Page 20

HENRIK

C aptain Oliver stood at his window, glaring out. His hands propped on his hips, legs spread shoulders width, and body drawn like a violin bow. A wrongly placed word and Oliver would snap.

What poor timing.

Henrik used his knuckles to gently rap on the door, his lungs tight as a cage. “Do you have a minute, sir?”

Oliver turned, glaring, then eased when he saw Henrik. In a two-second beat, Oliver scanned Henrik’s face, still discolored, though not as swollen. His gaze darted over Henrik’s shoulder, then back.

“Come in. Shut the door.”

Henrik obeyed. Dust motes pranced and sounds of the marketplace below drifted through the canted window.

“His Glory was pleased to hear of your grappling tournament win.” Oliver drilled his gaze into Henrik. “He sent his personal congratulations.”

Curse his betraying pride, but Henrik couldn’t help a moment of gratification. All these years, and His Glory had been the penultimate leader. Failings and faults notwithstanding, Henrik couldn’t help the sense of relief and pride at doing something right.

No matter how brief.

The praise sank through him too quickly. Within seconds, it left a taste like barren ash in his mouth. He thought of Einar, and stuffed that aside.

“Thank you, sir. Tell His Glory it is most appreciated.”

“Tell him yourself.”

“Sir?”

“He wants to meet with you.”

Henrik blinked, startled. “I’m sorry?”

“Despite not finding his missing bags of jord, His Glory has requested to personally speak with you in two days. You might notice,” Oliver added with an irritated flare of his eyes, “that you’ve received no assignments since your return. His Glory wanted to grant you a reprieve of work after your reefer year, and a chance to recover from the grappling tournament.”

His days had been far from relaxed as he attempted to find the missing jord, but he didn’t mention that.

“Thank you, Captain.”

Oliver relaxed a little. “All of this is a good sign of His Glory’s goodwill toward you, Henrik. He hasn’t asked for the same from Harald. There is nothing more important than this. Be here at first light in two days and you’ll accompany me to His Glory’s personal quarters in the Temple.”

A fist squeezed Henrik’s heart. To Henrik’s knowledge, an invitation into His Glory’s personal quarters had never been offered.

Oliver motioned with his hand. “Give me your jord updates, soldat. Surely, you spent the intervening time since our last meeting searching for their whereabouts. Where are the twenty bags?”

Henrik withheld a wince. Oliver wouldn’t accept an excuse such as recovering from the grappling tournament, so he didn’t offer it, though almost a full day passed with him sleeping. He changed tactics.

“I have unexpected news, sir, and then I’d be happy to recount my search.”

“Explain.”

“Information has come to me about a potential jord crisis.”

Oliver’s brow rose.

“Oh?”

“Details are sparse. I can’t say much more than that. I’m working with my informant now, and only need a few weeks. And a ship. The Woebegone,” he added. “I came to see if you could give me an assignment to figure this out before it becomes a problem.”

But without knowing the details, he silently added.

Oliver, jaw grinding, stared at Henrik for a long time. He crossed one arm over his chest, the other framed his jaw.

“The Woebegone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And an assignment?”

Henrik forced the same confidence into his tone. “Yes, sir.”

“You won’t tell me anything more than that?”

“I can’t, sir.”

Fire flashed through Oliver’ eyes, flowing free as quickly. He ran his tongue over his teeth. “You can’t ?” he repeated with utmost calm.

Carefully, Henrik shook his head.

Oliver quietly asked, “Update me on the twenty bags of jord, soldat.”

Throat aching, he said, “I have no updates, sir.”

“None?”

Henrik forced himself to keep Oliver’s stare.

“No, sir.”

“I see,” he murmured with a silky fire that promised no good tidings. “Help me understand this, soldat. You are up for the position as Second Captain to His Glory, the second-highest honor a Stenberg citizen could ask for. After a commendable year as a reefer, and breaking a grappling tournament record, you have a flawless slate. Your service is beyond exemplary. And you want me to assign you a task where I don’t know the details, I have no idea what’s at stake, and you still haven’t found twenty missing bags of jord? This is not a complex task, soldat. You find the jord .”

Henrik swallowed hard.

“Yes, sir.”

Oliver braced both hands on his desk. “Does this assignment have anything to do with the new woman in your bed, soldat?”

A flash of rage shot through Henrik. He kept his expression impassive, though every tendon in his body tightened to the point of pain.

Norr’s breath, he had to lie.

To his Captain.

“No, sir.”

Oliver’s lips curled into a snarl. “Sure it doesn’t. Soldat, this is unacceptable. I reject your request for an assignment, and will let His Glory know that you have no update on the missing jord. Your appointment with him in two days’ time will be very interesting. What a disappointment you have become.”

Henrik schooled his jaw into paralysis.

“It’s obvious to me,” Oliver spat, “that you need something else to remind you of your place in this world. You will not take that assignment, as I have a different one for you. Your recovery and relaxation is officially over.”

Henrik’s stomach sank.

“Sir?”

“We have a missing child that needs to be found immediately. He’s been gone for two days. His Glory has asked for a soldat to comb through the Shadowlands to see if he’s being held there. His name is Chamsen, and he’s eight years old. Blue eyes, brown hair, freckles on his cheeks. Wiry build. Last seen wearing short pants and a white shirt. He answers to Cham.”

Henrik bit his tongue to stem the flood of questions. First, a child? Why couldn’t the sailors handle it? Must be the child of a high-ranking island-owner or aristocrat in His Glory’s pocket. Probably kidnapped, ransomed, or otherwise gone, for a variety of reasons.

Or something . . . else .

A test for Henrik, most likely, as they strove to promote him to second Captain. In all likelihood, the missing bags of jord might also be a test, though the elaborate nature of it was in question.

It wouldn’t be unusual. Soldat leadership constantly put their soldats to rigorous testing. Obvious and oblique. Many soldats operated in between silent and rigid lines of expectations. They had unquestioning faith in each other, their leadership, and His Glory. Captain Oliver had promoted to First Captain because of his unswerving loyalty to the protection of Stenberg and their isles all of his life.

Unquestioning.

Yet, Oliver’s steely eyes couldn’t hide one thing: desperation.

“Why not the sailors?” Henrik asked.

“Does it matter?”

Decades of training battled within Henrik. Thoughts of draguls and Denerfen and Tesserdress occluded long-established thought patterns. The extinction of the dragul race would irrevocably change the isles forever.

He had to tell Oliver.

But he didn’t, because instinct whispered a soft, no . The combination of Einar’s letter, a higher sense of judgment, or a hunch about Oliver’ strained nerves kept Henrik’s lips shut. No soldat Captain had any reason to be this stressed over a missing child report or twenty bags of jord, even with pressure from His Glory. The soldats had long prided themselves on not being swayed by outside influences.

Henrik licked his lips. The space of silence in between his pause spoke readily enough. Not long enough for distrust, but Oliver wouldn’t miss the hesitation. A good soldat never hesitated when issued a command.

“No, sir,” Henrik said. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll find the child.”

“Get to work. I don’t want to hear from you until you’ve found Chamsen or a strong lead on the jord whereabouts or both. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have an assignment. Complete it as commanded or lose your rank.”

Henrik’s curling blood slowed, pooling to tingles at his fingertips. Oliver’s threat echoed in the small room. Lose your rank.

Lose his rank?

In all his years, such had never been dangled in front of him. An insult as much as a threat, or perhaps unshadowed harassment.

Henrik said, “Yes, sir.”

Oliver waved a dismissive hand.

* * *

Efforts to find Einar resulted in nothing. He hadn’t returned from his assignment. When Henrik returned to the cottage, he didn’t illuminate the lanterns. He stood in the pulpy darkness, agitating his own fears.

Which revelation was worse? That the draguls teetered on a dangerous precipice that could sweep the isles into chaos, or that he might lose his rank?

“Henrik?”

He spun. Britt sat upright on the bed, peering at him. Moonlight limned her features, illuminating cheekbones and a high brow and lush lips that, for a wicked moment, he wanted to cover with his own.

If he buried her in a kiss, would she help him breathe?

He smothered those thoughts with a rise of heat in his cheeks. Now wasn’t the time.

She tucked her feet beneath her, her weight propped on one arm. Her hair coiled in a tumbling waterfall down her right shoulder. Denerfen perched on her left with a sleepy yawn. He tottered from side to side, ready to plummet back to pillows and sheets. Tesserdress was a sleepy bundle on the pillow.

“Why were you gone so long?” she asked.

“I had to speak with Oliver, and I tried to find Einar. Agnes says he hasn’t returned, but it took me awhile to track her down.”

“Will he let you have the ship?” she breathed, her knees tucked beneath her nose. She straightened, like an eager child.

He shook his head. “No. He gave me an assignment.”

Her outrage crashed her eyebrows and furrowed lines into her brow.

“What?”

“I have to do some reconnaissance tonight. Find a missing child.”

“Missing child,” she whispered. “How old?”

“Eight.”

A compassionate murmur of, “That’s awful,” followed. She chewed on her bottom lip, body unwinding from the mattress. “But what about the draguls? Can someone else find the child?”

“Not without me telling Oliver about the draguls.”

She slumped.

Henrik ran a hand through his hair. How to explain without sounding like a coward? He should have pressed Oliver harder, but he couldn’t have said more without endangering Britt and the race of dragul’s. There had been something . . . wrong . . . about Oliver’ eyes and response. Something off about these tasks . . .

Henrik allowed himself to ask the question that haunted him the whole way home. Did Oliver already know about the draguls? Selma? He knew about Britt, to some small degree. But perhaps he knew everything.

He gave Henrik a chance to make things right.

Oliver had enough experience in the wide Isles—and had been the reefer once or twice before his promotion to First Captain—that he’d be more than comfortable with draguls as a species. All the isles knew about draguls and their connection with jord.

Henrik sat on the edge of the bed near her. A mistake. His thoughts didn’t clear with her so close. He couldn’t escape the bittersweet smell of coffee grounds and sea spray. The light musk of a dragul, somewhat cloying, but aromatic. A cacophony of scents.

“Oliver is . . . distracted,” he said.

Never had he taken an opportunity to speak so openly about his command to others outside the soldats. It was one thing to listen to Einar, who groused constantly about soldat leadership.

But to a Kapurnickkian?

He felt intrinsically aware of the tiny life which held the potential for so many others curled up on Britt’s pillow and breathing with shallow, steady breaths. More scales had gone missing in the day, and one glittered on the linens.

“I need to finish this assignment,” he said. “If I can locate the child tonight, there’s a chance I can leverage it in the morning for a quick ride out.”

“But—”

“It’s my only option,” he snapped. “I can’t just abandon my life here, my responsibilities. Without . . .”

He trailed away, unable to articulate it. He couldn’t save the dragul and betray his Captain. He couldn’t. The loyalty was driven into him with lash marks and obedience.

Her expression hardened.

“Fine.”

“In the morning,” he said gently, “we’ll come up with a new plan.”

“This is the new plan!”

“Once Oliver has had time to think,” he continued, desperate to make her see that he was fighting for her, “it’ll be easier to convince him that we need the ship.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes.”

Henrik shoved to his feet and pressed away before he did something he regretted, like shouting his frustration or telling her to leave him alone or covering those lips with his own or laying her flat on the mattress. Ravishing her the way he wanted would tie Britt more firmly to this gods-forsaken island in ways she might never extract.

Assignment, he reminded himself.

They were both here for an assignment, nothing more. The urge to protect her couldn’t extend beyond Selma and draguls.

He left her glowering at his back.