Page 1 of The Queens and the Kings
Chapter One
PEDR
The tangof the sea spray hit Pedr like a slap. He closed his eyes, relished it. Thickened air swirled through his lungs, misty and soothing. A balm as steady as the slurping ocean against the hull. It would rain soon.
Welcome back to Kapurnick,he thought.
When he opened his eyes, he regarded Malcolm, Britt, and Henrik’s retreating forms. They’d already lowered the rowboat into the sea and approached the main pier. Kapurnick’s jagged black-teeth mountains, gauzy green drapes, and sparkling beaches awaited. He thought he remembered the sand between his toes.
He banished the idea. No need to torture himself with what he couldn’t have. Besides, it’s not like Britt walked toward anything that he wanted . . .
. . . or so he tried to convince himself.
Their aunt awaited, and General Helsing was the last islander he wanted to see.
A sharp pang shot through his left wrist. He glanced down, found he gripped the wheel with white knuckles, and released it.Shite, but it was embarrassing how stressed out Kapurnick made him.
Rain began to dot his shoulders. From behind him, Einar drawled, “So . . . you’re not going ashore.”
Einar leaned against the gunwale with his arms folded over his chest. Pedr glared. The elongated tone meant Einar hadn’t asked a question, but tested a statement of fact. Pedr liked Einar, but it wouldn’t take much prodding and answer-seeking to change that.
Somewhere in the background, a shuffle and churn of movement meant Einar’s lover, Agnes, prepared to go to shore. Eventually. Britt, because she had a good head on her shoulders, wanted to ascertain their aunt’s general disposition first.
Rabid dowager of a woman, General Helsing.
“Aren’t you from Kapurnick?” Einar asked. He knew that answer already, so Pedr didn’t bother confirming it.
Pedr shoved away from the wheel, striding toward the front of the ship. He reached down, tapped three different boards in a shanty-like ditty. Lights illuminated the woodwork beneath his feet with each tap, dissipating quickly. A cranking, groaning sound moved from the other side of the ship, followed by theclankof metal on metal.
Then a splash.
Kapurnickkian waters weren’t as shallow as Narpurra or Tyrvik, but Pedr still didn’t want to moor at the pier. Technically, his ship could never be truly grounded. The arcane backed him out of the most impossible situations, which meant he could dock at the harbor instead of mooring in the bay, but he saw no reason to draw attention to his ability. Particularly with Einar on deck.
Amused, Einar glanced over the side, where the anchor currently sank off the back. “You have an anchor at the stern?”
Pedr didn’t grant that a response, either. There were a lot of strange things about his ship, Rosenvatten, if one looked close enough. He kept those details to himself, including her name. No one but Britt knew her name, and no one but Mila would understand what it meant.
Besides, when one commanded the arcane, one didn’t require logic.
“The other ship to Narpurra,” Einar continued, as if they engaged in rousing conversation, “won’t leave in the upcoming storm. The other soldats are disappointed.”
The soldats Pedr brought here from Stenberg disembarked the moment he stopped the ship and clambered aboard another vessel ready for Narpurra. His two rowboats returned empty while the other ship settled into fog shrouds.
Thrumming rain danced on the deck, splashing a lovely staccato. It would deluge soon, which meant he could refill some of his fresh water supply. Pedr slapped two boards and tugged on a rope—but not too hard. The crank of opening holes followed. Rainwater would sluice down the slightly slanted decks and into the collection holes, which meant one less thing he’d have to ask of the old steelback General Helsing.
“You know,” Einar mused, contemplative, “no one believes in the Arcanists anymore, and isn’t that a shame? Strange how history could swallow the only arcane wielders in Elestran history. Maybe we all become folklore.”
Pedr straightened, recognizing a definitive undertone in Einar’s words. The former soldat had a wise eye and a keen understanding of situations, regardless of what context he knew. Troublesome.
Thankfully, Pedr’s saving grace came in the form of a light voice.
“Einar?”
Einar’s attention immediately snapped to Agnes. She appeared with a broad smile at the bottom of the ladder leading to the prow. She sashayed—perhapsfloatedwas the right term—to Einar’s side, wearing a dress as emerald as the famed Kapurnickkian waters. Agnes moved like air. Soft. Flowy. Constantly swaying.
Einar slipped an arm around her waist and hooked her into his side with a low growl. She giggled, and the sound made Pedr sick. He turned away, his stomach in knots. The wash of emotions that followed was a swamp. Jealousy. Rage. Resentment. Longing. Desire.
Mila,he thought.
