Page 15 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

HENRIK

The steady, rhythmic splash of the sea was a lulling sound. Henrik closed his eyes, leaned into the noise. Three days into their voyage and they had only two left before arriving at the mainland, where the question of Selma had a prayer of being answered.

His eyes blew open as the splashing lessened against the hull.

The sails drooped, sagging fast. The ship slowed to a dramatic chug, forcing Henrik to grab a mast or slide across the deck.

Before he could ask why, a surprise caught his attention.

A ship loomed on the water, minutes off the port side, where there shouldn’t be any ships.

The bulk indicated a frigate, but details remained hazy. It might be a massive ship of the line. The mainland created those behemoths to prowl the waters, but he thought not. Certainly, not small enough to be a sloop.

The main passage from Narpurra to Klipporno port on the mainland was a busy lane. Other ships would be present, but Pedr cut currents and rode routes other merchants couldn’t manage. As if he truly did make his own current, the way Einar thought.

Pedr stood at the helm, fingers playing across different ropes like a musician.

A dizzying rainbow of colors erupted into the sails with every touch, illuminating the almost-twilight hour in shoots of crimson, yellow, vermillion, and emerald.

Pedr sent a firework that dazzled bright rose overhead, burning to embers.

Seconds after it landed on the sail, bright pink flames erupted.

The mainsails revealed no char, no alteration.

The harmless flames issued no heat, either.

Burning Beard, indeed.

Einar’s head emerged when a hatch burst open. “What’s going on?”

“No idea.”

Henrik crossed the deck up the stairs to join Pedr at the wheel. Pedr glowered.

“Is that new ship a problem?” Henrik asked.

“Probably not.”

“Do you always light your sails?”

“Yep.”

Einar joined them. “Where’s the ship from?” he asked, leaning over the gunwale.

“Stenberg,” Pedr replied. “Based on her colors.”

Henrik reared back. How could he see that far? Pedr sniffed into a headwind. He leaned back, tugged lines so hard he pulled his body weight, spoke a silent, incandescent language, and gradually brought the ship so close to the amalgamation on the sea that Henrik’s confusion turned to clarity.

A frigate from Stenberg, for certain. Not a soul stirred on the other ship as they closed the gap. A familiar figurehead screamed out of the painted prow. A snarling, bearded approximation of the ferocious Stenberg sea god, Norr. A god that Henrik couldn’t bring himself to believe in anymore.

“Did you know a frigate was gone?” Henrik asked Einar.

Einar shook his head. “No, but the navy doesn’t always communicate their assignments. It’s abandoned, too.”

Pedr drily muttered, “Well spotted.”

In that impossible way of Pedr’s ship, it shuddered to a dead stop on the calm sea. The entire ocean swirled around him. Pedr stepped to the gunwale, assessing the wreck with distrustful malignancy.

“There’s been no word of an abandoned Stenberg frigate,” Henrik said. With growing surprise, he pointed to a painted number thirteen on the prow. “It’s ou—their—best frigate. If it were abandoned, we should have heard.”

“Would you, soldat? You who have been away from Stenberg for almost a month, and only returned for a few weeks after your reefer year?”

Pedr’s sarcastic challenge wasn’t unnoticed. It rocked Henrik. Of course he wouldn’t have heard. He wasn’t a soldat anymore. Not by traditional terms. Whatever happened in Stenberg wasn’t his business.

“It’s perfectly possible that this frigate left Stenberg shortly before or after you departed for the Unseen Island and made it here,” Pedr continued. “His Glory docks so many of your frigates on the eastern edge of Stenberg, you couldn’t keep track without it being your job.”

Eastern edge ? Henrik almost asked. That made no sense. Most of the Stenberg population lived on the western side. Why would ships go to the east?

“Bones,” Einar whispered before Henrik could clarify. “Thirteen is utter bones. It’s like they just . . . left. Look! Even the sails are unbothered.”

“Narpurran pirates?” Henrik suggested.

Pedr shook his head. “Nah. They’re not supposed to be here. Too close to the mainland. They focus on the Chain Islands and attempt to usurp arcane.”

“Pirates have a schedule, do they?” Henrik retorted.

“Only sometimes. Seems more likely the occupants of this frigate died,” Pedr muttered. “This place is creepier than abandoned souls. We’re not going to stay long.” He glanced overhead. “My arcane is . . . off.”

The words rang in the air. It was the first formal acknowledgment of his arcane that stoic Pedr had given.

Henrik silently agreed.

Nothing shocking appeared out of place except the unnatural hush.

Creaks issued with each sloppy wave. Thirteen rode low in the water, lightly shredded sails shifting in an uncertain wind.

Dust brushed the top deck, swirling in occasional spindrift and driving toward them. Henrik smelled nothing unusual.

Perhaps a musky hint of . . . sealstone? Impossible. Sealstone was a native rock in Stenberg, and this ship was made of wood.

Pedr ran his tongue over his teeth, considering. The two ships almost bumped sides, but Pedr’s slipped away in time. Despite the dramatic move, the ship didn’t pitch the way Henrik expected.

“What’s on the deck?” Henrik asked. “It looks like pollen.”

Einar shook his head. “No idea. I want to jump onboard.” He spun to Pedr. “Can you get us close enough?”

“The frigate is tilting to this side, so you’ll slide into the water. I’ll bring us around to the other side. Looks like you can disembark onto there more easily. Hold fast when you land and don’t stay long.”

Pedr grabbed a rope. A half-hearted light spiraled from his palm and up, but ebbed halfway to the top. He released his grip, tilted his head, and tried again. Same lackluster response resulted.

He growled. “What is this?”

Einar flicked a nervous glance over his shoulder as Pedr grabbed a different rope. No affluence of color followed. A litany of curse words resulted as Pedr slammed a hand into the wheel.

No variant hues.

No dramatic arcane.

The other ship, so close to their port side they might collide, moaned. The particles drifted into the air, sweeping past them. On instinct, Henrik ducked the dancing particles. Something in the strange leaden pearl hues set his teeth on edge. The profound quietude continued.

Einar cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello the ship!” he called.

No one responded.

“I’m going over,” Einar said. “I’ll be fine. There might be something worth keeping, or selling. We need as many monies as we can scavenge.”

“His Glory wouldn’t abandon thirteen without a reason,” Henrik countered, “and something about that weird dust doesn’t feel right. I don’t think we should go over there.”

“Worth a look.”

“I agree about the dust,” Pedr muttered. “Strange.”

Einar shrugged. Pedr tossed a rope to him. “Fine. Your funeral. Tie the ships together when you land, and don’t die. I’ll give you ten minutes until we’re out of here. My arcane isn’t working, and I don’t like it. If you’re not back by then, I’m leaving.”

“You have your knife?” Henrik asked.

“You have yours?”

“Yes.”

“Are you coming?”

Irritated, Henrik snapped, “Of course I’m coming.”

Einar grinned. “See you over there.” To Pedr, he said, “Ten minutes,” and spun. He flung the rope overboard. It spanned the ten steps that separated the two vessels and hit the deck with a thud. Before the two gaps widened again, Einar leaped.

Irritated, Henrik waited for him to secure the rope, the gap to wane, and followed.

Number thirteen groaned with a sensitivity that made Henrik’s stomach lurch. Hellsgate potion couldn’t fix this soul-deep sense of danger. The arcane must stabilize Pedr’s ship against the pitch and roll of the ocean, because thirteen practically hurled them in comparison.

Same sea, different ships.

A sense of eery abandonment lingered above the deck as they ventured around. Tiny whirlwinds swirled around his ankles, pirouetting like smoke. The unique and intense scent of hot sealstone increased.

“You smell that?” Einar asked.

“Yes.”

“Where is it?” Einar asked, whipping around. “There’s not a stone visible on this ship, but I’m definitely smelling sealstone.”

The unique signature of sealstone rocks remained a mystery as they wandered, silent, but close. No discarded weapons, no blood. A random shoe, scattered coins, and a fallen flag. Henrik edged a triangular Stenberg flag apart with his foot. It had been dropped, but not torn. No blood.

“I can’t find any sign of a fight,” Einar said.

“There appears to be nothing wrong with the ship, either.”

The rancid smell of death drew his nose toward the stern. The distinct smell mingled with . . . something metallic. He peered down an open hatch. Two lumps huddled at the bottom of the ladder wearing the Stenberg sailors’ uniform.

Dead.

“Shite,” he muttered.

He glanced back to Pedr’s ship. Britt stood next to her brother, hair tousled as if she’d just woken from her daily nap in his berth. Agnes stood at her side, both of them solemnly curious. Glints of concern appeared in Agnes’s wide eyes and clasped hands.

Catching Henrik’s attention, Britt’s brow lifted, as if to ask, are you all right?

He nodded.

Her shoulders dropped with relief.

“Einar,” Henrik called. “Here.”

Einar joined his side. He stared at the foul-smelling bodies, bloated from time and sunshine and heat.

“A week, at least?” Einar asked.

“I think so.”

“There’s another hatch.” Einar gestured toward the end closer to the front. “Let’s check.”

Tenacious dust clung to their legs as they cut footsteps across the powder. Henrik’s temples pulsed, heavy and light at the same time. He blinked the strange sensation away.

“Five minutes,” Pedr called.