Page 43 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)
PEDR
Britt swiveled from the left to the right as she entered Pedr’s quarters, smelling like seaweed and salt and sunshine.
She sank to the bench across from him, cheeks pinked from hours in the sun.
He hadn’t relayed how much walking to Jordaire’s cottage required.
The fatigue showed in her eyes, bringing a wash of guilt with it.
Denerfen sprang off his shoulder and cut toward her with a delighted cry.
He nuzzled close. Britt hadn’t known the Teller’s true identity as the Arcanist of Land—though he felt relatively certain she’d probably figured it out during the story—which is why he’d suggested Denerfen stay.
Just in case. Jordaire might appear like a helpless old man, but he leaped on weakness like a cat.
A pretty dragul would be a prize.
“Where’s Henrik?” she asked, breathless.
“He left an hour ago.”
“To go where?”
“Klipporno. A message came for him.”
Shadows and surprise filled her eyes.
“From?”
He cut her a sidelong glance. What was her draw to the man, anyway? Though, to be fair, plenty of people had asked Mila the same question about him.
“Selma, if it’s any of your business.”
Her eyes widened.
“What?”
Pedr nodded toward the side of the ship, where the missing rowboat should have been.
With a martyric sigh and deep disappointment, she reached into a pocket and tossed a braided willow bracelet onto the table.
He stared at the signet on top, blinking.
It reeked of soil and earth and loam and mold and time.
The Teller. That bastid.
Or maybe not. If he gave her a protective signet against the Siren Queens, that meant Jordaire was aware. Like Himmel, he also knew what was happening.
Bastid, definitely, but not as big a bastid.
Though, in fairness, Pedr hadn’t played fair.
He hadn’t told Britt that the Teller hated him with the passionate fire of a lubber.
Pedr had banked on the fact that Jordaire would also be watching the signs of the rousing Wyvern Kings and have his own concerns, which would motivate him to tell Britt about the Siren Queens.
It worked.
He couldn’t believe it.
Blinking out of his shock because of a suspicious and sudden silence, Pedr looked up. Britt stared at him.
Hard.
“I know the Teller is the Arcanist of Land, Pedr.”
“Canny,” he murmured, “as expected.”
She ignored the rare compliment. “I heard the stories. Can I say their name?”
Relief whispered through him. He nodded. She nudged the braid a little closer. He didn’t touch it. Couldn’t touch it. He wouldn’t even acknowledge it.
“But what I don’t know,” she said with a breezy tone of deepest irritation, “is what the Siren Queens and Wyvern Kings have to do with you and whatever curse you have.” She flapped her hand in his direction. “Whatever this no talking thing is that you’re stuck with.”
At her mention of their names, his throat closed off. He opened his mouth, but it was futile, so he closed it again. He pleaded with his eyes for understanding. For patience. Britt’s shoulders slumped. She ran a hand over her face, fingers in her hair, and sighed. Her eyes closed with weariness.
“I know you can’t tell me. Based on the expression on your face, just hearing those words causes great discomfort, which is .
. . confusing. Based on what the Teller said, the Wyvern Kings are banished from their homelands and rousing to fight for the Westlands, or whatever.
That explains other things, but not you . You are the lone, odd detail.”
That is not the first time I’ve heard that, he thought.
She peered at him. He tried to hide a wince, but failed when she frowned. Britt tossed her hands in the air.
“I’m sorry, Pedr. I’m trying to understand, but I can’t fight this one for you. I’ll do the best I can but . . . none of this makes sense. I’m exhausted and thirsty and hungry. Maybe I’ll be less cranky after I eat.”
Britt stood, and his heart went with her. Fifteen years, these secrets had been building inside him.
Building.
Building.
Ready to burst.