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HENRIK

A n entire ship of jord floating back to the homeland, and only idiots to be found. Henrik ground his molars together.

Sailors scurried around the deck like lost rats. The waves, pitching higher with each passing moment, escorted a coming storm. Slaps of water rumbled against the hull, which hung low in the water. Too heavy.

Fools.

But desperate fools.

Somehow, that seemed forgivable.

Sea spray pitched in white bursts that speckled the sails as Henrik crossed to the side. He used his forearm to wipe the moisture from his forehead, then leaned onto the edge. The churn of the dark sea caught his stomach. Fear, that fever pitch of emotion, was his greatest enemy. He dedicated his life to controlling it.

On the sea, it returned.

His hands pressed against the side of the ship, near a line of neatly-tied knots anchored to the wall. He ignored the way the surging wind whistled through them with a piercing, eerie tune. Amidst the fog ahead, something solid sidled into view. A bank of clouds obscured it again.

He held his breath.

Was that?—?

A sailor behind him bellowed, "Land-el!"

Land-el , the common phrase for sailors when they first approached land. Most considered it as sacred as a prayer, dedicated to the Stenberg sea god Norr. A scurry of voices echoed the same cry, rippling in a swell of shouts.

"Land-el!"

"Thank Norr," Ossian, captain of the ship, muttered as he passed behind him. “Can’t wait to throw your ugly carcass overboard and never see you again. You smell as foul as the dragul-dung jord I’m carrying in my ship and you frighten my sailors.”

Henrik grinned.

He’d miss Ossian.

A little.

Bells chimed in a flowing tinkle. The delicate song came from a sheet of miniature bells the sailors hung from a mast when land appeared. Prayers to the sea god for a safe landing, and an acknowledgment of their return.

Henrik fought not to roll his eyes.

Inky thunderheads chased the ship, racing closer with webs of lightning. The rocking of the boat, bucking up and down, lurched his stomach. He was grateful not to be near the bags of jord, thick with the tang of rot and refuse. They made him itch.

Henrik swallowed acid for the tenth time that day. Sailors would gape if an ironclad soldat vomited over the side, and the seasick reputation would follow him back into Stenberg. No soldat would be caught weaker than waves.

He shoved away from the side and headed toward the interior. He'd be in the way here. Besides, they were an hour from land. He’d be the first off this blasted ship, if he had anything to say about it.

Sailors ignored him, which he preferred. Two of the new sailors had never worked directly with a soldat until this leg of the journey. They tried to talk to him, but the other sailors stopped them.

As he descended the ladder—cautiously, because the ship rolled yet again—his mind edged to the woman in the hallway. A servant, surely. Why had she wandered that hall alone? He meant to ask, but something had lodged in his throat. He found himself saying something inane.

Had she really been a servant? Her eyes had been too healthy. She lacked the desperation of the lower workers, bound for Stenberg from Narpurra, who tended to send slaves instead of fruit in a pinch. Wealthy Stenberg islanders were too happy to take the forced labor, prior trade prohibitions notwithstanding.

Frowning, he strode toward his cabin, a thin room with a straw mattress on the floor and a round glass window that opened from within. The hints of fresh air had saved him from embarrassing himself many times. A bucket, which he kept strictly clean, filled the corner. On the opposite side stood his pack, perpetually put together and tidy.

Inside the cabin, he glanced around, the door closing behind him. Reluctantly, he thought of the woman again. What had prevented him from stopping her? Servants weren’t allowed to roam, nor was it wise. Particularly a woman as young and pretty as her. He knew what stopped him. Her surprise, which morphed to mild irritation.

Irritation.

What servant had the courage to be blatantly irritated by a soldat?

She stirred a memory to life, reigniting the terror of a scream. Selma ! the panicked recollection called. Your mama’s name is Selma!

Her shrill voice faded with a sharp exhalation. Every day Henrik tugged on the memory. Every day he replayed it and set it aside. Almost thirty years after it happened, the recollection mattered. He never doubted its veracity. Today of all days, it might matter most.

After the soldats tore him away from his mother at five years old, he'd promised himself two things.

Never forget.

Find her.

Henrik blinked out of the mess with a shake of his head. A year-long campaign across islands securing their latest jord shipment, fulfilling yearly contracts with imports and exports, as well as surveying His Glory's holdings—or desired holdings—ended in one hour.

No more hopping ship to ship. No more writing letters and finding a worthy messenger. No more long dinners with windy captain Ossian or assessments of strategic risks for His Glory to peruse in case of further invasions.

Jord, Henrik, soldat Captain Oliver had said. Stenberg needs jord like we need air. Without it, we'll starve. The workers are already hungry. They’ll begin to die if you don’t keep the steady supply. Our food grows lackluster. The mainland makes the pressure worse, what with the tempestuous relationship between His Glory and the Lordlady. Bring us jord to bury our seeds in, grow our plants, and keep our people alive.

"I brought your jord," Henrik muttered.

Sort of.

The precious compost, rich in minerals, crumbled like black bread in his hands. It cost more than gems, minerals, or precious cloth. Some Stenberg islanders would give their children in exchange for several bags of the jord.

Many did.

Like his parents.

Or not, he immediately thought, recalling Selma's final scream in his boyhood. Your mama's name is Selma!

She must have shamed herself eternally for making a display, which meant she hadn't wanted to part with him. Other Stenberg mothers planned to give their sons to His Glory from birth and proudly turned them over to the training soldats. Not his.

It meant something.

It had to.

When the soldats darkened a doorstep, no one argued. Children disappeared. Their name and pedigree vanished. They huddled in half-frozen groups for weeks on end, tested to the limits of their endurance, and awaited death. Nothing as merciful as death had been granted to Henrik, nor his brother-in-arms, Einar.

Henrik hiked the pack onto his back. At the end of his year-long service, His Glory had promised Henrik two weeks. Two weeks of silence in a bungalow off the beach. Two weeks to dig his toes into firm sand and stand still. Two weeks where neither Captain Oliver nor Captain Arvid could require an accounting of every minute. Such freedom was a rare offer, and one he'd planned on every day since he left a year ago.

Two weeks to find his mother.

The door slammed behind him.