Page 7

brITT

O nly twice before had Britt truly contemplated murder.

Once when beset upon by a traveling merchant on the docks late in the night. With the aid of a hearty board and a wallop to his head, she'd taken care of that drunk miscreant before his hands found their mark.

The second time occurred when learning how to spar with Malcolm. He forced her to contemplate the value of a life—including her own—while he taught her ways to kill an attacker.

Today, Henrik made her rethink the intricacies and cost of ultimate punishment.

All day.

She woke to an empty house and damp stone walls. Gasping, she shot upright. Denerfen, and by extension, Henrik, was nowhere in sight. Panic propelled her into the cobblestone road outside the cottage, but not a soul lingered there. The empty neighborhood, punctuated by the lonely call of swooping gulls, rang.

"Denerfen," she whispered.

In four years, they’d never been separated out of sight for more than an hour or two, and only by necessity.

Fear whisked her back into the cottage. She couldn’t afford to be seen, and there was more than one dragul in her care. Tesserdress curled on the blanket beneath the table and staved off a petite yawn. While Denerfen approached the world with brash energy, Tesserdress maintained a long suffering that defied her impatient dragul race.

A second bolt of terror slipped through Britt like crackled lightning.

Oh, no.

Had Henrik seen Tess?

If so, he left without waking her or Tesserdress, which meant . . . something. She didn’t enjoy the idea that he might know. If he did, at least he hadn’t taken both draguls. Tesserdress drew Britt back to the moment with a little cry. Britt picked her up and rubbed her cheek against Tesserdress' seeking face.

"It'll be fine, Tess. Henrik won't hurt Denerfen. He knows about draguls, remember? He met Bamerbam, and that’s rare enough. He knows how precious you are. Let’s give you some potion before the nasty soldat returns.”

One forced, steady breath at a time, the abject horror of separating from her bonded dragul faded into the gut-clenching reality of her nightmare. She plucked the potion flute from her bag, popped the cork.

As she worked, alarm winnowed to reality. Presumably, Henrik took Denerfen to his Captain to force her hand. She might have revealed something akin to the truth after waking up, but he left without giving her a chance. If that had been his plan all along, she credited his intelligence.

She would have done the same.

Tesserdress lapped the drop of potion from her fingertip with a coo. Britt replaced the stopper, carefully setting it aside. Tesserdress ambled onto the table, sniffing around, wings held upright.

Head in her hands, Britt forced herself to strategize a plan for Denerfen and Malcolm’s release. The picturesque, if boring, neighborhood provided an almost perfectly silent backdrop.

"It'll be fine, Tess.” Britt absently traced a finger down Tesserdress' supple neck. The lady dragul shivered with a skim of energy and explored the rim of a candle plate. It clinked as Tesserdress pressed on it with her snout, then leaped away with a squawk.

Chuckling, Britt righted the swaying candle. Sweet baby dragul. Not all of them had such a lovely temperament. Certainly not Bamerbam, which made her lips curl in a smile. Trust Henrik to encounter the most difficult dragul.

Fitting.

Britt scooped Tesserdress up, set her on the table, and rummaged in the crate for a bowl. A wall spigot dripped water into a metal bucket. She plunged a chipped ceramic cup inside, filled it to the top, and carried it to Tesserdress. The dragul drank in fits and spurts before sitting with a sigh.

The urge to find the two orphan boys who’d helped her and learn more about the Stenberg Shadowlands was a tempting thought, but not her mission. Reporting any information to General Helsing would be welcome, and she’d need something to convince General Helsing not to shove her onto an island prison for several years for taking two draguls away.

If Britt left the cottage, Henrik and Denerfen could return while she was out. Henrik might assume she'd given up on her bonded dragul, and then what? Toss Denerfen out? Drown him? The thought filled her with a ferocity and rage previously unknown.

She would never abandon a dragul.

Ribbons of unease stirred in her belly, all because proximity underlined the power of the dragul bond. When separated, withdrawal inevitably resulted. Eventually, death for the dragul. A year of illness for the person.

Blessed mermaids. How did Malcolm tolerate so many days away from Tesserdress?

Like the mystery of their venom, the draguls were a puzzle imbued with unknown arcane. Somehow, breath and venom and the arcane tied the dragul bond together, but no one knew how exactly.

Her worried stare fell on Tesserdress. That lack of understanding over the dragul bond was precisely the reason she needed to find Malcolm immediately. Britt scrounged through the crate, and the soldat’s pack, while she mumbled to herself.

No food.

Tesserdress ignored the other candleholders to sniff at the air, wings wide, tail coiled. Her little nostrils flared open and closed, eyes half-lidded, tongue scenting the air.

"A plan," Britt murmured as she paced, hands on her hips. “We can ambush Henrik when he returns, and knock him unconscious. I'll grab Denerfen and we’ll leave. You’ll already be in my pocket."

Tesserdress sneezed.

"You're right. It's a terrible idea. Not really a plan at all, if you think about it. Perhaps, with an average sailor, I could get away with it. But a soldat? We need a different scheme. A clever one."

Britt’s stomach growled. She put a quelling hand on top.

“Food, too.”

A shuffle of movement caught her attention. Bright yellow canaries fluttered by the windows, landing on the shed. Britt straightened.

“Hold on,” she murmured.

The shed held crates.

Crates held things.

Presumably.

Weapons, perhaps? Opportunities to do . . . something? Considering Henrik had just returned home from a trip, it was unlikely to hold food. Worth snooping, however. Britt picked Tesserdress off the table and set her on her shoulder. The dragul curled into a contented knot, head held up.

"If he’s going to leave us alone,” Britt muttered, “he can bloody well tolerate a little privacy invasion. Let’s go snoop in the shed.”

* * *

Explorations of the shed uncovered stashed clothing, Stenbergian leaflets on warfare, business papers, and sundries for the cottage.

Britt lugged stuff into the house and set the array on the table. Henrik didn’t keep much. Two plates. Another bucket. More stiff towels. Blankets, a musty pillow fluffed with bird down, and a pile of clothes similar to yesterday’s attire. Brown breeches, a gray shirt, and shoes with hearty soles. Old gauntlets, too. Worn on the inside edge, but in fair shape.

Nothing wild, but soldats loved to blend in.

The average Stenbergian sailor was an outlandish person with a penchant for attention, but like most things Stenbergian, the soldats were quite boring. Easier to blend in, and singular of focus.

Hours whittled away while she sorted, folded, refolded, dreamed about food, and coaxed Tesserdress into sips of water. Tesserdress fluttered around the cottage, toying with tiny bones not yet swept up and napping on a pillow. Footsteps hurried by twice, freezing Britt in her tracks. They slipped away as quickly, no wiser to her presence.

The cost of being away from Denerfen deepened. Exhaustion came readily. Anxiety spiked high. The intensity caught her by surprise.

"Blessed mermaids, Tess." She placed an affectionate hand over Tesserdress' wings. "How have you survived so long away from Malcolm?"

Midday came and went.

Britt walked the length of the room, alternating between daydreams of slamming her fist into Henrik's jaw and snuggling Denerfen. For all she knew, Henrik might have tossed Denerfen to his Captain.

The thought didn't serve.

When a heavy tread approached outside, she froze. The noise increased, instead of retreating. Hastily, she scooped up Tess and set her in her pocket. The steps stopped at the same moment a ray of light cut into the room. Britt threw open the door.

Henrik's broad figure interrupted the streaming sunshine, casting him in a halo. She barely restrained herself from scratching his eyes out. She set her hands on her hips and demanded Denerfen through clenched teeth, alive with righteous fury.

“Where. Is. My. Dragul?”

Henrik withdrew Denerfen from his pocket, extending him. Relief weakened her as Denerfen roared, wings spread wide, and hopped to her hand. The sound was little more than a hiccup and a hiss.

"I come with a peace offering, and a proposal," Henrik said. His wary gaze met hers. "Hear me out, and then you can decide if you stay or go."

Denerfen butted against her neck, cooing as he curled near her ear. His twitching wings rustled her hair. He nuzzled behind her, hiding in the drape of her tresses. She felt Denerfen’s glare as he hissed in Henrik’s direction.

“What kind of proposal?” she demanded, rapidly blinking away the tears in her eyes.

“Inside?”

Considering that she stood in his cottage, and he could have demanded instead of asked, she reluctantly stepped inside. He followed her, closing the door behind him. His left hand spread to the side in a gesture of peace.

"We have no reason to trust each other. You're hiding something from me, while sneaking onto Stenberg, and I'm a soldat for an island that's more powerful than yours."

She scoffed. Kapurnick was by far more powerful, but semantics would muddy the water. Britt folded her arms and glared. Denerfen purring against her neck didn't remove the haunting anxiety of the last several hours. She’d be loath to do anything he asked of her.

He carried two burlap bags to the table. One bulky with textiles, the other heavy with food. He set them on the table, his movements slow and careful. Her mouth watered at the smell of yeast and mingling cinnamon.

"I think we might be of use to each other, Britt.”

Her name from his voice sent a zing from the crown of her head to her toes. “By taking what doesn’t belong to us?" she snapped.

"I need something, and so do you."

“What do you need?”

Henrik braced his hands on the back of a chair and blew out a long breath. “I need help finding my birth mother."

A world of shock and curiosity passed by. Did he say . . . he couldn’t . . . that is . . . a flash of something in his eyes arrested Britt as much as his statement.

Was that vulnerability?

It had to be.

His steady stare anchored her into the moment instead of spiraling into wild questions. With a breathy whisper, she managed to choke out, "Your mother?"

His jaw clenched, the sole indication of discomfort amongst the unfailing soldat exterior. "Her name is Selma. That's all I know."

“But . . . you must have . . . you were separated?" she asked, then regretted it. Obviously they were separated. Not only had he said as much, but his profession strongly implied it. She never heard of a soldat that kept his birth parents, but shock kept her mind from working correctly. Isles-wide tall tales whispered many supposed truths about soldats, but meeting one had overturned most assumptions. Particularly the frightening ones that Malcolm had whispered in the night while trying to terrorize her.

This blew all the rest out of the water.

If he thought her dumb, he gave no indication.

"When I was five."

"So young?”

“Yes.”

“How do you remember her name?"

Another dent in his armor manifested through a frown. A chink right near the heart, like a full-grown dragon hiding heartscales.

“Selma screamed her name when they tore me away from her," he stated, his voice frosty. "She shouted and made a scene, one that I was certain not to forget. While doing it, she told me to find her.”

"It’s . . . impressive that you remember,” she murmured, for lack of anything else. Her heart cracked at the image he painted. A small child, wrenched from his mother’s arms, sobbing. Her throat thickened. She cleared it and said, “Five is . . . so young.”

He didn't elaborate, but fathoms lay behind the silence. Feeling faint, Britt sat on the edge of the stone bed platform along the wall. Denerfen crossed her spine and nibbled on the bottom of her right ear. She reached up, rubbed his silky scales without thinking. The unconscious touch, and his heated breath, restored some of her difficult emotions from earlier.

Blinking away her surprise, she opted for tactical facts. "You never saw her again?"

"No."

"Your father?"

"No idea."

"Any other memories?"

He hesitated, brow furrowed. His simple, "No,” was a loaded cannon. She’d dig into that later. A soldat didn't hesitate for fun.

"How am I supposed to help you find Selma?"

Seeming relieved for an outlet to his plan, he quickly said, "His Glory’s Archives."

She pushed to her feet.

"What?"

He paced, one hand at his side, the other curled around his mouth. Grooves ridged his brow.

"The Archives have census records for the greater Stenbergian isles. Someone with her name should be listed there, as they don't typically take soldats from outer islands.”

“Is Selma an unusual name?”

“No, and yes. It’s not pure-blooded Stenbergian, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You have pure-blood names?”

Lips pinched, he stated, “Yes.”

“I apologize if the question was rude. I didn’t know.”

He cut a hand through the air. “Regardless, Selma is likely to be from Stenberg, because a half-blood child cannot become a soldat. You have to be a pure-blood, unless you show beyond exceptional promise and a deal is made. Even then, you have to be at least half-Stenbergian."

“What does that have to do with the Archives?”

“Nothing,” he growled. “You asked.”

“Sure, but you can't go into the Archives?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Two reasons." He spread his fingers in a V. "First, my Captain can’t know that I'm searching for Selma. It’s not only frowned upon and punishable, but some soldats have died for launching a quest into their past. It’s a threat to our focus on supporting Stenberg, and His Glory doesn’t allow it.”

Britt bit the inside of her cheek, awash with horror.

Blessed mermaids!

What a monster.

He continued, oblivious. “The soldats try to scrub memories of our family out of us as children. Some boys find it easier to forget. The soldats take them as young as four, but those don’t survive as long as the five-year-olds."

Britt closed her eyes.

Those don’t survive as long as the five-year-olds.

At this rate, she might vomit. She didn't bother asking if survive was the same as live . Of course it was. Stenberg islanders had always been obsessed with control over pain and fear. It partly explained their fixation on public flogging and torture by whip. Soldats too weak probably died in the training process.

"Second, His Glory has called for another cleansing. As a soldat, and someone who has spilled blood, I can't approach any buildings or areas near where His Glory dwells. It would be unclean.”

“How terrible for you to go anywhere near the obviously pure man that forced you to do those deeds.”

With an irritated eye roll, he ignored her sarcasm and finished his explanation with a rudimentary attempt to explain with his hands.

“The Archives are right next to the Temple and attached to the Library. His Glory is rumored to go there often to study history and make decisions, which is why it’s blocked off."

"Which means you want me to go into the Archives and search for Selma."

"Yes."

He stopped moving. The intensity of his expression had taken on new weight. Gone were the breaths of vulnerability and hints of the little boy he once was. The soldat had returned, and she felt relief. This version of Henrik fulfilled her expectations. The idea that a bigger, more heartfelt shade of the domineering soldat existed stirred up flurries in her stomach. In the end, Henrik sought his mother.

Any islander could appreciate—fight for—that result.

"In return," he said slowly, "I'll give you the space to do what you came for, no questions asked."

Her head whirled in response.

No questions asked.

He offered something beyond her wildest expectations. To His Glory, the elusive and poorly-known leader of the greater Stenberg islands and their smaller chains, this offer would be akin to treason.

Henrik took an enormous risk.

He also offered just what she required.

The Archives.

Her plan to find Malcolm on Stenberg consisted solely of arriving at the island capital, finding a place to sleep, and reassessing for a new plan each day until she learned more about where he was taken. Desperation to reunite Tesserdress and Malcolm had propelled Britt to the wild plan, but it was better than their eldest brother, Pedr, could manage with his strange situation.

It was all she had.

"How often are the Archives updated?" she asked.

"Daily, as the ships come in. Mostly from the port authority, but once a month the census people check in. His Glory demands records of all port activity, shipments, invoices, etc. The port authority is the most active archivist, with imports, exports, trade contracts, wharf reports, ship manifests, etc. We calculate our return on investment from other islands, and the traffic that war and other events bring."

His casual statements made the hair on the back of her neck rise. Our return on investment. What an interesting way of looking at the world. Did the lens of domination lend such a calculated tone, or was that just the soldat’s?

Deciding that Henrik's morality had nothing to do with her being here, she forced her mind back to the present.

In a way, Henrik offered everything she could have asked for. If His Glory truly had an obsession with such paperwork, finding Selma or Malcolm might be as simple as searching ship manifests, sailor reports, or others she didn't know existed. If she could gain access to them, any paper trail might lead her to her brother.

Or access to the Archives might not provide a realistic solution. What if Malcolm was far from here? What if they didn't list prisoners of war or report them or keep them? For all she knew, Malcolm wallowed on some distant island outside her reach. She’d never heard of a local prison on Stenberg.

Dozens of questions rushed into her mind. She carefully calculated them, kept a watchful eye on Henrik’s increasingly tense shoulders, and thought through the next few sentences of her response. Her decision might save all the draguls, or break them.

By extension, herself.

Her isles.

She met his glower. "The offer is bold. I can appreciate what sort of position this puts you in, and the necessity of secrecy on both our parts."

His forearms loosened, fingers relaxed. The deadly hold on his hips waned ever-so-slightly, though Henrik looked far from comfortable.

"Correct."

"If I do this, you cannot ever touch my dragul again."

"I swear it."

His immediate promise reassured her.

Questions brewed in his stormy stare. This was the crux of the agreement, and would determine just how much he wanted to know more about Selma. If he hungered for a connection with his mother again, he'd take the risk. The thought simultaneously melted her heart and cracked it again.

"Do you plan to harm anyone while here?" he asked.

She gasped, mouth open.

"Of course not!"

"How am I supposed to know?"

Irritated by the question, she snapped, "You think I'm capable?"

"Yes."

She frowned. Somewhere in that response was a compliment, but she wasn't overly interested in it at the moment.

"I swear it," she retorted, with as much truth as she could infuse in the words. "I'm not here to hurt anyone, but to . . . to save. That is all I will say."

Henrik's gaze dropped to her shoulder, where a hint of Denerfen's tail curled around her collarbone. The dragul had stopped purring to drop into a lazy sleep. No doubt his rest had been as fitful as her own. The time apart would have drained him.

Henrik studied her. ”Agreed. I won't ask you why you're here as long as you aren't harming anyone, and you will conduct an honest and thorough search for Selma." The aspect of vulnerability appeared for another brief flash. “I think anyone can appreciate that sort of exchange.”

She nodded once, then cast her gaze around.

"Where will I sleep?"

He nodded to the elevated stone section of the wall where he slept the night before. "I'll drag the mattress out of . . ."

He paused.

In her puttering, she'd already brought the mattress in from the shed and fluffed it up. Dust motes lingered in the air for almost an hour afterward, but her constant movements dispelled them. Seeing the plates, cups, utensils, a cushion, and folded clothes for the first time, he spun in a circle.

"I was stressed," she muttered. "You took Denerfen!"

He lifted a hand, stopping her assault of words. "It's fine. Thank you."

Surprised at his kind words, she asked, “Where can I buy food?”

Gruffly, he muttered, “I’m happy to share.”

“ Happy to share?”

Henrik waved a hand at the bags. “I bought enough for a couple of days. With any luck, both of us will be finished by then.”

Hunger and relief made her lightheaded, and a bit giddy. Motivated by the stirring in her pocket, as if Tesserdress could sense that they'd just taken a step toward finding Malcolm, Britt opened her hands.

"When can I start?"