1. Wars and Weddings
The sea was silent the day of my wedding. It noiselessly kissed the edges of old Esme Rhiamon’s beat-up drifter, offering not even a whisper when I prayed for a sign.
It had always called to me, the sea—guiding my ship, warning me when trouble was coming. Most ships from Porthladd didn’t let the womenfolk aboard, but Papa made me his heir anyway, and the sea rewarded us generously.
Yer god touched, girl. Lyr’s child. I’m not going anywhere without my good luck charm.
I sighed, the nerves in my stomach jumbling up as the sun dipped lazily toward the horizon. I certainly didn’t feel lucky tonight.
I used to dream of my wedding. I imagined myself standing proudly on the glistening deck of the Ceffyl Dwr, Papa’s best cutter, wrapped in my favorite blue dress. The whole proud Branwen clan would be there as the sun set, smiles on their freckled faces while I promised myself to the man who I’d sail into the Otherworld with one day.
Now the dream mocked me as I waited on the creaking, bloodstained deck of the Aife, my hair matted with sweat against my brow. My men behind me slumped and sagged, still bruised and bleeding, as I prepared to bargain myself to the kin of my sworn enemy.
Yet another fight, today on the Eastern Docks. An ambush as a slew of Mathonwys tried to steal some precious—and illicit—cargo from the Southern Isles. No casualties, only a few flesh wounds. But word of the fight, so public in the bright light of dawn, had reached the Council by the noontide, and the Council’s decision had been swift.
One last chance to broker peace.
The humid mist of night closed around us as the sun fully sheathed below the horizon line.
“Typical of the bloody Mathonwys to be late,” I hissed under my breath, my eyes scanning the rocky shore for movement.
“Brace yourself, Keira,” Uncle Aidan whispered, his graveled voice strangely comforting as he clapped a warm hand on my shoulder. “Save your sea-salt for when they’re actually here.” I smiled up at him, noting how grey his ginger beard had gotten as of late. He looked so much like Papa now.
I glanced again at the crew behind me. A small sea of gaunt cheeks, crestfallen shoulders, and bloodshot eyes stared back. Every face looked years older than it should, even my youngest cousin’s. Tarran, only seventeen, wore the woes of a man twice his age.
There were so few of them now. The emptiness in their gazes echoed the empty spaces where the absent should have stood. I offered a prayer to Lyr, the names of those who now belonged to the Otherworld on my tongue.
Owen. Aleena. Cedric…
It had been four years since the blood feud started. Four years of sinking ships and homes burned to the ground and gruesome wounds both seen and unseen. Four years of rafts on fire and tear-stained cheeks and wives losing husbands. Daughters losing fathers.
Lyr below, what would Papa say if he could see what we’ve become?
I could do this for him. To honor his memory, to save what he dedicated his life to building, to restore prosperity to the family…
Even if it meant marrying—becoming—a Mathonwy.
“Are ya ready, girl?” Esme popped up from below deck, her wild grey curls first, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. She hoisted herself up onto the main deck effortlessly despite her age. Even though she was a member of the Council, Esme was an old sailor first. One of us. A fact she demonstrated as she crossed the deck in just a few lopsided steps and wrapped me in a crushing hug.
“As soon as the groom-to-be graces us with his presence,” I chuckled into her mane of silver hair. She smelled of storm and gunpowder, as she had since I was a child, and I let her warmth soothe the waves in my gut.
“Aye, you’ve got yer dad’s sense of humor.” She pulled away to appraise me, her violet eyes shimmering with mischief. “But ye got yer mother’s beauty, thank Lyr for that gift.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You knew my mother?” No one knew my mother. Only that she existed, and that my Pa had loved her well.
“No, I didn’t.” Esme grinned wickedly, stepping closer. “But I’ve seen what yer Pa’s people look like.”
I sighed. She was right; I looked nothing like my Pa’s people, the ginger and auburn curls that marked them as true Branwens, the sparkling hazel eyes that looked like sunsets. With my hair blacker than midnight and slate grey eyes, the only thing that proved I was kin were the freckles that dotted my cheeks.
“Watch it, Esme,” my uncle chuckled, his eyes bright despite their exhaustion. “Sounds like yer callin’ me ugly.” He patted my shoulder once, as if he could read my mind.
“Hush, Aidan, ye own a mirror, ye know ye can’t argue,” Donnall, our second mate, jabbed from his perch on the stern. He was a bulky man, the muscle corded tightly around his forearms from years at sea, but anyone who knew him knew he had the best sense of humor on the ship. He hopped up and nudged Aidan with his elbow. “Ye better just hope ye find a blind wife.”
The crew roared with hoarse laughter. For a moment, they were all whole again, all bright and sunny and strong. Aidan winked at Donnall; the joke at his expense had been well worth it, and the second mate had performed his duty admirably.
I beamed at my men, at my family, my people. Hair color be damned, I was one of them and always would be. And for them, I could do my duty too.
“Yer Pa would be proud to see ya now.” Aidan’s eyes lined with silver tears as he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. I swallowed down the ball of emotion that rose to my throat.
“He can’t because that damned Mathonwy boy put a knife through his neck,” Weylin, the surly gunner, seethed from the group. He was a dangerous man, my eldest uncle. Rumor had it that the shining silver pistol on his hip was enchanted by the god of death himself. If Weylin had marked you, your trip to the Otherworld was guaranteed.
Esme whipped her head toward him, violet eyes flashing red. “Aye, and you’ve shot yer bullets through half a dozen Mathonwys.” A second later, she was in Weylin’s face, coming up only to the bulky man’s chest, but her gaze was razor-sharp. A dark power rippled from her like the inky sea before a storm, and Weylin shrank beneath her gaze, his jaw tight. “So, unless you plan on marryin’ one to make things right, I’d shut yer mouth.”
There was a reason Esme’s ship was one of the last floating neutral spaces. Aside from her position on the Council, she was a force to be reckoned with. No man, woman, or creature dared cross her. Not even Weylin and his fancy guns.
The sea remained silent, but the wind shifted, carrying the stinging scent of trouble with it. I turned just in time to see the imposing galleon slide through the mist.
The Ddraig. The black dragon figurehead bared its teeth at us.
Mathonwys.
The laughter of a moment before quickly dissipated as the ship glided toward us, silent as a ghost. They finally anchored portside, the metal hitting the water with a resounding splash. My men stiffened, hands flying to weapons and arms crossed against chests as they prepared for them to board.
“Madame Esme.” Reese Mathonwy, the head sea-snake himself, strode across the gangway first, a grin on his scarred face. The urge to cut it off swelled in my chest, and I gripped the dagger at my waist tighter.
“Yer late.” Esme put a wrinkled hand on her hip and gave him a look that could make Lyr himself shudder.