Page 27

brITT

The smell of the ocean roused her.

It swirled her nostrils with a reassuring fragrance, heightening the tang of draguls and their sickly-sweet breath. A strange taste lay on her tongue, distantly familiar, and lingered with a friendly burn.

Britt’s eyes opened, locking onto a wooden wall. Light bled from a round window, spilling with loose tendrils into a close space. Something scratchy beneath her, and an uncomfortable pain in her breast, made her wriggle her shoulders. Discomfort lanced from shoulder to rib cage.

Ouch.

Memory didn’t dally. The bullwhip. The Archives. Soldats and pain and fear for her draguls. Little else recalled with it, except hazy snatches of a dream-like state, filled with Henrik’s voice, Denerfen’s comforting nibble, and agony so intense she felt faint at the recollection.

Swamping emotions followed it. Only the gentle up-and-down pitch of a boat drew her into the moment. Clearly, she lay in a boat. Warped wooden boards testified to an old one, cluttered and complaining.

She lifted her head. Pain rippled down her sides with the effort, but it wasn’t unbearable. Sore. Stiff. Uncomfortable, but not agonizing. She turned her head. A cry of protest resulted from her lower back.

Denerfen.

He yawned, jaws split wide, and sighed. She smiled weakly, relieved to find him alive. He harrumphed, but wriggled closer like a tired puppy.

On the other side of the room, Henrik slumped against the wall, chin on his chest. Folded arms locked over his torso. His head bobbed. His tousled hair and wrinkled clothes were a mess. The distinct smell of antiseptic tinged the air. At the foot of her bed lay rags stained with old blood.

Denerfen, strolling around her side and over an arm, nudged her ear in a cat-like head butt. She hazarded a glance at her wounds, but couldn’t twist far enough. With a wary test, she wiggled her shoulders and her arms. Prickles spiraled around, but she gritted her teeth through it. The pristine misery of the open air on her wounds had been worse. This felt less . . . flayed. More . . . tight.

With an eye on Henrik, Britt swallowed the frog in her throat instead of clearing it. “Did you heal me, Den?” Her raspy whisper caught on itself.

Denerfen leaned forward to head butt her again, but toppled onto her wrinkled dress. Giggling, she reached for him, but halted halfway there. Pain sprouted along her spine until she stopped. He gave a squawk and a flutter of wings.

“Where is Tess?”

Denerfen whirled, motioning to Henrik with a nose. Britt frowned.

“She’s with Henrik?”

A little wooden box perched near Henrik’s lap drew her attention. It held a weary-looking Tesserdress in a pile of clean fabric scraps, freshly tousled.

Tears burned Britt’s eyes. Any doubt over her decision to defy Oliver burned away. She’d done the right thing for a soldat who had broken her away, cared for her and her draguls, spirited them to a ship, and off of Stenberg.

A growly voice asked, “Tears?” a moment before a thumb swiped one off of her cheek. Henrik’s sleepy and concerned gaze asked a deeper question. He gently set Tesserdress next to Britt and knelt at her side.

She lifted her arm. He made a move to stop her, “Britt, don’t—” but she paused.

“It’s tolerable.”

Her palm rested on his warm forearm. The heavy touch drew his gaze. He studied her fingers, not seeming to see, before he met her eyes without a word of protest. He brushed a tendril of hair out of her eyes.

“How are you?”

She couldn’t fathom what she looked like after how many days on this bed, and cracked a smile. “I feel like death.”

He didn’t return the levity. Britt squeezed his wrist, endeared by the broiling storm in his shadowed eyes.

“I’m fine, Henrik.”

“You’re mangled,” he growled. “You’re beaten bloody, half to death, with welts and bruises and?—”

He broke off. His voice shook, forearms flexed as he drew in a deep breath, held it, and intentionally released in a slow tide. It contained his fury, but only just.

“They whipped you, Britt.”

Unable to help herself, she traced her fingers along the edge of his jaw. His nose twitched under her touch. A hidden recoil. A protective impulse to prevent what he felt, and bottle it up tight. She removed her touch.

“That won’t break me, Henrik.”

The sentiment didn’t calm him. “What happened? Why did Oliver whip you?”

“Can I sit up? I’m thirsty. My stomach hurts from laying on it. I want to drink something, but I’ll throw it up like this.”

As he stood to help, she halted, boldly aware of her half naked state. His wry reply carried a hint of laughter.

“After four days of taking care of you just like this, don’t tell me you’re getting shy?”

Heat brightened her cheeks with a reassuring sign of improvement. Britt bit back a witty retort and conceded with a nod.

With greatest respect, he helped her sit, draping a light sheet over her shoulders for her to hold onto. She gripped the edges of the sheet in her hands, breath held against the movement. Pain ripped across her back in driving slashes that made her nauseous. Her stomach roiled, erasing hints of hunger. She had to sit very still before her whirling head calmed.

When it settled, she looked straight into his eyes.

“Better.”

He didn’t believe her. His lacking smile heightened her concerns. The lashes might be on her body, but the scars would endure on his heart. A silent understanding swept the air between them, loaded with an implication she could barely touch. His indignation and fire were all for her.

A tap on the door startled Henrik out of the brief, silent interchange. With a scowl, he whirled around, crossed the room, barely opened it.

A gruff voice asked, “She dead?”

“She’s awake and speaking. You can’t see her, though.”

“Don’t get your unders in a twist,” the man replied. “As long as she’s alive, I don’t care. We passed the first islands in this part of the Chain.”

Henrik’s defensive tone lightened.

“Oh?”

“There’s a storm coming. I give it a day, maybe two, until we find the Unseen island. Could be rough, might be fine.”

Britt reached to the side, finding Tesserdress. Scales flecked off her back as Britt stroked her too-knobby spine. Without further Helandalenda potion, her decline accelerated.

“That long?” Henrik asked.

“Yep.”

Departing feet followed. “Hey!” Henrik called. “Can you bring biscuits and water?”

Another grumble replied. Henrik’s hand remained on the doorknob after he closed it. He turned to Britt, appearing momentarily amused.

“That is Lars.”

“I remember him,” she said with a wry smile. “He’s as delightful as I remember.”

“He’s something.”

Henrik returned to her side, then motioned for her to lean forward until he could peer at her wounds with narrowed scrutiny.

“How are they?” she asked.

Moving slowly, he reached forward, palpated the skin. The pressure didn’t hurt, but sent the hair on the back of her neck on end. Everything felt achy and sensitive, particularly the warmth of his touch, his flowing, ribbony breath.

“The wounds are closed,” he said with a sense of wonderment. “Lars rooted through your bag, brought Kapurnickkian potions. Tried to convince me that he wasn’t trying to steal from you.” A hint of greater levity lingered in his tone as he continued his perusal. “So bruised,” he murmured, as if describing the edge of a miracle.

His palm pressed onto the sensitive place at the back of her neck, where her shoulders joined. The powerful radiation of his heat banished the aches and pains in the area.

“No fevers.”

“Thank Burning Beard for that,” she said.

“Yes, let’s thank him, and let’s talk about Burning Beard. Lars is beyond terrified of him. How did you induce such fear in a salty old sea captain? He natters on about the pirate all day long. Said that you claimed Burning Beard as your brother.”

Henrik settled on a stool across from her, his boots hung on a rung along the bottom. He had braided his topknot of hair, which shone from a recent washing. The comical sight of him attempting to fold his strong body and long legs onto the flat stool nearly made her laugh, but it would have thoroughly ached. Her ribs stung with any small breath.

“How did I induce fear about Burning Beard, you mean?”

“Do you know the pirate?” he asked.

“Yes, definitely.”

“Lars believes that if you died, Burning Beard would descend and kill him. Seems to think that the man is a pirate, fish, and angel of death. Lars is stomping around, muttering about a drake named Drake and sails on fire.”

Britt pressed her lips together to withhold a smile, but couldn’t help it. With amusement, she burst out, “Surely, you’ve heard of Burning Beard!”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Most sailors fear him.”

Henrik rolled his eyes.

“And with good reason,” she added, chidingly. “It would be a terrifying thing to see a man light his beard on fire and take over your cargo. Anyway, I met Lars earlier, to arrange a ship passage to Malcolm.” She shrugged. “I may have told him then that the wrath of Burning Beard would descend if he tried anything funny with me.”

Henrik’s tongue ran over his teeth as he considered that. “ Would Burning Beard descend with wrath and fire?”

“Yes, eventually.”

“How?”

“We have ways of communicating,” she said vaguely. “Besides, a little fear never hurts anyone.”

Deadpan, he asked, “He’s truly your brother?”

Britt straightened. “Of course! His name is Pedr, and he is rather protective. Though, I don’t see him as much as I would like.”

Before he could inquire deeper, another rap came on the door. Henrik held up a finger, cracked the door as little as possible, and blocked the opening with his body. A few quick words were exchanged, and Lars left.

Her weak, “Thank you,” went unnoticed.

Henrik firmly closed the door again, bearing a tin plate of crumbled biscuits and a mug of water. She sipped, grateful for the liquid down her throat, and accepted the dry biscuit. She nibbled the end and prayed her stomach wouldn’t rebel.

Henrik settled, hands on his thighs, with a pointed stare. He opened his mouth, surveyed her face, and closed it again. With a sigh, he said, “Eventually, I’m going to ask you what happened, but not right now. Your color is already pale, and you look exhausted.”

With relief, she nodded.

“Thank you.”

Henrik motioned to the biscuit. With a firm tone, he commanded, “Eat the whole thing. I had him bring salt pork for Denerfen, which he’s all but inhaled without chewing. I’ve been able to coax a little into the other one,” he nodded toward Tesserdress, “but she hasn’t taken much.”

Britt’s cavernous heart, so desperate for relief from the pain, and to understand the horrible things that happened, brimmed full with his care. It was one thing for him to minister to her with such ready hands.

But her draguls?

Henrik was the man she protected, and the confirmation felt as dizzying as sitting up again. When she set the half-eaten biscuit on the plate and declared,“Enough, thank you,” he gestured to the bed.

Reluctant to return to her stomach, she hesitated.

He paused. “Will it hurt?”

“I think so,” she admitted.

“Would you lean on me?”

With her heart in her throat, she asked, “You mean it?”

“Yes.”

Although tempted to refuse him, exhaustion flooded her. She nodded. Gingerly, he sat next to her, arranging himself until a pile of makeshift pillows filled his lap. A tilt of his head commanded her to lay down, so she carefully lowered until her head and shoulder lay on his thighs. Several minute adjustments later, she found a comfortable position, and exhaled her tension with relief. His masculine, salty smell blanketed her as he shuffled tendrils of hair off her cheeks, smoothing them behind her ear.

“Sleep,” he whispered.

She obeyed.

* * *

Lars monitored Britt out of the corner of his eye.

He kept a careful and steady distance as she stood at the side of his boat, overlooking the sea spray. Henrik stood protectively at her back, one hand planted on knotted ropes leading to a high mast, the other hand on the gunwales, locking her inside his hold. Any closer and his chest would collide with her shoulders.

After days in that awful, tight room, fresh air danced over her cheeks. It felt almost as good as Henrik washing her hair that morning. His strong fingertips in her scalp, massaging soap into the greasy and bloody strands, had been the purest form of pleasure. She basked in the memory, luxuriating in the drying strands around her neck.

A loose linen dress fluttered around her bare knees, a gift from Lars, who had an extra from a former passenger. It hung a little wide across the shoulders, but sufficed. Her legs trembled a little with the effort to stand, but gained strength. With her wounds fully closed, the worst of the sensitivity had passed. Her greatest discomfort came with movement. Standing left residual aches instead of active agony, like echoes of a voice. Her appetite restored, too, though Lars had little food to offer.

Denerfen’s wings shivered as he spread them wide, tasting the air with his tongue. She stepped away from the railing, because Denerfen had tumbled off her shoulder more than once in the past. The heady winds would be difficult for him to navigate if he plummeted off the ship. Tesserdress slept below, her body limp despite semi-regular breaths.

Meanwhile, Lars still studied Britt like a mouse watching a cat. “Lars,” she drawled, “I’m not going to attack you.”

“Might not,” he snapped, “but you’ll sick that hellspawn brother on me, won’t you?”

He tightened his arms over his chest and scowled more deeply. She rolled her lips together, but managed not to laugh.

“You have been of greatest help,” she said. “I owe you my life. I wouldn’t send Burning Beard after you with what you’ve done and all the resources you’ve provided. Thank you.”

His head tipped as he considered, losing the refined insecurity. With his head held higher, Lars strode toward the prow.

“Should arrive in a few hours,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Better be prepared, soldat.”

Britt turned her head up to face Henrik, who gave no reaction to the announcement. As she healed the physical remnants of that hellish day on Stenberg, Henrik withdrew to greater extent. They hadn’t yet spoken about it, and distance provided some clarity.

“Why are you so quiet today?” she asked.

“Thinking.”

“About?”

He offered no elaboration. Too entranced by the fresh air and sea spray to pry into closed warrens, she closed her eyes, inhaling deep. Denerfen continued to sniff the air. Henrik lowered his head until he spoke directly into her ear.

“Will you tell me why Oliver ordered you whipped?”

The question instantly weakened her.

Blessed mermaids, how could she tell him the truth? What would he say? A possibility existed where Henrik called her a liar. Would he believe that his own Captain, a man whom he appeared to respect, had betrayed him?

Not to mention the effect his warm whisper had against the shell of her ear. Britt ignored the butterflies beneath her ribs.

“First, will you tell me how you found me?” she asked. “It will put puzzle pieces together.”

His scorned look returned. “I had been speaking with Einar and followed him to the market. I saw the crowd. The whip handler was,” he swallowed hard, “mid-strike.”

She glanced over her shoulder, soaking in his dangerous tone, snapping eyes, thickened words. A soldat like Henrik didn’t wear such fury without meaning it. He wouldn’t have shown such tender care or righteous indignation for just anybody.

Time to trust him.

Again.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Broke the bastid’s wrist.”

“The whip handler?”

He nodded, not a hint of remorse in his face. “Would have snapped his neck, but His Glory’s soldats converged to intercept. Two came up behind you, I dealt with them. Sailors came out of the crowd, so Einar and Harald handled them. And . . .” Surprise softened his tone. “Timmer.”

“Timmer?”

He ran his bottom lip through his teeth. “Timmer,” he repeated, as if he hadn’t worked that detail out himself. “I don’t know how they knew or what happened after that, except I grabbed you. Einar carefully gathered your dress and he led me through the crowd. From what I could tell, other soldats fought with the sailors. Timmer and Harald kept them from following us. I need to speak with Einar and confirm it, because I focused mostly on you.”

“The other soldats helped the sailors?” she choked out. “You’re . . . you’re kidding.”

Grim faced, he shook his head. “No. It was soldat against soldat. Ugly, if you ask me.”

“You were fighting each other.”

“Yes.”

“Has that happened before?”

“Not that I’m aware of. In light of new information I received from Einar in the minutes before, it’s not as surprising as it could be.”

“A rebellion?”

His eyes jerked to hers. “You know?”

“Not much.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, like a man at the end of his tether. “There’s more. So much more to the story, in fact. Einar revealed . . . a lot. But it’s not as important as you telling me how those bastids got their hands on you and strapped you to that board. I want to know every person involved.”

It gave her the courage to draw breath and say, “Oliver.”

His head didn’t whip around. His eyes didn’t fill with outrage. He stared beyond sea, sky, and ship.

“I figured,” he whispered. “But I’d hoped . . .”

Britt softened.

“You knew?”

“Saw him.” He breathed a ragged exhale. “Staring out the Archives window, watching the whole thing.”

With flagging courage, she rushed to explain. “I was walking and two soldats grabbed me, one on each arm.” She paused, struggling to take the memories out of her mind and put them into her voice.

He reached over, set his hand on top of hers.

His gentle urging, devoid of judgment or retaliation, gave her another surge of courage. She explained the room, Oliver’s accusation, the questions she refused to answer. As she relayed her decision, she held her shoulders a little straighter.

“We may have only known each other a few weeks, but I couldn’t do that to you,” she said quietly.

For a long time, Henrik said nothing. He gripped her hand and stared into a stormy ocean. It matched the battle warring in his eyes. Frothy gray clouds split the distant western horizon. Waves formed white caves, like dollops of frosting.

Henrik put a hand under her jaw, lifting her face until she stared into his eyes. Softly, he whispered, “Thank you.”

Her heart trapped in her throat as Henrik studied her lips. She held still, afraid to shatter the accelerating moment. As if drawn by an invisible string, she leaned closer. Her hands pressed to his chest, fingers straightening over a slamming heart.

He wrapped a hand low on her waist.

“Britt—”

A peal broke overhead. The scream cut like an eagle, but sounded dense, guttural, lofty. A shadow cut across the boat, soaring over the waves.

Lars shouted, scattering the moment.

“The devil bring you!” he cried. “You brought that bastid right to us, lass. I knew you’d be trouble, cursed woman! Demmed Drake.” Lars shook a fist at the creature scraping the sky. “Get away from here!”

Britt’s breath caught as she stared overhead. A magnificent creature soared above the masts, spiraling through ropes and sails. The peaked cry repeated, a strange mixture of a low-toned growl and a sea eagles’ pitch.

A drake.

No, Pedr’s drake. He was the only person fool enough to tame one away from its nest on Kapurnick and keep it as a pet.

“Henrik,” she breathed, “do you have a string?”

“A string?”

“Quickly! A string? A ribbon? Anything?”

“Yes,” he muttered, “I regularly carry ribbons on my person.”

With a cry, she fumbled with her dress, rippled a button free, then held out her hand. “Give me your knife.”

“What?”

“The one you keep on you! Hurry.”

The drake spread wide and wild wings, tipping either direction, cutting into direct currents and back out again. He lowered, always closer.

“Drake!” she shouted. “Drake, here!”

The dragon stopped mid screech. She shouted a chant, a lyrical, moving, lilting, soaring ditty that would have sounded bawdy and perfect in a tavern, but was wildly out of place here. The drake circled in tighter spirals as he descended. The shadow cast deeper, faster, wider.

Lars abandoned the prow and plunged below deck.

“What are you doing?” Henrik hissed.

She grabbed the handle of his knife, chopped a lock of hair, and wound it around the button. As the arm-sized dragon plunged, she shoved her hand into the air with a grunt. Tears sprinkled out of her eyes from the wrenching movement along her back.

Drake whooshed by, snatching the button and hair off her palm with his giant talons, and disappeared with another screech. Heart in her throat, she watched Drake wing away, heading northwest.

“That,” she whispered, “is Drake, my brother’s messenger drake.” A wide smile stretched across her face. “Buttons and hair are our special signal. He used to leave buttons on my pillow when he returned home from trips and was searching for me. He’ll recognize my hair. He’s on the way to help! Do you understand? Henrik, we have a chance!”