Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

He looked at her through hooded lids. “Whenever you want. I don’t know how long I can resist showing my affection,” he said. She nibbled her lower lip. “I want all of Iveriu and Kernyv to see what you mean to me. That I belong to you entirely.”

  Branwen stiffened as her heart sighed. Their first kiss had taken place on this beach. “I’ve been yours since the day we met,” she admitted, even though she hadn’t known it at the time. But Essy—Essy needed her now more than ever.

  Deciphering Branwen in his uncanny manner, Tristan said, “You deserve your own happiness, my love.”

  My love. The breath caught in her throat. Did she? With power to destroy flowing through her? “My love,” he repeated with a growl. She was his, and he was hers. This time when Tristan towed her closer, she didn’t resist. Her knees were too weak.

  He tugged on her hand and the glove fell to the sand.

  “What happened?” Tristan’s eyes had gone wide, a hint of anger pulling at his features. “You didn’t have this wound at the feast.”

  Branwen sputtered. She tried to draw back. He threaded his fingers through hers. “The way you reacted just now—did someone hurt you?” The question was a roar. She knew it wasn’t directed at her but she still froze. “Was it Keane?”

  He tried. She shook her head. Tristan’s expression said he didn’t believe her.

  “If you’re in trouble, let me help you.”

  Another vigorous headshake. “I don’t need you to fight my battles.” Shame and embarrassment wrestled inside her.

  “You don’t let me do anything for you. Please, tell me where you were last night. Tell me how you injured your hand.”

  Branwen’s eyes burned. She loved this man with her entire being but she also loved Iveriu. Too much was riding on her being strong enough to bear this secret alone.

  “I promise to understand,” he said. Tristan spoke as quietly as an assassin’s blade but his words were twice as lethal. He might be able to understand about Keane. He would not understand about the Loving Cup. He already believed King Marc would be a good husband to Essy. Branwen had to be sure.

  “It was an accident. I’m fine. I’ll heal.” She hoped at least her last statement was true.

  “I thought you didn’t want any more secrets between us.”

  “I don’t. But I still can’t tell you.” Branwen pulled him toward her. “Do you love me enough to trust me? Trust that everything I do is for peace?”

  The apprehension on his face transformed into resolve. “Branwen, you made me believe in peace. And in love. I will always believe in you.”

  She smiled, then, and filled the space between them with kisses instead of lies.

  * * *

  The princess threw Branwen a forlorn look from where she stood on the bow of the Dragon Rising. She sucked her lips together when she saw Tristan at her cousin’s side, turning her back on them, and yanking on her braid. On the dock stood the king and queen; they were surrounded by a retinue of Royal Guardsmen, servants, peasants, and courtiers. It seemed like all of Iveriu had descended upon Blackford to see the princess off.

  All of its dreams of peace were being spirited away on the back of a dragon.

  Near the gangway, King Óengus was speaking with an older gentleman whom Branwen didn’t recognize. His skin was a deeper brown than Tristan’s with wind-whipped wrinkles. Charcoal whiskers sprouted from his nose and ears in addition to his overgrown beard.

  “That’s Morgawr—he’s a tough taskmaster, but the best captain I know,” Tristan said, pointing in his direction. “Kartagon, of course.” From the captain’s daunting appearance, Branwen well believed Morgawr could battle sea monsters. The Kartagons were as famed for their sailors as their warriors. Morgawr looked like both.

  She arched her eyebrow. “A pirate?”

  Tristan’s grin made an appearance. “Depends on whom you ask.” He laughed. “No, he’s part of the Royal Fleet. Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands.”

  Discreetly, Branwen squeezed his and smiled. “I know I am.”

  His grin deepened. “Come on, let me introduce you,” he offered and, although she knew all the reasons it was impossible, Branwen wished Tristan could introduce her as the woman he loved.

  As they approached Morgawr and King Óengus, Branwen caught a snippet of their conversation. “It’s ill-omened to sail under the Dark Moon,” the captain groused to the king, his bushy eyebrows all awry. She noted that his accent in Ivernic was thicker than Tristan’s. “But if the Horned One wills it, we’ll reach Monwiku before Samonios.” At the mention of the Horned One, Morgawr lifted the piece of bone—no, antler—that dangled from a leather cord around his neck and kissed it.

  Branwen’s right hand twitched inside her glove. How much credence did Tristan put in the New Religion? She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. What would he think of the Hand of Bríga? Could he accept that Branwen was made of both creation and destruction? She drew in a steadying breath.

  King Óengus clasped the captain’s shoulder. “Iveriu and Kernyv are counting on you to deliver the princess safely.”

  “I’m aware, Your Highness,” Morgawr replied, meeting the king’s gaze.

  Tristan smiled as he greeted the men, his charm contagious. He’d won over everyone at Castle Rigani except for Essy and Keane. Branwen lurched as she thought of the bodyguard, but she pushed the gnawing emptiness away.

  “Morgie here isn’t giving you too much guff, I trust, King Óengus,” Tristan said cheerfully, slapping the old sailor on the back.

  “Not at all,” said the king. “Simply going over the details.”

  “Allow me to introduce you to Lady Branwen, Captain Morgawr,” Tristan said, presenting her to the elder Kernyvman.

  “I’m one of the details,” she said.

  Morgawr belly laughed, and bowed. “It’ll be my pleasure to serve as your captain for the voyage across the Dreaming Sea.”

  Branwen wrinkled her nose. “The Dreaming Sea?”

  “You didn’t think we called it the Ivernic Sea in Kernyv?” said Morgawr with another chuckle.

  “No, I suppose not.” She flushed. Many things would be different in Kernyv. Turning to the king, Branwen curtsied. “Good day, Your Highness.”

  “Branwen.” King Óengus hinted at a smile despite his habitually stern countenance.

  Morgawr caught the king’s eye. “We should set sail while there’s still some daylight left, sire. The crew gets antsy if we depart after dusk.” He tapped the antler.

  Tristan laughed. “Sailors and their superstitions.”

  “Prince Tristan, the sea is like a woman, fickle and feisty. If you break her rules, there’s no telling what she’ll do.”

  “Captain Morgawr,” Branwen interjected, “a woman treats a man the way the man treats her.”

  He roared again with laughter and patted his stomach. “You’ll be a very welcome addition to King Marc’s court, I daresay, my lady.”

  “I’m sure she will,” King Óengus concurred. “Lady Branwen always makes Iveriu proud.”

  Her jaw nearly dropped. The king was a reticent man and he rarely spared any speech for her. She had doubted he spared her a thought, either.

  “Thank you, Your Highness. I will do my best.”

  “A king may rule, but it is his subjects who keep him in power,” he said, capturing her gaze. Her nerves zinged. Did he know about the Loving Cup? “A wise man told me that once.” There was a note of affection in his voice. “Lord Caedmon.”

  Branwen took a small gulp. Perhaps the queen confided in her husband more than she had realized. How hard must it be for a monarch to acknowledge that the stability of his rule rested on somebody else’s shoulders?

  “My father was indeed wise.” And for the first time in her life, Branwen didn’t see King Óengus as practically a god. He was a man, with his own flaws, who had accepted his limitations and was doing what he thought was right for his people. Her father must have liked and respected him very much.


  “Good-bye, my niece,” he said.

  She curtsied, one last time, low and graceful.

  “Good-bye, my king.” Over his shoulder, she spied her aunt. She smiled at Branwen and mouthed, Otherworld protect you.

  The wind snapped and blew Branwen’s tears away. She left Tristan to say a formal good-bye to the king and mounted the gangway. One foot and then the other, her last feel of Ivernic soil. Deep within, she knew she would never set foot in Iveriu again.

  But she would protect it always.

  * * *

  The cabin Branwen was to share with Essy had been elegantly appointed with thick draperies of burgundy velvet sewn by Noirín, but it was a bit small. It had been designed for one passenger, not two. Essy’s trunks had already exploded in the compartment. Branwen found a tiny space to make her own.

  Another sailor, maybe twelve years old, ducked his head in the door. “We’re about to push off, my lady.” He glanced at her anxiously.

  “Pardon?” Branwen asked, not understanding what he’d said. It sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of potatoes, even though he was making the effort to speak her language.

  The freckled Kernyvman’s pale complexion instantly pinkened. He possessed an oddly strong nose. “We’re pushing off,” he repeated.

  “Thank you.” She summoned a smile. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Cadan.”

  “Thank you, Cadan,” Branwen said, launching to her feet. “How do you say thank you in Kernyvak?”

  “Mormerkti, my lady,” he replied, a shy smile creeping across his face.

  She returned it. “Mormerkti, Cadan.”

  The boy bowed, still smiling, and disappeared up the creaking stairs to the deck. Branwen loped after him, not wanting to miss her final glimpse of the Ivernic coast.

  She found Essy standing at the far end of the deck, facing away from the shore, watching Cadan scuttle up the rigging like a squirrel. The tide was coming in and the sun was fading. Just below the surface, mermaid’s hair eddied. Branwen dropped another scarf along her cousin’s shoulders with a kiss.

  “Are you so eager to turn your back on Iveriu?” she asked.

  Without glancing in her direction, Essy said, “I prefer the open sea. Iveriu has already turned its back on me.”

  “That isn’t true, cousin.”

  “You’re the only one who’s never abandoned me, Branny. I know that now.” She drew in a long breath through her nose. “He didn’t come. Diarmuid didn’t come for me.”

  Branwen had known that he wouldn’t, and yet she still ached for her cousin. She wanted to soothe her hurt, tell her that in a few weeks she would be happily married and not even remember Diarmuid’s name.

  “I’ll never be Étaín,” Essy lamented.

  Branwen pulled the princess close. “Étaín wasn’t happy with her fate.”

  “At least she got to choose.”

  Before Branwen could respond, a great crack ripped through the sky. An enormous jet-black sea-wolf ascended as the sail unfurled: the royal crest of Kernyv. The little girl who lost her parents to Kernyvak raiders would never have believed she could see the standard against the horizon with anything but fear in her heart.

  The ship rocked from the force of the wind trapped by the sail and Essy tumbled into her arms. Instinctively, Branwen angled the princess toward the coastline. Her cousin would miss her homeland even if she couldn’t admit it.

  “The hearts of men are changeable,” she said. “The heart of the Land is not.” As she spoke the words, she felt her right hand growing hot.

  Branwen glimpsed the fox on the cliffs above. She had been perturbed by the creature’s absence of late. It barked noisily but no one else noticed; only she could see him. He dwelled in the Otherworld. Branwen had come to understand he could take a corporeal form and reveal himself if he chose, but the mortal world was not his home.

  Farewell, little friend.

  “It’s my heart that’s unchangeable, Branny,” Essy replied, her breaths coming in jerks. “You are my only love now, cousin. My only family. Not Iveriu. Not some faceless Kernyvak king. You’re the only one worthy of my love.”

  “And I do love you, Essy,” Branwen said, choking up. “So very, very much.”

  She could never tell her cousin how much in words. Only in deeds. She had killed for her happiness, and the princess could never know. She intertwined their fingers. Essy drew the symbol for hazel on the back of her hand and Branwen added the honeysuckle.

  A cherry-red sun slid toward twilight, casting the cliffs in shadows of pink and lilac. Branwen inhaled deeply, smelling the rosemary in the air—her mother, the Land.

  “We’ll be happy in Kernyv, Essy. I swear it.”

  Her cousin’s mouth tilted into a smile that was baneful, and—for the first time—regal.

  “It’s just you and me now, Branwen. Just us against the world.”

  The hush of evening held them close as the darkening waves lapped effortlessly against the hull.

  “You and me, Essy.”

  PART III

  THE DREAMING SEA

  DEAD CALM

  BRANWEN THRASHED. THE WAVES ROSE above her head. Salty. Winter-bitten.

  Water surged up her nose. Clouds, chasm black, amassed on the horizon like wild horses about to stampede. Float, Branwen. That had been her father’s first swimming lesson. When your strength gives out, let the current take your weight.

  The current was too strong. Seawater stung her eyes, burned her throat. Overhead, an enormous bird circled, a spiteful set to its beak.

  Branwen was nothing more than carrion to the beast.

  Far below the waves, something caught the silvery light of the storm. Arching her back, Branwen dove beneath the churning surface.

  Gold glittered, a thin chain undulating like seaweed.

  She squinted: Dangling from the end was a Rigani stone. Branwen reached out, her fingers just missing her prize—the prize she’d once gifted Tristan.

  Long black tentacles tangled around her ankles as if the sea itself had grown fingers. Tiny, ticklish hairs clamped onto her like suckers, and she felt herself go limp.

  A dark shape moved toward her, prowling through the choppy water. As it grew closer, Branwen distinguished two white, waterlogged eyes. Half the flesh was sloughed from one side of the corpse’s bloated face.

  The monster had been a man once.

  He arced around Branwen, swimming lithely, his brown hair gliding like a fin.

  A skeletal figure accused her. Veiny blue eyes confronted her.

  Keane.

  He stretched Branwen’s green ribbon between his hands. He meant it as a promise. Watching realization dawn in her eyes, he wrapped the ribbon around Branwen’s throat as the tentacles held her immobile. She clawed at his bony hands.

  She could not scream. She could only watch the Rigani stone drift farther and farther out of reach. On the brink of death, Branwen quailed as Keane pressed his pale, puffy lips to hers.

  This time, he wouldn’t let her get away.

  * * *

  Branwen stroked the base of her throat rhythmically, unconsciously, as Essy waited for her to take her turn at fidkwelsa. She was safely aboard the Dragon Rising. She wasn’t drowning. Keane was dead. She touched her neck again. No ligature mark. She exhaled a shallow breath. Keane could only haunt her, not hurt her.

  The princess grunted and flipped over one of the pieces on Branwen’s side of the board. “Stop that!” said Branwen, swatting at her cousin.

  “Go already.” She tapped her foot. Ever since they were children, Essy had lacked the patience required for the game.

  Branwen fingered a tiny wooden horseman painted silver. Her gaze darted toward a shimmer on the tide. She shook her head, dispersing the image of Keane’s ghoulish visage behind her eyes.

  The princess crossed her arms. Branwen had to admit her own concentration was frayed at the moment. “We don’t have all day,” her cousin complained.

&n
bsp; “I think you’ll find we do.”

  The Dragon Rising hadn’t moved for hours. Scarcely any progress had been made since they’d departed Blackford nearly two weeks ago. It was as if the sea had turned to tar.

  Leaning forward, Branwen reviewed the players at her disposal. Knights, squires, and horsemen were positioned defensively on squares around their queen; the kings were marshaling their troops. The object of the game was to see who could get his queen to safety first and eliminate as many of his opponent’s pieces as possible in the process.

  Branwen picked up a miniature squire, carefully concealing her scarred palm, and moved it one space closer to her queen. A minor kitchen injury should have faded by now; she didn’t want to rouse her cousin’s suspicions. Tristan hadn’t mentioned it since Branwen had asked him to trust her, but she noticed him eyeing the mark whenever he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

  Essy slapped her thigh. “Ugh, Branny, you made me wait all this time for that—that! You didn’t do anything.”

  Squires had very little power on the board but, used correctly, they were excellent in a counterattack. Branwen bit down on a victorious smile.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” Tristan said, strolling toward them, a fishing pole over his shoulder. He pulled a stool over to their table.

  “Caught anything interesting?” Branwen asked him.

  His answering smile was smug. “Perhaps.” She saw the unspoken You in his gaze and the knot of disquiet in her chest unfurled.

  The princess barely acknowledged Tristan as she said, “Did we invite you to sit with us?”

  “Essy,” Branwen scolded and yet, truth be told, she was cheered by her cousin’s irritation. The princess had been too heartbroken to leave her cabin for the first few days of their voyage. She’d lain listless on her bed, staring at the ceiling, not even pulling at her hair. Since then her melancholy was only punctuated by vexation, and no one vexed her as much as Tristan.

  Undeterred, he swung his pole toward Essy and said, “May I invite you to fish with me?”

  “Noblewomen don’t fish,” Essy retorted. “Not in Iveriu.”

  Barely holding back a laugh, Branwen tucked a loose curl behind her ear and, with horror, discovered another white strand; she plucked it with a vicious tug and let it fall. There was no breeze to carry it away.