Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  Noirín, Dubthach’s mother, and the other castle seamstresses were working night and day on the trousseau Essy would bring with her to King Marc’s court, at Monwiku. Emerald dye, freshwater pearls, and homespun lace had grown in short supply.

  Branwen leaned back into her chair. “Run along, then.”

  “Only if you promise not to do any more work this afternoon.” Essy shot her a stern glare. Branwen laughed. Her cousin had become extremely protective during Branwen’s recuperation, guarding her as closely as Keane did the princess, and she saw in Essy a queen as kind and munificent as her mother.

  “I promise, cousin.” The care with which Essy nursed Branwen had brought them closer, although sometimes it was hard to be on the receiving end of orders to rest.

  The princess released an unconvinced “Hmph.” Then she said, “I’ll bring you some water mint tea when I’m done,” and exited, clutching the dress for Gráinne tight.

  As soon as Essy was out of sight, Branwen reached behind the chair for a basket she kept carefully hidden. She scooped up the shimmery material from the bottom, gathered it into her lap, and threaded a needle. She wanted this to be a surprise and she didn’t really consider it work.

  Branwen preferred complete quiet while she sewed. She liked to listen to the rhythm of the stitch, the prick and slice of the needle as it slid through the smooth silk. The pearl-gray would set off Essy’s fair complexion.

  While the castle seamstresses prepared the rest of the princess’s wardrobe, Branwen had asked Queen Eseult if she could be the one to embroider the mantle her cousin would wear on her wedding night. The tunic had a much lower than usual scalloped neckline adorned with scabbards. The swords were drawn. Blooming garlands for fertility. The pearls fastened in between them represented virtue and innocence.

  She pulled loose a string that had gone awry and embroidered the tip of a krotto harp on the train of the dress. When Essy slipped into her gown, she would become a symbol of peace, hope, and bounty. Now that Branwen had experienced the Land’s pain, it simmered constantly beneath her flesh. She prayed King Marc would understand the intentions of the message she had so painstakingly crafted. She wanted him to see her cousin as powerful, magnificent—give her the respect she deserved.

  Music rose from beneath her window. An enchanting, doleful cry. Then it was gone.

  Ever since Branwen had journeyed to Whitethorn Mound, she’d started catching glimpses of things that weren’t there, echoes of songs that weren’t real. Not in her world. Was this what it meant to be Otherworld-touched? The Old Ones had let Branwen cross over and part of her seemed to have remained.

  Maybe that was the hidden cost. Could healing Tristan the way she did be the reason not a second went by that Branwen didn’t think of him? No, that had started long ago. When she believed him to be Tantris the shipwrecked minstrel. Branwen couldn’t help but wonder what her own First Night might be like with him.

  Distracted, she pricked her finger. A storm-red sun welled to the surface and fell upon the gown. Her chest pinched. She sucked the splotch of blood until it was gone. Breathe. No one would ever notice it had been sullied.

  Another high-pitched trill. A blackbird. Branwen rested her forehead against the diamond-shaped panes, craned her neck farther.

  Down below, in the somewhat secluded garden of the south tower, Essy sat beside the hazel tree. Sunlight transformed the locks ringing her companion’s face into a dazzling golden mane—like one found on a lion in Master Bécc’s bestiaries.

  Panic lanced Branwen. The princess was ensconced next to Lord Diarmuid. She must have given Keane the slip.

  Branwen dropped the gown and it flowed toward the floor like rippling water. She was out of her chair in a flash, bolting through the door and down the twisting stairs. What could Essy have been thinking? Her cousin knew how much Branwen had endured to ensure the peace between Iveriu and Kernyv.

  Was Essy truly in love with the arrogant lord?

  Granite slabs slid under her feet as Branwen ran faster and faster. And then she slipped. She flew through the air and spilled into a sturdy pair of arms.

  “Tristan.”

  Branwen pulled herself free of his grip, slamming back against the hard stone wall of the stairwell.

  Tristan sucked in a short breath, intrigue teasing his brows.

  “Careful,” he mocked her gently. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” He reached out to her. She caught a distinct whiff of candied apples. Tristan must have been raiding Treva’s larder. And beneath that scent lay the sweetness of the sea. The freshness. Her pulse immediately sped up at the idea of tasting it. “You shouldn’t run while you’re still recovering,” he said. “Whatever you require, I will fetch it.”

  How could Branwen tell Tristan that she was trying to stop Essy from compromising her virtue with Lord Diarmuid before wedding his king? If he ever suspected an indiscretion, he would be honor bound to report it and the alliance would be broken. She couldn’t put him in that position. She couldn’t ask Tristan to choose between her cousin and King Marc. Her mouth tightened with anger that Essy was making Branwen choose between peace and love.

  Unconsciously, she felt for the brooch at her shoulder. She had worn it every day since the Champions Tournament. She was certain her mother had been guiding her through the Otherworld, and Lady Alana’s presence had been stronger since she’d visited Whitethorn Mound. Somehow Branwen had forgotten that, as a little girl, she used to talk to her mother on the beach and that the waves had talked back.

  And then, one day they brought her Tristan.

  Tristan’s gaze dipped to the brooch. “It’s lovely.”

  “It belonged to my mother.”

  He pursed his lips, staring at her intently. Outside, the sky had faded as autumn took hold. The green leaves were turning to gold, falling. But in Tristan’s eyes, all Branwen could see was an endless summer.

  “We haven’t had a moment truly alone since you saved my life,” he said from deep in his throat. “Again.”

  “No,” she agreed. Queen Eseult’s counsel had kept Branwen from acting rashly. “Not that I’m keeping a tally.” It came out breathless. Branwen should be preventing Essy from committing her own rash acts—right now—but the way Tristan was looking at her rooted her to the stone.

  He leaned closer and slipped one finger between the brooch and the flimsy piece of cotton covering her shoulder. The breath hitched in Branwen’s throat as he ran his fingertip along the grooves, just above her heart.

  “What does it mean?” he asked.

  “Don’t you know the language of trees?”

  He shook his head, taking another step toward her.

  She gulped. “The right fight.”

  Tristan brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. A tide of yearning washed over her and she sorely wished they were back at the cave.

  “I was afraid I’d failed,” he said, a grave look crossing his face. “I thought I’d failed to bring peace.” His gaze penetrated her. “When I awoke, but you didn’t—I thought I’d failed you.”

  The anguish in his voice drew Branwen’s hand to his cheek in return. She couldn’t resist tracing the line of his jaw. “You didn’t fail, Tristan.” Words tumbled from her mouth. “You could never fail me.”

  The admission was a revelation. Tristan had found a fissure in Branwen’s heart, too, when she discovered him on that raft. He had worked his way in, burrowing deep, and healed the rupture.

  Tristan framed her face with his hands. “There is no peace for me without you, Branwen.” Then his lips found hers.

  Time lost all meaning in the darkness of the stairwell. Branwen gave herself over to this new hunger clawing at her. Craving. She had spent so much of her life fighting against the longing left by loss. But as she kissed Tristan, she stopped struggling. She let both her pain and love consume her. His hands slid down her sides until his callused fingers encircled her wrists.

  Her breathing grew ragged. Branwen was entrapped
like an animal. Only she didn’t want to escape.

  The promise of a different kind of peace lay between his arms.

  A lament tore through her mind. The blackbird’s lament.

  Branwen jerked away. She darted her eyes through the slit in the turret toward the garden. If she didn’t separate her cousin from Lord Diarmuid this very instant, there would be no peace for anyone.

  “Branwen, what’s wrong?” Tristan watched her carefully, concern radiating from his eyes.

  She couldn’t answer. She didn’t want to lie to him. The blackbirds had carried off her voice again.

  “Was I too bold?” he said. “I thought you’d forgiven me. I thought you felt the same way.”

  Did she ever. But she had to go. Branwen couldn’t let Essy feel this—this … release with Diarmuid or all would be lost.

  She shook her head, willing her gaze to communicate all that she couldn’t say, and fled from Tristan, his kiss still on her lips.

  Essy squealed in delight as Branwen entered the garden. Presumably at some sweet nothing that Lord Diarmuid had whispered. Her own ears were still burning from the ones Tristan had just bestowed upon her.

  The princess laughed again. She didn’t notice Branwen from behind the hazel tree. Jealousy pricked her that not only had Essy lied to her, but she’d brought the northern lord to their tree.

  Lord Diarmuid spotted Branwen first. He straightened up and stepped a few paces away from the princess. He shoved a handkerchief speedily back into his pocket—the one Essy had forced Branwen to give him.

  “Lady Branwen,” he said, running a finger under the collar of his tunic.

  Essy wheeled around. The look of sheer joy on her face made Branwen pause. Who was she to deny her cousin love? What gave her the right to forbid Essy the wonder that she herself experienced with Tristan?

  The smile on the princess’s face turned to ashes.

  “Branny … it’s not what it looks like.”

  They both knew she was lying. She didn’t put much force behind her protestation.

  Branwen angled her shoulders toward Lord Diarmuid. He slumped like a little boy expecting a scolding he didn’t think he’d earned.

  “I didn’t realize you had returned to Castle Rigani,” she told him.

  “Only just. King Óengus summoned my father, and I accompanied him.” Which explained Essy’s sudden lighter spirits.

  “I see. Would you allow me a moment in private with my cousin?” Branwen pronounced each word precisely, and each syllable had teeth. “I’m certain you would prefer it if Lord Rónán didn’t learn where you had absented yourself to.”

  His jaw tensed. Diarmuid feared his father, even if he didn’t fear her. Lord Rónán would surely banish him back to Talamu Castle if King Óengus didn’t have his head first.

  The northern lord bowed deep and low. He regarded Branwen in a new way, as a true adversary. When it came to defending the honor of Iveriu, that’s exactly what she was. It was the mission with which she had been charged; the part she had been chosen to play.

  Lord Diarmuid vanished behind the hazel tree. Carved into its trunk were Branwen’s and Essy’s names.

  Her cousin’s eyes grew incandescent with anger, and Branwen reached out to snatch the tears leaking from their corners. The princess reeled back.

  “Essy, you know this is forbidden.” Her voice was soft, and yet still rock hard.

  “Are you my warden, Branny?” she demanded.

  A blackbird swooped between the cousins and perched on the lowest hanging limb. Its beady midnight eyes were trained on Branwen. This time its call was desolate. The princess didn’t appear to hear or see it.

  Branwen inhaled. “The Land has chosen her Champion, dear heart.”

  “Sod the Land! You sound exactly like my mother.” Essy balled her hands into fists. “Sometimes I think you forget that she is my mother—not yours.”

  Branwen winced. The words sliced through her heartstrings just as the princess must have known they would.

  “You can live happily ever after with Keane,” Essy continued ranting, “while I’m shipped off like cargo to a loveless prison!”

  “I’m not going to live happily ever after with Keane,” Branwen ground out. “And Kernyv is not a prison.”

  Her cousin scoffed. “For me, it is. Why should you get to choose your sweetheart and not me?”

  Branwen was a hypocrite, and she knew it. Tristan had almost made her forget herself. She couldn’t let that happen again. She wouldn’t. Rubbing Lady Alana’s brooch, her resolve strengthened.

  “Because, Lady Princess,” Branwen replied, “Queen Eseult is your mother, and you will be Queen of Kernyv. And one day your son will be King of both Iveriu and Kernyv!”

  Fury further reddened Essy’s cheeks. “I don’t care!” She yanked at her hair. “I don’t care about being queen!” she yelled. “I don’t care!” Golden hairs like feathers were caught by the breeze. The princess had always raged as fiercely as she loved.

  “Stop it, cousin. You are the Land, and the Land is you.”

  “Then the Land chose unwisely, because not even magic could make me stop loving Diarmuid!”

  The blackbird cawed again, with a piercing trill.

  Branwen grabbed her cousin’s forearms before she could do herself more damage. “Essy! Stop!”

  The princess wrenched from her grasp and Branwen stumbled on one of the roots at her feet. “Leave me alone, Lady Branwen!” Essy commanded.

  She took one step toward her cousin. The princess thrust out her hand.

  “By the Old Ones, please, leave me alone.” Tears rinsed her cheeks. “You don’t listen to me anymore but you listen to them.”

  “Essy—”

  “No, you’re on their side. You and the queen. Not mine. Diarmuid is the only one who really loves me.”

  Branwen’s jaw dropped.

  The blackbird’s cry was practically a howl. The princess left Branwen in stunned silence in the dark shade of the tree. Withered leaves crumbled beneath her feet.

  The sun disappeared and a light rain began to fall.

  Magic. Magic, Essy had said. Not even magic could make her forget Lord Diarmuid.

  She glanced up at the blackbird. Its wings were glazed with a purple sheen in the drizzle. If the Otherworld was truly guiding Essy toward Kernyv, then the Old Ones must want her to be happy there.

  Branwen would ask for their help.

  Magic: That’s what she needed—what Iveriu needed—now.

  LIKE A FORTRESS

  HER HEART POUNDING AS SHE made her way from the garden to the west tower, Branwen paused to tap the harp on the green keystone. She sighed, steeling herself, and it resounded up the spiral staircase leading to Queen Eseult’s chambers. She spared a brief glance at the east tower, the one her uncle Morholt had occupied, and took the first step.

  Morholt’s tower was empty now. All of his belongings had been destroyed immediately following the Champions Tournament. Burned. There were to be no remnants of the disgraced King’s Champion at Castle Rigani.

  Branwen still possessed the sword he’d given her as a girl, however. No one had thought to look for it. She wasn’t sure why she had kept it: a vestige of the man who had tried to steal Tristan from her forever. And yet, she couldn’t part with it.

  Fintan looked tired as he greeted her, his barrel chest more cumbersome. Everyone in the castle was worn out from making preparations for Essy’s journey. Branwen knew her aunt wasn’t sleeping much, which meant her bodyguard wasn’t, either. He was her most constant companion.

  “Miserable weather,” he muttered before announcing her. Branwen managed a wan smile in return.

  The queen was framed against the beveled window by heavy brocade curtains, gray light slipping through her braids. Her eyes were closed, her brow smooth. She looked like she was asleep except she was standing upright.

  “Lady Queen?” Branwen said, feeling guilty for disturbing her. She swallowed down the metallic taste
on her tongue.

  “Branny.” Her aunt’s eyelids flipped open. “You’re all flushed.”

  Branwen’s hand moved to her mouth. Was she? Could the queen tell she’d been recently kissed?

  Queen Eseult gave her an assessing look. Now that she was here, Branwen wasn’t sure how to ask for what she wanted without betraying her cousin. The queen crossed the room toward her.

  “You’re working yourself too hard.” Her aunt’s voice was shaded with affection.

  Branwen shook her head, threading her fingers together. “Not at all. Essy’s First Night gown is nearly finished. It’s just…” Why couldn’t she find the right words? “Do you have a moment?”

  “Always for you.” She motioned for her to be seated in a leather armchair beside the window. Walking over to the court cupboard, the queen picked up a carafe and began to pour two small glasses of citrine-colored spirits. “Tell me what weighs on your heart.”

  “Allow me to serve you,” Branwen said instantly, hovering above the seat cushion.

  “Dearest, I am perfectly capable of serving myself.” Queen Eseult’s face turned pensive. “It’s important to remember that sometimes we have only ourselves to rely upon.”

  “Of course.” She sank into the chair.

  Her aunt presented Branwen with the glass. Taking a sip from her own goblet, the queen settled into the opposite seat, gazing out at the gathering clouds. “There’s going to be a storm,” she said absently.

  Branwen stared down at the golden liquid infused with dried Clíodhna’s dust. In small doses, it had a relaxing effect. Queen Eseult must have more worries than she showed.

  Her aunt waited for her to speak. “Lady Queen,” she began, “it is a matter of the heart that concerns me—but not my own.” The queen afforded Branwen a weighted look and invisible bees stung her chest. “Or, rather, it’s the taming of a heart that preoccupies me.”

  “The taming of a heart that is not your own?” said Queen Eseult, sipping from her cup. “That can indeed be a difficult task, my niece. The heart is an unruly beast.”

  “Yes.” Branwen was all too aware.