Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  His fingers tripped across Essy’s love letter, tearing it from the folds of her dress.

  “No!” she exclaimed. In her mind, Branwen saw a world on fire.

  She tried to snatch the scroll back but Keane kept it out of her reach. He broke the seal. “This must be from one of your many lovers,” he said mockingly. The tiny ripping sound ricocheted in her ears.

  Keane unraveled the missive, and that’s exactly how Branwen felt. Her world was coming undone.

  “My darling Diarmuid,” he began reading aloud. “Tomorrow I am to be set adrift, abandoned. Without you, my life is jettisoned from me.”

  A flutter came at the window, high above in the turret. The blackbird trained its eyes on Branwen. Once more, she tried and failed to grab back the letter from Keane.

  “This world, Iveriu, means nothing to me compared with you. I am ready to leave it behind if I can’t have you.”

  Disbelief permeated Keane’s entire face, rancor in his voice. He began to shake.

  “Come for me, my love,” he continued, “Rescue me. I will follow you anywhere. I value my crown less than the weight of its gold. Let us follow our hearts rather than the designs of others.” A soul-shattering pause. “Your devoted lover, Eseult.”

  Branwen bit the inside of her cheek and tasted blood. This was so much worse than she’d imagined. She pictured Essy as a little girl beside the waterfall, only this time all of Iveriu was on the ledge with her.

  Keane dropped his hand to his side, crumpling the scroll with his fist, sighing heavily. Thank the Old Ones she hadn’t delivered that letter.

  Thinking of how her cousin wanted to make amends before the feast, a red streak of anger sliced Branwen to the bone. Essy wasn’t setting Branwen free, she wasn’t giving Branwen back her choices—she was running away and leaving her behind. For half a second, Branwen considered abandoning the entire project of the Loving Cup. No. She couldn’t. Queen Eseult was counting on her, as was the Land. And she was a healer first.

  When Keane raised his eyes to Branwen again, there was no light in them.

  “My princess is a slut, and you, Lady Branwen, are nothing but a whore.”

  Crack. Branwen’s hand collided with Keane’s cheek like a thunderbolt. The force of it reverberated through her, made her teeth ache. Fury had replaced her fear. Keane rubbed the red mark she’d made and scoffed.

  Totally calm, he said, “I have wasted my whole life in the royal service. And for what? To make peace with my enemies?” A muscle tightened in his jaw. “No, the spirits of my family will not rest until they have a thousand Kernyvak heads.”

  Branwen would have preferred it if Keane fulminated. His self-possession terrified her more.

  “I will show this letter to your dear, sweet Kernyvak prince, and then he will have no choice but to tell his uncle that the Ivernic princess is defiled.”

  “Essy thinks of you like a brother, Keane. Would you condemn her this way?”

  Hesitation flickered on his brow, before transforming into an ominous smile.

  “You can’t choose your friends, only your enemies—and I have chosen mine.”

  Panic bloodied her. Peace could be lost by a few swirls of ink, the princess’s pen mightier than any sword. The blackbird pierced the veil of stars with a plaintive cry.

  “I can’t let you do that,” she said.

  He snarled a laugh. “You don’t have a choice.”

  Keane had been far more broken by pain and war than she’d known. Branwen had believed herself to be broken by her parents’ deaths. Now she understood the love of her aunt and cousin had held her together. But there were more broken warriors like Keane—too many—who would like nothing more than another fight.

  The right fight. Branwen tilted her head toward the window. Had the blackbird spoken? It sounded so much like her mother.

  “I do have a choice,” Branwen told him.

  With more strength than she knew she possessed, she grabbed the kladiwos blade dangling at Keane’s waist, holding tightly to the ribbon, and pressed the edge to his throat.

  He scoffed. “You won’t do it.”

  “Give me the letter.”

  The face Branwen had once found pleasing had become a hideous mask. “I don’t believe you,” Keane said.

  “You have no idea what I would do for peace.”

  Her words gave him pause. He regarded her oddly, as if he were seeing someone else entirely. A nerve twitched repeatedly above his eyebrow. With a grunt, he extended Essy’s letter toward her.

  As Branwen reached for it, Keane yanked her forward, snaking the sword from her grasp and knocking her chin against his collarbone with a thud. No, it couldn’t end like this. She couldn’t fail now.

  Mother, Father, help me. By the Old Ones, help me!

  Light brighter than day, brighter than the Belotnia fires, erupted in the confined space. Keane stared at Branwen in horror. The flames were sprouting from Branwen’s palm, rippling along her heart line.

  Fury consumed her and she watched from outside herself as she pressed her palm to Keane’s heart.

  He seized and shook like a man hit by lightning. Steam surrounded them. A fine, glimmering mist.

  Keane tried to speak, to cry out, but he could not. Life drained from him.

  Her hand on his heart, Branwen told him, “One Iveriu. Forever.”

  The blackbird flew away and took Keane with it.

  THE IN-BETWEEN

  BRANWEN STARED DOWN AT KEANE’S tortured body. Her mouth fell agape as she returned from afar. She doubled over and vomited the entire contents of her stomach onto the stone beside his head.

  And then she ran. She ran faster than any Otherworld creature. She reached the opposite side of the castle before reason began to prevail. She couldn’t let Keane’s body be discovered by the Royal Guard. He was Essy’s bodyguard; someone might think a plot had been hatched against her life—that peace with Kernyv was only a charade.

  Choking back her rage, Branwen tried to catch her breath. She had murdered a man. She had killed Keane to protect Iveriu; but, if anyone knew, it might also destroy any chance for peace. Was Keane the price the Old Ones demanded for the Loving Cup?

  Branwen needed to think quickly. The muscles in her neck tensed and jumped. There was only one person she could trust to keep this secret.

  Tristan could never know; how could he love her if he knew she had taken a life? If he had seen what she was capable of? And Essy … Essy thought of Keane as a brother. She couldn’t find out he’d been willing to destroy her reputation for a personal vendetta.

  Barking came from the ramparts. The fox. What? What do you want to tell me? More futile whimpers. Sweat pooled in her palms and Branwen smeared it along the sides of her gown.

  She strode toward the nearest torch and set Essy’s words of love ablaze. The love that had cost Keane his life. They were followed by the handkerchief. The clumsy stitches smoked and blew away.

  Only one piece of evidence remained.

  * * *

  “On behalf of King Marc of Kernyv, I gladly accept this Seal of Alliance,” Tristan announced to King Óengus, and all those assembled, as he signed his name to the treaty he would bring home with him across the Ivernic Sea. “The son born from their union will unite our peoples forevermore as rightful heir to both kingdoms.”

  Thunderous applause and cheers rocked the feasting hall. Branwen smoothed her plaits behind her ears, trying to conceal her untamed appearance. Queen Eseult’s eyes found her straightaway, as if her niece’s heart had called to her own. Branwen tipped her head toward the antechamber and the queen nodded. Then she slipped back into the darkness.

  Terror pinched Branwen’s chest harder with each passing second. Hopefully, Tristan was too preoccupied with the king to notice her prolonged absence. Essy, she was certain, would have seen Diarmuid return. She could only pray that her cousin didn’t come looking for her; she didn’t think the princess could bear the weight of such a secret. Of death.

/>   Branwen forced her eyes shut as she waited, pretending she hadn’t just killed a man. She tried to picture Keane as he had been at the Champions Tournament, strutting across the battlefield. But all Branwen could see was his withered, tormented face—as if he had been burned alive from the inside out. And that smell, the stench of singed flesh.

  She doubled over again, shivering, and crumpled to the floor.

  “Branny?” the queen said kindly. A warm hand rubbed up and down her spine.

  Full of shame and tears, Branwen barely dared to look at Queen Eseult.

  “What’s happened? Tell me,” her aunt implored her.

  Blubbering, and wiping the snot from her nose, Branwen gathered in all the air she could. As much as she thought it might take for her to burst. For a moment, all she wanted was to disappear, evaporate. Explode.

  Haltingly, she said, “I’ve done a terrible thing.”

  Her aunt crouched down beside her. “Whatever it is, Branny, we’ll remedy it.”

  “Not this.” She gasped another breath. “Not this.”

  Queen Eseult framed Branwen’s face with her hands, her gaze insistent.

  “It’s Sir Keane. He, he…” Branwen’s voice faded to nothing. Senseless garbles.

  “He what?” The queen’s tone held a shred of fear.

  How could Branwen explain to her aunt what Essy had asked of her? She didn’t want Diarmuid’s blood on her hands, too. The queen would be within her rights to ask for the feckless lord’s head on a platter for trysting with the princess after she was betrothed to King Marc. At the very least, he would be exiled. Branwen didn’t want that, not for Essy, not after what she had done to prevent anyone from finding out.

  Clasping her shaking hands together, Branwen told the queen, “He doesn’t believe in peace.”

  “I see. And where is Sir Keane right now?”

  “In the servants’ stairwell. Only—”

  A sharpened eyebrow. “Only what, Branwen?”

  “He’s dead.” She paused. “I killed him.”

  No response.

  “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t!”

  The queen’s gaze clouded over briefly; she pulled a loose thread from the hem of her sleeve. A boisterous tune spilled out from the feasting hall, accompanied by Tristan’s melodic baritone. Branwen glanced toward the shafts of honey-colored light that stretched from the hall to the antechamber. It seemed such a different world from hers. She didn’t belong there anymore. She could barely breathe as she waited for her aunt to speak.

  Finally, Queen Eseult said, “How? How did you kill him?”

  Branwen’s face broiled under the queen’s scrutiny. “I don’t know, Lady Queen. I was scared. He threatened me. He wouldn’t listen to reason—” The words became stuck in her throat and they scratched her like a claw. Her chin wobbled so furiously that her teeth chattered; the clack-clacking resounded in her mind. “I … I pressed my palm to his heart and he began to burn. It all happened so fast.”

  The queen’s lips parted, shock momentarily fracturing her composure, an unreadable look in her eye.

  Fresh tears rolled down Branwen’s cheeks. “I killed Keane, Lady Queen. It wasn’t my intention, but I did.”

  She hadn’t meant to kill Keane, she was sure she hadn’t. She just needed him to stop. Branwen had only wanted him to stop. And yet, beneath her horror squirmed some new, dark exhilaration.

  Queen Eseult touched a hand to her mouth as she inhaled. “The Hand of Bríga.”

  Confusion knit Branwen’s eyebrows together. The Hand of Bríga? She’d never heard of it. Worrying one hand over the other rapidly, her shoulders lifted even closer to her ears. The queen reached for Branwen’s right hand, quieting her excessive fidgeting. With reluctance, Branwen let her take it, and she turned it over to examine the heart line.

  After Branwen had healed Tristan with the white magic of the skeakh bark, the scar had turned a lustrous silver—like a tear in a veil of lace. It was the seam between her and the Otherworld. Now, the tiny ridges of her palm were an angry crimson, as if she had been the one scorched.

  “The Hand of Bríga,” her aunt repeated. “From the same source comes creation and destruction. It’s been generations…”

  Foreboding skirred through Branwen’s being. Before she could ask the queen what she meant, her aunt commanded, “Fetch Sir Fintan immediately. Take him to Keane’s body. I will meet you there after I procure something from my chamber.”

  Branwen was about to protest but the fierce certainty in the queen’s eyes silenced her. “I’ll always protect you, Branny.” Queen Eseult held her hand a beat longer. “As long as it’s within my power.”

  “Thank you.” Branwen curtsied, still in a daze, and skulked back into the hall.

  Luckily, Fintan was standing at attention just outside the door, ready to protect his mistress with a fist or a blade.

  “Sir Fintan,” she said in a low voice, slightly breathless. “Queen Eseult has need of you. Quite urgently. Please follow me.”

  His brow arched in suspicion. Branwen caught a glimpse of how terrifying Fintan could appear to his enemies. She hoped he would never count her among them.

  Hand closing around the hilt of his kladiwos, he said, “Lead on, Lady Branwen. Lead on.”

  Keane’s back was turned toward them as Branwen and Fintan approached, his knees folded into his chest.

  “Oi.” Fintan sighed gruffly when he spotted him. “Too much ale, lad?” he muttered, half in amusement, half in chastisement. “Get up, Keane!”

  But the soldier didn’t stir.

  More annoyed, Fintan said, “No sleeping on the job! Can’t hold your mead? You give the Royal Guard a bad name.” He shoved Keane with the toe of his boot.

  Still, the bodyguard didn’t move a muscle. Branwen watched the scene unfold, heart slamming against her rib cage. Part of her brain tried to delude itself that Keane was only asleep. That it would only take a bucket of water to rouse him.

  “Move your arse, man!” Fintan exclaimed, squatting down beside him. His joints groaned. One hand on his blade, the old soldier yanked Keane’s shoulder toward him.

  As his eyes fixed on Keane’s contorted visage, Fintan drew his kladiwos and sucked down the phrase, “Otherworld protect me.”

  Branwen’s shoulders began to heave. Keane looked far worse than he had only ten minutes ago. Now he didn’t just look withered, but shriveled—the husk of a man. Skin sagged from his cheeks, loose like the lard Treva used to make soap. He was melting, liquefying. It was truly gruesome.

  And Branwen had done that. Branwen had destroyed this man. She had wrought a terrible death.

  Fintan grabbed her elbow roughly. “What happened here, Lady Branwen?” he barked. Stress bled through his eyes.

  The stone stairwell pulsated with the echoes of shouting and dancing from the revelers. Chanting and a chorus of From the northern wilds, I found myself many a bride! jarred harshly with the grisly fate of the warrior curled at their feet.

  Fintan shook her again. “Sound the alarm, Lady Branwen. Kernyvak bastard. We’re under attack!”

  Before Branwen could explain, a majestic voice cut through the confusion. “There is no attack, Sir Fintan,” said Queen Eseult. “Keane suffered from a wasting sickness.”

  Her bodyguard pushed to his feet and bowed his head. “But, Lady Queen, this is some kind of Kernyvak treachery. Keane was as healthy as Queen Medhua’s bull not half an hour ago.” He jabbed Keane’s thigh with the end of his sword and a chunk of flesh fell to the ground.

  Branwen covered her mouth with her hands. There was nothing left in her stomach so only acid bathed her throat.

  “Sir Fintan, Kernyv had no part in this—”

  “Lady Queen, how can you be sure?” he interrupted. “We must get you to safety. And the princess.” Branwen had never known Fintan to speak over the queen. The wizened warrior looked truly afraid, afraid of whatever could do that to Keane.

  Would Trista
n be frightened of her, too? The thought was a thousand tiny razor cuts in her heart. Like Keane, Branwen was bleeding from the inside out.

  “Fintan,” the queen said severely. “The Land commands you to remove Sir Keane at once and never to speak of this again.”

  The guardsman went completely still. In the murk of the corridor, Queen Eseult glowed with an ethereal light. No one could doubt that she spoke for Iveriu, for the Goddess Ériu herself. She was not to be questioned. Fintan bowed reverently from the waist.

  “Come, Branny, take Sir Keane’s feet,” she commanded. “Fintan, his head.”

  As Keane and Fintan had once carried Tristan, Branwen and Fintan now lifted Keane. His face smeared like grease in the soldier’s hands. The queen didn’t balk at getting her hands dirty—or bloody. She held Keane’s abdomen as the three of them carried his body through a secret passageway that Branwen hadn’t known existed.

  The procession seemed agonizingly slow, but before long she found they were on the beach below the castle. Despite the moonless night, in the glow of the mermaid’s hair and the stars that glittered like snowflakes upon a midwinter garden, Branwen could just about make out the mast and sails of the ship that would ferry her to Kernyv, bring her new life: the Dragon Rising. It was well named; its hulking great frame was monstrous, indeed. Branwen grimaced as she realized that she wasn’t so very different from a dragon of legend—they both breathed fire.

  “We will give Sir Keane back to the waves, Fintan,” Queen Eseult instructed.

  “He deserves a proper burial, Lady Queen.”

  “Sir Fintan, there soon won’t be enough of his body left to bury.”

  Branwen thought she might die right then. Keane had survived the Skeleton Beach massacre as a boy. Now the same watery grave awaited him. Perhaps fate could not be changed—only delayed.

  Fintan acquiesced with a nod. The three of them continued plodding toward the sea. Branwen’s arms ached and her knuckles chafed against the leather of Keane’s boots. Freezing water soaked her skirts as they set the body down amidst the sea foam and the strands of turquoise light.