Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  She gritted her teeth. No. Sweat beaded along her brow in the crisp autumnal night.

  You can’t be free, Uncle Morholt, Branwen told him. Or none of us ever will be. She didn’t know if his spirit was listening.

  The last stitch popped several times. With a more determined motion, she made an awkward, unseemly cross-stitch. It contrasted greatly with the fine love-knots beside it. Branwen recognized Queen Eseult’s artistry. She had honored her brother—if only a little.

  It was done. Morholt’s spirit was sealed for eternity. Panting, Branwen scooped the dirt in her hands like a plow and threw it over the body. By the time she was done, her tunic was filthy and her face streaked with earth and sweat.

  Pain pulsed throughout her joints as she slowly, stiffly, got to her feet.

  She turned toward Castle Rigani, which looked black against the starry midnight-blue sky. The waves crashing on the beach below seemed nothing more than a sea of shadow. A thousand strands of mermaid’s hair effervesced on the sand.

  Branwen sighed deeply.

  Susurrations filled her ears as she walked home. The Old Ones knew what she had done. She couldn’t be certain when or where they would exact their price.

  A scurrying in the undergrowth set each of her nerves alight. Amber eyes. The fox growled and launched itself at her, barking and whining.

  She started to run; the fox chased after her, snapping at her ankles. Once again, shrieking noises filled her ears.

  Covering them with her hands, Branwen stumbled. She couldn’t brace her fall. She crashed face-first into a puddle, choking on the grimy water. Drowning.

  How could she drown in a puddle?

  Branwen jerked her head up and the surface of the dark water came to life. It was spitting and hissing. Boiling. The water was on fire. Figures emerged in the flames, a strange shadow play.

  She wanted to look away, but she remained entranced. Those gifted with Otherworld sight were believed to scry the future on the water’s surface; it had never occurred to Branwen that a puddle would suffice.

  The fox circled, yapping. At either edge of the shallow pool, she glimpsed an image of Essy. The princess was wearing her First Night gown, a crown upon her head.

  Her cousin had become Queen Eseult of Kernyv. Two likenesses of her cousin walked toward each other, toward the center of the puddle, where a pyre burned. Embers crackled and glowed. An angry mob surrounded the two Eseults on every side. There was no escape. No breath. Only smoke.

  Both versions of her cousin marched steadily in the direction of the fire. Branwen tried to yell but she could only rasp. Men she didn’t recognize ringed the blaze, their faces obscured by flickering specters.

  Eseult stepped into the bed of flame and it exploded like a star. Everyone was annihilated. Stark white and then—nothingness.

  The surface of the puddle stilled. Branwen lifted her face from the water, spewing out the gulps she had inhaled. The fox yipped beside her, almost apologetic.

  He seized her gaze and flames burst in the creature’s eyes. Another test, perhaps.

  Well, Branwen had survived. She had succeeded.

  She patted the skeletal finger in her pocket and spat out the rest of the rainwater.

  Queen Eseult had told her she was a healer. True healers healed kingdoms. Branwen would heal the rift between Iveriu and Kernyv even if it was her last act.

  THE LAST NIGHT OF THE WORLD

  ESSY SAT QUIETLY AS BRANWEN braided finely spun gold through her hair. It made her already flaxen tresses appear burnished, thickening her mane so that no one could perceive the illusion. Even without a crown, the top of her head sparkled.

  Tonight was the Farewell Feast for which all of Castle Rigani had prepared so diligently, and tomorrow they would set out for Kernyv. One life would end and another would begin. Branwen’s body vibrated with expectation. So did her cousin’s, but of a different kind. Essy tapped her foot incessantly, taking short breaths, not meeting Branwen’s gaze. Beneath her silent veneer, the princess was furious.

  Branwen pretended not to notice. Tonight was significant for a reason her cousin could never discover. Before they could embrace their new life, in that place between endings and beginnings, lay the task that Branwen had ahead of her. The Dark Moon was here, the moon of magic and death. Unseen, a void in the night sky, it was the most potent time for spellwork, Queen Eseult said.

  The traitor’s finger—her uncle’s finger—was wrapped in thick velvet and secreted beneath Branwen’s bodice. Her aunt had prepared a jar of beetles in the infirmary to strip the flesh from the bone: an efficient if morbid solution to the stench of decay. For ten days and nights, Branwen had carried the bone on her person at all times lest it be discovered. Strange dreams had plagued her since she unearthed the grave, but at least the fox and the blackbird had ceased their constant shadowing.

  Branwen didn’t know if she should be grateful or disconcerted.

  She lived in apprehension of the price the Old Ones would ask for the Loving Cup. Still, she was resolved. She had yet to fail their tests. She hoped her mother would be proud of the woman she was becoming, like the queen seemed to be. Yet Branwen hadn’t felt Lady Alana’s presence since that night on the hill. Would the sacrifice required for the spell be never feeling her mother’s spirit again?

  At the thought, she pulled Essy’s hair too tightly.

  “Ouch,” the princess grunted. It was the first word she had spoken this evening.

  “Sorry,” Branwen said, and resumed braiding. Her cousin barely glanced in her direction, which was a small mercy because each glance since the children’s festival had been more pointed than a spear.

  Dexterously, she wove the golden thread into Essy’s scalp to disguise the bald patches, where clumps of hair were missing. Heaviness pressed on Branwen’s chest. Lord Diarmuid had returned from his lighthouse survey but, to her immense relief, the northern lord kept himself at a distance from the princess. She sighed. While Branwen was relieved, the fresh scabs dotting Essy’s head evidenced that she was not.

  Once her cousin had shared the Loving Cup with King Marc, Branwen was confident Essy would know true happiness and all of this unpleasantness between them would sink to the bottom of the Ivernic Sea. Nor would the princess have a reason to further harm herself. She just had to hold on until then.

  Essy began humming under her breath. It was Étaín’s song. A wistful ballad that narrated the demise of the Ivernic heroine and her cursed love. “I did not ask for the love I was given: the love for which I must be forgiven.” In the princess’s sweet soprano, the melody became so haunting it would bring a Kernyvak raider to his knees.

  Branwen stopped herself. Those Kernyvak raiders were now their allies, or they would be, she reminded herself. She had done everything within her power to make sure they turned from enemies into friends, and yet it was still difficult to shake lifelong prejudices.

  “Do not believe this life is what I wished,” sang her cousin in a lilting soprano. “A thousand years, sealed with a kiss.”

  How would the Ivernic noblewomen be received at Monwiku? Branwen wondered. King Marc might order his court not to treat them as enemies but, besides Tristan, would they ever have any friends?

  The princess broke off mid-chorus and turned her vivid green eyes on her cousin. They were shining. “You seem almost more disconsolate than me,” she said. Her voice was barely a whisper and Branwen was surprised at the tenderness behind it.

  Essy craned her neck to meet her gaze. Branwen stilled like quarry caught in a hunter’s sights, afraid to provoke the princess’s ire anew.

  “I don’t know what you mean, cousin.”

  Was that how Branwen appeared? Her stomach pinched. She’d been preoccupied by the Loving Cup, to be sure. She hoped Tristan didn’t think she was having second thoughts about joining the princess in Kernyv. Branwen hadn’t dared be alone with him since that stolen moment in the garden. The following day, however, she’d discovered a missive wedged under
her bedchamber door. It was inscribed with the words: Odai eti ama. It wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be.

  Should she have reciprocated?

  “That’s what I mean—that faraway look in your eye. As if you’re through the Veil in the Otherworld,” Essy said, fear and annoyance comingling in her voice. “I think maybe you’ve never truly returned to us, Branny. To me.”

  Branwen exhaled an enormous breath. The princess had no idea how close she might be to the truth. “I’m here, cousin. There’s just so much yet to do before tomorrow morning.” She brushed Essy’s jawline with the back of her hand and Essy trapped it there.

  “Branny … Branny, I—I don’t want you to come with me to Kernyv.” Shock drenched Branwen’s nerves like a freezing bath and she tried to pull away. The princess held her firm. “I don’t want you to leave Iveriu—leave Keane—just for me.” Tears from her cousin’s eyes trickled down their clasped hands, warm and sticky. “I don’t want to take away your choices because mine have been taken away.”

  Guilt spread across Branwen like poison ivy. “Oh, Essy,” she said, swiping at the tears with her thumb. In her heart, she knew she wasn’t solely journeying to Kernyv out of duty. How could she not follow Tristan across the waves?

  “I’ve been more snappish than an Otherworld goat for weeks, I know,” said Essy, choking on a sob. “I thought it would be easier to leave you if you hated me. But it’s not.”

  Branwen crouched down to meet Essy’s eye and tears threatened to spring from her own. The princess hadn’t been pushing her away out of spite—she’d been trying to set Branwen free.

  “Essy,” she said gently. “I’m going with you because I want to go with you. You are as dear to me as any sister ever could be.”

  Tears continued streaming down the princess’s face. “Now I wish I’d paid more attention when you tried to teach me about herbs, that we’d spent these last weeks together.”

  “There will be plenty of time for that in Kernyv.”

  Essy tugged at one of the golden threads near her hairline. “What about Keane? I don’t want you to hurt him because of me. Even if I hate having a bodyguard, he’s been like a brother, and broken promises smart.”

  “I never made Sir Keane any promises, Essy.” And it wasn’t because of the princess that she had hurt him.

  “You gave him your token for the Champions Tournament,” persisted her cousin. “And you didn’t see how grief-stricken he was while you were ill. He was heartbroken. He still is—it’s obvious. I don’t want to take you away from a man who loves you.” Another wave of tears launched an assault. “I’m so sorry.”

  Branwen quieted Essy’s fingers. “Cousin, this is my choice. I choose you. I won’t let a man come between us.”

  A gasp, a strangled kind of laugh-cry escaped from Essy at those words, and she buried her face in the arch of Branwen’s neck. Her swallow-like body heaved. The traitor’s finger shifted against Branwen’s breast, lying in wait, as she shushed her cousin. The bone of the betrayer would ensure nothing came between the cousins again.

  After a few moments, the princess settled. “There now,” Branwen said, lifting Essy’s face toward hers. “The tints on your cheeks have all smeared. Let me fix them before the banquet begins.”

  Essy scrubbed her face with her hands. “All right, Branny. You always take such good care of me.” She hiccupped. “I’m sorry if I don’t thank you often enough.”

  A smile teased the corners of Branwen’s mouth as she grabbed a piece of silk from the sideboard and began soaking up the crimson splotches of berry tint from Essy’s cheeks. Her cousin had a good, kind heart and Branwen was right to protect it. She’d lashed out from fear, but she meant no harm. Essy twisted her skirts between her hands as Branwen reapplied the rouge.

  When she was finished, the princess said, “Now let me do you.” Branwen hesitated. She didn’t think her cousin knew how to properly apply beeswax or crushed berries. Essy sensed her resistance and lowered an eyebrow. “Branny, I’ve been watching you for years. I’ve learned a thing or two.”

  “For you, anything,” Branwen acquiesced as they changed places. She took an apprehensive seat on the wooden stool and Essy plucked a pot of wheaten flour powder from the vanity.

  The princess dusted it lightly over Branwen’s face. “There, you look like a lily flower.”

  “So long as I don’t look pale as a Death-Teller,” Branwen replied. A shiver ran down her spine, and she wished she hadn’t mentioned that. Speaking the name drew one near, particularly on a Dark Moon.

  Essy patted Branwen’s face with rosewater to make the powder stick. The scent was delectable. Under her breath, the princess hummed the verse where Étaín falls in love with her husband’s brother. She selected a sky-blue tincture and began applying it liberally to Branwen’s eyelids. Do not blame him, do not blame me—it was preordained.

  “Not too much,” Branwen interrupted, “or I’ll look like a court jester.” She pictured presenting a garish visage to Tristan at the feast and swallowed hard.

  “Hush.” Essy swatted at her playfully. “Sir Keane won’t be able to resist you.”

  Branwen stiffened as the princess wielded a fine-tipped horsehair brush and dipped it in a lavender-blue pot of beeswax before outlining Branwen’s eyes. It was cool and delicate. “We’re leaving in the morning, cousin. I think it’d be better if he did resist.”

  Essy put a hand on her hip. “You have tonight.”

  A thousand lightning bugs tickled Branwen’s skin, but she said nothing. Essy always lived for the present.

  The princess dabbed her lips with a poppy-colored stain. She clapped her hands together merrily, pleased at her handiwork. “You’re so beautiful, Branny!” she exclaimed.

  For a moment, Essy seemed as young and carefree as when she was a little girl. Like the day she wrecked Branwen’s sandcastle. Branwen’s heart stuttered.

  “Look!” Essy said, turning Branwen to face the mirror.

  Branwen’s reservations vanished as she peered into the looking glass. The contrasting light and dark blue tints brought out her eyes, and her pale skin glowed beneath the rouge. A few freckles glinted.

  Her lips were curved like butterfly wings, a kissable carmine. Yes, Branwen looked distinctly kissable. Thinking of herself like that made her blush, but she wanted Tristan to see her that way as well—even if they couldn’t act on it.

  “See,” said the princess leadingly and Branwen indulged her with a smile. “Now tell me you don’t want to dance with Keane like it’s the last night of the world!”

  She didn’t reply. If it were the last night of the world, Keane would not be the partner she chose. Her cousin’s triumphant expression began to wilt.

  “Branny,” she said. “I need you to do something for me.” There was an urgency to Essy’s tone that frightened Branwen. “Diarmuid won’t talk to me.”

  Choosing her words with precision, Branwen said, “Men aren’t masters of saying good-bye. I imagine he’s trying to spare you a bittersweet departure.”

  “Right now, it’s only bitter. There’s nothing sweet about it.” Her voice broke. “Remember how Master Bécc said that if you strip the bark from the hazel that the impression of the honeysuckle remains?” Branwen nodded. “Diarmuid is under my skin, too, and I need to know if I’m under his—whether I was truly loved at least once in my life. To know I had something truly my own. Before I’m given to a husband I’ve never met.”

  Pity overflowed inside Branwen. If only she could tell her cousin about the Loving Cup. She was willing to risk the retribution of the Old Ones because Essy had made her impression on Branwen’s heart long ago.

  “What is it you want me to do?” she asked.

  Essy opened the jewelry box beside the mirror. “Give Diarmuid this.” Withdrawing a small scroll, she pressed it into Branwen’s hand.

  Branwen sucked in a breath. “This is dangerous. Not just for you—for me.”

  “I won’t order you to do it. Not
like last time.” Her lower lip trembled. “I’m asking for your help. Do this for me and I’ll leave for Kernyv without protest,” pleaded her cousin. “I’ll die happy.”

  Branwen clutched at Essy’s shoulders. “You’re not going to die.”

  “I might as well,” said her cousin, the fervor leeching from her words. It was replaced by something colder, deader. Branwen shuddered. They were close—so close—to laying the foundations for a lasting peace.

  The din from the guests arriving at the castle gates transformed into the swell of the surf. The sea was speaking to her; Branwen tried to listen.

  She leaned back, turning over the scroll with her fingertips. “I’ll deliver your message, Essy,” Branwen told her. “I hope Diarmuid gives you the answers you seek.”

  The princess threw her arms around Branwen. “I love you, Branny,” she whispered. “Never forget.”

  “We should get to the feast.”

  Essy leapt to her feet, eyes bright with hope, and extended a hand. Branwen secreted the scroll in her skirts. She forced a smile as she escorted the princess down the stairs. Whatever was contained in the letter was tantamount to treason, Branwen had no doubt—not just against Iveriu, but Kernyv, too. Words could bring war faster than a blade. As if excited by the prospect, the traitor’s bony finger itched against the underside of Branwen’s bodice.

  She had come too far to let Uncle Morholt win.

  SEALED WITH A KISS

  SLANTS OF BURNT-ORANGE LIGHT FELL over the feasting hall. The victories of Iveriu’s legendary heroes were frozen and dark in the paneled glass. Branwen realized she would never see them again in the golden afternoon light. She would never see Castle Rigani or any of its inhabitants again.

  Branwen had chosen a gown of flushed pink for the farewell celebration, the color of cheeks on a winter’s morning. In between her plaits, she had tied tiny acorns painted gold. Her right shoulder was adorned with her mother’s brooch.

  Vats of red ale glistened in the candlelight. Would King Marc serve his subjects red ale at Monwiku? Branwen’s brain buzzed with questions about her new home. Well, she would have the entire voyage to quiz Tristan about their destination. Even if the tides were with them, the journey would take two weeks. Maybe more.