Page 18 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

PEDR

Einar held Agnes in his arms at sunrise the next day.

“Sunrise was her favorite time,” he’d whispered late that night, at Pedr’s side near the wheel. “We do it then.”

Now, Einar stood at the side of the ship, shaking. Two tears dotted the canvas bag that held her. Only two. The rest dried in the wake of rabid fury.

Pedr watched him.

Closely.

Since they’d met weeks ago, Einar had been emotional. Mildly unpredictable in only unhelpful ways. His disposition burned fast, bright, and furious. Henrik would have to be very careful with Einar on the mainland.

Very careful.

But for this moment, Einar didn’t move. He stared, transfixed, at the waves. The shiny, sapphire lacquer of the moving sea, freckled by the disruption of white tops against the near-black surface. Glassy. Deadly. So unfathomably deep it should frighten them more.

Henrik stood next to Britt, arms clasped in front of him. Her dress, pure white in tribute to Agnes. She bit her bottom lip, blanching it. Tears rained.

Pedr considered telling Einar the truth about Arcanists, about souls.

About decisions, life after death, and timelines.

He could tell Einar that all hope wasn’t lost, not yet.

Depending on what Agnes chose once she met the Arcanist of Souls, anyway.

If the depth of her love for him bore out, Einar had a slim chance of seeing Agnes again.

A breath of a chance, hardly worth a hope.

It all depended on calculations.

Hard ones.

Pedr could tell Einar about the Arcanist of Souls and the year of time he offered each soul that passed into his halls, but Pedr never had told anyone before.

There were some truths Arcanists didn’t share, and anything about the Arcanist of Souls contained those truths.

He had a vested interest in keeping human interest away from Arcanists and their ways.

Except . . . he didn’t know if he could keep the secret.

Not in this situation. Or, in retrospect, if he should.

Did he owe the truth to Einar?

Not really.

But . . . kind of.

When another five minutes passed, Henrik stepped forward. Pedr put a hand on his shoulder, shook his head.

“No.”

Henrik hesitated, but Pedr strode past him and stopped at Einar’s side. A barren whisper of, “I can’t do it,” issued from Einar’s lips. His knees shook. “I’m going to jump with her. Leave me in the water. Don’t come back for me. Promise?”

Pedr folded his hands behind his back. Shite, but now he had to tell him. It would be a mistake, but he’d do it. Because he wished someone could have given him hope, however narrow. An answer, however dangerous.

Pedr rocked back on his heels and said, “Fine. Do what you want, and I’ll respect your request. But know that if you take the coward’s way out, you’ll miss other ways to be with Agnes again.”

Einar’s head snapped to the side.

“What?”

“You have options.”

“You’re mad.”

“Definitely.” Pedr drew in a deep breath. “You asked me a few days ago about Arcanists and magic. You’re an intelligent man, so I wager you remember.”

Einar sent him an incredulous stare. “You refused to answer.”

“I know.”

“What does that have to do with anything right now?”

Pedr cleared his throat. Wind breezed by, providing a cover when he spoke so only Einar could hear. “Suppose Arcanists are real. Suppose there are four of them, and suppose that one of those Arcanists is called the Arcanist of Souls.”

Pedr’s nose twitched. He cleared his throat again. Shite, but this was uncomfortable. Awkward, too. Nothing barred Pedr from telling the truth about his position as Arcanist of the Sea, except his own morals.

Pedr ignored the growing astonishment on Einar’s face as he continued, gaze fixed ahead.

“And suppose that, if a recently departed soul chose accordingly, they would choose to stay for one year on Elestra before their soul departed to the afterlife and became inaccessible. If that soul had a reason to stay. A reason to hope that they could see their loved ones again before the final crossing. One might call love a hopeful tether.”

Pedr nodded to the water. He didn’t look at Agnes or the canvas. He had steadily avoided her since it happened because when he looked at Agnes, he saw a flash of dark curls, a wicked smile, and felt the bottomless hole of despair that had chased him around for fifteen years.

“And let’s say,” he clipped out quickly, needing this awful moment over with, “that approaching the Arcanist of Souls is possible—should you have a friend who is also an Arcanist—and that a deal over said soul might be struck. Might,” he added, risking a glance at Einar.

“The improbability of it cannot be understated.”

Einar stared at him, wide-eyed.

“You mean it?”

“Yes. But you can’t do anything if you don’t let her go.”

They locked stares.

“Can I find her again?”

“You can try.”

“How hard is it?”

“You’ll probably die.”

Something flashed in Einar’s eyes. Desperation. Lack of caring. A combination of all of them. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’d rather be with her, anyway.”

“At least you have options for a blaze of glory before you go. Certainly, this buys you a chance to revenge yourself against His Glory before you find Agnes, or die trying. Either way, a win for you.”

A battle warred within Einar. Agony and curiosity. Uncertainty. They swirled in wild storms until he slowly said, “If what you say is true, I’ll do it. I can do it. I . . . “ His voice broke. “I’ll let her go.”

“I can give you a chance to find her soul. I won’t promise anything else.”

Fierce again, burning with hope, Einar nodded once. “Then I’ll release her. I’m . . . I’ll do it.”

Henrik stepped forward, gently grasping Agnes’s legs. “I’m with you, brother.”

Relieved, Pedr slipped back.

Together, they sent Agnes into the sea. The moment she slid into the water, a burst of sunshine broke the horizon. Light illuminated the sky as her body sank below. Einar dropped to his knees, palms pressed into the hard-scrubbed wooden plank. He hung his head, panting.

As he hummed, Pedr tapped with the top of his right toes, then his left.

He spun once, brought his hands together, and swirled them in a backward circle.

Light and mist swirled through his hands, creating a haze.

Sliding on a gust of wind, it hovered around Einar’s heaving form, gliding into his nostrils and mouth.

Einar’s clenched muscles eased. He slumped onto the deck, eyes closed.

As Einar fell into his first hint of sleep since Agnes died, Henrik’s silent nod of thanks went unacknowledged. Pedr’s long stride already carried him across the deck, toward his berth. He vanished inside without a sound to accompany him.

The door slammed shut.