Page 26

HENRIK

Britt lay on her stomach, hair tucked into a rough knot Henrik managed to tie while the hastily-found ship escaped through choppy waters.

Light fell through a round porthole, illuminating a storage room. He’d created a makeshift cot from low, freshwater barrels and a rare slab of lumber. Britt lay on top of her dress, which was spread over burlap bags to soften the edges. Bloody rags and a box lay on the floor in-between his feet. Clean rags stirred from a pile with an outraged cry.

Norr’s breath.

He’d almost forgotten the draguls.

Henrik lifted a scrap of fabric. Denerfen reared his neck, snarling. He recoiled, probably from the astringent scent of a cleansing potion.

“Easy,” Henrik murmured. “She’s safe now.”

Denerfen’s front legs lifted, wings splayed, as he stood on his hind legs to sniff. He immediately sought and found Britt. Henrik leaned down, palm flat.

“Climb on.”

Denerfen paused with deepest distrust, gave a little squawk, and strolled on top with his teeth bared. Henrik lifted the dragul to her shoulder. Slash marks curled near Denerfen’s usual spot on her right side. The left remained miraculously unscarred.

With a low coo, Denerfen butted his head against Britt’s chin and curled up. He cried, a piteous whine, and nudged her earlobe with a nibble. Henrik resisted the urge to call him off. A dragul and their bonded were a special knot. He’d not stand in the way.

Nestled amidst the other scraps lay Tesserdress. Whatever jostling and terrors they experienced this morning hadn’t served her. A broad bald patch flaked off her neck in a shower of glittering scales. She stirred, but didn’t open her eyes. He replaced the fabric over her, then plucked another piece and covered Denerfen, as well.

The captain had been nice enough, but Henrik wouldn’t take chances.

Never again.

He ran the tip of his thumb along his bottom lip as he studied Britt’s flayed back. Each welt brought the wash of rage all over again. Angry, cardinal slashes. Bruises. They’d flayed her, but he’d seen worse. The sailor with the whip hadn’t driven all that hard. If Henrik was correct, he’d executed as light a touch as possible. The thong with the glass shards had been removed, or else she would have been churned meat.

He felt no guilt over breaking the bastid’s wrist.

A gentle rap came on the door, drawing Henrik from seething ruminations. He cleared his throat, extracting from the livid thoughts, and crossed the room. Denerfen hissed from beneath the fabric.

The captain stood outside, a cup in hand. He lifted it. “Broth. It’s warm, but not hot. There’s a Kapurnickkian healing potion in it. She’ll know it. Might ask for them, too. Better if we start it now.”

Henrik accepted. “Thanks.”

The captain hesitated. “It’s the Tollybryck potion. So rare I’ve never seen it. Can’t imagine where she stole it, but good thing, too. Heals really fast, you know. Got arcane in it. In case she asks, I pulled it from her bag.”

Henrik executed his most perturbed stare, winning the trepidation he hoped for. The captain’s hands flew in the air.

“All good, my man! I was looking for healing potions, that’s it. She said she had some potions as part of our deal. Kapurnickkian’s always have them, you know. Especially the dragul ones. I didn’t take nothing else. You can check.”

His stubborn chin and undeviating relenting would have to be enough. Henrik hated being at his mercy, but admitted a grudging respect. With His Glory’s cleansing edict, the orange flag high, and blood on the cobblestones, only a madman or a fool would defy the orders to leave. This madman had willingly defied His Glory in broad daylight.

“What’s your name?” Henrik asked.

“Lars.”

“Why’d you help?”

“Got me reasons.” Lars sent a nervous glance over Henrik’s shoulder. “Is she going to live?”

“Yes.”

Lars breathed a loud expiration, cheeks puffed. “If you think she won’t make it, let me know. We’ll take her to the closest island and dump her there.”

Henrik growled.

“What did you say?”

Lars held up both hands. “She might be pretty, but she’s not worth Burning Beard’s wrath! He’s the only reason I agreed to take her before you lot showed up.”

“Burning Beard?”

“She came to me this morning, looking for passage to the Unseen island. I agreed.” A hand went to Lars’ pocket. “She promised to pay four vials of silver. Gave me the first one in advance, too. That’s more than I’d make in a year with typical runs. Anyway, if she dies on my boat, I’m dead. If she dies on an island, let the devil pay them his visit.”

Lars disappeared.

Musing, Henrik returned to her side. He sniffed the broth, not surprised to scent a certain . . . undertone. Vanilla? Stenberg islanders teased the Kapurnickkian isles for their obsession with tinctures and potions, but rumor had it that they had a true talent.

Arcane, some said.

His Glory did not endure the arcane. Most arcane existed on chain islands in the Lesser Isles. The Greater Isles bothered with the strangeness and unpredictable nature of the arcane if it benefited them, but not often.

While Henrik lowered to his makeshift chair, Britt’s fingers twitched. Then her wrists. Her eyes fluttered, accompanied by low moans and a feeble lick of her lips. A glazed facade peered at him, blinking several times.

“Henrik?”

“It’s me.”

Panic brightened her eyes. “Denerfen!”

The dragul nipped her ear with gentle lips. She shuddered, pulled her head back to see him, and winced. Slowly, her eyes encompassed the room. She didn’t move her torso. Henrik gave her the space to take it in.

When she closed her eyes, he said, “We’re on a ship. Well, a boat, though the captain thinks enough of himself that it might as well be a ship.”

“Ship,” she murmured.

The haggard way her brow lowered, and she grimaced, made it clear that recollections patched together. He kept speaking, if only to anticipate her questions and spare her the agony.

“Tesserdress is also right next to you. She’s not in great shape, but she wasn’t hurt, that I can see. Neither was Denerfen. He’s upset with me because I wouldn’t let him near you until just now. There was . . . too much blood.”

“Thank you.” After a few breaths, she rasped, “In my bag, there are potions.”

“Lars is ahead of you. Can you drink?”

Grimaces, and collecting tears, crossed her expression as she wiggled close enough to the side of the makeshift bed to bring the mug to her lips. She sipped slowly, then slurped, and finally drank. He withdrew when she gulped so hard he could hear it.

“Easy.”

“No.” She shook her head, then winced. “I need to drink it all. It’ll . . . it’ll help. Who gave it to you?”

“Lars.”

“Again,” she insisted, but with little vigor.

He complied. She finished to the final drop. Her cheek lowered again.

“Thank you.”

Don’t thank me, he wanted to say.

She spiraled into sleep. Denerfen inhaled her breath, then slowly lowered his neck to the top of her back. His gentle exhale wheeled over her wounds. A shimmer plumed from it and settled on top.

Henrik rested his head in his hands and settled in to wait.

* * *

Lars checked on her at midnight.

“Gotta make sure the lass is breathing!” he hissed. “We’re passing the final safe passage islands before we head to the chain, and I won’t risk her dying on my ship! Not to mention landing on some arcane-infested island I know nothing about. I’ll risk the wrath of His Glory, but not Burning Beard. I won’t!”

Henrik allowed Lars one confirmation of Britt’s steady breath. Lars came no closer than the doorway, but held a lamp close enough to see. Once satisfied, Henrik sent him away for the night. After he left, Henrik gently administered what little salve Lars had available and covered her back with a wet sheet, rigging it around boxes so it barely draped her terrifyingly alive skin.

The quiet creak of the boat sliced through the night. True to his word, Lars pressed as hard as the winds allowed, with full sail. The sense of racing across the top of the sea like a skiff kept Henrik’s worst fears subdued.

Captain Oliver would follow. Fortunately, Henrik knew exactly what to expect at the Unseen island.

He could only hope Malcolm had survived.

* * *

Sometime in the middle of the night, Tesserdress awoke. Henrik carefully scooped her into his hand, and set her near Denerfen. She calmed when her head rested on Britt’s shoulder.

Exhausted from his rescue mission the previous night, Henrik fell to a restless sleep on the floor. The steady rocking woke him before daybreak, when light bled into the sky and through the window. Britt remained on her stomach, but faced the other way. Henrik rubbed a hand over his eyes.

He must be imagining things.

In the night, Denerfen scooted onto her back, his head stretched out. A spiral of bruises and welts and scars lay beneath him, but not open wounds. Sealed wounds. Not scabs either, but closed skin.

Denerfen readjusted his neck, breathing toward a particularly deep, jagged strike that slashed shoulder to shoulder. In this muted light, the glimmering exhalations continued, rocked by a slight quiver that wasn’t heat or cold.

Something.

The skin underneath Denerfen had healed. The rest remained a raw, ragged mess, shiny from the salve, though certainly repairing faster than expected. Henrik studied the angry welts near the dragul. She’d be sore and tired and in pain, but the open wounds didn’t bubble with pus. No hideous streaks appeared overnight. Her risk of dying from a stale wound would cut in half if she wasn’t gaping wide open, scabs cracking with every movement and bleeding. The tips of his fingers pressed into the scars along his neck.

He remembered well.

Henrik lowered to the ground, pressed his back to her makeshift cot, and closed his eyes. He sank to sleep again before the worst thoughts consumed him. Before he remembered the soldats surrounding her. The ropes on her wrist. The thongs biting her back. Her utter lack of sound.

His vigil continued.

* * *

Lars was a cur of a man, but not nefarious. His unnatural fear of Burning Beard kept him from being an issue.

“That’s the last of the Tollybryck.” Lars jabbed a dramatic and pudgy finger at the mug he passed through the doorway on their third day. “She’ll be less sleepy.”

A hint of relief flitted through Henrik. Silence commanded the agony of the past three days. Her lack of movement, of deep breathing. Even the draguls didn’t stir much, except Denerfen. He woke up with roaring hunger, ate ravenously, and disappeared into the same sleepy torpor and gleaming breath.

“She’s healing fast, isn’t she?” Henrik queried.

“Yep. It’s no mistake, but the Kapurnickkian potion,” Lars said with some pride, as if he had anything to do with it. “Arcane, for sure. Potions and a bonded dragul?” He whistled. “She has the ultimate mixture. Lucky lass. Anything else you need?” Lars glanced into the room. “Clean rags or water?”

Henrik shook his head. “No. Thank you.”

“You haven’t left the room, except for a minute or two here and there. Beautiful day, up top. You need fresh air?”

Henrik couldn’t decide whether Lars wanted a chance to sit alone with a half-naked Britt—which positively would never happen—or if the old man was lonely. He chattered every opportunity he had, which wasn’t many. Henrik wouldn’t risk waking her.

“I’m fine,” Henrik said, though he couldn’t help adding, “How’s the sea today?”

Lars cut a hand through the air with a smile. “Sliding on glass. Wind is good, and the sails are full. Confident we have another day, maybe two, before we hit the Chain. Navigation after that’ll be rough, but she’ll be all closed up.”

“Then?”

Lars shrugged. “Who knows? Navigating around the Chain ain’t easy. Could be fast, might be slow.”

Henrik thought of Tesserdress. “Fast as you can,” he reiterated.

Lars rolled his eyes, muttering to himself as he departed. His uneven walk thunked up the hatch stairs, more waddle than stride. Henrik watched him go. He hoped Britt would wake up in time. He didn’t want to take the draguls and search for Malcolm without her, but he would.

He owed her.

That much, and more.