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brITT

The petals of oblivion peeled away like an awakening flower. Britt watched them disappear from shades of ebony to murky gray. The lightening layers washed with color. Dappled yellow, then gentlest umber.

Within the changing landscape, she sensed noise. A creaking, restless groan. Her body tipped slightly to the left, and then the right. The subtle motion was at once familiar, and most welcome.

A ship.

Smells surrounded her. They were . . . soothing. Pine. Brine.

Pedr.

Asleep, she thought. I’ve been asleep.

The brush of a tail whispered over her collarbone. It swept across her neck and roused her from the plumbless depths. With it, came an understanding of terrible and corporeal agony.

She hurt.

Everywhere.

The misery spared no portion of her body as she slid into awareness. Raw and unremitting anguish. Forced to look away or die, she turned her attention to her fingertips. They rubbed a soft linen sheet, set atop a mattress. Feather ends poked her fingertips from the mattress, prickling, yet velvety.

A groan wrenched from her throat. The deep hum resonated into her ribs in an undeniable sign of life. Memories stirred, but she fought to keep those at bay. She wanted to rest in this moment, not comprehend the overwhelming agonies. The moment she awoke, there would be no returning to calm. No peace existed for the angry pain.

“She’s waking up.”

At that voice, her eyes instantly flew open.

Sunshine poured into a room lined with wood. She lay near a wall, banners of sun falling on her clothes, staring into the anxious and calm eyes of a man she knew hardly at all, but better than anyone else.

Henrik.

A hint of a smile appeared on his full lips, decorated with relief, surrounded by the beginnings of a stubbled beard she wanted to touch. She’d seen so little relief in him before. He brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ears. The tender gesture was at odds with the turmoil in his wrinkled lips.

“Britt?”

She blinked several times before recalling everything available to her memory. The whirling branches. The building storm. A vittra, screeching herself out of the confines of hell to roar into the present. Blank spots existed, though.

What of Oliver?

The soldats?

“Malcolm?” she whispered.

Henrik tilted his head back. “On the other cot.” He winced. “He had a rather nasty arm break, and then all that horrid tar and paste got inside. Turns out, Lars isn’t a bad doctor, and Pedr is a whiz with arcane, so all signs point to Malcolm’s recovery. Eventually,” he tacked on.

She licked dry lips, processing that.

“Tess?”

“Hasn’t left Malcolm’s side. I didn’t know she was such a vivid purple.”

A hint of a smile surfaced.

“She’s vivid purple in some spots,” he amended, “though most has changed to a dark lavender. The bald spots are healing, too. Her scales have almost totally regrown.”

Britt frowned. How long had she been asleep for Tesserdress to change so utterly? He anticipated her question.

“One week.”

“But—”

“You had an infection.”

Ah. That explained the rampant exhaustion and weakness. Carefully, she pressed her hand to her cool cheek.

“Den—”

Before she could get his full name out, her dragul head butted the underside of her jaw. She chuckled, brought a hand up. The movement caused a ripple of familiar pain down her back. She grimaced.

“It hurts?” Henrik asked.

Though tempted to lie—it would be a wasted effort, she never could hide her emotions from her face—she nodded.

“The wounds reopened. They might be in even worse shape than before, with all the swamp and tar.”

“I can tell,” she croaked. He brought a mug of water up to her mouth. Carefully, he helped her sip. A strange flavor tinted the water, tasting lightly of cardamom.

“Pedr put something in it. Told me to have you drink it up whenever you wake up. There’s not much left.”

Quizzically, she asked, “Have I awoken already?”

“Several times.”

“I don’t remember.”

He smiled. “I know.”

Reluctantly, she accepted the rest. Pedr would be the one to obey without question. He knew what to do, particularly with arcane and potions. She’d always trusted her older brother, but never more than today.

Henrik tipped her a surly glare. “You owe us a lot of explanations.”

She smiled. “I know. First, tell me what happened. I want to know everything.”

Henrik reached for her hand, enclosing it in both of his. Though calloused and tough, his grip was warm and gentle. She enjoyed the heat flowing into her fingers.

“Not yet.”

“But—”

“Later.” He shook his head. “It’ll take you a bit to heal up, since we can’t do the Tollybryck potion again. Pedr gave you his only supply. The whole story will take a while to explain, and you still aren’t remembering much. We also want to hear yours,” he added with a stern scowl. “Besides, we need Malcolm awake too. He’s been in and out as much as you.”

“Fair.”

He added a soft, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Blessed relief flowed through her, and so did something warm. Tingles rushed from her stomach out, prickling along her arms with reassurance. It left her feeling lightheaded. She floated above the clouds instead of rocking on the boat. Ah. The potion.

Of their own accord, her eyes drifted shut. Heavy treads entered the room, then Pedr’s booming voice, made small in a restful whisper.

“She drank it?”

“All of it,” Henrik said.

“Good. She’ll sleep for a fair bit again, but she needs it if that back is to heal.” His voice became more distant as Britt floated higher, ever higher. “We’re on course for Calsica, as Einar has requested. I’ve slowed the currents around us, so the trip should take us two weeks. Which will give Einar, Malcolm, and Britt all the time they need to heal. Meanwhile, you can get a hold of your other soldats through Drake.”

* * *

A week later, Malcolm and Britt stood in Pedr’s quarters. Einar and Henrik remained without, staring at the sea, discussing the burgeoning soldat rebellion and what to tell Captain Arvid when they saw him next.

Sparkling sunshine cut through Pedr’s glass windows. They filled nearly every wall, except one. Few of the windows had curtains to provide privacy. As Pedr normally sailed alone, with only his arcane to aid him, he rarely had reason to require it.

The brilliant wooden cabin was a conglomeration of mahogany, cherry, and pine, all acquired from the mainland. The boards gleamed. Arcane kept it pristine, well cared for, despite the hammering sea. A lovely landscape awaited outside, with fluffy white clouds and endless water.

Pedr interrupted the calm scene. “I’d like to take a whip to you myself, Britt, after pulling a stunt like that on the Unseen island, with arcane as wild and vicious as I’ve ever known.”

His threatening glower punctuated his violent words. For a moment, Britt considered the possibility that he would take a whip to her. She brushed it off. Pedr acted tough, but he had a kitten’s heart.

“I know.”

Malcolm sat across from her, his eyes slotted and burning with a frustrated fire. His arm, bandaged with fresh white linen and tied around one shoulder, was a bulky mess. “What were you thinking?” he hissed. “Activating every ikon? Calling the vittra?”

“ You called the vittra too!”

“As part of a greater plan.”

Coolly, she said, “I had a greater plan too. And it saved your life. And Tesserdress,” she added, matching his tone. “Did you forget about her?”

Malcolm turned away.

Pedr tipped his head toward her in a slight concession, but the fire hadn’t receded from his eyes. He leaned his hips against a desk, his palms propped behind him. The stance sprawled his shoulders wide, allowing Denerfen to lounge. Her dragul adored Pedr.

“Oliver might be missing,” Pedr mused, tilting his head toward Denerfen to respond to a headbutt, “and fittingly so at the vittra’s hands, but that doesn’t mean that my anger about your whipping is appeased.”

Her brow rose. “Missing?”

Darkly, Pedr said, “There’s more to the arcane of that island and the vittra than you want to know.”

“He might not be dead?”

Pedr shrugged.

“Pedr—”

He held up a hand, and she silenced. His eyes gleamed when he promised in a low purr, “In order to be sure, I’d have to speak with the Arcanist of Land, and Jordaire’s a real bastid. The bastid knows the Follorat islanders' old arcane very well, though. I’m not asking him. For now, Oliver is not our problem. You won’t distract me, Britt. After what Oliver did to you, I’m not done with Stenberg. Nothing you say is going to change my mind. If you made any friends there, I suggest you tell them to leave.”

“Leave Stenberg alone,” she snapped. “The islanders there are innocent.”

He scoffed.

“If you want someone to punish, then punish His Glory.”

Pedr folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t think I don’t have plans in motion already. That arcane-avoidant fool has more than just Burning Beard coming his way.”

Reluctantly, Malcolm said through clenched teeth, “Shall we point out the dervish in the room? Henrik came through for us, as I never expected a soldat to do.”

Pedr grinned. “Interesting, isn’t he?”

Malcolm muttered incoherently.

“He’s had a tough time of it,” Pedr observed, quietly. “Dreams at night, you know. He’s restless. Quiet. I think pitching his Captain to the vittra had a bigger effect on him than he’ll admit.”

In her head, Britt agreed. Not that Henrik made it easy to know, with his impassive expressions and offsetting smiles. He was social enough to stave off sheer isolation, but betrayed little depth in conversation.

Reluctantly, Henrik had filled her in on the events with Oliver, the vittra, the judgment the arcane old hag brought, and the words she whispered. You are not one of them. You cannot pay for the blood. Whether it meant he wasn’t a soldat, a Stenbergian, or something else, they debated often.

Malcolm watched Britt closely.

“Protective, too.” Pedr braced a hand around his chin, gaze tapering on Britt. “ Rather protective. Does he have a reason to be?”

She straightened, but didn’t know how to address such a question. Weeks had passed since the Unseen island and the vittra’s wrath, but her wounds required more time to fully heal. Pedr had closed more than one spot with stitches. They tugged at her, annoyingly insistent. He’d remove them tomorrow.

“We’re . . . friends,” she said.

Pedr laughed outright. “General Helsing is going to hear about this mess with His Glory and Oliver and Henrik, I presume?” he asked, and she was glad to change the subject. He stared hard at Malcolm, and his question was too aloof to be innocent.

Britt held up two hands. “I’m not telling her.”

“Not me!” Malcolm cried.

Pedr shrugged. “Too bad, little brother. Auntie dearest is your problem. Forgive me. I meant to call her General Helsing . ”

Ten years their senior, and with no parents to guide the three of them, Pedr had always ruled more like a father than a brother. General Helsing, their hostile old aunt, had provided physical necessities and structure, but little else.

Malcolm scowled, unwilling to press Pedr’s authority.

“Fine.”

“You have to talk to her, anyway,” Pedr pointed out. “Won’t Major Helsing have to give a report on his captivity?”

Malcolm’s glare glittered beneath hooded lashes. Pedr laughed, the full-bodied sound rippling through the room. He set a large, gentle hand on Malcolm’s good shoulder.

“Congratulations on the promotion, surviving a battle, imprisonment, and a vittra. With war on the inevitable horizon, the soldats falling to pieces, and an open rebellion on Stenberg, sounds like you have an illustrious career ahead. With any luck, you’ll rule better than General Helsing and boot her out of power for the rest of our sakes.”

Pedr turned to Britt. His brow rose. “Are you finally going to accept my offer and live on the seas with me? You can bring your dragul. I wouldn’t mind Denerfen living on my ship. Might be safer for him, anyway, with the hellfire that’s about to descend. You can join me in the Westlands.”

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. What a siren call. The Westlands. A secretive, mysterious place, where sailors departed to explore and never returned. He always chased the Westlands.

Only Pedr.

Rumors whispered of protective, dark arcane and ice mountains and pillared forests and an unending stretch of caves below hardened rock that never ceased its oddities. Only Burning Beard had ever returned, thus cementing his reputation.

“Is that where you came from?” she asked.

He only smiled.

“You don’t know how tempting it is,” she drawled, “but, no. I can’t. Not yet.”

Pedr betrayed no surprise. He stacked his hands behind his back and leaned on them, his curious gaze fixed on her.

“You know the offer is always open?”

She nodded.

“What next for you then, Britt?” Malcolm asked.

Outside of Pedr’s cabin, the rest of Burning Beard’s ship unfolded. From his personal berth, Pedr had a full view of everything: main mast, sails, deck, bow sprint. Down below, Henrik leaned on the railing, hair tousled by the wind.

“I have a woman named Selma to find,” she said with growing resolution. “And apparently, she’s on the mainland.”