Page 56 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

HENRIK

His Glory had lost weight.

His eyes were sunken, lackluster. Time ravaged wrinkles into the spaces around his mouth, which soured when Henrik and Einar entered the room ahead of the Ladylord.

Arvid, following last, closed the door. The three of them fanned out behind her, deadly gazes locked.

Only Arvid changed His Glory’s smug glare to a stunned breath of surprise.

His Glory’s upper lip curled over his teeth in a snarl.

Einar winked.

Three soldats surrounded His Glory around the sides and back. They ignored Henrik and Einar, but their inexpressive faces regarded Arvid for a bit longer than required.

Seeing the tyrant was an affirmative slap to Henrik’s established plan: they had to fight. That past held worthy ties. Henrik desired His Glory’s blood because he’d ordered Britt to the whippingstock, but Einar’s thirst tripled his own.

Einar didn’t bother to mask his seething hatred. He had Agnes’s death and his own lifetime of servitude to avenge. Henrik wouldn’t tear Einar away from His Glory, either. Their plan had altered, but Henrik didn’t mind.

Killing His Glory right here was even better.

Efficient, really.

Nils and two other high-ranking members of the mainland military stood at Alma’s side. They didn’t hide their apprehension. Their harried expressions, combined with the generally flustered air, meant that His Glory had taken everyone by surprise.

“Thank you for the escort, soldats,” the Ladylord said in a cheerful tone, “I appreciate your support. His Glory, what an unexpected meeting you’ve requested.”

Henrik conceded a grudging respect toward her. She didn’t welcome, pander, nor make false stands. His Glory gave a lazy blink. The rolling tenor of his voice echoed in the chamber when he replied.

“Ladylord.”

“It has been years since you’ve visited the mainland with any sort of diplomatic purpose.”

“Indeed.”

Alma waited him out. The silence continued in awkward measure until His Glory, satisfied that he’d made some invisibly political point, proceeded.

“I’ve heard rumors that a recent shipment of damma may not have arrived.” His intonation was steady. “I decided that it would be wise for me to proceed to the mainland to . . . discuss former diplomatic agreements that no longer serve our best interest.”

Alma tilted her head to one side.

“Oh?”

After a heartbeat’s pause, His Glory asked, “You are out of damma, Ladylord?”

“As you’re aware.”

With a sigh, almost like a tsk, he said, “It is difficult when change lands, isn’t it?

And yet,” he smiled blandly, “change finds us all. Ladylord, I have come to formally dissolve ties between the island nation of Stenberg and the mainland. We will no longer supply you with damma, and we ask for an official revocation of trade agreements.”

The room met his request with utter silence. Henrik restrained the temptation to glance at Einar from the corner of his eyes. Something about His Glory’s presentation stank. Alma took her time assessing His Glory, as if she, too, sensed a moving puzzle.

Einar’s foot twitched against Henrik’s. He tapped Henrik’s foot once. Twice. Thrice. One tap meant straight. Two taps meant right. Three taps meant left. Henrik returned it with a low, affirmative sniff.

“Your request is not unexpected, Your Glory. It does stir my curiosity, however. What has spurred this . . . change of heart?”

He smiled.

“You’re not clever enough for that, Ladylord. No, no. Explanations are not required.”

Her smile became fixed. “According to the agreements given by our forebears, Your Glory, any dissolution without full agreement from either party results in an immediate retaliation of war. No matter how powerful you believe your god Norr to be, he cannot save you from the might of the mainland. An explanation is required.”

Her confidently spoken words did nothing to the austerity of his smile. His Glory leaned forward, bending at the waist ever-so-slightly.

“I welcome your aggression, Ladylord. May you proceed at your own risk.”

The following silence was a bold refusal to explain. The Ladylord, apparently unbothered, glanced at Nils. The General sweated, his collar saturated. His eyes darted to Henrik, then Arvid, every three seconds.

“Do you have any thoughts, Nils?”

“We’ll crush you,” he rasped.

His Glory smiled.

Einar crackled with hostility, though his steely expression didn’t change.

He shifted his weight forward, arms bent.

His Glory peeled his eyes off of the Ladylord and regarded Einar.

His lazy, violent smile widened. “Einar, the soldat,” he sang under his breath. “What a pleasure killing you will be.”

Gleeful, Einar whispered, “I feel the exact same way.”

Einar and His Glory moved at the exact same moment.

Einar lunged.

His Glory ducked.

The room exploded from the middle out. A percussive boom sent Henrik wheeling back. Tossed through the air, he flailed until his spine slammed into the wall. He dropped to the ground.

Black spots danced across his eyes as he struggled to stay conscious.

Coughing, he fanned a hand in front of his face.

Dust clogged the air, thickening each breath.

Next to him, Arvid groaned. Einar lay limp on the floor nearby, blood trickling from his left nostril.

His chest heaved up and down with fast, thready breaths.

Someone moaned.

Through the haze, an undulating ochre glow appeared. Like grass on fire, summer straw, churned soil. Scents rolled off of it. Flowers and hay and hot pine needles. After several seconds of concentration, Henrik could just make out the Ladylord standing inside of an invisible, protective bubble.

Across from her, a variegated rainbow stood between His Glory, his three personal soldats and the Ladylord.

The indomitable, opal wall expanded outward like powerful rays.

The Ladylord had an arcane shield that pressed against His Glory’s arcane shield.

Both roiled like building clouds, surging back and forth in a physical tussle, until the floor trembled with raw might.

His Glory smiled, feral. The shield he conjured retracted. “Ah, how very interesting. You’re not the only one with an Arcanist friend, Ladylord. Good luck in the upcoming events. You’ll need it.”

His Glory and all three of his soldats vanished.

Einar’s hands didn’t stop clenching, unclenching, clenching for an hour.

Henrik kept a loose eye on him as Einar strode at his side through Klipporno. A headache thudded at the base of Henrik’s skull, intensifying each footstep. Arvid, quiet but steady, trailed behind them, lost in thought.

At some point after His Glory left, Nils, both irate and pale, barked out vague directions to a ship south of the wharf and told them to find it. “Can’t miss it. Bright orange flag. I’ll meet you there. Can’t talk here. Bring your rowboat. Immediate response. We have to retaliate. Now!”

The wharf’s escalating, ambient noise welcomed them into chaos before Einar broke the silence in a livid explosion.

“He’s aligned with an Arcanist?”

Henrik said, “Apparently.”

Einar drove a hand through his hair. “But . . . how? I thought the arcane didn’t work on Stenberg. Pedr said the arcane is broken. All of Pedr’s arcane is a little . . . kooky. Off-center. It’s functional, but not really.”

Henrik shared the surreal disbelief. He said, “Maybe that arcane works,” for lack of anything else.

“It must be the Arcanist of Souls.”

“How do you know?” Henrik countered.

“I don’t—not really. But it still . . . I just . . . ”

Henrik shook his head, the headache intensifying through the base of his skull. None of it made sense.

“Why would His Glory align with the Arcanist of Souls?” Henrik asked. “What benefit does it lend?”

“The arcane,” Einar countered. “He conjured a protective rainbow!”

“Yes, but why?”

Einar’s nose twitched. “I don’t know.” He tilted his head to the left to indicate their next move and veered onto a well-maintained cobblestone road. The smell of fish and brine wound through the air.

“It has to be the Arcanist of Souls,” Einar muttered again, as if convincing himself.

Arvid asked, “Why?”

“That’s the only one left. The Ladylord obviously aligned with the Arcanist of Land or else she might have died.

Didn’t you smell the soil? It falls in line.

That shield wasn’t Pedr’s, and she’s mentioned an Arcanist before.

I certainly think her death was His Glory’s goal with the .

. . whatever he did. Without her shield he would have achieved his goal. ”

“ Obviously ?” Arvid questioned. “What’s so obvious about her allegiance to the Arcanist of Land?”

Einar tossed his hands in the air. “The brown glow! The yellow colors. It’s earthy and symbolic.”

“If each shield acted as a symbol for the arcane’s origin, then what are rainbows?” Henrik countered.

“Souls?”

“Could be sky.”

“But that’s Himmel.”

“Who is Himmel?”

Einar growled, “The Arcanist of Sky! But . . . I don’t know anything about her power. I’m guessing.”

Henrik muttered, “We need to talk to Pedr. This revelation on the arcane completely changes everything.”

“His Glory has been pretending like the arcane doesn’t work on Stenberg,” Einar spat. “I’ll string that bastid up with his own whip.”

After several moments of silence, Arvid spoke up from behind. “You said that Pedr’s rowboat is arcane?”

Over his shoulder, Einar called, “Yes.”

“It doesn’t require a certain proximity or presence to Pedr?”

“Don’t think so.”

Another pause, then, “I have an idea.”

Einar and Henrik stopped in the middle of the road. Arvid shoved his hands into their backs to propel them forward.

“Keep moving. I’ll explain on the water, then we’ll take it to Nils.”

Nils stared at Arvid.

Arvid stared at Nils.

Two hours had passed since they rowed out to the navy ship, climbed aboard, and explained Arvid’s plan. While Einar and Henrik waited for Nils to pass judgment, the world passed by.

One tick at a time.

A familiar chorus of sailor shouts, clattering bells, and long-lost waves filled the background. The soundscape rang like a slow and easy swell, the seascape accented by the smell of pitch and sulfur. Unwashed bodies spirited around, filling the air with their gut-churning smell.

Nils studied the plan Arvid had detailed with a hand over his mouth, gaze tapered as he considered the shoddy drawings.

Triangles represented various ships belonging to the mainland armada.

Mostly galleons, and a few ships of the line tossed in, just for cannon power.

Arvid’s plan forwent the lighter, faster frigates, accommodating the space and depth of the larger vessels.

The plan was clear enough: stay out of sight, surround Stenberg, use rowboats and canoes to empty the island and remove as many innocent citizens as they could.

Several thousand, at least. Old Man started sending women and children out with merchant ships when he could sneak them in, sending them to Kapurnick.

Sometimes Narpurra. Mostly, the barrier islands just outside of Stenberg.

With half of Stenberg covered in jungle and rock on the eastern side, they stood a fair chance to empty a good chunk of the population. Stenberg’s population was bigger than most, but not the biggest.

When they mitigated risk on citizens as much as possible, attack.

Utterly.

If the soldats couldn’t destroy His Glory, the mainland had full permission to make sure His Glory didn’t survive.

No matter what.

Nils had a wild amount of unknowns to consider. The number of Stenberg citizens to expect, the state of the water. Bad weather could turn this plan into a slaughter, so they might have to abort before arrival.

But it did have a prayer of eliminating His Glory amidst whatever protective arcane elements he might be using.

A slim one.

Nils readjusted his lips several times, as if his teeth made him uncomfortable. Thus far, he’d offered no ideas. No counter plans. This plan might not be comprehensive or easy, but it was something. War required something more often than it required perfection.

“We’ll do it,” he said. Over his shoulder, he barked, “Outfit the rowboat. Fresh water, hardtack, three blankets, and a compass. Enough food for three days. Now!”

Sailors raced to obey as Nils regarded Arvid. “Fair weather and following skies, Captain Arvid. Hope that rowboat holds up for you, the way you expect.”

Arvid nodded, a wry, “Thanks,” following his smile.

To Einar and Henrik, Nils said, “Strap up, you two. My ship is heading out at first light, and if you’re not on it we’ll leave you behind.

I suggest you introduce yourself to the Captain before he throws you overboard.

They think soldats are bad luck. Can’t say I think he’s wrong, either.

Grab me a whiskey while you’re at it. I have a feeling we’re going to need it. ”