Page 17 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)
brITT
Rosenvatten sprinted across the waves, so fast they practically hovered. They raced away from frigate number thirteen and all the terrors it unleashed. No speed was fast enough. Pedr, pale and livid, hadn’t said a word. He stood at the wheel, glaring out, in stoic silence.
After he secured their safety, Pedr reverentially laid Agnes within a white canvas bag with holes along the top. He didn’t say a word as he backed away, leaving Britt to prepare Agnes for her burial at sea.
Britt’s hands trembled above Agnes’s still body, unable to complete the final ministrations: sewing Agnes inside the retired canvas sail. She watched Agnes’s chest, waiting, just in case. What if they were wrong? What if she had survived?
No breath.
No stirring.
Of course not. The violence of a hatchet breaking her breast bone, cleaving her heart, couldn’t be undone. Not even the arcane could fix her. No potion, either.
The shock of how quickly Agnes died kept Britt from truly believing it was real.
It replayed in her mind, as dire as the moment it happened: Henrik shoving Einar overboard; an onded raising the hatch; Henrik stumbling over the railing with Einar, limbs flailing; the onded, losing his prey, sending the hatchet careening across the gap; the whistling weapon moving too fast to be anything but arcane.
Then, the worst.
Agnes’s soul-deep gasp as it slammed into her chest with a splintering crack . Britt’s scream. For eternities, Agnes toppled, head first, over the railing. The splash of her hitting the water crescendoed in Britt’s mind like ripples.
The terror.
Pedr had grabbed Britt’s wrist, preventing her from following Agnes into the sea. Only luck kept the two ships from colliding or smashing the swimmers between them.
Britt forced herself out of the memories.
She couldn’t stay there. Cataloguing all her failures would make everything worse.
Ignoring her determination to see the task of sewing Agnes into her final resting place, she allowed guilt to wash through her.
She should have stopped it. Pushed Agnes out of the way.
But, no. The weapon moved too fast. She hadn’t seen it until it was too late. Something foul sent it.
None of it mattered.
She wished she could have stopped it, taken it herself. Then she thought of Henrik, and the relief at being alive made her feel horrible all over again.
Britt blinked back more cresting tears, swallowing hard. “I can’t do this,” she muttered. “Agnes, you’re gone. You’re gone and I can’t do this.”
She had to.
Agnes deserved finality. Einar, too. They must release her to the other side. To . . . whatever lay beyond here. Britt’s left hand curled as she lifted her right hand, searching for the thin rope. It awaited Britt’s ministrations, coiled in a perfect circle, resting gently on Agnes’s folded hands.
Britt touched the rope.
She lost energy. She pressed her hand to Agnes’s shoulder with a sob and breathed, “I’m so sorry.”
The blood had begun to dry. It flecked the material with shades of light pink, fading to blackest crimson near her chest. Einar held her for hours, not releasing her until Henrik forced him.
Britt trembled as she touched the edge of the canvas and pulled it tight over the middle of Agnes’s body. The hard fabric, stiff at the edges from exposure to seawater, resisted. With a tug, the canvas gave way. Britt fought back a sob.
So fast.
Snap of life.
Gone.
She forced herself to thread the rope through the eyelets until the sound of approaching feet distracted her. They stopped. A heavy hand pressed over hers, stopping the flow. She recognized the tanned skin, rough calluses, broad knuckles.
Henrik.
Another cry bubbled free when he crouched at her side and gently squeezed her hand. She spun, buried her face in his chest, and let the emotion roll away from her.
His heavy arms encompassed her shaking shoulders. Fingers threaded into her hair as she sobbed into his fresh shirt, combing locks away from her neck. Her stomach tightened into a hot ball of lead. Her emotions tumbled like loose cannonballs, wild and destructive until she calmed.
Gradually, deep, steady breaths returned. Eyes watering, she pulled away. His hand wrapped the back of her neck, caressing the silky, short strands. Anguish gathered in the low pull of his mouth, the lines between his brow. He appeared lost.
“You okay?” he rasped.
“No.”
He pulled her forehead to his, breathed deep.
“I should be comforting you,” she whispered. “Einar is your brother?—”
“She was your only female friend. This is not a competition, Britt.”
“I know we have to let her go,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “but I can’t do it. I can’t?—”
“We’ll do it together.”
Britt gathered her emotions, nodded, spun around, and picked up the rope with renewed determination. Henrik reached around her, holding the canvas together, as she finished the job. Hints of Agnes’s lovely face, calm in death, peeked between the eyelets.
Once done, Britt rested on her haunches. Henrik’s hard chest met her spine. He put a hand on her arm, squeezed above the elbow.
“We did it.”
Britt leaned against him, exhausted.
“I hope the Ladylord plans on crushing His Glory,” Henrik whispered with a hard edge Britt hoped to never hear again. “Because I won’t prevent Einar from his rightful revenge, and nothing else will stop him.”