Page 37 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

HENRIK

The curses’ hold on Pedr slackened through the night. Britt kept vigil, nodding to sleep around midnight. Henrik lay her in a hammock before she pitched to the floor. Einar kept an eye on the waters while Henrik lay by Britt. Out in the sea, no other ships bothered them.

By morning light, Pedr stood at the wheel, alone. His grip was loose, his stance hunched. Einar slept on the deck, his breaths shallow and thready. Seeing Henrik, Pedr produced a folded sheet of paper from a pocket, extending it between two pinched fingers.

“For you.”

Henrik frowned.

“Me?”

He nodded to an unknown drake, who preened on the stand. No sign of Drake yet.

“Arrived an hour ago.”

Henrik,

Thank you for your time and attention with my military leaders. As luck would have it, Selma is prepared to meet with you today.

Come at your convenience. She is staying with me in my personal quarters.

Alma

The Ladylord signed it as Alma, which had to be significant. Henrik ran his thumb over her name, but stared at Selma’s.

Selma.

His mother.

He barely considered the acknowledgement of the Ladylord’s own capriciousness. She held Selma hostage to test whether Henrik would really show up, let her have some equal amounts of power. He didn’t like it, but he’d have to accept it.

Because . . . Selma.

A purring version of Britt’s sleepy voice spoke near his side. “What are you reading this early?”

Henrik handed it to her, a ball in his stomach. Britt accepted, yawning, rubbing her eyes with her other hand as she read.

She stopped.

Her gaze lifted to his in wide-eyed wonder. “She found her,” Britt whispered. “Alma found Selma, and Selma wants to meet you. She’s waiting, Henrik. Waiting! Your mother.” Beaming, she gripped his arm. “Your biggest dream is about to come true! It . . .”

She trailed away. Puzzled, she asked, “Aren’t you happy?”

Henrik ignored her question.

“Come with me?”

Britt kept her smile firm, her gaze steady, and her grip tight.

Wordless, they ascended the cobblestone roads of Klipporno together.

When she took his hand, he didn’t protest. Their fingers threaded together as if made to weave.

He kept a hold of her as they navigated alleys and thin roadways.

His scowl, ready to ignite water, kept hoodlums at bay.

Pedr’s ship poised near the edge of the bay, creeping away from the middle with the subtlety of a fox leaving a hen house. As they approached the Ladylord’s personal residence, guards stepped aside without command. Interesting.

They hadn’t been there last time. Henrik ignored them and the assumption of a security risk they created. His steely eyes locked ahead with visceral determination.

He could do this.

Wanted this.

For years, he more than longed for Selma and for answers, which meant that he now wanted to vomit. Britt stopped near a flowery bush speckled with amethyst. The smell of wisteria filled the air. He gazed over his shoulder, eyebrow tilted in silent question. What was she doing?

Chin elevated, she asked, “How are you?”

Henrik frowned. “What?”

“How are you, Henrik?”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re about to meet Selma.”

“I’m aware, thank you.”

After making a raspberry-like sound in her throat and a contemplative pause, she said, “I’m here for you.

If you need it, I will make up a story so you can stay all night.

Or I will whisk you out of there in less than a minute.

You’re a capable man, but this situation would be terrifying for anyone.

Let me know how I can help you manage it. ”

“I don’t know what I’ll need.”

She smiled. “I assumed.”

He ran a hand through his hair, realized the nervous gesture halfway through, and dropped it. “Thank you. It is easier with you here,” he admitted. “If I need help, I’ll look at you. I . . . I don’t know how else to plan except for that.”

She put her hand under his jaw, bringing his chin up. How gentle her touch. Sweet her breath. Henrik leaned closer to her, for just a second, before he straightened again.

“I’m here for you, Henrik. You’re not alone.”

Gathering his breath, he nodded once. They approached the familiar landing in nervous silence. He hadn’t eaten breakfast—couldn’t stomach the thought of food. He’d felt this way in the shadow of many soldat challenges. Yet, those didn’t terrify him half as much as Selma.

His mother.

It worked, he thought, stymied. Until this moment arrived, he didn’t quite believe it. He’d pressed through pain and toil to one day meet Selma. To study her face, ask her why she flailed and thrashed and screamed when they parted.

Because she loved him?

Had he made it up?

The opportunity presented itself, and he wanted to flee. Britt’s hand in his, her steady steps forward, kept him going. Alone, he wouldn’t have been able to face the past.

All of a sudden, they stood at the door.

Britt rapped, and the hollow thuds ran into his chest. Panic infused him.

What was he doing? This was a mistake. It might not be Selma.

Wouldn’t that be worse? To have come this far, thinking he’d meet her after all, but it was someone else?

That wouldn't be worse than meeting Selma and finding her disappointed in him, or lacking remorse.

“Henrik,” Britt whispered, “breathe.”

His tight chest threatened to suffocate him. He ground his molars together, forced his chest to widen and collapse in steady circuits. The focus slowed his racing thoughts.

Britt tightened her grip. “You can do this,” she whispered as feet closed in from within. “I’m at your side.”

Her words sank farther than breath.

I’m at your side.

No one said that before.

The door opened and Alma peered out. A moment of surprise, and then warmth, crossed her face. She widened the opening, sliding back.

“Henrik. Please, come in.”

Her formal tone ratcheted his prodigious anxiety higher. He obeyed the command, but stopped short. A woman stood on the other side of the room, silhouette and shadow. Her hands, half bent, wrung together. Alma lifted her hand toward the woman.

“Henrik, this is Selma. Selma, this is Henrik the soldat.” After a pause, she cast Britt an auspicious glance and drawled, “We’ll be waiting outside.”

Britt hesitated.

With a squeeze of fingers, Henrik gave her permission to go. Britt leaned closer, whispered, “She looks just like you,” and left with Alma.

Henrik stood in the same spot for an interminable time.

Minutes ceased to exist. Henrik could only take in the things that didn’t matter.

The distant, rushing sea. Shouting lubbers nearby.

Birds fluttering on the windowsill. A comfortable parlor, complete with fluffy chairs and a tea set on a low-slung table and decorative knickknacks in the corner.

He saw all of it, because he couldn’t bring himself to look right at her.

Like the sun, he attempted to comprehend Selma’s edges.

The halo. He didn’t believe it could possibly be his mother until a cry sounded.

The woman held a hand to her mouth. Tears rimmed her eyes.

This woman named Selma had turned almost pure white.

Somewhere, deep in the shock and disbelief, he found his voice.

“Your name is Selma?”

She peeped a quiet, “Yes.”

Having nothing else to say, he fell silent.

Surely, it was her turn to wrench out a question.

Shouldn’t she have them, too? Nothing came, which meant he had to look right at her.

He had to. But the chance of seeing nothing of himself in her eyes was too frightening, though Britt already attempted to set him at ease.

You are a soldat, he reminded himself.

Though a quiet voice answered, Not anymore.

Henrik lifted his gaze.

While he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, Selma clearly hadn’t torn hers away. Her lips were parted, her brow wrinkled, like the moment just before a terrified scream.

He rasped a broken, “How . . . how would I?—”

“Henrik.”

She said the name as if testing it.

Again, she said, “Hen-rik?”

Her eyes crinkled at the edges. She shook her head, hair sliding back and forth on her shoulders.

Dark brown, like his. Slightly curly, perhaps.

She was a petite woman. The passage of time showed in her eyes.

They didn’t share eyes, but perhaps something around the nose.

Their hair, surely, but most Stenberg citizens . . .

“My son was not named Henrik.”

He stuffed aside the urge to say, they renamed me after you abandoned me to their evil clutches. Instead, he waited. She might not have noticed, anyway. This woman—Selma—had the appearance of being lost in her own thoughts.

Whispering, she said, “My son was Erik.”

His blood stalled.

“Erik?”

She put a trembling hand to her forehead, the fingers barely grazing it. A tear trickled out of the corner of her eye as she cradled her other arm to her chest. “Erik,” she whispered. “They took him when he was five. They . . . they ripped him from my arms.”

A keen bubbled from her throat. She stopped a sob with a fist over her mouth. Her gaze had averted; it didn’t return. He listened carefully, his whole body still, as if readying for a punch.

He knew that sound. Had heard that wail, that mournful panic, over and over in his head for years. So many times. He never thought to recognize it. Surely, memories distorted the truth. Surely, time wrought a change.

Henrik pulled in a slow, deep breath. “Your son,” he said, and his voice sounded low and gravelly against her building cries. “Did he go alone to the soldats?”

“No.”

Her hand covered her eyes. Henrik’s heart escalated.

“Another boy,” she whispered, hurriedly. “The son of a maid in our house. They couldn’t be parted, not even for the soldats. They both showed such promise that the soldats plucked them out.” Her hands crossed her chest with another cry. “From my very arms.”

The wail died. Her moving mouth gave no sound. She shook her head, turning away.

Confirmed.

She’d confirmed it. Einar and Henrik had entered the soldats together. Their tied memories existed as one.

“Your husband?” he asked, unable to hold it in.

Distracted, she waved a hand, “Anders.”

“What was the name of the maid?”

“Alice.”

“Her son?”

“Noah.”

“Did she have any other children?”

“No.”

“Did you?”

The interrogation wasn’t, perhaps, fair. He couldn’t stop himself. Selma shook her head. The tears spilling down her cheeks prevented further response. Henrik swallowed as the silence swelled. He didn’t know what to say.

All these years . . .

. . . she existed.

Not only did she exist, but because of Britt, they found her.

She stood before him, flesh and blood. Not a figment of his imagination.

Not a person that gave him to the soldats to die.

The question that burned so hot at the back of his mind—that spurred him to such depths of hope—wouldn’t come.

No matter how hard he tried to coax the words free, they stopped in his throat.

Did you want me ?

With the numb wave came a rush of pain. Fury unlike any he’d ever known washed through him.

You should have fought harder, he wanted to roar. You should have held tighter. Your arms never should have released me .

The emotions filled him too quickly, like air from without. Seeing Selma opened his secret box of horrors. He plunged, face first, into the dark bottoms. He could barely control his breath, his heart. Everything swelled too big, occluding thoughts. His mind turned to a marsh.

He turned away with a grimace.

Shite, but he’d mucked this up. He met the woman he’d longed to see all those years ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes. The conversation fizzled into fear, and he wouldn’t give her what he sought.

Her tentative voice jerked him from the loops of hissing rage, unboxed.

“Henrik?”

He forced himself to look at her splotchy cheeks and tear-filled eyes. Her shaking hand hovered over her sternum, pressing flat to her heart as she asked, “Is it you? Are you my Erik?”

There shouldn’t be a question , he wanted to snap. You should know without having to ask. You should know me.

The vice around his chest closed in. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The only thing he understood was escape.

Go to her, whispered that quiet voice. This is her . You know it is, or you wouldn’t be so frightened. Go to her.

No , he snapped.

He had to get out of there.

Without a word, he spun, headed for the doorway, and shoved through. His heart pounded too loud in his ears to hear around it.

He didn’t look back.