Page 70 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

PEDR

Pedr expected to feel relief when the load of soldats—so stern and calm—departed from his ship for Stenberg. He didn’t.

Like Henrik, they didn’t have a lot to say. When they did speak, it was quietly and to each other. Their professionalism had been easy to transport. Einar, it turned out, was the chatty one who asked all the right questions at the wrong time.

The one who wanted to know more. The one who gave Pedr a glimmer of hope in finding Mila, the annoying bastid.

The soldats’ tension kept even Britt’s ready smile cowed, and she didn’t stray far from Pedr’s side whenever the soldats collected.

Far from being cowed by them, she remained quietly observant.

None of them meant her harm, but equally obvious was her elevated position of respect as a woman associated with Henrik.

Only Harald, their clear leader, spoke with or approached Britt.

The rest maintained a respectful distance.

Under different circumstances, they might even be curious.

Well . . . maybe Henrik wasn’t so bad.

The scent of brimstone filled Pedr’s nostrils as the wind blew straight into his face. He sniffed. His hair bounced with a stirring breeze. Notes of fresh cotton, sea spray, plumeria lingered with the stronger smell of brimstone.

Himmel and something . . . no, some one . . . else must be nearby.

Brimstone? That wasn’t Jordaire. That was . . .

Shite.

He cursed under his breath, shoved away from the rigging, and dropped down the mast. The empty air whizzed past him as he landed on the deck without a ripple of pain.

Britt sucked in a breath of surprise, but knew better than to ask if he was okay.

Of course he was. The fall would have killed a mortal, but didn’t even register a tremor in his ironclad Arcanist body.

“What do you smell?” she asked. “You always have that expression when you smell something concerning.”

“Onskar.”

Her brow elevated. “Who?”

“The Arcanist of Souls.”

The blood left her wide-eyed face. She stepped away from her spot at the stern, where she longingly stared after the quietly retreating soldats who stole their way inland, toward Stenberg.

They’d passed dozens of small boats with full loads heading for mainland ships just out of sight.

Others, almost empty, headed back to Stenberg to gather more.

Didn’t take long to see an evacuation for what it was. Nor Britt’s growing and twitchy curiosity. He gave her two minutes before she jumped overboard or took a rowboat to the pier and attempted to save Henrik herself. She had no business meddling.

Yet.

“Onskar is the Arcanist of Souls,” he muttered, “and he’s here on Stenberg. I can smell him.”

“That is a bad thing?”

Terrible , he thought. Portentous. The worst situation in the world.

“It’s not good,” he said. On your ends, as the pirate Captains he dealt with would say. Britt swung back around to study Stenberg.

He’s here, Himmel whispered in the wind.

Pedr turned away so Britt couldn’t hear his reply. “Can you see him?”

No .

“Where is he?”

Everywhere.

“What do I do? I can’t leave. I?—”

You can meet him here.

“How?”

Present yourself.

Swearing, Pedr hissed, “No! You know I’m the weakest Arcanist. I’m a joke against you and Jordaire. I have fifteen years in the position and the arcane is only just familiar to me. Jordaire has hundreds of years. Call him!”

He cannot.

“Why?”

He is dealing with other things.

“Himmel, you are stronger than me by more than four hundred and fifty years,” he hissed.

You should have presented yourself years ago, Pedr.

“The fact that I’m fifteen years in and he’s never tried to speak to me confirms that it doesn’t matter whether or not I presented myself.”

You cannot stand in your power unless you present yourself to all of us. This will begin to hold you back.

“Himmel, this is the worst possible time!” he hissed, and cast a sidelong glance to Britt, who still peered out on the moonlit riddled sea.

We will stand together. I will not let him break you. If my suspicions are correct, Onskar may have sided with the Siren Queens, and seeks to destroy any islands that may be valuable to the Wyvern Kings.

Pedr reared back.

“This island?” His voice pitched higher. “Stenberg?”

There is greater value in the sealstone than you fully comprehend.

Pedr’s nostrils flared as he gripped Rosenvatten’s wheel. Her promise of, I will not let him break you was mild reassurance. A lot of ground existed between present himself and break him and none of it would be pleasant.

Really, there was nothing to consider. Of course he’d present himself as the new Arcanist of the Sea to Onskar, if only to distract the Arcanist from events on Stenberg—if that was possible.

Pedr didn’t stand a prayer’s chance against a full-blooded Arcanist, but he couldn’t do nothing, either.

Henrik, Einar, Arvid, Harald—they could sacrifice every last sinew, offer every single rebuttal against Onskar’s arcane, and nothing would budge it.

They couldn’t stop it.

He could.

With Himmel.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine! Let me . . . get to my quarters.”

Pedr swiveled, headed for the stairs. He stopped halfway there. The very last complication he needed was Britt strolling in and seeing him in his unbridled—yet minimal—power as an Arcanist. In fact, she couldn’t. It would ruin everything.

He called to Britt. “You saw all the rowboats when we came into port?”

“Of course!”

“They’re saving innocent Stenberg citizens.” He paused with dramatic emphasis, then added, “Looked like a lot of women and children. There are rowboats heading back inland, because there must be more hiding.”

Her shoulders curled back.

“And?”

He gestured toward the side of his ship with a tilt of his head. “My rowboat can move two or three times faster than theirs. There are a lot of lives that could be saved.” Particularly with Onskar inland, he silently added.

Britt pushed her lips to one side of her face in studious assessment. “You’re trying to occupy me, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

His quick admittance disarmed her. Her arms dropped to her side.

“Why?”

“Because this is Henrik’s fight. Einar’s. Harald’s. Arvid’s. You need to let them fight it.”

Britt’s cheeks slackened. “What if they die?”

He hesitated, but decided Britt could handle any truth he shared.

“It’s who they are, Britt. You can’t take that from them, and you can’t change it.

This life will always have some pull for him.

Henrik is a warrior. A soldat. It’s in his blood to fight for something.

You come to terms with it, or you don’t. ”

A haunted expression crossed her face. More softly, he said, “And if anything ever happens to him, then you always have a place with me.”

Britt gave a worried half-smile. “Thanks.”

“Britt?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t follow me into my quarters, don’t stay on this ship, and whatever you do, don’t try to save me.”

He disappeared inside before her questions could stop him.

Pedr stood in the middle of his cabin, eyes closed. The closed room cut him off from the land, the sky, and other souls. An Arcanist, to present himself, had to be apart from all the other sources of arcane. His cheeks wrinkled in a preparatory grimace.

This wouldn’t be pleasant.

Legs braced, he set his hands on his hips. His elbows stuck out to either side like wings as he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and let out an exhale so deep the bottoms of his lungs shriveled. He didn’t need to breathe, so he held it there, emptied fully out.

Once his thoughts drained with it, he opened his mind to the arcane.

It hummed quietly. He knew it the moment he slid inside, but only out of sheer familiarity.

Nothing changed. No sense heightened. Like walking into a room.

Himmel’s voice came with greater strength as it twined through a partially-open window.

The sounds of Britt’s retreat, the rowboat splashing, grounded him.

Here.

Now.

Even if we can only draw his attention, Himmel said in the wind, then that will be worth it to give the humans the advantage.

The slide into Arcanist came without his noticing. Himmel’s pillowy smell, mixed with brimstone and char, told him the presentation had already begun.

He opened his eyes.

His ship had become the otherworld. He’d stood here before, this misty, vaporous place. Neither sky, land, sea, nor soul. No ties. Something elsewhere, where all the arcane leaders could stand without setting the arcane against itself.

Himmel regarded him apprehensively. She glimmered like stars in her ebony dress. Lights sparkled in her short tresses, bobbing around her jaw. The lack of flirting enjoyment in her eyes was a testament to their bleak situation.

He had a moment to take her in before a mild voice, piercing and curious, struck him. It felt like knives.

“So. This is the Arcanist of the Sea.”

Pedr directed his focus to the right, unable to help his insolent irritation.

Amidst a swirl of clouds stood a petite, mild-mannered man with a shaded black mustache trimmed to points.

Strong jaw, narrow shoulders, long neck.

He stood with his hands at his sides, the elbows tucked up, and a fitted, black jacket all the way to his wrists.

Elegant, in a haughty way.

This man was the Arcanist that Pedr had feared for fifteen years. Onskar held the souls of all living in his palms. He wielded life and death.

Pedr forced himself to incline his head.

Himmel swept her arm from Pedr to Onskar. “Onskar, as you are aware, this is Pedr. He has been the Arcanist of the Sea for the last fifteen years.”

A mild smile lifted Onskar’s overly full lips.

“Have you? How interesting that you should present yourself this evening, and without Jordaire.” A scoff, and then, “Jordaire. What a hidden wretch of a man. He cheapens the arcane by sharing it with humans, and has the gall to always stay far, far away.”

After a moment’s reflection, Onskar added, “Probably wise.”