Page 12 of Dance of Kings and Thieves

“Kase, you have already met, but Mal, Bard,” he started, “I’d like you to meet Herja.”

Bard clasped Herja’s hand in his big grip. “It is an honor, princess. Forgive us for being a little stunned. Our brother is an ass, and we knew nothing of you until weeks ago.”

“Gods.” Hagen pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have been imprisoned for two bleeding turns, and before that it was too much of a risk to share her true name.”

“Two turns,” Herja whispered. Her glassy eyes locked on Hagen. “Gunnar didn’t say . . . you have been imprisoned all this time?”

“Only a deep pit with bars could keep me from you.” He kissed her palm. “It is nothing compared to what you suffered.”

“Hagen, it does not lessen the ache of knowing the man she loves was in pain.” Malin stood in front of Herja. She looked like a damn queen. High chin, hands clasped in front of her body, back straight. She smiled and reached out a hand for the princess. “I know the feeling, after all. No matter how short a time, it does not make it easier to stomach.”

“Very true,” Herja said. “Queen Malin, your brother spoke of you often. He spoke of your power, and I have always dreamed we would meet someday.”

“Since I met Gunnar, I have dreamed the same,” Malin said. “But, please, call me Mal. The title of queen does not sit right in my mouth.”

“There was a lovely queen I once knew who felt much the same,” Ari muttered.

Elise pinched her lips like she was trying not to laugh.

“I always wanted a sister,” Malin admitted. “I look forward to getting to know—”

“Princess Herja!” Down the alleyway, coming up the slope from the shore, one of the men who had joined Ari at the Black Palace stalked forward. He had a bundle in his arms.

“Stieg?” Herja called.

At the sound of her voice, the bundle moved. Wiggled. Kicked. It was as if the man held a lamb fighting the road to slaughter.

“Daj!” a small, pitchy voice called out.

“Princess,” Stieg grunted, guarding his manhood when, clearly, a little foot kicked wildly. “Princess . . . we, we found a stow—a stowaway. Gods, little princess, be still.”

“Daj!” A childish sob broke the night. “Lemme go, Stee!”

“No.” Herja covered her mouth when Stieg finally released a little girl.

Her straw-colored hair was a mess, face smudged in dirt and tear tracks, but she sprinted up the damp cobblestones with more power than a warrior.

Hells, she’d grown since I last saw her.

Hagen let out a broken gasp. “Laila.”

At once, he crouched down, and the girl broke into sobs as she pounced into his arms.

Malin covered her mouth, watching her brother hold the back of his daughter’s head, wrapping her short legs around his waist, and clinging to the girl as if she gave him life.

Another shuddering breath broke as Hagen faced Herja. His eyes were wet. He kept kissing the side of Laila’s head, muttering soft words of love and adoration for the child.

Herja was wholly discomposed, and Gunnar had gone pale.

“Maj,” he hissed. “Why did you—”

“I didnotbring her.” Herja silenced her son with a sharp look.

Stieg made it to us, breathless. “Found her tucked behind the canvas weapon bags. Must’ve been there all along snatching food and water from the stores right next to it. Rather clever if you . . .” His words trailed off when he caught the same sharp look from his princess. Stieg cleared his throat. “Glad the girl was safe, is all. Truth be told, she could use a good wash.”

Herja ignored him and went to Hagen. She stroked Laila’s hair, tears in her eyes. “Why did you do it, little one? We spoke about this. To come here is dangerous.”

“I had—” she hiccupped. “—had to see my daj. If . . . if the bad ones took him, I-I had to see him f-first.” She squeezed Hagen’s neck with her skinny arms and let out another wave of broken tears.