Page 60 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

HENRIK

Henrik stood at the prow of the lead ship, a small, fast little thing compared to the fleet behind him. Almost two dozen large vessels bobbed in the early light, waiting to leave Klipporno bay. Arvid had left immediately, speeding impossibly fast through the water.

The sight of the gathered armada caught Henrik’s breath. It spoke to the Ladylord’s desperation and the size of their Siren Queen enemies in the Westlands. He pushed them out of his mind. There wasn’t time to deal with future problems.

They had other context to build now.

Two sailors pushed the capstan, hauling up the anchor, as Einar joined Henrik. The last rowboat that carried messages from the back of the fleet to the flagship had arrived before final launch. Four people rode inside. Two military gentlemen, a ragged messenger, and . . . Selma.

Seeing her, Henrik started forward. Her gaze devoured the ship until he came into her line of sight. She beamed with the radiance and relief of a mother as she rushed to meet him, stopping a few paces short with an uncertain smile. She breathed out his name.

“Henrik?”

He wanted to reach out a hand, but withheld. Wanted to say Selma but wasn’t sure if she preferred the traditional maymay for mother. That didn’t fit either. They barely knew each other, and too much time had passed for that intimacy.

So he said, “Selma, I didn’t expect you. Is everything all right?”

She smiled, ignoring his awkward stumble. As if both of them weren’t pinwheeling through this experience, elated to have it, but terrified by the latent power. Selma tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. It fell long and silky to her waist, swishing around her hips.

“Everything is fine. I wanted to return with you to Stenberg. The Ladylord gave her permission, but there wasn’t time to ask for yours.”

The majority of these ships wouldn’t be in immediate danger. Only the one that he, Einar, and Nils approached Stenberg with had a chance of problems.

“We’d love to have you on the ship, but it won’t be safe on Stenberg.”

“That’s fine,” she said quickly.

He swept a hand behind him. “Then, yes.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Selma searched his eyes. “I don’t want to be a nuisance, but I want to see my old home. Before . . .” She swallowed. “Before I hear there’s a chance it may be gone.”

He frowned. “The Ladylord told you?”

Selma nodded.

“You’re welcome to join us for my part, Selma. It will be good to spend more time together.”

His quick response earned another smile. Einar stepped up next to him, questions in his eyes, as the two halves of Henrik’s world clashed together. Selma gasped, a hand covering her mouth. Tears sparkled in her eyes.

“Noah?”

Einar glanced from Henrik to Selma and back again. His brows lifted in silent question. “Selma,” Henrik drawled, “this is my best friend, Einar. My brother,” he quickly corrected. “The one I told you about.”

“Oh,” Einar breathed. “This is . . . it’s . . .”

Laughing through her tears, she whispered, “Yes, I already know who this is. Oh, Noah. You look just like your father. Just like him . . .”

Before Einar could whisper a single word, a shout rang through the air. They whipped around as the Captain reached for a cord, attached to a bell high on the mast.

“Sails ready! We’re leaving.”

The ship was well underway, and the mainland a speck, before Selma and Henrik spoke again. He sat on a crate in front of his berth, his pack open in front of him. Contents spewed out the top, sitting across his bed, when she rapped on the door.

He glanced up, not entirely surprised to see her.

With a welcoming smile, he motioned her to an empty chair.

She lowered into it, leaving the door open.

It swung gently back and forth with the lightest creak.

Selma surveyed his scattered belongings and set her hands in her lap.

Her toes kept her perched on the edge of the seat.

“Did you get settled?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you for helping me find a berth.” After a musing pause, she said, “Noah—I mean Einar—was very surprised to see me.”

Henrik nodded.

“I’m sorry if my coming was too much of a shock. I shouldn’t have gotten so emotional. It’s just that . . . his mother was a good friend of mine. Perhaps one of my only friends. To see him . . . it . . .”

Selma shook her head.

“It was understandable,” Henrik concluded.

She laughed lightly. “Thank you. What are you doing?”

“Inventory.”

“Oh?”

He hesitated. Deciding that Selma had weathered more difficult things than his obsession with being prepared for anything, he said, “I like to be ready. Before we land on Stenberg, I wanted to rearrange my pack so it’s easier to grab . . . things.”

Weapons, he thought.

“Even though Stenberg is days away?”

He nodded.

“Did I understand your review of the plans correctly? While you’re on Stenberg, the rest of the fleet will remain outside harboring the refugees, correct?”

“Yes.”

Lips pursed, she nodded. Her eyes trawled the room and she hummed daintily, reminding him of a young woman. She must be at least mildly nervous to return to Stenberg and visit ghosts from her past. If so, she betrayed nothing but pleasure at being present.

“Why did you really want to come?” he asked.

She took his question in stride. “I want to see Stenberg, but I also want to find your father. If he’s still alive. I trust you to remove His Glory and pave the way for my return, for only he has prevented me from doing so all these years.”

The word father ripped through him, as if an invisible barrier had been preventing him from acknowledging his presence all of his life. It blazed a trail of pain.

“I don’t know what happened to him after they sent me away,” Selma continued, inspecting a knife sheath of braided leather. “The rumors of his death may or may not be true. He might be there, he might not. I . . . want to look.”

Her hollow words deepened the crater in Henrik’s chest. All those years, hearing her voice ripple through his memories.

Beckon him. Remind him. Cast a weight on his shoulders too dense for a child.

In that time, he’d rarely thought of his father.

Tried to tuck him into a box he didn’t consider, because how could he?

He knew the origin of his denial. If he had a father, that father failed him, too.

From what little he recalled, that father didn’t fight. But Selma fought. She lost everything, hoping to save her son. Since she couldn’t save him, she at least impressed a memory that haunted him. Her plan worked.

Selma shook her head. “Time makes fools of all of us.”

The sincere frustration in her tone surprised Henrik. Until now she’d been easygoing, emotional, simple. Easy enough to figure out, this woman who had lived so quietly.

“Fools?”

“To return to Stenberg?” Selma sighed. “It’s a fool’s hope to find Cristan. And yet . . . you hoped to find me all these years.” She spread her hands with a wry smile. “Here we are. I can’t help but hope.”

Why? lingered on the tip of his tongue. Why see him again?

What’s the point after so long? He wouldn’t ask.

Einar had never questioned why regarding his search for Selma.

Besides, he would have searched out Britt.

Britt, whom he’d only known a few months, at best. Time didn’t matter.

He’d claw his way into her life, search every house, to locate her.

“There’s no Cristan that I know of in Stenberg.”

“No,” she crooned, tutting. “There wouldn’t be, would there?

I interrupted the soldats, attempted to save you.

It brought embarrassment to my whole family.

His Glory used it as a lesson for other mothers.

In order to earn His Glory’s trust, Cristan would have to change his name, perhaps.

Or maybe leave the island and swear on death to never return.

Or, he would have somehow proven his loyalty against me.

For all I know,” she added softly, “he negated our legalization, promised to never acknowledge my existence, and is living a beautiful life under a different name.”

The words prove his loyalty against me left Henrik in a tight knot. That meant his father could be anyone. More than likely, he was dead. Killed after Henrik joined the soldat training as a boy, just to prevent problems. When it came to His Glory, one never knew what to expect.

Selma threaded her fingers together in a supplicant position. Her lips pressed to her thumbs. “I want to know if he’s alive. What sort of life did he make? Where is he now? His Glory forced us apart. I want to know what it means. There are no expectations.”

Time had whittled away even the saddest resignation. He heard none of that in her tone. Only determination.

“It will be dangerous,” he said.

“I know.”

“So how will you find him?”

“I don’t know. I’ll visit every single person on the ships, if I must. Live on Stenberg again and introduce myself to everyone. Become a Sister of Stenberg. Somehow,” she added. “I don’t know, but I trust myself to figure it out. If I’ve proven anything, it’s my adaptability.”

Her hand reached out, touched his. He didn’t flinch or withdraw, so she settled her palm more fully and gave a squeeze. Henrik set his other hand on top of hers and returned the affectionate gesture with a deepening pit in his stomach.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Let me know how I can help. I would also like to know.”

Dawn kissed the next morning with her fresh scent. The rousing ship, the calm sea, reminded Henrik of Britt. Questions about her well being swarmed him. Was she safe? What trouble did she stir up with Pedr? Was she being wise?

Sailors scurried around, unfurling the jib, shouting orders, bringing wakefulness to the sleepy air. Einar yawned at his side. Despite his obvious fatigue, a bright fever lay behind his glassy eyes. It looked something like hope.

“When we defeat His Glory, I’ll be free to find Agnes.”

Instead of grabbing Einar by the shoulders, shaking him violently and demanding, what are you thinking? Henrik cleared his throat.

“How?”

“Pedr told me that there’s a small treasure trove of artifacts that His Glory keeps hidden away. Precious artifacts. Historical artifacts.”

“They belong to the people of Stenberg,” Henrik countered.

“They belong to the Arcanists.”

The gentle words, soft as a caress, sent a bolt of fear through Henrik. After a pause, in which Henrik understood the desperate searching in Einar’s voice, Henrik asked, “Where is this treasure trove?”

“In the Temple, most likely.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does Pedr?”

“No.”

“He wouldn’t, would he? The man hasn’t left his boat in fifteen years. What will these artifacts provide for you?”

Einar paused with a wary note of uncertainty. “Do you believe me?”

“I believe you think it’s real.”

“That’s not the same,” he growled.

“I know,” Henrik said.

“They’re . . . weapons, I guess. There are only certain types of weapons that are immune to the arcane. He says I have to have them if we’re going to have a chance to approach the Arcanist of Souls in exchange for Agnes.”

“Shite,” Henrik muttered.

After a pause, Einar asked, “Will you try to stop me?”

“No.”

“You’re not going to call me a fool?”

“No.”

Flabbergasted shock bled through Einar’s voice. “Why not?”

“If the Arcanist of Souls exists and all of this is real,” Henrik said carefully, “then you’ll find Agnes. But that doesn’t mean I think it’s wise or that it will happen the way you think.”

Einar’s grip on the railing tightened. He fell into such deep thoughts that Henrik nearly left him to it. There was the Captain to urge to greater speed, questions of whether a drake arrived from the mainland with any news, and a fleet of ships behind them to coordinate.

“I just . . .” Einar stumbled over the words. “I didn’t expect you to believe me. I thought you’d try to dissuade me. Tell me that I’m a fool. That Agnes is gone and I’d be better to leave her dead and . . .”

He choked off.

Henrik straightened, clapped a hand on Einar’s shoulder. “I’d go to the depths of the sea, to Norr’s very toes, before I’d try to dissuade you of anything, Einar. I ask only that you wait for us to deal with His Glory before you act so that I can go with you.”

Einar nodded once, swallowing hard. “I don’t know if you can,” he admitted. “I don’t even know if I can. Pedr said the Arcanist of Souls is the most powerful. He’s ruthless. He must be, if we’re correct and he’s helping His Glory.”

“If I can, Einar, then I will.”