Page 46 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

“Correct. I don’t know the answer.” She lifted up a helpless hand. “Until yesterday, all was stories.”

“Stories have origin points,” he murmured, trapped in thought. With a shake of his head, he pulled out of it. His rough hand lifted, the scratchy palm touching her cheek. “Thank you. You’ve given us a more clear picture, a better understanding of an enemy we may or may not have to face.”

Britt pressed her hand to his. Invisible bands drew her closer, swirling them in a magnetic pull she was utterly defenseless against. His focus shifted to her lips, his own tightening when she bit her bottom lip and pulled tight.

A storm arose, swirling her heart with tempest power.

Britt’s breaths filled the space between them.

He trapped her fingers with his, elevating her chin with his soft touch.

“Britt?”

A distant cry issued from far away in the sky, breaking the spell.

Denerfen startled awake with a squawk, tail pointing straight out.

Britt’s head jerked up as Pedr’s door closed.

Drake sprang from his shoulder, airborne with several claps of his broad wings, and headed southeast. The hard flaps, the determined point of his snout, spoke to trouble.

Britt sat up. Henrik’s touch melted away. She’d never be able to kiss him with Pedr glowering at them so thoroughly.

“Bastid,” Henrik muttered.

Denerfen tumbled across the deck at the unexpected movement, yawned, and flew toward Pedr.

“What’s wrong?” Britt called, straightening.

Pedr stood outside his quarters, one hand on his hip as Denerfen settled on his shoulder. “Get up. I heard an incoming drake from far away. Drake has just left to confirm, but if I’m right, and I’m never wrong, then Arvid is almost here.”

Pedr’s surly mood continued for the next hour, while Einar stumbled from below decks, Drake returned with fresh-caught fish to gut, and the general bustle of life began.

Pedr stuck to the wheel, eyeing the western horizon when Arvid’s vessel appeared, and grumbling under his breath as they approached at what felt like a crawl in comparison.

Pedr’s command of the ocean was never so obvious as when compared to that of mere humans.

Arvid’s ship—a fast, versatile merchant vessel he probably hired out of Narpurra—pulled alongside less than two hours from Pedr’s announcement.

Few words had exchanged since then. Arvid boarded their ship with a smile, looking no worse for wear.

Einar, ready at the gunwale, clapped him in warm arms as he stepped on the ship.

Henrik gave the same back-slap greeting.

Solemnity rang in all their expressions.

Disentangling from Henrik, Arvid held out a hand for Britt, who clasped it with a welcoming smile. “It’s good to see you again, Captain.”

He returned it, full force, displaying an amiable side she hadn’t observed in other soldats.

“Britt, always a pleasure. Call me Arvid, please. Thanks for taking care of these two hooligans for me.” His bright expression dimmed, the corners crinkling with sorrow. “Sounds like you’ve had a hard time.”

Einar, still and hard-edged, scowled. To his right, Pedr stood with his arms crossed, expression inscrutable. “Arvid.”

Arvid returned Pedr’s subdued head nod with a similar one. “Pedr.”

Spinning around to face Einar and Henrik again, Arvid said, “Soldats, sounds like we need to talk. Britt, Pedr, you are always welcome.”

Sunlight streamed into Pedr’s quarters as they clustered around a table, all three soldats standing. Britt scooted back by the windows next to Pedr as the three soldats fell into instant conversation. The merchant ship departed, back to the west and toward the broiling storm.

The phrases, successful work with Stenberg citizens and stabilization of monies and contacts within Stenberg politics slung around. Within five minutes, maps, plans, and other things sprawled across the table, with Einar and Arvid doing most of the talking.

Eventually, Henrik explained the ship where Agnes died, the Ladylord’s proposal, the wyverns, the damma, the requests.

All of it.

For the hour while everything unfolded, Pedr kept his arms folded across his chest and didn’t take his eyes off of them.

His calculated stewing, the undercurrent of emotion, meant he paid attention, but he didn’t join.

A bored affectation stole over him. He might be paying attention, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

“In order to gauge whether the populace would support a resistance against His Glory, we wanted everyone on Stenberg to know what happened before and during the Unseen Island debacle.”

Arvid reached into a pocket on the inside of his vest and withdrew a rolled piece of paper. He set it in the middle of the map. Henrik grabbed it first, reviewing it.

“It’s a leaflet,” Arvid explained, palms pressed into the tabletop. “We had trusted people delivering them, door to door. According to reports given by Old Man and others, the information was well received. We had to do three rounds of distribution because so many more Stenbergians wanted it.”

Such underhanded, sneaky attempts to go behind His Glory’s back and involve the residents would firmly cement Arvid’s place as the next leader. A rather different leader than His Glory, at that.

Their purpose, no doubt.

“Did the sea god cause a hurricane in response to such a lascivious rebellion?” Britt asked with a cheeky smile.

Arvid laughed. “Not yet, but we’re holding our breath. No one died, if you can imagine. We had the leaflets delivered to individual homes in the dark, at the lowest patrolling sailor census. Old Man’s reports said only a few of them circulated outside, in the markets.”

“Did it remain hidden from His Glory?” Henrik asked.

“We aren’t sure. It’s doubtful. We assume that he knows we’re working behind his back. He’d be a fool not to know.”

Henrik held the flyer for Britt to read. She accepted and smiled, appreciating the inclusion as she held it up to the light near the window. A bold line splayed the top middle.

His Glory Lies

Amused, she read through a summarized version of what happened with Oliver, the betrayal at the Unseen Island, and a list of negligence and other issues with His Glory.

“It’s a love letter to revenge,” she murmured.

Arvid chuckled.

The bottom paragraph grabbed her attention.

Captain Arvid, in partnership with numerous soldats, is posing an immediate interdiction to His Glory’s diabolical reign. If you are open to helping, speak with the person who delivered this message.

Remain wary. Do nothing. We will keep you informed as developments occur in order to keep you safe.

She ran her finger along the edge, contemplative. Risky for both the delivery person and the resident to voice support. The chance for betrayal and sabotage ran deep. But how else? The whole operation reeked of necessary risk. Arvid had also put himself forward as an obvious successor.

What was his motivation?

Einar’s obvious trust for Arvid, his loyalty to the political structure Arvid set forward, was a bold contrast to Henrik’s respectful but reserved silence. Why didn’t Henrik give the same commitment?

Pedr, reading the letter over her shoulder, said nothing. His gaze raked over Arvid in assessment. Britt returned the distributed leaflet to the table.

“The reaction has been powerful,” Arvid said. “So powerful that Old Man and a few other Captains started sneaking women and children off the island. They’re going to the barrier islands around Stenberg, as well as Kapurnick, Narpurra, and Cmeaddon islands.”

Britt’s eyes flashed to him. He met her startled gaze. “Really?” she inquired. “Kapurnick is hosting?”

He nodded with a warm, grateful smile. “Malcolm approved. He’s taking them in, providing a place to stay until the dust settles, so to speak.” Carefully, he added, “I haven’t spoken with General Helsing regarding the matter.”

Her lips stretched into a soft smile. “Sounds like Malcolm.”

With a question from Einar, discussion advanced to the Ladylord. Einar’s brief explanation of her requested support in a confrontation against His Glory, sketches of the proposed battle, and other details swirled. The conversation had already spun to minute details that Britt had less interest in.

Einar rapped on the table, drawing attention to a hasty fleet of ships he’d drawn near the mainland. “This is where the mainland keeps the navy.”

“How many ships?” Arvid asked.

“I don’t know exact numbers, but a small fleet,” Einar countered. “Twenty ships, a combination of supply, frigate, support.”

“Twenty-three,” Pedr said.

Einar eyed him, nodded. “Twenty-three, then. Their bigger fleets are farther north, with other ports along the southeastern edge of the continent. Not far from the colonies, but not too close, either.”

Arvid’s thoughtful stance hadn’t changed since he entered the room, subject to Einar’s rapid-fire plans. Since Arvid arrived, Henrik avoided meeting Britt’s gaze. Not intentional, she’d wager. Probably just focus, but his pursed expression reminded her of a kettle under pressure.

Britt peered through the paned windows and onto the glittering sea with a clench of surprise. Doughy clouds meandered through the sky, guileless and?—

—was that quick shadow a wing?

“I received a trustworthy report that there’s a Stenberg ship sailing a day behind me,” Arvid said. “If the report is correct, they’re bringing a message directly from His Glory, delivered by a soldat.”

“How do you know?” Henrik asked.

“The new recruits confirmed before we left.”

“Do you trust them?”

Arvid nodded. “Their travails to deliver the news were sufficient. Old Man confirmed.”

“What do you think the message is about?”

Einar scoffed. “We hardly need to ask. An official refusal of trade, I’d wager. That bastid wants to make certain what he’s already done to the mainland. Might as well establish a declaration of war.” He scowled, sneering at the page. “That’s why he’s sending it with a soldat.”