Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  The shouts of the crowd swelled until they became a deafening hum.

  Keane stared at Tristan in wonder before his eyes tripped over Branwen. She was now only a few horse strides away, covering her mouth. Tristan followed Keane’s gaze and when he found Branwen, his expression softened. Keane noticed it, too.

  The Iverman canted his head at her. He smiled as he drew a small dagger from his waistband. Branwen tried to call out a warning but no sound came out. Burning waves crashed in her mind.

  Fingers interlocked with hers. Essy’s. Her cousin’s breath was still a wheeze, but the cadence had slowed. She gave Branwen’s hand a little pulse.

  Branwen could barely squeeze back. She saw the true beginning of her life in Tristan’s eyes—as well as its end. The unmistakable shriek of steel tearing flesh howled in her ears.

  She blinked. Only for a moment.

  A moment was all it took for the world to change.

  Tristan pivoted on his heel, took hold of Keane’s wrist, and turned the blade back on him. “Look away,” Essy murmured in Branwen’s ear as Tristan stabbed the Iverman in the thigh.

  Blood flowed from the wound. The silomleie fell from Keane’s other hand. Tristan grabbed it and raised the weapon above his head with a cry of victory. Keane clutched his wounded thigh.

  Queen Eseult dropped the handkerchief. Tristan had won. Kernyv had won.

  “It seems both our sweethearts are losers today, Branny,” the princess said sullenly. “I couldn’t find Diarmuid anywhere.”

  Branwen swallowed hard. Tristan raised the Rigani stone once more to his lips. His eyes sought her out in the crowd.

  Maybe she really was his Emer?

  Glancing in the direction of the Queen’s Tent, Branwen said, “We need to get back,” tugging on her cousin’s hand. The princess refused to budge.

  “No. I’m sick of taking orders from her.”

  “Then do it as a favor—for me,” she entreated.

  After another glimmer of hesitation, the princess took a step toward the tent and linked her arm with Branwen’s. “I didn’t mean for you to miss Sir Keane’s match,” she said. Yet Branwen had seen enough. Essy blew out a breath and it seemed easier than the last.

  Pushing one of her cousin’s plaits behind her ear, Branwen told her, “I’m sorry you were so upset.” Essy’s angry words the night before were simply the flip side of a terror she couldn’t control; Branwen would do her best to forget them.

  “At least that Kernyvman won’t relish his victory for long,” said Essy, trying to lift her spirits.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Uncle Morholt—he’ll make quick work of King Marc’s nephew.” The princess laughed a little cruelly.

  Morholt. For one blissful moment, Branwen had forgotten. Tristan would face her uncle in the Final Combat.

  There were only two ways it could end: death or dishonor. Morholt would never concede defeat. Either Tristan would kill her uncle, or he would be killed. His choice was to slay the man who felled his father or be slain by him.

  Was this what the Old Ones had foreseen when they’d bade Branwen to save him?

  There was no answer. She expected none.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the blackbirds sing.

  * * *

  Tension strangled Castle Rigani like a noose. Essy had returned with Branwen to the Queen’s Tent without further complaint. While her aunt’s back was turned, Branwen took a rather unladylike gulp of ale.

  Queen Eseult stood to address those assembled, noble and commoner alike. The outcome of this last battle would affect them all. The result of the Final Combat would change what was written in the annals of history.

  Her aunt’s self-possession was more than mortal. It might have been only the harsh late-summer sun, but Branwen swore she was glowing. Her eyes gleamed as brilliantly as the finest Rigani stone. She knew the queen represented the Goddess Ériu at the tournament, yet in that moment, Branwen could believe she was the goddess.

  She caught a glimpse of ancient power. It radiated from Queen Eseult. Understanding crested in Branwen that the Old Ways weren’t something that could be taught—they were something you carried inside. She hoped her aunt was right and that, like the other women in her family, she could also master them.

  Branwen cast a sidelong glance at Essy, who had abandoned the healing arts. Nevertheless, she and the princess shared the same blood, and her cousin was to be queen. The Otherworld must be guiding her in different ways.

  Queen Eseult raised a bronze goblet heavy with red ale. She stretched her arms out toward the competitors. Both Tristan and Morholt sweat from heat and anticipation.

  Tristan was also bruised. Even if he didn’t show it, surely he was worn out from a day of fighting. Branwen thought it was distinctly unfair that her uncle should take the field fresh and well rested. But he was the King’s Champion, and this was the custom.

  “Who would drink from the Chalice of Sovereignty?” the queen asked, her voice dark and sweet.

  These were sacred words. Branwen was sure they resounded throughout all the verdant valleys of Iveriu.

  Lord Morholt stepped forward and bowed on one knee. “I would,” he said.

  Queen Eseult lowered her eyes from the red ale to the champions.

  “As the sun must conquer the moon each morning, so, too, must the High King of Iveriu fight for peace each day.” She set the sparkling vessel to her lips. “Only a man who possesses the Truth of the Ruler may drink from my cup.”

  A knot twisted Branwen’s belly, yet she also felt a strange warmth there.

  “The Land needs a Consort who is brave and honorable. It is she who makes kings. It is she who wields death,” the queen continued. “The Final Combat can end only in death or dishonor. As the Goddess Ériu declares it, so will it be done.”

  Tristan had lied to Branwen. Was it possible his deception would cost him the competition? Tingles erupted all over her skin. Not quite painful, not quite pleasurable. Or, was the Truth of the Ruler a different truth, where sometimes lies were necessary?

  Queen Eseult drained her cup. It would only be refilled at the end of the match—for the winner. Its emptiness symbolized the barren land and fallow fields of a kingdom without a rightful ruler. Branwen had never witnessed the ritual with her own eyes—it hadn’t been enacted in her lifetime—but she knew all the details from the histories and songs of the bards.

  The fighters took their places in the center of the field. A circle only two horse-lengths wide had been drawn in the dirt. The Final Combat was always performed in very close quarters. There could be no running away. Dueling in such proximity required dexterity and cunning. The victor also had to display more mental agility than his opponent. This contest was a test of strength in every sense.

  A true king must know when to attack, when to pull back, and when to feint.

  Each warrior was entitled to only one weapon. In her uncle’s hand was the Balu Gaisos, a spear passed down from King’s Champion to King’s Champion. It was reputedly carved from the bone of a sea monster and given to the Hound of Uladztir himself by Skathak when he completed his training at the Fort of Shadows.

  Tristan withdrew a sleek length of steel. A misrokord. Branwen clutched her skirts between her hands tight enough to draw blood. The long, narrow knife seemed flimsy compared with the size of Morholt’s barbed javelin.

  “Don’t worry, Branny,” Essy told her, resting her head against Branwen’s shoulder. “Uncle will prevail. We won’t be sailing away to Kernyv anytime soon.” The princess spoke flippantly, as she often did to mask her embarrassment after an attack; although, her cheeks remained rosy. With more spite, she added, “The Kernyvman’s pathetic excuse for a sword can’t possibly defeat the Balu Gaisos.”

  That was what Branwen feared. Still, she trusted Tristan must have a reason for selecting the misrokord. Normally, the blade was only employed to deal a quick death to a warrior suffering on the battlefield. Master Bécc had taught B
ranwen the name meant “mercy” in the Aquilan language.

  Her uncle took several practice throws with the Balu Gaisos. The Kernyvman didn’t even blink. With a yawn, he simply dusted off his heart-shaped shield as if he were bored, teasing a few raucous snorts from the defeated foreign fighters ringing the pitch. Morholt’s eyes blazed with enmity. They complimented his sash of plaited saffron, silver, and gold: the colors of Laiginztir and of the Royal Guard.

  Queen Eseult’s face remained completely serene as she released the embroidered cloth. To Branwen, it felt as if an earthquake shook the castle. But it was only the force of her knees knocking together.

  “No need to fear so much for me, dear cousin,” Essy assured her.

  Seagulls screamed in Branwen’s ears. Only it wasn’t seagulls. The screech of metal against metal grated on her last nerve. A gale howled through her heart.

  Shields held high, the proud lion of Iveriu roared and charged against the sea-wolf. Branwen had always abhorred the hybrid beast of Kernyv that the Iverni believed populated its waters. Against a blackened sky and a white horizon was painted a ferocious wolf head atop a scaled fishlike body. Before she met Tristan, Branwen had indeed considered Kernyvmen to be the wolves of the sea.

  The tip of the Balu Gaisos whistled past Tristan and met squarely with the jowls of the sea-wolf. Enraged, Morholt spun around fast. It seemed almost as if the lion on his shield had reached out and swiped Tristan with its claw. Blood speckled the white of the poet’s sash like rubies.

  Tristan ducked the next blow of the Balu Gaisos and landed one of his own along Morholt’s torso. The Iverman grunted and parried.

  The two men moved as if they were dancing, dancing with death, and Branwen could almost hear the beat of the kelyos band from last night, the incessant, seductive slapping of palms on drums.

  On the sidelines, she spotted Keane’s glowering visage. Branwen could tell he still wanted a piece of Tristan for himself. Thankfully, he would never dare interrupt the sanctity of the Final Combat. And if Tristan won—when he won, he had to win—he would effectively become Iveriu’s new Champion. Keane couldn’t touch him then.

  She hoped.

  Essy rocked back in her seat, spilling some ale on Branwen’s gown. “Cousin,” she breathed.

  Morholt had faltered. There was a loose Rigani stone in the dirt. Branwen squinted—it was attached to a chain. It was her gift to Tristan. Could it be bringing him luck, after all?

  “Oh no, Branny!” cried Essy.

  Their uncle’s spear had plunged tip down into the ground, lodging deeply. Utterly useless. Branwen fought the smile bowing her lips, although she did still fear for Morholt’s life. They had never been close but she didn’t want him to die—especially not because of his own pride. And she didn’t want Tristan to be the one to kill him.

  Branwen recalled what Tristan had told her about Morholt stealing Kernyvak children. About Tristan’s own father dying to protect them. But Kernyvak pirates also abducted Ivernic children.

  That was why Tristan had to win: to stop the bloodshed. To stop children from being taken from their parents, and parents being taken from their children. Morholt must have seen that.

  The two men began to grapple, clouds of red earth rising around their tormented forms, and Branwen understood why Tristan had chosen such a slight weapon. The Balu Gaisos was designed for immediate victory but it was heavy and cumbersome. Tristan had danced around her uncle until the Iverman had lost his footing.

  Branwen dashed a glance at Queen Eseult. If she was concerned for her brother, she did not betray it. She only winged her eyebrows. Branwen thought the queen was impressed with Tristan’s ingenuity, and she felt a pride she tried not to show.

  The fighters tore at each other, wrestling in the dirt. It looked to Branwen as if Tristan was trying not to overly injure his opponent. They flipped on top of each other several times but Tristan had the upper hand. Then Morholt elbowed him in the face, and blood spurted from his nose.

  The Ivernic spectators cheered, including Essy. Branwen did not. And her aunt noticed.

  Morholt wrapped his beefy hands around Tristan’s neck and began to choke the life out of him. Branwen couldn’t breathe, either. What a fool she had been to think that names mattered! Tristan, Tantris: He was the same man and her heart knew his heart.

  Could the lovers in her dreams have been Branwen and Tristan all along?

  The warmth in her belly and tingling sensation along her flesh returned, consuming her. She thought she would retch all over the Queen of Iveriu.

  Out of the corner of her eye, just skirting the field of combat, Branwen saw the fox weaving between the feet of the foreign fighters. Flesh, or illusion? She didn’t care. The creature must have been there to protect Tristan. The Otherworld had heard her prayers.

  Tristan rammed his knees into Morholt’s sternum with all his might and the Iverman lurched, toppling backward. Tristan dove on top of him, drawing his misrokord and pressing it to her uncle’s neck in one elegant motion. Morholt grabbed for the Balu Gaisos but the spear was just out of reach. His fingers scrabbled over the earth in vain.

  The misrokord cut into Morholt’s throat as Tristan prepared to dispense mercy. This was it. The sea-wolf had triumphed over the lion. The Final Combat was over.

  Tristan had won. All that remained was Morholt’s choice.

  A hush settled over the crowd like a glacial mist. Essy gripped Branwen’s hand, pulling her to the edge of her seat. Queen Eseult turned to her niece.

  “Bring me the red ale,” she instructed.

  Branwen swayed as she retrieved the waterskin. She felt drunk herself.

  The queen rose from her chair and stepped to the front of the tent. Morholt struggled beneath Tristan’s blade. Branwen passed her aunt the ale.

  “Who would drink from the Chalice of Sovereignty?” Queen Eseult intoned. She beckoned Essy to join her and handed the bronze goblet to the princess.

  “On behalf of King Marc, King of Kernyv, I would,” Tristan called back. As nephew of King Marc he was of the same bloodline and could consent as a proxy.

  Branwen’s pulse quickened. Nobody else dared to speak. Nobody dared to draw breath.

  “Son of Kernyv,” her aunt proclaimed. “Would you be my Consort?”

  “I would.”

  She uncorked the waterskin and poured the red ale with great reverence into the chalice that Essy was holding.

  “Son of Kernyv, would you promise to care for the Land above your own life? To turn Winter once again into Spring?”

  “I would,” Tristan asserted.

  Queen Eseult slanted her gaze at her brother. “Lord Morholt, Champion of King Óengus, Son of Iveriu.” She drew in a deep breath and, for the first time, Branwen spied a crinkle of worry on her aunt’s brow. “You have failed to defend the Land this day. What is your choice: death or dishonor?”

  Through clenched teeth, Morholt ground out, “Death.”

  The queen’s shoulders fell minutely before she nodded. The Land had chosen. It wasn’t within her aunt’s power to save her brother’s life.

  She nudged Essy forward with the chalice. “Come, Son of Kernyv. Iveriu embraces you,” Queen Eseult told Tristan. “Drink from me.”

  The princess proffered the chalice in his direction as if she were doing something distasteful. She turned her face away, not wanting to watch the killing. Branwen positioned herself just behind her cousin in case she fainted. She would always be there to catch her if she fell.

  From over Essy’s shoulder, Branwen’s gaze locked with Tristan’s. He seemed to be pleading with her. He didn’t want to do this. Even though Morholt had been responsible for his own father’s death, he didn’t want to rob Branwen of her only uncle.

  But that wasn’t Tristan’s choice.

  Morholt had fought his enemy until he couldn’t, as he’d instructed Branwen to do so many years ago. Her uncle could never see the Kernyvman as anything more.

  The Land had made her choice
. The Otherworld had made its choice. And Morholt had made his.

  Tristan was the tool, the implement. He raised the misrokord for the mercy blow. One rapid, razor-sharp strike was all it would take. His gaze remained focused on hers. Branwen grimaced, closed her eyes, and waited to hear the reaction of the crowd to her uncle’s death.

  She heard nothing.

  Branwen opened one eye, and then the other.

  Tristan had lowered the misrokord, refusing to deal the deathblow. Instead, he offered Morholt his hand in friendship.

  Her uncle’s eyes went wide with hatred. For a second, he was too stunned to move. Suddenly he howled, “You won’t steal my honor from me, you dirty Kernyvak sea-wolf!”

  Faster than the Hound of Uladztir himself, Morholt reached for the Balu Gaisos, hefting it loose with all his might, and thrust it at the defenseless Tristan. Branwen screamed without even realizing it. The spear pierced Tristan’s shoulder so completely that the tip was visible from the other side.

  “Treachery!” called a voice from the crowd. “Treachery!” shouted another foreign fighter. And another.

  With supernatural grace and speed, Tristan returned the assault. His blade split Morholt’s throat from ear to ear. This time, it was Essy who screamed.

  The chalice tumbled from her hands and the red ale spilled on the ground.

  Castle Rigani was watered with sovereignty and blood.

  WHITETHORN

  TRISTAN FELL TO HIS KNEES, a putrid black pus spewing forth from his shoulder.

  “Treachery!” howled Havelin, the Crown Prince of Armorica, taking an angry step toward the King’s Tent.

  Branwen bolted from her seat, running as fast as she could to Tristan’s side without a thought for her uncle or the queen or Iveriu. She just had to be near him.

  Only one thing could turn a wound against itself like that so quickly. Poison. Venom.

  And not just any venom. The deadliest kind—from the fangs of a destiny snake.

  Dropping down beside the Kernyvak prince, Branwen went a wintry kind of calm. All of Castle Rigani held its breath. Her uncle Morholt had met his destiny now and it seemed he’d been intent that Tristan should meet his. What Morholt had done was beyond dishonor; no wonder the Land hadn’t chosen him.