Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  “Does this heart belong to a Kernyvman, perchance?”

  Gooseflesh prickled Branwen’s neck and crawled down her chest to her belly button. “In part,” she said. Her aunt puzzled at her, lifting her eyebrows as an indication that she should continue. Branwen felt a tickle at the back of her throat.

  “I’m also afraid for Essy’s heart, Lady Queen.”

  The queen went still and Branwen feared she’d made a terrible mistake. The edges of her aunt’s mouth turned downward. “As am I,” she confided. Her shoulders heaved as she exhaled a large breath. “Since the day she was born, I have wanted nothing more than to entrust Essy’s heart into safe hands.” Unfamiliar regret stained her words. “Yours, too, Branny.”

  A thud came at the window as the blackbird crashed against it. The queen didn’t startle. “We must trust that the Land has chosen a worthy Champion,” she continued. Did she not see the bird?

  “I do, Lady Queen. Only—” Branwen gripped the stem of the goblet harder. “Only I’m afraid that Essy will never know love.” And she was afraid her cousin might destroy herself in the process of trying to know it.

  “There are many forms of love, Branny.”

  “True love,” Branwen said more forcefully. Then, almost in a whisper, she repeated, “True love.”

  The queen’s eyes, so like her mother’s, glinted in the dull light. “My daughter has your love, and I know it to be the truest kind.”

  Overwhelmed by the compliment, Branwen persevered, fingering her brooch.

  “She will have it always,” she promised the queen, adding, No matter how she rages, in her mind. “But I’m not speaking of the love between cousins, I—I mean what exists between … lovers.”

  Queen Eseult set her goblet down on a side table.

  “And this is something with which you have experience, Lady Branwen?”

  Tristan’s face glimmered in her mind and wildfire scorched her skin. Her eyes blinked rapidly.

  The queen listed her head, lips twisting to one side. “In that case, you and the Kernyvak prince will have my blessing—once you’re in Kernyv.”

  “Th-thank you, Lady Queen,” said Branwen, deluged by gratitude, swearing to herself she wouldn’t squander the queen’s understanding by giving in to her passions again on Ivernic soil, “but, that’s—”

  “Not what you came here to discuss,” the queen finished for her. She leaned forward, eyes avid. “Branny, please, speak plainly. I believe it was I who explained how children are conceived when you began your monthly bleeding.”

  Her aunt’s laughter was echoed by a shrill descant from the blackbird perched on the window ledge. It almost sounded like a warning yet Branwen couldn’t break her course. She had cared for her little cousin’s heart since before she could walk.

  “Essy asked me once to make her a love spell. I don’t know how.” Branwen cast her aunt a nervous glance. “I think you do.”

  “Branny, no.” She steepled her fingers tightly together. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “It was dangerous when I healed Tristan,” she said, jutting out her chin, surprised by the strength of her own words.

  Her aunt also seemed taken aback. “I would never have asked you to risk your life if all of Iveriu had not been at stake.”

  “I know—I know, and I believe all of Iveriu is still at stake.” Branwen couldn’t bear to find any more matted clumps of hair on her cousin’s pillow, stained with blood. “Iveriu is relying on the princess to ensure peace and happiness. The princess needs us to ensure her happiness, too.”

  “I see.” The queen drummed her fingers on the table; the nails were brittle, unfiled. “It is my daughter’s heart you wish to tame.”

  Black wings rattled against the windowpane. Again, her aunt took no notice. The bird must be another Otherworld echo.

  “Yes—and that of King Marc.” Branwen never would have believed she could be so bold. But love made a person do bold—sometimes inconceivably stupid—things. And Branwen loved her cousin.

  Silence washed over the room, cold and salty. Finally, Queen Eseult said, “True love is like a blossom. It must spring naturally. Forced fruit is almost always bitter.”

  “Almost,” Branwen said, half question, half prayer. “We owe Essy—” The queen raised a finger, and she bit off her own words.

  “I’m sorry, dear heart. My answer is no. The risk is too great. Essy will find her own way with King Marc, as I did with Óengus. We built our love like a fortress, stone by stone.”

  “Fortresses are built to keep people out.”

  Her aunt glanced at her owlishly. Branwen had never spoken to the Queen of Iveriu with such audacity. She clasped a hand over her mouth.

  “Perhaps it’s your heart that needs taming, Lady Branwen.”

  She ducked her head, shame hot on her brow. “Forgive me, Lady Queen.” Renewed silence scratched at Branwen’s ears. Then she heard the queen drawing in a long breath through her nostrils.

  “If you agree to forgive me as well,” said her aunt, and Branwen peered up through her lashes. “I know you speak from love, and I am overweary.” Queen Eseult fell back against the soft cushion of her chair. “Essy will have you to defend her happiness in Kernyv.” She reached for her goblet. “And you are a most determined Champion.”

  The blackbird launched itself from the windowsill and took to the sky.

  Branwen gulped. The queen winked. “It will have to be enough.”

  She nodded, smiling weakly, but as she descended the steps of the west tower, the truth bit Branwen deeply.

  It wouldn’t be enough for her cousin. She wouldn’t be enough.

  * * *

  As if the princess already found her lacking, she’d spoken to Branwen as little as possible since she’d been interrupted mid-tryst. Branwen refused to apologize for doing her duty. Essy most likely also blamed her for the fact that King Óengus had charged Lord Diarmuid with preparing a report on the readiness of Ivernic lighthouses, which kept him away from Castle Rigani, although Branwen had no hand in it. So far, the stalemate had lasted half a moon.

  The cousins worked together wordlessly to string garlands of autumnal flowers, rosebay and white yarrow, for the children’s celebration. The castle servants no doubt remarked on the nippy silence when they were out of earshot.

  It was protocol that Tristan, as the winner of the Champions Tournament, should escort the princess on official duties. Essy neither smiled at him nor reciprocated his attempts to befriend her. Their kingdoms had made peace, but the princess waged her own private war.

  One afternoon she’d insisted on going riding and rewarded her escort by having her mare relieve herself on his boots. Keane had enjoyed that moment in the stables immeasurably. It pained Branwen more than she could speak aloud. Her cousin’s disdain for both of them was already clear as day.

  Imagine if she knew the truth about how Branwen felt for the Kernyvman.

  Crumbled leaves, toasted brown, crunched beneath her feet as she hurried through the south tower garden after retrieving the present for Gráinne that Essy had forgotten in her apartment. The little girl would arrive any minute. Branwen suspected her cousin had mislaid the doll’s dress on purpose to be rid of her lady’s maid as she greeted the village children. Excited, apple-round faces had begun filing into the feasting hall, eager hands swiping at Treva’s delicious spiced buns.

  Although there was a chill in the air, the atmosphere among the coastal villages, and throughout Iveriu, was less desolate than it had been this spring. Peace—and hope—was nearly tangible.

  Branwen’s gaze flickered to the hazel tree. She curled her lip.

  “How has that tree offended you, my lady?”

  She swung around at the voice. Tristan took a cautious step out from the shadow of the archway. Something in Branwen’s core pulled tight. Light shone through the scattered leaves clinging to the branches above, dappling his warm brown skin.

  “I’m afraid, perhaps, that the tree is not the only
one to have offended you,” he said. Tristan drew nearer, stopping a couple paces in front of Branwen, and planted his feet. He raked a hand through his mop of curls. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  So many explanations, answers, excuses rushed through her mind that she couldn’t choose the right one. She clutched the doll’s dress against her chest. Tristan scanned it quickly. “The frock would look fetching on you,” he said, cracking a quarter smile. “But it seems a tad small.” She couldn’t quite laugh.

  “Branwen?” Tristan made her name sound like a riddle. “Lady Branwen,” he corrected himself. “If you regret the kiss, please accept my sincerest apologies.” Devastation tipped his words.

  She couldn’t stand it. “No. I mean, I don’t—” Branwen stepped closer, and lowered her voice. “I don’t regret it.” Suggesting otherwise would be a lie. Relief loosened Tristan’s stance. He lifted a hand to touch her cheek. Branwen caught it in midair.

  “We can’t, Tristan.”

  “What did I do wrong?” His shoulders sagged, swaying in her direction.

  She wanted to tell him that nothing he could do was wrong. That nothing had ever felt more right.

  “It’s Essy,” she said. His eyebrows shot up. “She’s beside herself about the voyage, about becoming queen, about King Marc—”

  “He will be a good husband to her,” Tristan interrupted. “I swear to you, Branwen.”

  “I believe you, it’s not that—it’s … I don’t want to throw my happiness in Essy’s face.” Branwen pointed at the names carved into the bark of the hazel, and Tristan followed with his gaze. The names would remain, etched into the trunk, etched into time, long after she and the princess had been forgotten.

  Tristan nodded, seeming to understand. “Then … I make you happy?”

  Her face must have betrayed her because a smile broke out on his so glorious it could turn night into day. A ray of midnight sun. Before she could speak a reply, however, “Lady Branwen!” called a familiar voice. It sounded like the sharpening of knives, and she flinched. She and Tristan broke apart.

  Keane fingered the emerald ribbon on his kladiwos as he strutted toward them. Her ribbon. Despite their quarrel, Branwen didn’t dare ask for it back. She hoped Tristan would understand.

  “You’re a difficult woman to track down,” said the bodyguard.

  “That’s the way I like it, Sir Keane.” Branwen had also averted any possibility of being alone with Keane since her fever broke. She knew it couldn’t last forever.

  “Prince Tristan,” Keane acknowledged with a glare, as if he were spitting out nettles. His gaze shifted between them. “The princess was asking for you, Lady Branwen,” he said. “The children have all arrived.”

  “Thank you,” she told him politely. “I’m on my way.”

  “As am I,” said Tristan. He held out an arm. “I would be delighted to escort you.”

  Keane wrapped Branwen’s ribbon around his pinkie like he wanted to choke the life out of it. “Princess Eseult sent me to collect her cousin.”

  Tension coiled more tautly around the threesome than the honeysuckle around the hazel. Branwen knew which of the two men was more likely to bend than break.

  “Prince Tristan,” she entreated. “Would you mind giving this to the princess?” She held out the doll’s dress and glimpsed Keane smirking. “Save me a spiced bun?”

  Tristan visibly swallowed. Branwen argued with her eyes, like the night Keane had nearly discovered him in the cave.

  With a cordial bow, Tristan declared, “It would be my distinct pleasure” and strode through the archway into the inner ward.

  Keane watched him leave, sneering all the while. “The Kernyvman shouldn’t attend the celebration,” he said, voice rough. “The children don’t need one of his kind to remind them of everything they’ve lost.”

  “Prince Tristan is the nephew of King Marc, and you would do well to remember it. Because of him, Ivernic children have the chance at a peaceful future. And, despite the indignities he’s suffered on our shores—including an assassination attempt—he still willingly extends his hand in friendship.”

  “He certainly wants to be your friend, my lady.”

  Branwen seared him with a poker-hot glance.

  Keane made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “Ah, Lady Branwen, you put me on the back foot. Why is it I can never say what I mean?”

  “I don’t know, Sir Keane. Why is that?”

  Red stained his cheeks. Sighing, he offered her his arm. Branwen wanted to gallop away faster than her palfrey. Instead, she accepted it. A brisk breeze tousled her hair as they processed toward the feasting hall.

  Branwen hunted for Tristan across the courtyard, but all she saw were leaves falling against the sky. Taking in her wistful expression, Keane stopped short in the middle of the ward.

  “Why did you give me your token, Branwen?” His voice was strained: menacing, but mostly hurt.

  “Because you asked for it.”

  “Was it given unwillingly?”

  His eyes were as uncharted as the Dark Waters, to the west of Iveriu. She cast her own to the cobblestones. “I didn’t say that.” Keane was a warrior of her homeland. She would never seek to dishonor him. But, but …

  “Ask for it back, then,” he said. It was a challenge.

  Her gaze snapped back to his. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Of course it isn’t what I want!” His bottom lip quivered. Only once. “Unless there is someone else on whom you wish to bestow your colors?”

  Keane nodded toward the great hall as if he were shooting an arrow straight at Tristan’s back. Branwen said nothing, only pressed her lips into a line.

  “Stay.” He reached a gloved finger to her cheek. “Stay in Iveriu, where you belong.”

  Her heartstrings tightened. Even if there were no Tristan, her other true love was journeying across the sea. “The colors of my heart will always be Ivernic,” she told him. “But I belong with the princess.”

  Keane furrowed his brow. “You love your cousin that much?” he said.

  It was a question Branwen had posed to herself more than once in recent weeks. The answer leapt from her lips. “More than anything.”

  He nodded. Branwen’s shoulders began to sag in relief and exhaustion.

  “What if I asked to be assigned to accompany the princess to her new home? I know King Óengus is on edge about entrusting her safe passage to Kernyvak hands.” Keane took a short breath. “Would that please you?”

  She gripped her skirts. This was not a complication she had foreseen.

  “The Kernyveu would take it as an offense,” Branwen said. “Besides, you could never bear to live among your enemies.”

  “I would bear it if you asked me to, Branwen.”

  Keane leaned forward, his eyes fixated on hers. He meant to kiss her. And not on the cheek.

  Branwen flinched. He paused, their faces an awkward distance apart. It was the only answer he needed.

  He garbled something she didn’t quite catch, before saying, “I see. You have an Ivernic heart. But you don’t want this Ivernic heart.”

  Bristling, the guardsman brushed past her, speeding toward the feasting hall as if he meant to wage war. Numbness spread through her, leaving Branwen strangely bereft, but she didn’t call him back. Keane’s love would be like a fortress keeping others out—and trapping her inside.

  It was not the kind of love Branwen wanted.

  THE LOVING CUP

  ESSY TWIRLED IN A CIRCLE, ringed by dancing children. Sweet, breathy voices filled the hall, singing a silly round about an Ivernic hero who steals a goat from the Otherworld. Aureate light swathed their faces and crowns of wildflowers bounced atop their heads.

  The sight gladdened Branwen beyond measure. She hadn’t seen her cousin smile so genuinely since their fight beneath the hazel tree. Keane and Tristan flanked the princess from behind the singing children, shoulders taut, more likely to strike each other than anyone else.r />
  Branwen edged her way around the dance floor to join Queen Eseult. Her aunt watched the merriment from beside one of the tables that had been laid with sacks of pork rinds and other staples from the castle larders. Hearth-baked bread scented the air. Treva, Dubthach, and Saoirse were on hand to distribute the provisions to the children’s guardians. Hopefully, the supplies would help the villagers as winter descended.

  “Lady Queen,” said Branwen, curtsying in greeting. Her aunt smiled and kissed her cheek.

  After a final chorus about the antics of the Otherworld goat, the little dancers erupted in giggles and the ring dissolved as they filled their faces with more of Treva’s confections. Branwen spied a child with a ruby head, hair gathered into pigtails, darting gaily between the other children toward the princess.

  When Essy’s gaze landed on Gráinne, her face lit up. Branwen felt lighter as well. “Who is this?” the queen asked.

  “One of Essy’s most devoted subjects,” Branwen replied, and her aunt laughed.

  “Princess Essy!” Gráinne exclaimed gleefully, barging her playmates out of the way. She seemed far less frail than when they had first met. “That was fun!” She hugged the princess fiercely.

  Winking at the little girl, Essy said, “I believe I promised your Eseult a new dress, didn’t I?” Gráinne’s beloved doll had been tucked under her arm as she danced and she brandished it enthusiastically.

  When Essy beckoned Saoirse forward, Gráinne burbled and squeaked.

  Using golden thread, Branwen had stitched rolling waves along the trim of the dress’s pleated skirt. Just below the collar she’d embroidered a brooch that resembled her own. Essy’s face fell slightly as she caught Branwen’s eye, and the princess swallowed audibly.

  “It’s so lovely, Princess Essy.” Gráinne clapped her hands, grabbing the dress brusquely from her grasp. The girl stripped her doll and discarded its ruined dress like yesterday’s fish.

  Tristan chuckled as he ambled to her side. “A princess should have a dress that suits her station,” he said approvingly, dashing the girl a smile.

  Gráinne went stock-still. A ribbon of fear creased her brow. An Ivernic child would recognize a Kernyvak accent anywhere.