbled in Branwen’s chest as she busied herself pouring the tea into a cup that was also branded with a golden harp.

  “It’s not an easy thing to be the mother of daughters,” said the queen, mostly to herself, as she reduced the herbs to a fine powder. “You’ll see yourself one day.”

  Branwen had never really considered having children. She simply assumed she would stay in the service of the princess when she became queen. At nineteen Branwen was more than eligible, but her own marriage didn’t seem particularly important.

  She brought over the tea as her aunt ensconced herself in a tapestry-covered armchair by the window. Down below, the waves broke against the cliffside. In the morning light, they glinted aqua. Branwen’s stomach churned.

  “Thank you.” The queen looked at her shrewdly and motioned for her niece to be seated. “Branny—is Essy happy?”

  Branwen chewed the inside of her cheek, uncertain what to say. She thought of the newly torn clump of hair, but she wouldn’t betray her cousin’s confidence. “Essy seemed to be happy in the company of Lord Diarmuid,” she answered, reluctant to share her qualms about his motives.

  Queen Eseult put the cup to her lips and took a small sip. “Yes.” Another sip. “And he in hers.” There was an undercurrent to the queen’s words.

  “Lord Diarmuid would be a suitable match,” her aunt continued. “But there are many things to consider.” Branwen understood Queen Eseult’s veiled message—don’t let Essy set her heart on him.

  “Of course,” she said. “Will Lord and Lady Parthalán be staying at Castle Rigani long?”

  “A fortnight, perhaps. Morholt has gone out with Lord Rónán this morning to gather reports from the villages about the sightings of Kernyvak raiders.” The queen always spoke fondly of her brother.

  Branwen didn’t understand why. She found her uncle Morholt a hard-nosed and somewhat volatile man—cold, distant. Maybe it was just his warrior’s heart. She swallowed, thinking of Tantris, and felt guilt stir within her.

  The queen noticed her niece had gone quiet and touched a palm lovingly to Branwen’s face. “I’m sorry we had news of Kernyvak raiders yesterday of all days.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Come now, Branny. It’s always hard for me to hear such news as well. That is why the matter of Essy’s marriage is of such importance.”

  “I know.”

  She scrutinized her niece. “Tell me, dear heart, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company so early in the morning?”

  Branwen’s shoulders rose as she took a breath, and said, “I wanted to ask you about the Old Ways.”

  The queen’s eyes narrowed. All of her subjects knew Queen Eseult was a master of the Old Ways, but Branwen had never shown interest in them. She had rejected any part they might play in healing her aunt’s patients.

  “What is it you wish to know?” she asked.

  Branwen sucked in air through the tiny gap between her two front teeth. After a moment, she dared, “Do you believe in the Otherworld? That you could cross over at Whitethorn Mound?”

  “Do you?” she countered.

  “I’ve never believed in things I can’t see.”

  “Yet you believe in love.”

  She nodded and fidgeted uncomfortably with her plaits as the queen held her gaze. “The Otherworld is like love, Branny. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. It’s all around us, all of the time.”

  “But … but…,” she began with trepidation. Branwen had never believed it was a real place any more than you could reach out and grab fate with your hands. Maybe she had been wrong. “Can it truly send us messages?”

  Her aunt rested her elbows on her knees, leaning toward Branwen.

  “What have you seen?”

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  “Branny,” the queen said in a low voice.

  “A fox,” Branwen confessed, praying she wouldn’t question her sanity. Was she really troubling the queen over a wild animal?

  The queen’s expression didn’t change. “And what did the fox tell you?” she asked.

  What had the fox told Branwen? To save Tantris. But she couldn’t admit that to the Queen of Iveriu, even though she’d hate herself for lying. Lying to the queen was treason, no less. She worked her jaw.

  Finally, Branwen told her aunt, “To make a friend of an enemy.” That’s what Lord Caedmon would say, wasn’t it?

  Queen Eseult’s lips formed a crescent. “Sound advice.”

  “You really think the fox was sent from the Otherworld?” she said. “From the Old Ones?” Part of her wanted it to be true, and the other part of her was afraid of what that might mean. Everything she had believed until yesterday suddenly seemed so uncertain, everything she had believed until she met Tantris.

  “It may very well be,” the queen acknowledged, that august clarity in her voice. “What I am certain of is that you’re a natural-born healer, just like Alana was. The Goddess Bríga has favored you both with her healing fire.” Bríga was the goddess of the hearth and the sunrise, healing and keening—the poetry of loss.

  Branwen’s fingers tensed around the folds of her skirt, a deep sadness welling in her breast. She used to think healing fire was a metaphor. If the fox was real, however, maybe it was something more. Something she shared with her mother.

  “A natural healer is not just a healer of men, Branny,” said the queen. “But a healer of kingdoms.” Her aunt stroked Branwen’s chin. “The Old Ways will reveal themselves as they’re required. As sure as I breathe, I know you will be instrumental in protecting Iveriu one day.”

  “I will protect it with my whole heart.”

  “I know you will, my niece. Iveriu is your first love—as it is mine. That is why the Otherworld has chosen to speak to you. Heed its messages.”

  “Thank you, Lady Queen,” she said, feeling a knot grow in her stomach.

  “Thank you, Lady Branwen. Now go see to Essy.”

  Branwen curtsied and exited the queen’s chambers, lost in thoughts of the fox and of Tantris. The Otherworld had led her to the Kernyvak poet. It wanted her to save him, shelter him.

  She would have to trust that the Old Ones wanted to protect her kingdom as much as she did. Even if Branwen remained skeptical as to their motives, Queen Eseult believed in them, and Branwen believed in her queen above all else. She would do whatever was necessary to preserve the Land.

  She would defend Iveriu until her dying breath.

  * * *

  The breeze was fresh, and the sunlight on the sand made it gleam as brightly as snow. Before making her escape from the castle, Branwen had unknotted Essy’s sweetheart plaits and steeped her willow bark tea—to counter the effects of too much wine—in record time while half listening to her cousin’s praise of Diarmuid’s dancing abilities.

  What if Tantris had developed a fever in the night?

  Moving quickly,
Branwen checked over her shoulder to ensure she wasn’t being followed. Strictly speaking, since she was a noblewoman, Branwen shouldn’t leave the castle unescorted, but the Royal Guard had long ago stopped tracking her movements. The guardsmen were accustomed to her foraging in the wood along the coast for herbs and berries to fill her small leather satchel. Some even came to Branwen for simple remedies.

  She supposed she could see why it seemed to Essy as if she had all the freedom in the world, but Branwen didn’t feel free in this moment. Not at all. Forces beyond her control coerced her, held her hostage.

  Glancing nervously along the beach, Branwen slipped through a network of lianas into the mouth of the cave. The tide had retreated and late morning light showered the rock, casting it with an emerald glow. The walls were made from the same veiny green marble that had been quarried to build Castle Rigani. Carrying a chip of Rigani stone in your pocket was meant to be good luck and keep away Otherworld-dwellers with more nefarious intentions.

  “Emer,” said a melodious, if tired, voice. “You are even more dazzling silhouetted by sunlight.”

  Branwen wrinkled her nose to mask her ratcheting pulse. “Did you sleep well, Tantris?”

  Groaning, he propped himself onto his elbow. “Off and on,” he answered.

  She could see the pain and stiffness pervading his muscles. She tried to assess him clinically, not allowing her gaze to linger on the broad shoulders beneath his tunic or the way the light played on his sweat-laced curls.

  Branwen approached him with caution; she was afraid of herself when she was around him. She was committing treason—and yet that seemed to be what the Old Ones dictated.

  Tantris puckered his forehead. “Are you well?”

  “Quite well,” she snapped.

  His gaze swept over her. “The blue suits you.”

  The bodice of her gown was a deep cerulean blue stitched with fine silver thread. Normally, Branwen would have considered it too extravagant for everyday use, but she’d worn it for him, and she’d woven a matching ribbon through her fishtail braids.

  Flustered by the compliment, she looked away as she seated herself beside him, next to the ashes of the fire from the night before. “Here,” Branwen said, handing Tantris a bacon biscuit she’d pilfered from the kitchens while Treva’s back was turned.

  He held it up to his mouth and as the scent of the fried meat filled his nostrils, he looked like he was going to be sick. Fear slithered across Branwen’s chest. Lack of appetite was an early sign of fever.

  “What about these?” she said, more anxious, and dropped a few hazelnuts from her pocket into the center of his palm.

  “Hazelnuts?” Tantris cocked his head. “Did you pick these especially for your poet-patient?” he said, although his smile was less self-assured this morning.

  Tamping down on her nerves, she said, “What?”

  “In Kernyv, we believe hazelnuts are full of poetic inspiration.”

  “Oh. So do we.” She twiddled one between her fingers. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  Tantris caught her eye, pushing into a sitting position. “Perhaps we’re not so different, the Kernyveu and the Iverni.” He tossed a hazelnut into his mouth and began to chew.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Branwen said.

  Tantris paled as he finished chewing. “I’m not really that hungry.”

  She was afraid of that. Despite all logic, her concern for him exceeded what Branwen had ever felt for a patient. Knitting her brow, she surveyed him again. Tantris lowered his gaze to his chest when she gasped. Now that he was upright, a fresh crimson stain revealed itself on his new tunic.

  “It would seem I have a bleeding heart.” He shrugged then scowled from the effort.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s a little funny.”

  “It’s not,” she said harshly. Would the Otherworld punish Branwen—or her kingdom—if she failed to save the life of a man under its protection? She leaned in closer, perilously close. She pressed two fingers against his tunic. Tantris moaned. More blood leaked from the wound.

  “The salve isn’t working.” She kept her voice impassive; she had learned from Queen Eseult not to upset a man in pain. “Lie back,” Branwen instructed.

  “I don’t think any man could deny you that request.” The way his eyes danced completely unsettled her. Tantris scanned her up and down. “You seem nervous,” he said as he lay back against stone the color of summer leaves.

  “I’m not nervous,” Branwen lied.

  “Concerned, then?”

  “Yes, concerned.” She smiled resolutely and, with great care, stripped Tantris of his tunic. Streamlets of blood zigzagged across his chest.

  Branwen was overwhelmed with misgivings. She should have sewn up the wound last night, but she’d been worried about being missed at the castle. Her patient might die because of her haste.

  “It’ll be all right, Emer. I’ve survived worse.”

  “You’ve seen many battles as a poet?” She scoffed, trying to shutter her fear.

  A deep ravine formed between his eyes. “I can hold my own. I’m descended from the great Kartagon warriors,” said Tantris.

  The corner of his mouth lifted at the wonder on Branwen’s face. The siege of Kartago by the Aquilan Empire was legendary. The port city controlled the Strait of Alissar, and the Kartagons held out for more than a year before the city fell.

  “Your family is from the southern continent, then—originally?” she asked, both because she was curious and because she wanted to keep him distracted while she determined how to help him.

  “My father’s ancestors came to Kernyv with the Aquilan legions.”

  Despite their defeat, the Kartagon warriors were celebrated for their bravery and they were recruited as soldiers by the Aquilan army. In Branwen’s history lessons, Master Bécc said the Aquilan Empire was so successful because its military rewarded the worthy rather than the highborn.

  As Tantris spoke, blacker blood began to flow from his heart. Branwen gulped.

  “My mother’s people are from the Kernyvak peninsula, though,” he went on, hissing a breath. “I am a Kernyvman, through and through.” He sounded almost defensive. Branwen wanted to know why but she didn’t want to ask, and she disliked being reminded he was her enemy.

  Tantris blinked rapidly. She touched a finger to the dark blood, raised it to her nose, and sniffed. Brackish. She couldn’t delay any longer.

  Pulling a vial from her healing kit, Branwen told him, “Drink this.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “A tincture.” Tantris’s fingers grazed hers as he took the vial; tingles spread outward from the spot. “Clíodhna’s dust and a few other things,” Branwen said as she struck a small stone against the floor to rekindle the fire.

  Clíodhna’s dust was a pink flower found at the base of trees in the forest surrounding the castle. Named for the Otherworld queen whose song could heal the sick, the right quantity relieved a man quickly of his senses.

  Tantris rolled the vial back and forth, still corked.

  “Don’t you trust me, Tantris?” Branwen asked. It came out as a reproach.

  He rocked closer in response and skimmed his knuckles against her cheek in a fleeting, intimate gesture. The touch felt so right, so natural.

  “With my life.”

  Looking Branwen in the eye, Tantris downed the vinegary concoction in one swallow. His pupils dilated almost immediately. “Who taught you the Old Ways?” he asked, somewhat dreamily.

  She froze. She couldn’t tell Tantris that the queen had taught her, or that Branwen wasn’t really Emer, castle servant.

  “The women in my family have always been healers.” That was the truth, at least. “Now close your eyes and stop talking.”

  “Those are sweet words for any man to hear.” A troublesome grin spread over his face even as the Clíodhna’s dust took hold.

  Ignoring his remark, Branwen withdrew an embroidery needle from
her satchel and dipped the tip into the embers.

  “You don’t want to see this,” she told him.

  Branwen pulled a few threads from her skirt, braided them carefully together, then threaded the eye of the needle. She’d waited until its tip was white-hot before removing it from the embers. Queen Eseult had taught her there was less chance of infection if she heated the needle first.

  She lifted one of Tantris’s eyelids and saw that he was swimming in the dreamtime. He would soon be out cold. But she couldn’t wait. She took a steadying breath.

  The needle pierced his chest and the flesh made a whimpering noise. Tantris cried out before sucking down his anguish. Branwen felt her own heart stop and start several times. She had always preferred her Aquilan language lessons to embroidery, but for once she was glad that she’d applied herself to the pursuits of noblewomen.

  Hurriedly, she spun an intricate web of stitches over Tantris’s heart. With each stroke, she prayed to the Otherworld that her handiwork would be enough to save the poet’s life. The stitch was called a love-knot, which seemed a strange thing to give her enemy.

  As her fingers sewed together his flesh, however, Branwen no longer saw Tantris as a Kernyvman—just as a man. A man who needed her help. And his heart was literally in her hands.

  He came in and out of consciousness. Branwen hoped the Clíodhna’s dust would be strong enough for him to float through the worst of the pain in a sea of dreams. Before he dropped off entirely, Tantris opened his eyes. They were raven-dark and intensely alive.

  “Emer, I do believe you’ve tied my heart up in knots.”

  Branwen couldn’t resist a small, hopeful smile. He gave her a lopsided grin and she watched as the tide pulled him under.

  SHADOW-STUNG

  BRANWEN STAYED WITH TANTRIS UNTIL the worst had passed. Then she returned to Castle Rigani, shoulders slumped and weary. Early evening light warmed her cheeks as she headed directly to the castle kitchens, desperate for a reinvigorating cup of tea.

  “Lady Branwen?” Treva looked up from stuffing a pig to roast. “The queen came by here looking for you. She’s gone to the infirmary.”