Page 59 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)
PEDR
Pedr’s pleas to Himmel went unanswered, despite shouting until his voice turned hoarse. Where could she possibly have gone that the wind didn’t greet her? Or she didn’t listen? Midnight swept through, then sunrise, then another day. He sailed as fast as he could without irritating his arcane.
What felt like an eternity later, Klipporno elevated onto the horizon, as if he’d pulled the white washed buildings, bright-tiled roofs, and people from the sea. The storm had swept Rosenvatten farther west than he’d expected.
Pedr’s upper lip curled as he considered his options. If the Wyvern Kings were truly returning to full intelligence, the wyvern would probably fly to the Westlands before returning to the mainland. The Siren Queens wouldn’t let it close, but that wouldn’t stall the wyvern’s attempt to show himself.
Then what?
Freedom for the other Wyvern Kings, he’d wager. Once the Wyvern Kings showed themselves to the Siren Queens, they’d need to gather and fight. Every hour freed a little more damma from their bodies, allowing more understanding into their thick skulls.
Time to speak to the Wyvern Kings.
Pedr gripped the railing with both hands. He hadn’t left the ship in fifteen years. No dry land. No civilization. No swimming in sapphire waters. Yet another part of the Siren Queen’s curse. Or was it separate?
Did curses exist as one, or many?
Himmel insinuated that curses were the most complicated arcane. Layered , she had said. The highest tier, wielded only by those able to tolerate pure arcane. Nothing an Arcanist could do. Only the Siren Queens, the Wyvern Kings.
Speaking of Himmel . . .
He needed her help. If he, Himmel, and Jordaire worked together to discuss options with the Wyvern Kings, their chances of success grew exponentially. Obviously, three of four Arcanists couldn’t hold the Wyvern Kings forever, but they could delay.
The Wyvern Kings would destroy everything in their bid to regain the Westlands.
Including Mila.
He wouldn’t let that happen, but saving Mila necessitated speaking about the Siren Queens and leaving his ship. Currently, he could do neither.
There was one option: break the curse, prevent the Wyvern Kings from leaving before he could cut a deal to save Mila, and save his sister. To do that, he’d need Jordaire, and that old bastid would only help if it were almost the end of the world.
Fortunately, it was.
Pedr conjured waves.
Many, many waves.
He anchored at a shallow spot outside the black-rock beach that led to Jordaire’s hidden estate and sent the waves to bash into the area directly onto Jordaire’s home.
The last ten years had eroded much of the surroundings further than Pedr expected, or perhaps being an Arcanist, with an Arcanist’s sense of sight, simply afforded Pedr greater insight.
As Arcanist of Land, Jordaire should take more pride in the ground he inhabited, but assumptions meant nothing.
One particularly large crest bashed the ivy-strewn fence with coarse white spray.
It burst in foamy delight. The Rosenvatten bobbed as an even bigger wave rolled forward and hit land with an audible crack on the stone fence.
Didn’t topple, but wasn’t far off. Pedr leaned back against the gunwale, hands propped on the ledge, and waited.
Perhaps one more . . .
The shrill sound of an aged voice issued from his right side.
“Cease!”
Pedr turned to face the irate old man hovering above his ship. “How lovely to see you, Jordaire.”
“That is my home!”
The barreling wall of water paused halfway to the stone wall, fizzled into sea spray, and sank. Once-turbulent waters, stirring a thin frenzy, calmed.
“How are you?” Pedr inquired.
Jordaire’s normally diffident expression turned irate. Heat pinked his cheeks, which scrunched in a livid bow. Fists at his side, he shouted, “What do you want? I told you never to visit me again.”
“Correction.” Pedr held up a finger. “You said, Unless it is the end of our world, never visit me again! ”
Jordaire’s bluster lessened.
“While it’s not yet the very end of our world,” Pedr continued with an affability sharpened by pressure, “we’re damned close, and I’ll be a bastid if I let you get in my way of stopping?—”
The curse cut him short.
Pedr’s nose twitched with profound irritation, Jordaire’s lips drooped. At his side, his nimble, thin fingers twitched from side to side.
“I know,” Jordaire said. “I know what you’re seeing.” Defeat weakened his usually rambunctious reply. Or if not defeat, loathing.
“That bad?”
Jordaire nodded.
Pedr said, “Himmel hasn’t responded for several days, so it’s up to you and me to figure out how to remove . . . “
The heat of the curse wrapped tight. He attempted to press against it.
By the time he ceased efforts, his fingers balled uselessly at his side.
Jordaire’s knowing gaze dropped to Pedr’s fists and back again.
A flash of understanding appeared. Knowing Jordaire, he could sense the curse on Pedr. The dark lashings that held him tight.
“You have some kind of plan?” Jordaire asked.
Pedr nodded.
“Is it dangerous?”
“Not for you,” he managed to rasp.
Jordaire’s gaze drifted to the horizon, which he stared at for ten seconds, mute. Finally, he said, “I’ll help. What do you want?”