Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  Branwen’s snort gave way to a chuckle. “Become a pirate, after all?”

  They shared a grin. “What about you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She glanced down the length of the ship. She should find Essy, try to mend things.

  “Wait.” Tristan squeezed Branwen’s elbow. “Wait here in the rain with me for a bit.”

  They breathed together, watched the water fall on each other’s lips. They waited. Together. Until lightning forked through the sky.

  * * *

  Tristan insisted on accompanying Branwen to her compartment. She worried the sight of him might send the princess into another rage, but she couldn’t deny the solace of knowing he was there, at her back, feeling his body heat in the spindle-like passage. With a tentative step, Branwen approached the threshold.

  Although the door was slightly ajar, she knocked. She heard no noise coming from within. Above, thunder cracked.

  “Essy?” she said. Another knock, gingerly. Maybe her cousin had cried herself to sleep. “Essy?” A chill slithered down Branwen’s spine. Tristan tensed at her inflection.

  Branwen shoved the door in a brutal gesture. It banged open and she heard a moan. “No!” She sprinted inside.

  Branwen’s hands flew to her mouth. A cry more anguished than any kretarv ripped from her throat.

  The princess lay sprawled on top of the bed, unmoving. Her blond hair feathered around her like rays of sunshine. Branwen rushed to her cousin’s side, clenching her jaw to suppress another scream. Essy was whiter than a Death-Teller, the skirt of her dress hitched up on the left side to reveal her thigh. Fiery blood spurted from her leg onto the sheets.

  A dagger-sharp length of sewing scissors protruded from the fleshy part of Essy’s upper thigh. The blades were each as long as a forefinger.

  Branwen lowered her face above her cousin’s. She was still breathing. At the foot of the bed, Tristan sucked in a gulp of air.

  “Essy,” Branwen rasped as she scanned the princess’s injured leg with a healer’s eye. The stab wound was almost precisely where Queen Eseult had told Branwen to avoid when she cauterized Saoirse’s shadow-stung flesh with the fire-poker.

  Her stomach roiled. Essy had been there, too. Essy had heard those instructions. Could she … Could she…?

  “Cousin, talk to me.” Fear frayed the ends of Branwen’s words.

  “Branny?” the princess mewled, disoriented.

  Branwen dropped to her knees beside the bed. The blood was coming so fast. “Essy, what happened?”

  Tristan hovered silently, averting his eyes from the princess’s exposed flesh.

  “I—I thought I might sew Gráinne’s doll another dress.” Essy spoke haltingly, and Branwen didn’t entirely believe her. She saw no other sewing supplies.

  The princess’s angry words from less than an hour ago flew through her mind like shards of glass: You might think you’ve won. That I don’t have any choices left. But I do—I do!

  “Oh, Essy,” she breathed.

  She should have realized it was more than one of Essy’s furious outbursts. She should have seen the depths of her cousin’s despair. She should have—Stop. Recriminations wouldn’t help the princess now.

  Tristan crossed toward her, dropping a hand on Branwen’s shoulder. He lowered himself to the floor beside her.

  “What do we do?” he asked quietly. He worked his jaw from side to side. The blood continued to flow. Tristan must have seen men injured like this on the battlefield. The prognosis wasn’t good.

  “Why am I so cold?” Essy murmured.

  Tristan sought Branwen’s gaze; panic brimmed from his. They were alone in the middle of the sea. Her chest contracted. Branwen was the only one who could save her cousin.

  “Keep her awake,” she ordered him.

  Tristan moved to sit beside the princess, smiling at her with the warmth of a hundred bonfires. “You won’t ever be cold in Kernyv,” he said.

  Essy managed a sneer. “It’s true. We’re favored with a southerly wind from the Mílesian Peninsula. It heats the rock beneath our feet. We have flowers in Kernyv that you’ve never seen.”

  “There’s nothing in Kernyv I want to see.” Her scoff was faint but Branwen praised the Old Ones.

  Branwen pressed her fingers around the wound. Each time Essy winced, she felt the pain as her own. Think, Branwen. If she removed the scissors too precipitously, as when Tristan had been gored by the Balu Gaisos, Essy could bleed to death even faster. Leaving the metal inside the princess, on the other hand, risked infection and there was no guarantee when they would make landfall.

  If Essy died, the dream of peace died with her.

  Branwen gritted her teeth. She would have to risk it.

  “Tristan,” she said. “Ask the captain for his strongest spirits. Strong enough to set on fire.”

  He replied with a brief upward tug of the lips. “I’m sure Morgie has something in his cabin that’ll do the trick.” Tristan leapt up with reflexes as quick as the storied Hound. “I’ll be back before you can miss me.”

  “No … need … to hurry,” Essy said breathily. “I could never miss a Kernyvman.”

  “I hope to change your mind.”

  Branwen pinned him with a look. Hurry, she mouthed as he bolted above deck.

  “Don’t worry, Branny,” said her cousin. “I don’t feel any pain.”

  That’s what she feared. She kissed her brow. It felt waxy. “You’re in shock, Essy. I’m going to make you better.”

  “You can’t fix everything.”

  “I can try.”

  She tilted her face so Essy couldn’t see the tears streaming down her face, then pushed to her feet, careful not to jostle her patient.

  “Where are you going, Branny?”

  “Nowhere. Gathering my tools. Keep very still.” Tamping down on her nerves, Branwen assembled fine needles and thread from her healing kit. She could stitch up the surface of Essy’s thigh but there was nothing she could do about the internal damage. She wondered, only for a second, if the Seal of Alliance Tristan carried back to Kernyv would be just as useless in binding the wound between their two kingdoms.

  She ransacked the trunks with bloody, frantic fingers. Why hadn’t she thought to include Clíodhna’s dust among her belongings? What Branwen wouldn’t give for a skeakh branch!

  Please, she beseeched the Old Ones. We’ve come so far. You can’t let her die. Not my Essy. Branwen couldn’t imagine a world without her cousin—didn’t know who she would be without her.

  Tristan burst back into the cabin clutching a blue-tinted bottle.

  “Morgie calls it Seahorse Piss. Guaranteed to put hair on your chest.”

  “Just what I nee—” Essy slurred.

  Tristan dropped down beside the princess on the side of the bed closest to the door. “Who doesn’t like a princess with a bit of chest hair?” he said.

  Essy grimaced, too weak to laugh. Nodding at the bottle, Branwen said, “She needs more than a dram,” and Tristan set the bottle gently to the princess’s mouth. Essy spluttered but swallowed several healthy swigs.

  “Save a little for my implements,” Branwen teased her, attempting to keep both herself and her patient calm. Queen Eseult had taught Branwen to clean her tools with strong spirits in the absence of fire. Please let this work.

  She knelt once more beside the princess and released a shuddering breath. Wordless, she used a small knife to cut away the rest of Essy’s skirt. Tristan kept his gaze planted firmly on the princess’s face. Seeing his king’s bride in such a state was nearly treason, but these were exceptional circumstances.

  Dousing her tools in the Seahorse Piss, Branwen told Tristan, “Position yourself directly above Essy’s head.” He shuffled to where she flicked her glance. “You need to hold her down.”

  Her heart hiccupped as he seized Essy’s wrists, clamping them to the bed. For a moment Branwen didn’t know if it was the ship that rocked. The recollection of Keane helping her with Saoirs
e rattled her bones.

  “This is going to hurt,” Branwen warned as she poured the stinging spirits onto the open wound. Essy flailed, hissing like a destiny snake. Branwen didn’t allow herself tears. She watched as Essy’s eyes caught on Tristan; he smiled down at the woman who would be his queen.

  “I’m here,” he promised. “I’ve got you.”

  To Branwen’s utter astonishment, Essy stopped squirming.

  “On three,” she directed.

  Tristan shifted his smile to her. “On three.” They were a team, like Queen Eseult and King Óengus. Always.

  Tristan began to sing, something soft and soothing in Kernyvak. Branwen didn’t understand the words but they gave her courage.

  “Three,” she breathed.

  Essy’s scream tore at something deep in Branwen’s soul as she removed the scissors.

  And then there was blood. So much blood.

  Tristan blanched. Essy’s eyelids opened and closed more rapidly than a starling’s wings before closing altogether.

  Branwen had chosen wrong. The Princess of Iveriu was going to die and it was all her fault. Iveriu was dying. The blood in Branwen’s veins began to simmer.

  The fire wanted to escape. Oh. Oh.

  “Tristan,” she commanded, her voice not quite her own. “Fetch another blanket.”

  He furrowed his brow but he didn’t question her. He kissed the crown of Essy’s head, whispering, “Be strong” and left to do as he’d been asked.

  Branwen looked down at her hands: The center of her right palm glowed like an ember. As if being guided from beyond the Veil, she pressed it to Essy’s shredded flesh. An orange glow surged across her cousin’s leg and she convulsed. She convulsed again. Fear gripped Branwen that she’d kill her cousin like she had Keane and she retracted her hand.

  Control it. She closed her eyes. Control. She imagined the fire as a single shaft of candlelight.

  What would Queen Eseult do?

  Steeling herself, Branwen tried again. This time Essy sighed, still unconscious, but not from pain. The sparks of flame entered her bloodstream like fireflies.

  Branwen watched with bewilderment as the blood began to clot. The flesh wove itself back together as if it were upon a loom. Her aunt’s words echoed in Branwen’s mind.

  From the same source comes creation and destruction. She could use her power to protect life as well as to take it. For the first time since Keane’s demise, Branwen actually saw the Hand of Bríga as a blessing rather than a curse.

  Before Tristan returned to witness her handiwork, she grasped the bedsheet, tore off a strip, and tied it tightly around Essy’s thigh. When she awoke, Branwen would try to explain, beg her to keep her secret.

  Tristan rushed through the doorway with Cadan at his heels. “I’ve got the blanket,” he said, suddenly looming above her. Lanced by panic, Branwen hid her fingers, which dripped with fire and blood. But his attention was focused squarely on Essy’s bound thigh.

  “You stopped the bleeding?” She nodded. “You truly are a wonder.” Tristan’s voice shook with equal parts disbelief and admiration.

  “I hope so.” Branwen grabbed the bottle of Seahorse Piss to wash the blood from her hands. All of a sudden, the blood and spirits began to blur in her vision. Light-headedness cascaded over her. Branwen staggered backward, groping for the wall, the bottle slipping from her grasp.

  She heard a crash.

  Darkness descended as Branwen slumped to the floor.

  TRUE COLORS

  ROSEMARY TICKLED HER NOSE. BRANWEN hugged herself close. Home. She gazed down at Castle Rigani from Whitethorn Mound. Chills erupted all along her body. She turned around slowly. The trees were no longer lush, overflowing with flowers like snow. The petals were withered, graying. The branches were nearly bare.

  A familiar bark attracted her attention. The fox’s gleaming red coat had become muddied, lost its luster. Ears pinned back, the creature growled at Branwen, accusing. It swished its tail, then scurried down the hill.

  She tried to follow but the wall of branches ringing the hilltop refused to part for her. She slapped her hands against the invisible barrier. Pounded with all her strength.

  What do you want? Branwen cried in her mind, her limbs benumbed.

  Three great kretarvs circled the mound. She was hemmed in. They were predators and she was their prey. There was nowhere for Branwen to run as the first dove toward her, its beak wide like a bestial smile. Followed by the second, and then the third.

  The first of the gruesome birds sped toward her again. It slashed her chest just below her right breast with its beak and began to feast. The two others attacked her hands and feet. Agony savaged her body so that she called out for death.

  In the distance, a gigantic tidal wave crested on the Ivernic Sea, heading straight for the coast. Taller than any tower Branwen had ever seen, the wave would decimate anything in its path and it was on a direct collision course with Castle Rigani. As it surged toward the shore, Branwen saw faces appear from the black depths, poking at the surface.

  The faces of the dead. Restless, unburied souls—like Keane.

  Horror drenched her; bile rose in her throat. Branwen could do nothing but whimper. Flame flared from her heart line and fizzled. Smoke swirled mockingly in the air.

  Death spilled onto the beaches of Iveriu and washed Castle Rigani out to sea.

  * * *

  Heart beating rapidly, Branwen blinked her eyes open. Callused fingertips stroked her wet cheeks. It was dark save for the flickering light of a lantern.

  “Shh, Branwen. You were crying in your sleep.”

  She scrubbed her eyes, Tristan’s face coming into focus. Where was she? On Whitethorn Mound. No, that wasn’t right. Branwen skimmed the length of her body. No wounds. No blood. “Am I still dreaming?” she said.

  Tristan laughed softly. “No. Although I have often dreamed of having you in my bed.”

  His bed? Branwen jolted upright. Her gaze swerved around the darkened space. Tristan perched at the edge of the narrow cot on which she rested. How did she get here? In the corner of his densely packed quarters, Branwen spied her mother’s krotto harp.

  With a sigh, Tristan touched her arm. “You’re all right,” he said as if he were trying to convince himself. “I brought you here so you could properly recuperate.” Her heart twinged at how weary Tristan seemed. Branwen’s mind had scattered to the winds. She had to call back her thoughts from very far away.

  Her muscles were stiff and her head throbbed dully. Meandering her gaze down to her hands, “Essy?” she gasped, remembering.

  “She’s well. Asleep. Incredibly,” he assured Branwen. Tristan pursed his lips, penetrating her with his stare. “Cadan is standing guard. I wanted to be with you.” Contrition belied his relief. His primary duty was to the princess, and they both knew it.

  Branwen rolled her shoulders. “What time is it?”

  “Just before dawn.”

  She had slept a long time. Unconsciously, Branwen rubbed her palm. She needed to see Essy, prove to herself that the Hand of Bríga had saved the princess. In her dream, the flames had sputtered to useless smoke. She couldn’t shrug off the notion that Keane was no longer haunting Branwen, but hunting her.

  She moved to rise from the bed and Tristan placed a firm hand on her knee. A blanket separated his skin from hers yet desire streamed through her, a yearning for him to touch the flesh along the inside of her knee. She hitched a breath. Guilt slammed into her as the memory of her cousin, prostrate and bleeding, flooded into her mind.

  “The princess is hale. Sleeping peacefully,” Tristan reiterated, more force behind his words. “You’re the one who collapsed, Branwen—after you healed her.” He took a deep breath. “We need to talk honestly. I’ve been sitting vigil for hours, listening to you breathe, hoping you would wake … not knowing how to help you.” His agitation increased with each statement. He fiddled with the sheet.

  “Tristan, I—”

  “Let me
finish,” he interrupted. She nodded, mouth growing dry at his brusqueness. He twisted the sheet harder. “This wasn’t the first time I’ve watched you languish. This wasn’t the first time you’ve healed someone with more than mortal medicine. At the Champions Tournament, I felt the life leeching from my body. I was no longer there. I was somewhere else—a field of beautiful white flowers.”

  Branwen’s shoulders jerked back. Had he seen the skeakh? Tristan kept his gaze steady on her. “You were there with me. I don’t know where it was, but you were with me. When I recovered from the poison, Queen Eseult told me you’d been infected while tending to me. But that was a lie,” he said, and there was no hesitation in his voice. That was the lie Queen Eseult had told everybody, including Essy. Branwen forced herself not to react. “At the time, I decided I’d been delirious.”

  Tristan shook his head and reached into his pocket. “I would be dead twice over if it wasn’t for you.”

  Tiny lines troubled Branwen’s brow as he offered her an intricately braided leather circlet. One strand had been bleached white, while the others had been dyed green and black.

  The colors of Iveriu and Kernyv.

  “I had this made in Monwiku. Before I set out for the Champions Tournament.” He skated his thumb over the leatherwork. “I didn’t think I’d find a love like my parents had until I met you,” Tristan admitted. Her heartbeats grew deafening. “I’ve been meaning to give you this since the Laelugus feast.” He sighed. “The timing never seemed right.”

  Their fingers brushed as she took the bracelet from him.

  “This is a promise, Branwen. When we arrive in Kernyv, I will ask King Marc for permission to formally propose.”

  Branwen’s heart cleaved in two. Tristan kissed her fingertips and she could imagine all too easily how their bodies would melt together on their First Night. Half of her wanted to sing praises to the Old Ones for sending him to her; the other half envisioned Essy, alone and afraid.

  “Tristan, it’s still not the right time. Look what happened with my cousin today. She’s … she’s not strong enough to see us together.”