Page 19

brITT

H enrik returned sometime in the night, clothes saturated, water streaming down his neck, and collapsed onto the floor beneath the table. He slept hard, woke up in the late morning, and sat at the table, staring at a cup of coffee.

His lack of information said everything.

Britt’s sleep had been fitful and restless, but hope buoyed a weary heart. Malcolm! Prison island! If Henrik came through with a knowledgeable ship captain, she could be sailing that evening, Malcolm bound. A hopeful event.

Probably too hopeful, but she’d hedge her bets.

Tesserdress’ life depended on it.

Henrik readjusted, propping his forearms on bent knees, as Britt administered the last of the Helandalenda potion to Tesserdress. She coaxed the final drop onto her fingertip, which Tesserdress, eyes closed, lapped at weakly with her forked tongue. Exhausted, Tess lay her head down.

“I couldn’t find Ossian,” Henrik said, shattering the still air. “Ossian must have left before the storm. Slipped out in the night, perhaps, when the port authority wasn’t paying attention.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes. Particularly for a captain like Ossian. Later, if the port authority protests and says that Ossian broke the cleansing, he’ll be able to blame it on the storm blowing them out of port, or him making a mistake. Regardless, I made some inquiries to find who was here.”

She couldn’t fathom what kind of inquiries he could make on such a dark and stormy night.

“Did you find anyone?”

He frowned. “Maybe.”

“Who?”

“His name is Rhygard. I’m not positive he’s reliable, but I know he’s been to the Unseen island before.”

“How do you know that?”

Darkly, he said, “He took me.”

“Then what’s next?”

Henrik regarded her, though his gaze appeared fathoms away. “We find Rhygard.”

* * *

With Henrik at her side, Britt felt no fear as they ventured into a people-packed marketplace early the next morning. A gray sky lingered, but the thunder and lightning had passed. Rain-washed cobblestone smelled fragrant and fresh, driving all the sand from hand-drawn wagons back into the sea.

With slight pressure from Henrik’s elbow, they veered left, between two market stalls cluttered with fish bone necklaces and baskets woven from the fibrous, purple fronds that decorated distant mountains. They grew shallow roots between thin rock crevices. Her curious fingers itched to palpate the bright yellow candles infused with ground up lava stone that, purportedly, had healing properties.

Yet no arcane.

Not a whiff of it.

Henrik paused at a back-roads intersection, wedged between rows of vendors. She had a feeling the sellers allowed him because they recognized him, and no fool would mess with a soldat on Stenberg homeland.

They wound through the back passageways. Henrik would pause, assess, gaze around, seeking more than simple goods.

No matter what degree of mutual purpose appeared between them in this last week, she couldn’t forget that Henrik was a Stenberg soldat. Their tentacles wound deep. In a pinch, any soldat would opt toward their training and loyalty. He helped her to save his island, not to save her draguls.

She wouldn’t bargain with the lives of all her dragons, her islands, or her own, on the hope that Henrik might shuck years of brainwashing and training to serve a different master. He made it clear that he supported her in order to preserve jord . . . and get more information.

Despite her heart tugging her closer to Henrik, she knew exactly where she stood: In between two very fragile worlds.

Henrik paused so quickly she collided into his broad back. Rubbing the sting out of her nose, she stepped away with a scowl.

“Rhygard,” Henrik drawled. “How good it is to see you.”

He directed the comment to a sotted man, sprawled on the ground. A miniature, squealing pig lay next to him, burrowed on its porky side near the man’s waist. The stench of rotted food and wet refuse rose from the cobblestones. When Henrik’s shadow fell across the porcine pair, the little piglet squealed, hopped to its tiny feet, and clattered off across the cobblestones.

Rhygard peered through slotted eyes and a sand-strewn face.

“Soldat.”

Henrik held out a hand. “On your feet. I need you and your crew. Immediately.”

* * *

“I want to help you,” Rhygard whined, “but I can’t! His Glory called a cleansing, and the port authority has stalled all ships. No one is supposed to sail.”

At this news, Henrik’s eyes tapered. Machinations whirled in his eyes, making Britt uneasy. Far be it from her to understand or predict what the inglorious His Glory might do, but based on Henrik’s response, this wasn’t good.

“I’ll compensate you,” Henrik countered.

Rhygard scoffed. “With what monies? They hold you on a tighter leash than us captains.”

Henrik pressed his lips. His face became a mask that choked Rhygard’s self-inflicted amusement off at the start. Rhygard dropped his gaze. “Right,” he muttered. “Not in the mood.”

“I need to get off this island and over to the Chain.”

“Then I suggest you take it up with him.”

Rhygard tipped his head toward His Glory’s Temple, which lay somewhere embedded in rising and falling and sloping and tumbling streets. Henrik’s scowl deepened.

“If I gain explicit permission, will you take us?”

Rhygard’s shoulders pulled back, straightening his spine. Deepening interest appeared. “From who?”

“Oliver.”

“How much are you offering?”

“How much do you want? I’ll get it approved.”

“Through who?” Rhygard spat back, one bulbous eye narrowed and wary. “Like we established, you ain’t got monies.”

“Oliver will pay. He distributes monies in our name when we require it.”

The first sign of interest gleamed in Rhygard’s deep gaze. He blinked, shuffling through questions, concerns. Finally, he breathed, “You approve it through Oliver and I’ll take you. I have a crew of five.”

“We need something fast.”

“I’ll take the Woebegone.”

Henrik reared back. “That’s a navy ship.”

Rhygard grinned. “If Oliver says I can, then I can.”

Henrik stared hard, and finally nodded once.

“It’s done.”