Page 12 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

brITT

Britt’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding!”

Agnes flapped her hand, squealing. “No! Einar already has the monies to pay for the legalization. Not sure how he found it, though. Both of us departed Stenberg without anything except the clothes on our back. I think Arvid gave it to him? It sounds like something he’d do.”

They sat on the edge of a narrow bed, in a compact room Agnes and Einar shared. Einar would barely fit across the flimsy mattress on his own, with his long longs and wide shoulders. Agnes attempting to curl up with him was a humorous picture.

Wood outfitted every available space, forming shelves with bars across the middle to hold objects inside, a wooden desk nailed to the floor, and windows along the eastern side.

Rosenvatten had portholes in nearly every cabin—a luxury Britt rarely saw in other frigates or merchant vessels, obsessed with functionality and space and protection.

“But . . . legalizing!” Britt cried. “I thought . . .”

“That legalizing with a soldat wasn’t a good thing?”

“Well, yes.”

Agnes shrugged. “Who cares? The soldats are all but disbanded at this point, and His Glory is grasping for any control. That sort of thing only matters at Stenberg, and neither of us want to return. What does it matter what His Glory thinks, or does? If Arvid has his way, and the rebellion goes as planned, His Glory will be dead soon.”

The calmness of Agnes’s voice around His Glory’s death was a bold testament to how much the rebellion had taken up her life. Einar welcomed all of it, but Henrik still twitched when the words Stenberg or Oliver or rebellion or His Glory arose.

She suspected that he struggled to understand, based on the war in his eyes. He’d cut the biggest ties that bound him to His Glory, but something haunted him. Who wouldn’t war between a desire for freedom and utter terror of it once obtained?

Britt clapped her hand over Agnes’s and squeezed. “I am so happy for you.”

Agnes gave a deeply contented sigh. “It’s so wonderful to dream and have it come true.” She tilted Britt a knowing gaze. “What about you and Henrik?”

Draping her arms around her bent knees, Britt laughed. A short, hollow, wary thing. “I’m afraid there’s nothing that exciting to tell.”

“Oh?”

“Henrik is . . . wonderful.”

“You care about him. This isn’t a ruse anymore, I can tell.”

Admitting their full story to Agnes had been harrowing. She’d worried that Agnes would stop trusting her, or feel betrayed, but Agnes took it in stride. Like a true friend. Britt wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

As General Helsing’s niece, her infamous status across the islands as Burning Beard’s sister, and eventual appointment to Keeper, gave Britt a droll sense of distance.

Few islanders deeply befriended her, though she knew most residents well.

Those who offered more than passing interest in her were mostly high-ranking officers.

It’s why Malcolm had been her main lifeline, and Pedr her greatest escape.

This girl talk scenario was utterly new.

And lovely.

“It’s not a ruse,” Britt admitted. “Not even a little. I care about Henrik.”

The stirring that arose from using his name affirmed what she’d known for a while: she cared for Henrik, but she didn’t know what that meant.

Until Henrik could sort out his life, creating expectations of him would be . . . foolish. Perhaps hopeless. His hesitance around emotion, intense brooding, made it unclear where he stood.

And yet . . .

His quiet touches, obvious protectiveness, occasional, fleeting smile. Her lips burned to connect with his and hush the building restlessness in his presence. Questions of longevity and freedom arose. Could a man who finally discovered his freedom truly commit?

Didn’t he deserve time?

“Something is there on my side,” Britt concluded. “Caring and affection and a desire for more. But . . . he needs space.”

“On his side too!” Agnes cried, laughing. “Britt, I’ve never seen a soldat act toward you the way he does without caring. They don’t know how .”

“While that makes sense, I don’t know there’s reciprocation from his side, and I won’t ask right now,” Britt stated firmly to Agnes’s dubious expression. “Henrik is carrying too much with leaving the soldats and Oliver’s betrayal. Selma! He couldn’t possibly know what he’s feeling.”

“That’s his job to decide.”

“Maybe, but . . . to burden him with my emotions at a time like this? It doesn’t seem . . . fair.”

Agnes softened. “You must really care for him.”

“I do.”

“While I don’t agree with everything you just said, I see where you’re coming from. Time is one of the greatest gifts we can give.” Agnes sighed. “I wish I knew Henrik better. I only just met him, too.”

“Besides,” Britt admitted, “I don’t know what Henrik and I will face on the mainland, between the Lordlady and his mother. It will be difficult. To introduce romantic questions between us is asking for complications. I’ll ask him, but not yet.”

Agnes sobered. “Are you scared?”

“No.”

“I am.”

“About what?”

With a shrug, she said, “Einar and I are at the cusp of everything we ever wanted. Isn’t that when most things are taken away?”

A light rap on the door drew their eyes to the doorway. Einar appeared, concentration suffusing to joy when he saw Agnes. She mirrored his pure adoration with relief, as if they’d been long waiting to reunite.

“A drake just arrived.” His gaze flashed to Britt’s. “Pedr says you’ll both want to read the message.”

Einar wrapped his huge hand around Agnes’s and tugged her out of their shared cabin. Britt tailed behind, unsuccessfully stuffing dreams of Henrik to the side.

Light from the open hatch spilled into the narrow hallway, leading them forward. Wind whipped by, making it easier to ignore Agnes’s low giggles and the note of protective adoration in Einar’s voice as he helped her up the ladder.

Fresh air twirled around Britt as she ascended. Henrik stood off to the side, staring at the foamy sea, one hand on a hip. His pallor had shifted from ill to slightly pale. His eyes found her quickly. He perused her with an assessment that bordered on protective.

In light of Agnes’s observations, Britt understood. He cared. So did she. But what did that mean next? She had leaders and wyverns to focus on. She’d deal with a flutter of romantic interest later.

Britt smiled at Henrik to ease his question. He shifted toward her, but stopped himself. And wasn’t that the other problem? Before she could join his side, he hastened to the wheel, where Pedr waited. She followed, contemplating soldats and their wild emotions.

Pedr extended a letter to Britt, drawing her attention.

“It’s for you.”

“Me?”

He grunted.

Startled, she accepted the letter and opened it. The mulberry colored ink was a dead giveaway. It came from the mainland. Stenberg wrote with dark gray. Kapurnick used navy blue. Narpurra was a shade of emerald green that occasionally looked onyx.

Dearest Britt,

In accordance with the request given by your aunt, General Helsing, via a messenger drake, I have instructed my staff to approve a one-on-one meeting with you as soon as you arrive on our shores.

I look forward to meeting you and the soldat, Henrik.

His story had already reached my ears before General Helsing requested the audience, and my ears have been burning with it.

I confess to a deepening curiosity. Not just around your reason for bringing him to the mainland, but his recent .

. . dissolution . . . of ties with the island nation of Stenberg.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Signed,

The Ladylord

The final flourish on the page was a dramatic, looping scrawl. Britt read it once, twice, and stared at the signature.

Lady lord .

Not Lord lady .

The implication hit like a punch to the gut. “It’s a new leader,” she whispered.

Einar’s head popped up.

“What?”

She shook the letter, seeking Henrik’s concerned stare. On seeing her pale expression, he instantly closed the carefully-curated gap between them. The heady scent of sea spray that twirled off him made her head dance.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“The signature says Ladylord, which means it’s not the same leader as before. A new one has taken power.”

“Is that good or bad?” Henrik asked.

She ran her bottom lip through her teeth. “I don’t . . . I don’t know. I knew the old one, but maybe not this one.” She held it out for Henrik. “It’s as much for you as it is for me.”

Henrik perused it, handed it off to Einar, who read it aloud. Agnes studied it with curious fervor from beneath his arm.

Pedr said, “It’s meant to be a warning.” He stood in the same position, legs braced in front of him as he stared over the water, facing west. A tempestuous storm rimmed the far sea, barely visible on the horizon.

“There’s no warning in there, Pedr,” Britt said.

Pedr’s canny gaze slid to Henrik, who regarded him with the ferocity of a tiger about to pounce. “Maybe not to Britt, but there is for you, friend. ”

Henrik’s dangerous stare darkened.

“The Ladylord already knew you defected from Stenberg,” Pedr said, “She said that your story had already reached my ears, and now the Ladylord wants you to join their side. There’s a good chance the Ladylord also knows why you’re coming to the mainland, since she mentioned her curiosity.

That she wrote the letter at all means something. ”

“That’s impossible!” Britt retorted. “We haven’t told anyone why we’re going to the mainland. Henrik just told Arvid.”

“The Ladylord is the most powerful person in Elestra for a reason.” To Henrik, Pedr said, “Might want to check your allegiance with Arvid.”

“Not Arvid,” Einar snapped. “He’d never betray us by sharing that information without Henrik’s approval.”

Pedr simply raised his brow. His snarky, twisted lips seemed to ask, then who else?

“Who are the enemies of the mainland?” Henrik asked.

“Hard to narrow that down,” Pedr quipped, though his gaze flickered west. “His Glory certainly ranks amongst their greatest pests. You can bet the newly-positioned Ladylord is preparing for something, or else there wouldn’t have been a wyvern flying around Kapurnick, nor a message inviting you to chat with her.

The events are related—I’ll guarantee it.

Be on guard. That’s the best advice I can give.

A brand new Ladylord wouldn’t do anything without a reason. ”