Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  “Essy! You can’t speak about the king that way. It’s treason.”

  “I don’t care, it’s the truth. The king is selling me to the highest bidder to protect his own crown.” Something flared in Essy’s eyes that Branwen had never seen before. Something she couldn’t quite name—and it was dangerous.

  Branwen placed her hands firmly on Essy’s shoulders. “You do care. I know you do. You wouldn’t ask your people to sacrifice their lives so you can marry your sweetheart.”

  “I’m going to be Lord Diarmuid’s queen and we’ll rid Iveriu of the Kernyveu together,” insisted the princess.

  “He has to win first.” This time Branwen did intend the edge to her voice.

  “You’re just jealous you don’t have a lover of your own!”

  Unbidden, a single staccato laugh burst from Branwen. If her cousin only knew.

  “You can’t really be that selfish, Essy.”

  The anger in her cousin’s eyes cooled and hardened. “Lady Branwen, please leave me alone with my thoughts.”

  “What about your hair?” she said. The princess had never dismissed her like this. Not even in her childhood tantrums.

  “I can take care of myself.” Essy sounded every inch the queen and, for the first time, Branwen thought it might be true. “Mother may need your help,” she added, “but I do not.”

  Branwen stared at her cousin, debating whether or not to really leave. Both of their emotions were running high. Yes, she’d give Essy space to simmer down.

  The princess caught her wrist as she turned to go. Branwen expected to feel a familiar shape traced on her skin.

  Instead, Essy said, “Take this to Lord Diarmuid when he arrives.”

  Her cousin withdrew a handkerchief from her bodice. She had embroidered it herself. The stitching was sloppy, childlike. But there was no mistaking the pattern: an interlinked D and E.

  Branwen gasped. “Essy, no. King Óengus would be furious!”

  “That is no concern of yours,” Essy told her. “A princess is allowed a champion.”

  “Not in the Champions Tournament! You can’t show favoritism among Iveriu’s potential allies.”

  The princess bolted to her feet. “This isn’t your life, Branny. It’s mine. I’m so sick of you telling me what to do—of everyone telling me what to do!” she yelled, raking a hand harshly through her tresses. Branwen lurched backward. Essy shoved the handkerchief into her hand, tears pricking her eyes. “You will do as I say. As your princess, I command it.”

  Shock rendered Branwen speechless.

  The last time Essy had commanded her to do something, Branwen had scaled an apple tree to fetch the reddest one right at the top. She had slipped and fallen, spraining her ankle quite badly. Essy felt so guilty that she’d cried harder than Branwen, and Branwen never did tell Queen Eseult why she had climbed the tree in the first place.

  Slowly, deliberately, she tucked the token for Lord Diarmuid into the belt cinching her gown. Casting her eyes down, Branwen performed an excruciatingly precise curtsy.

  “As you command, Your Highness.”

  The night felt keen-bitten and barren as she exited her cousin’s bedchamber.

  Keane stepped toward her, scouring her face. She didn’t want to meet his inquiring eyes. He’d surely heard the cousins fighting.

  “Are you crying, Lady Branwen?” The tenderness in his voice took her aback.

  She shook her head.

  “All right,” he said softly. “Just let me know if you want my company to not weep a little more.”

  “Thank you, Keane,” she said, and she meant it.

  Branwen raced down the steps of the south tower while she could still maintain her composure.

  Giving the handkerchief to Lord Diarmuid could be interpreted as an act of treason, working against the interests of the Ivernic crown. At the very least, the deed would imperil Essy’s honor—and that was tantamount to the same thing. And yet, her cousin had asked—no, demanded—that Branwen risk her life to perform it.

  As her princess, Essy had commanded her, and as her loyal lady’s maid, Branwen would obey. She tried to tell herself it was just the stress of the Champions Tournament taking its toll on her cousin. Essy suffered nightmares after seeing the vanquished villages: The strain of her duty must have been warping her heart. Family and ruler, Princess Eseult would always be; whether the princess remained her friend—that was one of the only choices Branwen could make for herself.

  Unthinkingly, she used the illicit handkerchief to dab away bitter tears. They were unwelcome. As was this errand. So very, very unwelcome.

  Branwen crossed the inner ward, making her way toward the feasting hall. It was illuminated from within by hundreds of beeswax candles. A jaunty tune from a boisterous kelyos band filled the air.

  She stopped just outside the entrance and practiced smiling a few times. It wouldn’t do for any of the guests to notice she was upset. She might not be a princess, but the queen was her aunt and the King’s Champion was her uncle.

  On this night, among their potential friends and enemies, Branwen represented Iveriu, too. She would do her best to bring honor to Castle Rigani. She would honor her parents—and Tantris—by making friends of enemies.

  The token in her hand itched and burned. It was a loose spoke that could derail an entire wagon. Branwen considered not delivering it, but she feared Essy might do something even more rash.

  The ground shifted beneath her feet. Almost literally. She glimpsed the fox on the ramparts, bobbing and weaving between the severed heads. There was a hideous beauty to them in the shaft of moonlight.

  The creature scurried off and Branwen ducked surreptitiously into the feasting hall. The fractured panes of stained glass glowed in the firelight, and tonight the images seemed to her entirely whole. She could scarcely make out the lines that separated them.

  She trained her eyes on Lord Diarmuid, capturing his gaze. He furrowed his brow, seemingly put out, and then followed her to a secluded spot.

  “Lady Branwen, you look beautiful.”

  “Give me your hand,” she said, and it was nearly a snarl.

  Lord Diarmuid lifted his eyebrows as Branwen pressed the handkerchief between his fingers. Looking at him hard, she said, “I think you know what this is and whom it’s from—and why you shouldn’t accept it.”

  “Then why did you deliver it?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “You have a sharp tongue, my lady.” Lord Diarmuid chuckled but it was mirthless. Tucking the token into his pocket, he said, “A thousand apologies for your trouble.”

  Branwen didn’t believe he was sorry at all. She was about to supply him with a few more choice words of her own when Lord Diarmuid shot her a warning glance.

  “Good evening,” he greeted someone over her shoulder. “Lady Queen.”

  She flushed with shame and fear at having almost been caught in the act of treason by a woman she loved so much.

  “There you are, dear heart,” Queen Eseult said, tapping her on the shoulder.

  Branwen gave Diarmuid a glare to let him know that like a fish, he hadn’t wriggled off her hook just yet. She painted on a smile, and spun around to greet the queen.

  And then her heart stopped.

  A ripple of sunlight on the water.

  Tantris.

  ESEULT THE FAIR

  THE EVENING EXPANDED AND CONTRACTED around her. All the noises of the feasting hall faded to nothing. Branwen must have been dreaming. But was this a dream or a nightmare?

  Tantris was surrounded by his enemies—by Branwen’s kinsmen. Her uncle Morholt would think nothing of taking another Kernyvak head. The poet was going to get himself killed.

  What was he doing here? Why had he come back?

  Branwen couldn’t speak. Not even to scream at Tantris to run.

  Queen Eseult only smiled at her. Why was the queen smiling? There was a Kernyvman in their midst.

  “Allow me to introduce you to Prince Tristan,
nephew of King Marc of Kernyv.”

  Branwen’s fingers tightened around the velvet sash at her waist. She shifted her weight, trying to remain steady on her feet.

  Tantris—her Tantris—was alive, and he was standing right in front of her in the middle of Castle Rigani. Only he wasn’t Tantris. And he wasn’t hers. It had all been lies. Her heart churned with a familiar wildness, livid and roaring.

  Suddenly it struck Branwen that this was why the Old Ones had wanted her to save him. He was a prince. If a Kernyvak prince died on Ivernic soil, there would never be peace. She had saved Iveriu by saving the poet. Yet the knowledge did nothing to quell the tempest inside her.

  Tantris smiled at her, too, exuding the same easy confidence as if they were alone together at the cave.

  “This must be the fair Eseult, whose beauty is so renowned,” he said. He spoke in Aquilan, as everyone at court would tonight, and he obviously hadn’t learned it because he was a poet.

  The tempest became an ice storm. Branwen thought she might be ill. Tantris thought she was the princess. He thought she was Essy. Was that why he’d returned?

  He’s not Tantris, she scolded herself. His name is Tristan and he’s a Kernyvak prince. A prince who wants a princess.

  Tantris—no, Tristan—Tristan took Branwen’s hand in his. He pressed it to his lips gently, as gently as if she were a starling. He held her gaze throughout the brief kiss, and she hated the way his touch made her feel wondrously alive. He was worse than a pirate.

  “Prince Tristan.” Branwen swallowed the name, unable to wipe the stunned expression off her face as she performed a requisite curtsy.

  The queen regarded her, eyebrow raised, then spared a glance for the Kernyvak prince.

  “My niece is most fair,” she said, also in Aquilan. “But her name is Branwen.”

  Tristan’s eyes roved her face. Eyes she had longed to see again. Eyes she had come to trust that now belonged to a stranger.

  “Lady Branwen is more than fair. Although she looks more like an Emer to me.” His grin deepened. “The bravest of Ivernic heroines.”

  Branwen’s lips went flat. The fox may have led her to Tristan to prevent a war, but she’d been a fool to fall for him. As impulsive as Essy—who was wisely avoiding her. Well, Branwen had fulfilled her mission. She was done. She was done with this two-faced Kernyvman. No matter how appealing a face he had.

  Queen Eseult’s gaze moved slowly between them. “You know our legends, Prince Tristan?” she said.

  “Oh yes.” He focused his attention on Branwen as he spoke. “I recount ‘The Wooing of Emer’ daily.”

  “I’m surprised Prince Tristan can recount his own name,” Branwen snapped.

  Her aunt inhaled a short breath through her nose. Lord Diarmuid, whose presence Branwen had utterly forgotten, coughed loudly. Tristan merely smiled.

  “It’s true,” he conceded, a wry note in his voice. “In the presence of beautiful women, my tongue—and my heart—gets stitched up in knots.”

  Branwen tensed. She couldn’t believe he would joke in this way in front of the queen. She had risked her life for him, betrayed her family for him, pined for him—and he was jesting with her. Now that she knew Tristan’s true identity, Branwen doubted she knew him at all.

  “In any event,” began Queen Eseult, casting a critical glance at her niece. “King Óengus and I are greatly relieved that your uncle no longer believes the Iverni kidnapped you, Prince Tristan.” The queen was an astute woman; she knew she was missing something.

  All joviality fled Tristan’s features. “I am terribly grieved about the misunderstanding, Lady Queen. As is King Marc.”

  Lord Diarmuid couldn’t refrain from a chortle. “A misunderstanding? Your uncle’s men pillaged half the eastern coast looking for you.”

  Queen Eseult shot the young lord a barbed stare. For once, Branwen agreed with him. The day of the attack on the castle, when she’d given Tristan a sword to defend himself against her own people, he had looked so guilty. Because it was his fault.

  “Words cannot convey how much your losses trouble me, Lady Queen,” Tristan continued, ignoring Diarmuid. “I feel them as my own.”

  Branwen could tell her aunt believed him. Branwen wanted to believe him as well. The man who risked himself to help an injured animal would mourn each death. That was the man who had won Branwen’s heart. But was that man anything more than an illusion?

  “I am King Marc’s only nephew,” Tristan said to the queen. “I’m sure you would raze Kernyv to the ground if you thought we’d taken Lady Branwen hostage.”

  Her aunt looked at her, smiling warmly. “I would, Prince Tristan,” she said, and Branwen was overwhelmed with a surge of love for the queen that momentarily tempered her anger.

  “Nor would I blame you, Lady Queen,” Tristan agreed. “I imagine anyone with a lick of sense would fight for Lady Branwen like the Hound did for Emer.”

  Branwen didn’t dare glance in his direction. If she did, she might demand to know how he could possibly claim he would fight for her when he hadn’t esteemed her enough to tell her the truth. Scores of Iverni had died because of his secret.

  A tiny wrinkle appeared between the queen’s brows.

  “What did befall you exactly, Prince Tristan?” she asked.

  “Yes, tell us of your adventures,” Lord Diarmuid interjected, his voice laced with derision. Branwen didn’t know what game he was playing, but if Diarmuid wanted to be the queen’s son-in-law, he needed to play the part of diplomat this evening. She found herself wishing he would, for Essy’s sake.

  Tristan cleared his throat. “I was tossed overboard during a storm and washed up on Ivernic shores. A beautiful mermaid rescued me from the waves.”

  Branwen and Tristan locked eyes. “How very lucky for you, Prince Tristan.”

  “I don’t believe in luck, Lady Branwen. I believe in fate.”

  Dry lightning crackled between them. Could everyone else feel it? She’d never wanted so fiercely to kiss a man, or to beat him over the head. She wouldn’t let desire betray her. This wasn’t Tantris. He never had been.

  At that moment, the kelyos band reached a thunderous climax accompanied by shouts and cheers.

  When Branwen didn’t reply, Tristan frowned slightly. Good. If he thought he was going to charm her twice with sweet words alone, he was sorely mistaken.

  The music died away, and Queen Eseult returned her focus to the nephew of Iveriu’s greatest enemy. “The royal musicians are gifted, are they not?” she said, still clapping.

  Tristan showed an effortless grin. “Very.”

  Branwen refused to smile in return. “In fact, the prince was just telling me what a talented bard he is,” she told her aunt. “He adores spinning fantastic tales out of whole cloth.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. She tried not to fixate on the tiny scar she’d long found so endearing.

  “Is that so?” the queen said, and she seemed genuinely interested, which was a particular talent of hers. “Perhaps you will share a song with us after the tournament.”

  “I could never resist such a request.”

  “Wonderful.” The queen nodded. “We are delighted that you could join us for the Laelugus festival.”

  “King Marc wishes friendship with Iveriu. I wish it.” Tristan peered at Branwen from the side of his eye. “Laelugus is the Festival of Peace. That is why he has sent me to win the Champions Tournament.”

  Branwen’s chest grew tight. What if Tristan did win Essy? Could she watch her cousin marry the first man she’d ever kissed? She exhaled a shaky breath.

  It shouldn’t matter. She had kissed a shipwrecked poet. This was a prince of Kernyv. They were no longer Tantris and Emer. She had no claim on him.

  Lord Diarmuid raised his chin and sneered at Tristan. “I wouldn’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”

  Branwen disliked agreeing with the northern lord on anything—and twice in one evening beggared belief—but she said, “Yes,
Prince Tristan. You will have to fight my uncle, Lord Morholt, in single combat. He’s the King’s Champion. And he’s undefeated.”

  Tristan’s smile brimmed with challenge. “As am I.” He glared at Lord Diarmuid as he said it, and Branwen spied the Iverman’s hand move toward the kladiwos blade at his hip.

  So did the queen.

  “Lady Branwen,” she said to her niece, “won’t you take Prince Tristan onto the dance floor and provide him with some refreshment?” Queen Eseult touched Branwen’s elbow and she sensed the urgency in her squeeze. This conflict needed to be diffused before it got out of hand.

  “Of course, Lady Queen.”

  Branwen’s own conflicted feelings at being assigned Tristan’s chaperone swirled in her breast as she curtsied.

  “That sounds like an excellent plan, Lady Queen,” Tristan said, the muscle in his jaw relaxing. “Thank you for your generosity in sparing Lady Branwen from your company.”

  He bowed deeply. More than was strictly necessary for a foreign prince. He was purposefully honoring the queen by bending at the waist and showing deference. A traitorous part of Branwen’s heart was pleased it might be for her benefit. Then Tristan added, “I’ll see you on the field of combat, Lord Diarmuid.”

  “Looking forward to it, Prince Tristan.”

  Branwen traded another glance with the queen. The music swelled once more.

  “Won’t you follow me, Prince Tristan?” she said in a cloying tone.

  Tristan offered her his arm. Branwen had no choice but to accept. She could no more disobey her queen than she could the Old Ones.

  A raging fiddle could be heard over the drumming and the pounding of the dancers’ feet as she led him toward the long tables where Treva had laid large vats of red ale. She spied Keane across the hall, prowling among the foreigners, his expression menacing. Branwen’s lips lifted into a small crescent when she spotted Saoirse twirling beside Dubthach, her limp scarcely perceptible. Once Saoirse had recovered, Queen Eseult offered her a position in the castle infirmary because she had nowhere else to go, and she’d been happy to accept.