Page 28

HENRIK

It took two hours for Britt to convince Lars that death hadn’t descended, nor was Drake’s appearance a sign that they should abandon their plan at the Unseen island. The dragon left without any harm to the ship, and Burning Beards signature bright yellow-and-pink flames didn’t flare from a ship on the horizon.

“Cursed bird,” Lars spat as he raced back up the stairs, casting a wary gaze around. “Not even that, is it? A bloody dragon.”

Britt kept her amusement to herself. Henrik had too much in his head to badger her for details over a drake that she knew on a first name basis. No one else bothered to name messenger drakes.

Instead, Henrik stewed over the ramifications of her story.

Oliver.

That bastid. He wouldn’t be the first soldat whose position of authority created a superiority complex and the idea that control belonged to him, but it didn’t soften the blow.

Which led Henrik to think of Einar, who hastily shoved Henrik and Britt onto the boat, then waved them away, promising to deal with the massacre at the whipping post, the port authority, and Oliver.

“Plans already in place,” he cried with a fevered stare and maniacal grin. “You just kicked it off a few days early. See you soon!”

Einar’s answer frightened Henrik more than the question.

What a perfect ignition for the soldat rebellion.

These ruminations churned as the wind carried them toward the mirage-like Unseen island on wide waters. Sapphire waves swamped the world, crashing into the prow with a spray of sparkling drops. The closer they moved toward the Unseen island, the farther Henrik fell into certainty that Oliver would follow.

Immediately.

He’d lost both prizes, Henrik and Britt, and had to make it up to His Glory, among other things. Henrik attacking a sailor and interrupting a punishment sanctioned by a soldat Captain was a bold refusal of authority and promotion.

A slight chance existed that Einar and the soldat rebellion would keep Oliver busy enough not to follow, but Henrik doubted it.

Einar’s unruly passion drifted downwind to Henrik. He allowed his frustration to burn high and bright, fed by quiet, suppressed, seething indignation. Memories of years of abuse stirred, grew. Henrik didn’t stop or hold back.

A light touch on his arm drew his attention away, reducing the metaphorical flames to char. Britt stared up at him with unfettered curiosity and a hint of uncertainty.

“Henrik?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. Just . . . thinking.”

“Everything all right?”

No , he thought. “Yeah,” he said. “Fine.”

As his thoughts cleared, Lars shouted from the back of the boat.

“ Land-el !”

Britt, scouring the horizon, frowned. Lars slammed his hand into a tapestry of bells that rang, pealing with tinny delight through the air. The storm swept them fast across the sea, chasing them.

“I don’t see any land,” she said.

“That’s because you don’t have an ikon.”

“An ikon?”

“It’s native arcane to the island. The Unseen island has special runes that the original occupants painted everywhere to protect it. It’s why you can’t see the land. The ikon, if you have one, overpowers the arcane and allows you to see.”

“Are the natives still there with Stenberg’s prisoners?”

His soft response hid great emotion.

“No.”

Lars barked a reply from behind her. “The original inhabitants used a special black tar to paint the ikons. It comes from the island.” His giant nose wrinkled, as if he smelled a horrible stench. “Legends say there’s a bog beneath the sand that keeps the flora and fauna of the Unseen island healthy, and it’s simmering. Ready to disintegrate.”

“Dense place,” Henrik murmured.

“It’s not a legend either,” Lars snapped, as if they’d challenged him. He glared from a few steps away. “It’s the truth. There’s arcane in those ikons. Angry power, too. The natives put special ikons out to stop Stenberg, but it didn’t work.”

“When will I see it?” Britt asked.

“You won’t see it,” Lars grumbled as he turned away, but didn’t leave. “Not until our hull bumps into the shore. Even then, you’ll only see a few paces ahead. The rest’ll look like water.”

“Is it . . safe?”

Lars hooted. “Safe? You think His Glory would put prisoners on a safe island? No, it’s not safe! Nothing about the Unseen island is safe. Safe!” He spat, then cackled. The sound grated Henrik’s nerves.

“Once you cross the ikons, there’s no leaving,” Lars added, shoving aside the lid of a barrel and reaching within. “That’s when you start to see.”

Britt glanced at Henrik.

He nodded.

She paled.

“You have to have been on the island and escaped in order to see it again,” Lars added. He gestured to his left forearm, flexing the rolling muscles. An ebony slash across the middle of it, with one dot on either side, rippled.

“Is that an ikon?”

He nodded.

“Does it carry arcane?”

“Not really, but it allowed me to leave the island. The Follorat islanders lived on the island before Stenberg decided they wanted it. Decades ago, His Glory drove, starved, and forced the original natives away. They did everything they could to protect their island, but it’s no use when His Glory descends. Not even ikons could save them.”

Regret burned deep in Henrik’s gut, though the responsibility wasn’t his. The soldats long before him wreaked that havoc, but he couldn’t help a sense of ownership. Domination of chain islands wasn’t a new story. Kapurnick, Narpurra, Stenberg, Siloam. The four greater island powers had a long and storied history of dominance and control. Long ago, Caledon was an equal player in the power struggle, before their main volcano erupted and exploded their land to rubble.

“The ikons are sensitive,” Lars shouted over a gust of wind. He coiled a thick rope around his forearm. “If you touch them, bad things happen.”

Britt held her whipping hair out of her face.

“Like what?”

“Black sludge,” Lars immediately countered. “It’ll suck you in and trap your legs and suffocate you with tar. You’ll feel your flesh boiling as you slide below. Not to mention the vittra.” He shuddered.

Britt seemed more curious than afraid, but she had reason to fear. If there was anything to be said about the Chain, then diversity was it. Arcane, natives, islands, environments, they varied from island to island. One never knew what they’d encounter, sometimes on perfectly predictable islands that hadn’t changed in years.

“The vittra is a legend.” Henrik set a gentle hand on the small of her back, his fingertips barely gracing the skin. “As far as anyone can tell. Tall tales told by prisoners drawn mad by the jungle fumes, I think, but Lars isn’t wrong about the ikons. Leave them alone.”

She put a hand on his arm. He turned it over, revealing the same slash and two dots that Lars had shown. A vague tattoo, hardly noteworthy. Her fingers scrolled along the edges.

“When did you receive this?” she asked.

“Years ago.”

“How?”

Henrik shook his head, lips a thin line.

Lars appeared with a heavy thud of feet. “We’re going in. Prepare yourself.”

Henrik gripped Britt above the elbows, drawing her closer to the hatch in the floor. “Go below,” he commanded. “I’ll head inland, look for Malcolm. You stay with Tesserdress and Denerfen and I’ll bring Malcolm to you. We have to find a specific ikon first?—”

“No.”

“Britt—”

“My brother is there, and I need to take Tesserdress to him now. There isn’t time to waste if we want to save her.”

“Insane,” he countered. “You can’t handle the exertion.”

Stubbornness backlit her eyes.

“Watch me.”

He half-expected her to rip his hand from her arm and shove him off the side. Instead, she covered his hand with one of her own, and the affectionate touch stole his breath. “It’ll be fine, Henrik. You’ll protect me.”

Those words encompassed more than he deserved. Disbelieving, he could only stare. Of all the ways to disarm him . . . After what she endured, what right did he have to refuse?

“What if your wounds open?”

“They won’t.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’m stronger! You’ve made me sleep too much. Besides, Denerfen and the Tollybryck potion did most of the work. Sure, I’m sore, but not weak. I can do this. If you don’t,” she added, “I’ll follow you by myself.”

“Not if I lock you in the brig.”

Her brow dropped into a fierce glare. Her slashed eyes and tightly folded arms promised an explosive response.

“You lock me in this ship,” she growled, “and Pedr will show up in a blaze of fury. My draguls are at stake, Henrik. No lock, no ship, no sea will stop me.”

With a ragged sigh, Henrik scowled. He felt worse leaving her on the ship by herself than taking her with him, in some regards.

“Fine,” he snapped, “but you stay with me at all times. This island is trouble. Big trouble. Ancient arcane at work, and it is angry. It would rather kill you than host you, so do not venture away from me. You understand?”

Britt nodded once. “I hear you. I’ll stay close, but how will I get off the island?”

With grim resolve, he motioned to his arm. “We’ll get you one of these.”

“What about Denerfen and Tesserdress?”

“They’ll be fine. Far as I know, the restrictive arcane doesn’t apply to animals. The Follorat people let them come and go.”

Lars changed the rigging, slowing the mainsail. The boat went from skimming the top of the sea to chugging in a silent, steady rhythm. The splash, splash of waves bashed the bow. Lars moved intentionally, but without panic. Every passing second made his glower more pronounced, as if he sailed into the very devil’s maw.

Ahead lay water. Splashing, churning ocean, speckled with white caps and blasted by the wind.

“ Land-el! ” Lars cried again. Nimble as a young man, he leaped from his post at the helm. Wood scraping sand preceded a jarring stop. After tossing a rope overboard, Lars disappeared off the side.

Britt stared out, regal in the lowering light.

“You’re sure?” Henrik asked.

She nodded.

His soft hand propelled her to the side of the boat. “Come. The sooner we find Malcolm, the better. As soon as we can leave, we leave. I suspect that Oliver will have chased after us right away, if he’s not already here. I don’t want you involved. Understood?”

Britt cast her gaze to the empty northwest horizon and nodded.