Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  He floated for a few moments and began to sink. Only Branwen’s emerald ribbon bobbed along the surface of the water.

  The wind whipped up the sea spray, coating her cheeks with a fine mist, and swallowed what was left of Keane. Silhouetted against the sky, illuminated by the haze of mermaid’s hair, the blackbird cried. Two kinds of salt crystallized in winding trails down Branwen’s face.

  Fintan recited the Royal Guardsmen’s oath. “From Kerwindos’s Cauldron was I born,” he intoned in a scratchy bass. “I serve the Land against all those who seek to harm her. Until I return from whence I came.”

  Queen Eseult bowed her head in respect as the last bubbles, like desperate breaths, stilled on top of the water. Turning toward her bodyguard, she said, “I don’t believe Sir Keane has any family.”

  “None living, Lady Queen.”

  “In that case, it falls to you to drink the Final Toast, Sir Fintan,” the queen said. She withdrew a small oblong flask from beneath her cloak. The silver glittered in the aqua glow of seaweed.

  Fintan nodded grimly. He uncorked the flask and put the lip to his mouth. Branwen had seen this ritual performed many times. Far too many. Each time a man died in the service of Iveriu.

  She had watched her uncle Morholt perform it for her father. The Final Toast was always drunk by the closest male relative to the fallen man or, barring that, his lord or master. Fintan was Keane’s superior in the Royal Guard, so it was right and proper that he should imbibe the first drink Keane would taste in the Land of Youth.

  Branwen had always thought it distinctly unfair that they didn’t have such a tradition for the women who died for Iveriu.

  The elder guardsman swigged the entire contents of the flask without taking a breath and wiped his mouth brusquely with the back of his hand. “Lady Queen, we should return to the feast. There might yet be Kernyvak pirates patrolling our shores.”

  “Just another moment of silence for Sir Keane,” she answered in a tone that brooked no compromise.

  Branwen licked the sea salt from her bottom lip, willing her hands to stop shaking. How could she keep this secret that already dragged on her heart like a deadweight—the heart she wanted to share with Tristan? Now Keane would always have a piece of it, a piece that was shadow-stung.

  A strong gale rolled off the sea and whistled between the mourners. A hard, mucus-laden cough rattled Fintan’s chest. Queen Eseult canted her head in his direction.

  “You must return to Castle Rigani, Sir Fintan,” she said.

  “At once, my queen. After you.”

  “No, Fintan—just you. Tell King Óengus that I have cloistered myself in my chamber with a dreadful headache and that I’m not to be disturbed.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “When you wake tomorrow, you will remember none of this.”

  To Branwen’s great astonishment, the bodyguard didn’t protest. “If that is what you desire, Lady Queen” was all he said.

  She nodded, taking the flask from his grasp. The shadows of light playing on Fintan’s haggard face revealed eyes dilated as wide as vats of ale. Branwen sucked down a short breath.

  The guardsman bowed from the waist and took his leave. Her aunt’s gaze slid from Fintan to the water to Branwen. Branwen looked back with anticipation.

  “Queen Medhua’s tears,” the queen explained. Branwen knew that the ancient queen was called the Intoxicating One. “I blended derew root, loverswort, spirit-fire, and a few other herbs to influence Sir Fintan’s mind.”

  “Is it safe?”

  Her aunt lowered an eyebrow. “Quite safe enough, when mixed correctly.” It was true that Branwen wasn’t in any position to question the queen’s methods. “I prepared the dose before the feast so we could slip out unnoticed to brew the Loving Cup.” She suspected it distressed the queen to interfere with Fintan’s mind, but she always did what needed to be done.

  Queen Eseult clamped one hand on Branwen’s arm and stared into her eyes. “We just needed the draught a little sooner than I expected.”

  “Yes, Lady Queen.” The words scraped the inside of her throat.

  She regarded Branwen a long moment. The crashing tide competed with the blood in Branwen’s ears to deafen her. “Do you still want to go through with it, my niece?” the queen asked. “The spell?”

  “Of course.” It was Branwen’s knee-jerk reaction. She was amazed at the ease and vehemence with which the words popped from her mouth. But Branwen had already sacrificed too much to turn back now. “Yes, my queen,” she repeated. Against her chest, the traitor’s finger grated. “I do. I have already paid the Old Ones’ price.”

  Queen Eseult rubbed her widow’s peak, loosening her plaits like she really did have a headache. She pressed her lips together as if she wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. Her aunt resembled Dubthach’s mother, the seamstress, when she pinned Branwen’s skirts, needles clasped between her teeth.

  A sigh as thick as fog. “Then let’s begin. The Dark Moon is at its zenith and waits for no woman.”

  From far out at sea, Branwen caught the Death-Teller’s song on the wind.

  * * *

  She focused on the clip-clop of Queen Eseult’s boots along the rocky shoreline to drown out the drumming of her own heart. Branwen skidded on the slippery stones several times but always managed to catch her balance before tumbling to the ground.

  “We’re here,” the queen announced. She took Branwen’s hand and slid it along the roughened cliff face. The stone came to a point. She pressed the flat of Branwen’s palm against it and the rock retreated like a lever, a small crevice springing open. Amber light streaked out from the sliver. The passageway was so narrow Branwen had to turn her hips at an angle.

  She shielded her eyes as she followed her aunt into an atrium that had been carved into the rock. The Rigani stones of this particular cave were so bright and clear that they were practically translucent. In the center of the room, a great cauldron boiled, oak and rowan branches crackling. Directly above the hissing pot, perhaps a thousand handsbreadths in the air, was a smudge of sky. A tiny opening. Right where the Dark Moon was perched on its canopy of clouds.

  “Is this Kerwindos’s Cauldron? The cauldron?” Branwen asked, awestruck. The Iverni believed all life sprang from here—even the Old Ones.

  “Perhaps.” The queen raised a shoulder. “Truth is always obscured by time. This is a place of in-between—neither our world, nor the Otherworld. The power we need to harness is strongest here.”

  Branwen nodded because it was the first thing all night that made any sense. In order to steer the course of fate, one must be neither wholly within it nor outside it. Her eyes darted every which way, scouring the cavern, enthralled.

  Queen Eseult’s eyes pierced hers. “You do understand.” Another sigh. “I thought you would.” She envied her aunt’s composure.

  “You have the traitor’s finger?” she asked. Branwen inclined her head. “Show me.”

  Branwen plucked at the laces holding closed the side of her gown. Immediately, it made her think of Tristan’s fingers dancing over the harp strings, how she wanted him to play her, too. Something deep inside tightened as her bodice loosened. Did she deserve that kind of joy now that she had taken a life?

  She held out the finger to her aunt as an offering. Queen Eseult shook her head. “I mustn’t touch it.” Of course. How could Branwen have forgotten? Without noticing her move a muscle, the queen sidled up next to her. “Lady Branwen of Castle Bodwa,” she said, tone unwavering, calm. “You must silence your mind. You must empty it so that it can be filled with the Loving Cup.”

  Branwen cast her eyes to the rocky floor, embarrassed. The firelight bounced off the willow-colored stone.

  Queen Eseult placed a finger under Branwen’s chin, lifting her head. “The Dark Moon has risen,” she said. Branwen sensed it, too. “We need to harness the power at its peak to infuse the potion.” Withdrawing her moon-catcher, her aunt pricked the tip of her forefinger. “Mother of Creation
, I am the Land. Your daughter calls on you.”

  One cardinal drop rushed forth and leapt from the queen’s finger into the cauldron.

  Boundless silence. Followed by a roar from the cauldron.

  She gestured for Branwen to cut her finger as well. “Mother of Creation,” her aunt continued, “who created this world, the Otherworld, and everything in between. We offer you blood for love.” Life pulsed in her voice.

  Branwen splashed a drop into the tumultuous concoction and a yowl ricocheted through the cave, mightier than that of any Death-Teller.

  “The blood of the Hand of Bríga will set alight even the coldest of hearts,” Queen Eseult proclaimed to the sky.

  A glorious energy invaded Branwen through the prick on her finger, exploring her mercilessly. A sensation both ecstatic and numbing. It seared her veins, searching for her heart. What precisely was the Hand of Bríga? Had her aunt known all along?

  She tried to follow the queen’s advice, keep her mind empty so that she could be filled to the brim with—with whatever this was.

  The sounds of wind and fire were replaced with harmonious singing and lapping water. She recognized the voice. Tristan sang to Branwen’s very soul.

  The Hound of Uladztir bites and hisses,

  Longing for Lady Emer’s sweet kisses.

  Vines of scorching energy curled around Branwen’s rapidly beating heart. In her mind’s eye, Tristan’s youthful face faded and was replaced by the distinguished crags of battles fought and won.

  By his side perched a slender woman with night-rich hair that had turned to snow. Branwen recognized herself in a snatch of laugh lines. This was her future—her future with Tristan. A future full of love. Despite everything, it was still possible.

  Through her shimmering vision, Branwen’s attention focused once more on Queen Eseult. A strangely solid presence, immovable as any mountain, against which her dreams were projected.

  “To ensure love and loyalty, we offer the bone of a traitor conceived in perfidy,” the queen declared. “Blood and bone, forged by fire, we beseech you for the truest of desires.”

  Branwen dropped Morholt’s finger into the scalding brew without prompting and words flowed from her mouth unbidden.

  “Mother of Creation, I am the Land,” Branwen said. “We women of Iveriu make life with our bodies, make peace with our bodies. Now let us make love.”

  A screaming storm, like a ravening horde, gnawed inside her mind. The gentle old warrior and his wife broke apart, splintered and fractured. One cast adrift in the sea, the other tied to a pyre. The tune was changing.

  I did not ask for the love I was given.

  Branwen watched from a frozen, darkened sky as crops burned to dust and babies wailed.

  Do not believe this life is what I wished.

  This could be the future—a traitor’s future—if the Loving Cup didn’t succeed.

  A thousand years, sealed with a kiss.

  Kerwindos’s Cauldron existed outside time and space. Both visions were possible, Branwen realized. All that stood between peace and fire was her.

  “Mother, I give you my love for peace.”

  The Dark Moon began its descent.

  THE HAND OF BRÍGA

  A TRAIL OF LIGHT SUGARED BRANWEN’S eyelids. They fluttered, opening one at a time, as she sat up in bed groggily. Her entire body ached. She tried to stretch her arms above her head but she felt so weak, frail. She didn’t feel nearly powerful enough to have killed a man. A man who was now at the bottom of the Ivernic Sea.

  Not wanting to look but needing to see it, she turned over her right hand. In the center of her palm, bisecting her life line, ran a long purple welt. The skin was puckered along her heart line, deep violet surrounded by a reddish hue. The burn was healing but she would be forever marked. The life she took would never be forgotten.

  All she wanted to do was crawl back under the covers and hide, sleep for a thousand years. But today was not a day for granting wishes. Today the future grabbed Branwen and embraced her, whether she was ready for it or not.

  Tentatively, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and prepared to take her first steps toward Kernyv.

  The door burst open. “Branny!” Essy cried, her alarm peppered with anger. “Keane is missing, and I couldn’t find you … and I thought you had run away together,” she said in a hurried jumble of words. “I thought you’d left me—left me to sail for Otherworld-forsaken Kernyv all by myself!”

  Panic, barbed and rusty, twisted in Branwen’s gut. Rage flickered. “I would never do that, cousin.” Her words came out strident. If Branwen hadn’t burned the letter, Essy would have been the one to run off and leave a broken kingdom in her wake. “What do you mean Keane’s missing?” Branwen played up her confusion.

  “He didn’t report for duty this morning. In fact, nobody’s seen him since last night.”

  She tried very hard not to be sick.

  “I overheard Fintan saying he’s probably sleeping off his drink between the bosoms of a buxom serving maid,” Essy continued, crossing the chamber toward her. “But I didn’t believe it. I know Keane wants only you.”

  The princess pushed her hair behind her ear, tugging at plaits that were horribly askew. “I saw him follow you and Diarmuid—but I had no way to warn you.”

  A kernel of fury frizzled and popped in Branwen’s heart. Keane was charged with defending the princess but he’d been willing to betray her. Branwen had had no choice. No choice at all.

  “I’m sorry, Branny,” Essy said, her tone doleful. The princess hung her head, plopping down on the bed beside her. Several loosened strands fell to the quilt.

  “Keane and I parted in anger,” said Branwen, sighing, which wasn’t entirely a lie, although the truth was so much worse.

  “Is it my fault?”

  Yes—and no. She shook her head. “I couldn’t love him the way he wanted.” A bead of sweat trickled down her spine. No one should love that darkly.

  Essy’s hand was clammy as she threaded it through Branwen’s. She wanted to resist. She was still furious about everything that had transpired, but she was also exhausted and her cousin’s touch felt like relief against her feverish skin.

  “I’m sorry,” the princess repeated. “I’m so sorry you’ve given up your chance at love. Otherworld knows you won’t find any among the Kernyveu.”

  But she had. Branwen had found love, and she couldn’t tell the princess. Nor could she reveal that she knew the contents of Essy’s letter. Too many secrets thrummed between them—between all of them. Once Essy and King Marc drank the Loving Cup there would be no more need. She would breathe freely again.

  The princess stroked Branwen’s heart line unwittingly and she yelped. She wished she hadn’t. “Oh no, Branny.” Her cousin examined the wound more closely. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” She shrugged it off. “I touched one of Treva’s saucepans.” Essy narrowed her eyes at Branwen, unconvinced. “Really, it’s fine,” she insisted.

  The princess raised Branwen’s hand to her mouth and kissed the cooling scar. Essy’s mouth was soft and tender. Branwen was so moved by her cousin’s small gesture that she snatched her hand away. She cast her eyes toward the quilt, fighting back tears.

  Essy gaped at her. How could Branwen explain her reaction? She couldn’t. Not even to herself. She was heavy and hollow at the same time. Even though she’d killed Keane in self-defense—in defense of her kingdom—part of her had died, too.

  Innocence: the girl who had never harmed another soul. Now Branwen was a woman who knew what it was to steal a life.

  There was no going back.

  Refreshingly mild fingers wended along Branwen’s forehead, through the fine hairs surrounding her temples. She felt a tiny pressure on her scalp and then Essy brandished the hair she’d just plucked.

  It was white.

  The image of Branwen as an old woman sitting contentedly at Tristan’s side rose in her mind. Had it already happened? Had sh
e visited her future in Kerwindos’s Cauldron? Or maybe she was simply aging. Could that be the cost of magic?

  Essy twirled the colorless strand around her pinkie and laughed anxiously. “You really have been working too hard, cousin.” She unwound the hair and let it float away on the draft. Then she looked up at Branwen, eyes round.

  “Did you deliver the letter?” she asked. Branwen hesitated. If she had, did Essy intend to flee the castle—did she even have a plan? Branwen exhaled to calm the fire in her veins. The princess zigzagged her finger along her thigh, expectant.

  “Dear heart,” Branwen began, unable to look at her directly. “He wouldn’t accept it. Lord Diarmuid asked me to give you a good-bye kiss on his behalf.” She kissed her cousin fondly, on the cheek.

  “No.” The princess began to quake. “No, it can’t be.” She clutched at her heart like it was an open wound. “He wouldn’t give me up so easily.”

  Branwen felt a pang in her chest as Essy’s breathing grew shallow. Her cousin’s actions had been rash and dangerous, but they were done out of desperation: the desperation to be loved. She stroked Essy’s back, trying to soothe her.

  Her cousin’s shoulders jerked up and down as if they were on a string. “I don’t believe you. Diarmuid said I was his Étaín.” Her eyes shone in the morning light. “He won’t just let me sail away without a good-bye.”

  “He’s said good-bye, Essy.”

  “No, he’ll come—” she forced out between pants. “He’ll come…”

  “Breathe, Essy.” Branwen rubbed her cousin’s arms; contact usually helped steady her. “Breathe.” Tears watered the bedclothes. The princess had placed her faith in a man incapable of fighting for anyone but himself.

  “Essy!” Queen Eseult exclaimed from the open door. Branwen and Essy snapped their gazes in her direction. “Dear heart, what’s wrong?” The queen rushed over to the bed, crouching at her daughter’s feet.

  “Don’t act like you care, Mother! You’ve already sold me to Kernyvak pirates!”

  Her aunt wore a blank expression. “Essy, don’t say that,” Branwen snapped.