Sweet Black Waves
Page 31
And now Branwen understood the meaning of misery: She was giving her only cousin to the man responsible for the death of her parents.
Branwen closed her eyes and prepared for the kretarv to take her under.
BLOOD AND LOVE
“LADY BRANWEN! LADY BRANWEN!”
Someone was shaking her furiously. It took a moment or two for her vision to focus.
“Cadan?” she said with confusion. “Cadan? What’s happening?”
The look in the boy’s eyes alarmed her. As he let her go, she saw the deep bloody impressions of talons on her arms. Her gaze traveled up to Cadan’s face. He had two long scratches bisecting his left cheek, oozing thick blood like jam.
She touched it, unthinking, and he winced. “You saved me,” she said. Guilt and gratitude swelled inside her, her fingertips tingling.
Cadan gasped in response. Branwen watched, stunned, as the bleeding stopped. The flesh began to close. Oh no. She’d used the Hand of Bríga to heal him without thinking about it. She looped her gaze around the deck. Relief surged. No one else had seen. How could she keep her secret if she couldn’t control her abilities?
“Don’t worry, my lady,” Cadan breathed, recovering a hoarse voice. “I won’t tell. I’ve never heard of anyone fighting off a kretarv once it’s caught you in its gaze.” But she hadn’t fought; the beast had exploited her darkest fears to lure Branwen to a watery grave.
“Mormerkti, Cadan.”
“The Old Ones are protecting you, for sure,” said the boy.
“You believe in the Old Ones?”
He flung a glance toward the helm. “Don’t tell the captain. My grandmother came from Iveriu. She taught me about the Old Ones.”
“That’s how you speak Ivernic so well.”
Cadan blushed. “She was captured as a girl,” he explained matter-of-factly because these were the facts of their world. Essy’s marriage would protect children like Cadan and Gráinne, like his grandmother had been; that’s what everything Branwen had done these past months had been for. And yet, if what the kretarv had shown her was true … doubt like she’d never known savaged her.
Lowering his voice, the cabin boy went on. “Grandmother didn’t like the Horned One. Said there was too much that needed fixing in the world for just one god. Especially if he was a man.”
Branwen rasped a laugh. “I would have liked her.”
Cadan glanced once more at his captain. “The village where I was born, the fishermen believe in the Old Ones. They say the kretarvs belong to Dhusnos. That the birds scavenge victims for the Sea of the Dead.”
Dhusnos: The name inspired a frisson of fear. The Dark One. The oldest of the Old Ones apart from Kerwindos. All Ivernic children were taught that the House of Dhusnos was a holding cell, a watery prison for the souls not permitted to pass into the Land of Youth. Shades, they were called. Souls forsaken by the Land. When livestock died for no reason in coastal villages, the Iverni blamed the Shades.
“Then I’m even more fortunate you were here to protect me, Cadan,” Branwen told the boy, sounding distant even to herself. She felt her head—it pounded as if a mischievous sprite were wielding a mallet inside.
Had Dhusnos used the kretarv to send Branwen the memory of her parents? To what end? The Dark One wasn’t known for being beneficent.
“Mormerkti, my lady.” A heartrending smile formed on the boy’s lips. If Branwen had been lucky enough to have a younger brother, she hoped he would have been like Cadan. His gaze shifted to her forearms. “You’re still bleeding,” he said, pulling at his lip.
Oh. So she was. Could Branwen heal herself? How she wished she’d had more time to study with Queen Eseult.
“Just a few scratches.” She smiled to put him at ease, although her palms were clammy. A thunderclap rent the air and Cadan jumped.
Captain Morgawr hollered, “Oi, Cadan! Get the lady to her cabin! Another squall’s rolling in!” Yet the clouds were only the palest gray.
“I can see myself to my cabin,” Branwen said. The boy hurried to gather the freshly laundered linens into the silver bowl for her. She’d have to dry them in her quarters. “Thank you,” she said again in Ivernic. The ship rocked sideways and she nearly lost her balance as she retreated belowdecks.
The storm that threatened the Dragon Rising was nothing compared with the whirlwind in her mind. Surely the Marc from her vision wasn’t the King Marc? It must be a common enough Kernyvak name. Keane couldn’t have been right all along in opposing this peace accord. This was the kretarv’s trickery. It had to be.
Branwen’s fingers drifted to her bodice, checking for the Loving Cup in a way that had become habit. The only true cure for war: love. But how much could the spell change King Marc’s essential character?
The boy who ran away while Branwen’s mother bled to death simply could not be the same man whose power she was helping to secure. She refused to accept it. The Land would never allow it.
Tristan’s voice carried down the hallway, rich like a heady perfume. The harp reached a crescendo, and a momentary smile graced Branwen’s face. Sagging against the doorjamb, she listened to Tristan finish a chorus about ancient Queen Medhua’s cattle raid. She clapped a hand against the silver bowl in appreciation.
“Branwen.” Tristan startled as he glimpsed her over his shoulder. “You’re bleeding.” Running his eyes up and down her body, he leapt from his seat, leaned the krotto against the bed, and took two quick strides to where Branwen swayed in the doorway.
“A kretarv caught me,” she said, dismissive.
“A kretarv!” exclaimed Essy. Her face pinched in fright. “Oh, Branny!”
Tristan plucked the laundry from Branwen’s arms, setting it on top of a trunk, then grabbed her wrists, pulling her closer.
“It’s nothing,” she said as he inspected the gashes left by the foul seabird.
“Healers make the worst patients.” Worry laced Tristan’s laughter. She brushed him off and a look of hurt crossed his face. “Let me tend you for once,” he insisted. His voice was strained.
To her utter astonishment, Essy got out of bed and demanded, “Me too.”
In a daze, Branwen directed the princess to where the salves and the last clean, dry bandage could be found. Her cousin only limped the slightest bit. Tristan guided Branwen toward the bed, brushing his hand along her jaw as she sat down. She stiffened at the casual display of affection. Essy, however, was ignoring them as she rifled through the trunks.
“What did the kretarv show you?” Tristan asked her. He added, “my love,” in a whisper.
The question lanced Branwen. How could she possibly tell him? A macabre part of her heart had always wanted to know the details of her parents’ deaths. Did the kretarv sense that? Or the Dark One?
“I don’t know,” she answered.
Tristan stroked the inside of her wrist. “Morgie has told me tales of what sailors see in the beasts’ eyes.” A crinkle appeared between his. “Most don’t survive—to think how close I came to losing you.”
His breath was hot in the small distance between them.
Branwen scoffed. “Captain Morgawr likes to spin a good yarn.”
Essy interrupted any further questions. “Juniper cream,” she said, holding up the jar. Tristan tried to take it and Essy moved the ceramic container out of his reach. “I can do it. She’s my cousin.”
Tristan and the princess warred with their eyes.
“Essy can help me,” Branwen said pointedly, although she could scarcely believe her cousin wanted to. Reading the hope in her eyes, Tristan relented.
“I’ll come back in a bit to see if you need anything.” He lifted the harp under his arm and Branwen showed him a grateful smile as he exited.
“I’m sure he will,” Essy muttered under her breath. She rested next to Branwen on the bed and the mattress dipped. She slathered the ointment into the lacerations the way she had done for Gráinne what seemed like so long ago. Branwen hissed.
“Sorry,�
� said the princess.
“That means it’s working,” Branwen told her, repeating the explanation she’d used a thousand times when Essy complained one of her cures was worse than the disease. Her cousin bit back a smile.
The princess’s hands were soothing on Branwen’s skin. She didn’t know how to interpret this unexpected act of kindness.
“Why didn’t you tell Tristan what you saw?” asked Essy. Branwen’s nerves fluttered. “I’ve known you my whole life. You never forget anything, Branny.”
Her stomach twisted. “I saw my parents,” she said. Her voice rang flat. “I saw them die.” A fat teardrop trickled down her cheek. Essy brushed it away. Branwen couldn’t tell her how it had happened—she couldn’t tell anyone how. If it was even the truth.
“Oh, Branny,” her cousin said. “Sometimes I forget how much you’ve lost.” The gentleness ruptured something inside Branwen. All of the tears she kept so firmly under control launched an uprising.
“For a moment, just a moment, I wanted to follow the kretarv,” Branwen divulged. “I wanted to be with them. I can’t lose you, too, Essy. I can’t.” She raised her gaze to meet her cousin’s, streaked with tears as it was. “Why did you do it?”
Essy went completely still. She gnashed her front teeth into her bottom lip. Finally, she said, “I didn’t mean—I didn’t want to die, Branny. I just … I had all of this anger. Fear. Rage.” Her breaths became pants. “I thought I would burst from my skin. I needed release. I wanted, I wanted to be in control of the pain for once.”
Branwen seized her cousin’s shoulders. “Promise me you won’t do it again. Promise me that if you want to, you’ll tell me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“You never tell me what you’re feeling.” There was no accusation in her tone, just acceptance, and that left Branwen feeling completely bereft. “Why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me you were falling in love?”
The quiet words were a punch to the gut.
“Because I know how miserable you are. I didn’t want to make it worse by showing you my happiness.”
“You didn’t give me the chance to be happy for you, Branny. You took that choice away, too. You must think very little of me.”
“No, Essy. I—I’m sorry.”
“That’s why it hurt so much to see you with Tristan. Because you didn’t trust me. You didn’t believe I could love you enough to want you to be happy—even if it is with a Kernyvman.”
Branwen made a noise that was somewhere between a sob and a whimper. Tristan had said almost the exact same thing.
“I know no one loves me, Branny,” said her cousin. “It doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be loved.”
Branwen crushed the princess in a fervent embrace, not minding the pain from the kretarv’s talons, not wanting anything but to be near her baby cousin.
“I love you, Essy. I love you more than anything. Tristan will never replace you in my heart.”
Essy hiccupped. “If you love him, I’ll try not to hate him,” she said. She heaved a breath. “He doesn’t seem like the worst of Kernyvmen, after all.”
“Mormerkti.” Branwen kissed the bridge of her nose. “That’s Kernyvak for thank you.”
Her cousin laughed, pulling back. “Don’t expect me to learn their language. It sounds like Treva’s meat grinder!” Branwen didn’t quite agree but she laughed along. Essy’s gaze drifted to the coverlet. “What’s that?” she said, indicating the bracelet Tristan had given her. It must have slipped from Branwen’s pocket.
A dart of fear whizzed through her. “It’s … Tristan gave it to me.”
“Why aren’t you wearing it?”
Branwen blinked, tears weighting her lashes. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
Essy pinched the circlet between her fingers, admiring it. “Ivernic and Kernyvak colors,” she said. She was silent a beat. Then she fastened it around Branwen’s wrist. “It suits you, cousin.” There was no edge to her words.
Branwen wrapped her arms around the princess and squeezed. Between Tristan and Essy, she had love and family. Despite what she had lost, the Old Ones had sent her so much good fortune. The Otherworld was love, just as Queen Eseult had explained, and Branwen was filled to bursting with it.
“Mormerkti,” she breathed.
HOUSE OF DHUSNOS
WATCHING TRISTAN AND HER COUSIN as they played a game of fidkwelsa on the deck, nothing seemed amiss except for the fact that it was amicable. Branwen stroked the promise bracelet on her wrist. Another day had elapsed since the last storm and tension wound even more tightly around her. She should have been heartened that she and Essy had reconciled, and she was, but whenever she closed her eyes, she saw her parents die.
Again, and again.
Perhaps it had been better not to know. Even if what the kretarv had shown her was a lie—she couldn’t not see it. She wanted to trust Tristan when he said that his uncle was an honorable man. If there was even the remotest possibility that what the kretarv had shown her was true, however, how could Branwen let him have custody of Essy’s heart? The question burrowed deep, unwilling to let go.
Essy’s laughter carried across the still sea. When the princess forgot she was supposed to hate all Kernyvmen, it seemed she might genuinely enjoy Tristan’s company. Prickly thorns sprang up on the underside of Branwen’s skin—not from jealousy, but regret. Tristan and Essy had no secrets between them; their budding friendship was honest, while Branwen was keeping dangerous secrets from both of them.
“Lady Branwen.” Cadan’s voice just barely penetrated her mental fog. “My lady, you need to eat something.”
She looked down at the rock-hard walnut bread outstretched in his hand. “I’m not hungry. You have it, Cadan.”
His lips quivered and he practically salivated. They had been at sea too long. Supplies were dwindling. The boy’s stomach rumbled.
“Go on,” she said.
Cadan shook his head. “Captain says the princess and her maidservant eat first.”
Servant. The word cut Branwen to the quick. In Iveriu, she had been known as cousin, niece of the queen, and daughter of Lady Alana and Lord Caedmon who would inherit a castle of her own. In Kernyv, was she to be known merely as a servant?
“I insist,” Branwen told the boy. She couldn’t stand the idea of him going hungry while she had no appetite. “And if the bread is truly mine, then I can do with it what I please.” Cadan nodded. “I’d sooner you eat it than a kretarv, but I’ll feed it to a kretarv if I must.”
Not needing any further encouragement, Cadan sunk his teeth into the small, tough loaf. It made a distinct crunch, crunch sound, like stepping on the mulch in the castle gardens.
As he ate, Branwen noticed the scratches made by the kretarv were completely gone. Her own injuries were healing at a normal rate. Most likely she would have small scars.
Catching her eye, Tristan beckoned Branwen over with a wave of the hand. She couldn’t deny that she’d been more distant with him since the kretarv attack. She wanted to inquire how often King Marc took part in raids, but she didn’t know how to pose the question without eliciting further questions. Besides, thirteen years ago, Tristan was only a child himself. With a small exhale, Branwen lifted the hem of her skirts and walked over to the fidkwelsa board.
Her cousin squealed with glee as her horsemen surrounded Tristan’s queen. She beamed like when she’d pulled off a particularly good prank. Usually something involving poor Dubthach.
“It’s such a shame your squires aren’t better equipped, Prince Tristan,” Essy told him.
“Ah, Lady Branwen.” Tristan smiled languorously. “Would you like to lead my men? I seem to be failing them as a general. Perhaps you’ll fare better.” From his tone, Branwen wondered if he was letting the princess win.
He patted the empty stool beside him and Branwen obliged. Essy looked between them, seeming unperturbed. “Branny’s never lost to me, but…” She smirked. “There’s a first time for everything.”
It was enough of an answer. He squeezed her hand. The flecks in Tristan’s eyes glinted brighter than the sparks from any blacksmith’s anvil. Soon, they promised. Branwen ardently wished they could disappear belowdecks without being missed.
“Hurrah!” declared the princess. “I’ll take your queen in two moves.”
Tristan zipped his eyes to the board, then back to Branwen. “A little help?”
“Two on one is cheating.” Essy folded her arms, mouth pinching into a sulk. “You’ll lose to me fair and square.”
Captain Morgawr’s shadow fell over the board before Tristan could take his turn.
“My prince,” he said. “May we speak in private?” The captain pulled on his beard.
Essy’s gaze latched on to Branwen. Something was wrong.
“Speak freely, Morgie,” Tristan replied. He gave Branwen’s hand another squeeze. “I’ll have no secrets.”
She bit the inside of her cheek.
“Very well.” Morgawr panned a skeptical gaze across the noblewomen. “As you know, the first storm hit on Samonios Eve. No one knows where the Veil lies in the sea, and it’s thinnest that night. I think we were blown straight across.”
“What do you mean?” Essy demanded. “We’re in the Otherworld?” She paled beneath the rouge she’d wanted to apply this morning, which Branwen had taken as a sign she was getting back to her usual self. “That’s not possible.” She looked to Branwen. “Is it, Branny?”
Branwen’s throat grew scratchy. There were Ivernic ballads of heroes stranded on Otherworld islands after being lost at sea. Not that she’d put much credence in them. Of course, she’d dismissed Whitethorn Mound until she crossed over. Yet she couldn’t believe the Old Ones would abandon them—Iveriu—when they were so close to realizing their goal.
“Taverns are filled with tales of seamen who’ve sailed clear off the edge of our world.” Morgawr spoke before Branwen could. He raised his substantial eyebrows in the direction of the clouds. “However, a familiar star appeared to me last night. I can chart a course to Kernyv,” the captain concluded.