Page 36 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

PEDR

Britt stood at the stern, damp hair draped over her shoulders, and glowered at the sky.

She wore Henrik’s coat, holding it closed in one fist, as Henrik and Einar finished the final leg of their row.

They angled the rowboat out of sight and into the shadow of the ship.

When the final thuds of the rowboat returning to its place next to the deck sounded, and both soldats hopped over the side, Pedr spoke to the arcane.

Out to sea.

It twirled on the spot in immediate obeisance. He’d asked a lot of it today, but not too much. Interesting what happened when he tested his limits. Growth, not exhaustion. More. At his side, his hands flexed, fingers opening and closing. He had found no limits, thus far.

Only in his mind.

Only in curses.

Swiping his palms against his pants, Henrik turned for Britt while Einar joined Pedr on deck.

With Pedr’s quick touches, arcane light zipped across the ropes, sails, deck.

The ship swirled to the southwest and surged on choppy waters.

They raced ahead of the storm on their return, only to find that it had stopped moving closer when the wyvern escaped.

Of course it did.

The Siren Queens had no reason to keep the wyverns out when it returned to the mainland, which is exactly what the sea battle had been. The might of the Siren Queens trying to turn the wyvern away, and the burgeoning power of the Wyvern Kings opposing them. That westward current hadn’t been Pedr.

It had been the wyvern on the ship of the line.

Imperfect, and struggling a little, but definitely from the wyvern.

Was that particular Wyvern King more powerful?

More awake than the others? Both, perhaps.

It meant that a very powerful Wyvern King had been growing greater awareness, and he was livid.

Pedr kept a wary eye on Henrik, who stood at Britt’s side, one hand touching her elbow. She met his eyes. They spoke quietly. Pedr could have eavesdropped if he wanted, but he didn’t. Henrik treated Britt too much like a fragile flower. There was nothing to worry about there.

“Have a jaunt, did you?” Einar asked. He stood against the railing, an eyebrow cocked. Pedr suppressed the urge to put a fist into Einar’s teeth.

“A picnic, actually.”

Einar laughed.

“Are you fighting for the General or not?” Pedr parried.

“With,” Einar countered with a hint of black steel in his tone. “I don’t fight for anyone but myself these days.”

Well.

Maybe Einar wasn’t so bad.

Henrik’s hand pressed to Britt’s back, steering her toward the front of the ship. She made a move to slip out of his coat, but he pressed his hand to her shoulder. She left it in place. Pedr’s eyes narrowed at the warm look between them.

Maybe there was something to worry about.

“How was your picnic?” Einar asked.

“Jolly.”

“Oh?”

“Found a lost wyvern on the sea.” Pedr tilted the wheel a few pegs to the right.

The ship banked, heading more west than south.

“Thought we’d fly over and save it. Britt sprouted wings, flew in a storm.

A current swept up, threatened to kill everyone on the ship so she naturally saved the wyvern and left the sailors to die.

The wyvern dropped her in the sea, which almost drowned her, but I wouldn’t let it. Because of a wooden circle, naturally.”

Einar tilted his head, clearly calculating whether he should take him seriously.

Pedr left him to stew on it.

Britt approached with Henrik at her left. She gave Einar a low smile. Her little picnic with wings had drained more energy than Pedr expected. She’d handled herself well, considering she did everything he told her not to do. Speaking to, touching, and saving that bound up animal bastid.

She should have drowned it.

“Well,” she said with a little sigh. “I suppose we all have some sort of story to tell.” She met Pedr’s eyes. “Who’s going first?”

Twenty minutes later, Einar whistled long and low. “You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that you think the mainland is attempting to transport wyverns?”

“No,” Pedr countered. “I’m telling you that we found a wyvern at sea following a ship of the line. It landed on that ship, and they chained it. As soon as it landed, the current of the sea changed and began to take it?—”

He choked.

Demmet!

Einar frowned. “Take it where?”

“West,” Britt offered.

“What’s the difference from what I said?” Einar spread both hands. “Sounds like they’re transporting wyverns. They had it bound to the ship, according to Britt.”

Britt shrugged in response.

Everything, you imbecile, Pedr almost snapped, but a telltale heat crawled up his throat.

He’d mentioned the wyverns several times today .

. . but not while thinking about the Siren Queens.

Knowing the ruthlessness of the Siren Queens, they might have sculpted the curse to work off of intent as much as actual betrayal.

Thinking their names must trigger the forced silence.

Which galled him.

“The rip current taking the ship of the line to the west sprang out of nowhere,” Britt said quietly. “Pedr says he had nothing to do with it, which is a big problem.”

Einar’s expression grew troubled. “As Arcanist of the Sea,” he said, “that is very troubling.”

Pedr didn’t bother confirming his position as Arcanist, though the lessening restriction would have allowed it.

“What created the current, if not you?” Henrik asked. He no longer stood right by Britt, but near enough.

Pedr opened his mouth, but his throat locked again. The one thousand year banishment is over and the Wyvern Kings are preparing their revenge. That definitely played into the Siren Queens, so he gave up on trying. There was no battling the curse.

Britt kept a wary eye on him while she answered Einar’s questions. “We don’t know,” she said, then clarified, “I mean I don’t know. I believe that Pedr does, but he can’t tell us.”

Stiffly, he nodded.

“Can we guess?” Einar asked. “Could you nod or shake your head?”

Pedr croaked, “Worth a try.”

“Do you know why the current went west?” Henrik asked.

Pedr nodded.

“Does it have something to do with your silence?”

Another incline of his head, this time more difficult. His lips twitched. Rotten Siren Queens. They were devious and thorough, building the curse off of intent instead of actuality. A damning combination.

Britt asked, “The reason that the current went west is connected to the wyverns?”

He struggled to nod. His nostrils flared as tightness spread through his arms. He wrenched out, “King,” before his lips clamped shut. His fingers slammed closed against his palm. Britt, eyeing him, stepped so she stood directly in his path.

Confusion clouded her expression.

“King?”

Pedr grunted. He wouldn’t be able to put the words Wyvern Kings together without it linking to the Siren Queens in the context.

“It’s happening again,” she whispered, a hand on his stiff tendons. “We’re onto something. King. Something with wyverns and kings.”

“Wyvern Kings?” Einar asked. “I’ve heard of them before.”

Britt repeated it, incredulous. “Wyvern Kings?”

“They’re stories,” Henrik muttered. “Tales told to children.”

Einar stepped closer. “So were Arcanists.” He jerked his head to Pedr. “Now we’ve met one. Maybe none of it is a story.”

Finally, Pedr thought. Finally, this bastid has a purpose.

Britt whirled to face Pedr again. “Are the Wyvern Kings real?”

His neck clamped. Defiance, pure and colossal, swelled inside him.

He hated this curse. Hated the control, hated the Queens, hated the silence.

He hated it. Hated it. Hated it. Pedr’s shoulders heaved as the tightening pulled his elbows in.

He nodded, but the subtle up-and-down could have been a twitch.

Britt gasped. Einar stared at Pedr, wide eyed and pale. Pedr’s teeth clenched. Sweat sprouted along his brow.

“Blessed mermaids, Pedr,” she cried. “We’ll stop.”

“No,” he hissed. “M-more.”

Anguished, Britt licked her lips. “Fine. Are the . . . Wyvern Kings . . . our enemy?” She struggled to say the words, as if she couldn’t quite believe them.

His cheek twitched, body wrenching as his elbows slammed into his ribs. He grunted. His nails dug into his palm, drawing blood.

“M . . . maybe.”

Henrik caught him as his knees gave out.

Pedr’s eyes fixated on the west as Henrik lowered him to the deck.

Pedr’s knees curled into his chest. He tightened into a ball, fever flushing his body.

Light pirouetted through the ropes, zipping around, adding chaos to the silence.

Pain followed. His bones would crush. His heart fluttered as he panted for air.

Tears sprang to Britt’s eyes.

“What’s happening?”

“Arcane,” Henrik said. “It has to be a binding of some sort, doesn’t it?”

Einar muttered, “A curse. He’s not doing it to himself.”

“What sort of curse is this?”

“A curse that prevents him from speaking about a maybe enemy,” Henrik said. “The Wyvern Kings, I would presume. I don’t know. The arcane is new for us.”

“ Maybe means there’s someone or something else,” Einar muttered.

They’d uncovered something. Enough for Britt to research, and for them to question the very fabric that the world rested on. Rosenvatten juddered as it slowed. The sails drooped. Their course halted, far enough from the bay they couldn’t see land.

Britt put a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s still breathing. Heart is strong. He’s so hot, like a fever. He’s just . . .”

“Bound,” Einar muttered.

“A curse?” she asked. “Is it related to the Wyvern Kings, Pedr? Or someone else?”

Yes, he thought, falling into darkness. Follow that, Britt. Follow it.

He felt Britt leave his side. Her words faded with every hollow thud of his heart. “Help me carry him to his bed. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

All went to black. To dreams. To laughter and jokes. To broad curls and soft touches. To memories.

To Mila.

I’m sorry, he whispered. I cannot break this curse.

Oblivion claimed him.