Page 167 of The Queens and the Kings
“That’s . . . exciting?”
Pedr’s smile widened. “Don’t worry, little sister. I wouldn’t make trouble without you. Once we arrive, I plan to help Henrik and Einar in whatever they need, and then ask them to help us go after the Siren Queens. The Wyvern Kings love a victor, and Henrik and Einar are going to reek of it. It will help us convincethe Wyvern Kings not to slay us at first sight. They might not be overly fond of Arcanists.”
“You’re right,” she conceded, “you need Henrik.”
“I need you, too.”
“Me?”
Pedr leveled her a smooth smile. “You.”
Relief flowed through her. At least he wasn’t trying to protect her and stop her from going. Britt nodded, resolute. “I can’t wait. We’ll gather soldats, head to Stenberg, and thenwe,” she stared at him while emphasizing, “will go to the Westlands.”
His discomfort and concern became palpable when he gestured between them with a hand, swallowing hard. “Are we good, Britt? With . . . the Siren Queens and Mila and . . . all of that. Do you forgive me? I would have told you. Really, I wanted to.”
The pressure of his stare was a heavy weight. All the things that felt unfair to say cluttered her throat. She wanted to dismiss it and talk about it later, but she owed him something. The intricacies andhowsandwhysdidn’t matter as much as the fact that Pedr endured unspeakable agony in order to free himself of a curse that, once gone, he immediately told her about.
History lay in the past. Her future was ahead, with Pedr and Malcolm and Henrik. Besides, it required too much energy to hold onto the questions. Energy she definitely didn’t have after a long couple of days with the wyverns.
“I love you, Pedr. And I can’t wait to help you find Mila. Thank you for telling me everything. We’re good.”
His throat bobbed. A lopsided smile surfaced, one she hadn’t seen hints of in years. For that short span, remnants of the older brother she adored appeared behind the mighty Arcanist. It made her throat catch. Denerfen, sensing her rising emotion, fluttered to her shoulder.
She stroked his wings.
“I love you, too,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his bitty head. “Even if you pretend to like Pedr better.”
Pedr laughed and Denerfen cooed.
Chapter Forty Six
HENRIK
With Old Mansafe at their backs, and the night unfolding around them, Henrik, Arvid, and Einar passed by empty neighborhoods, abandoned houses, and scattered belongings. A ghostly surrealism darkened each nook and corner. When Henrik studied the sea hard enough, he thought he saw rowboats and smaller vessels.
He hoped so.
“Careful,” Arvid whispered, low. “Expect something arcane at any moment.”
As they rounded a corner that opened into the marketplace, Einar cursed under his breath. Chaos flooded the area. Fire raced amongst trampled stalls. Goods scattered the cobblestone. Two bodies sprawled across the ground. Their glassy, open eyes stared at nothing, glossed with an oily rainbow. Their chests didn’t move.
Copper tinted the air, as well as guttural shouts and grunts. In the distance, the sea bashed, a faint echo. The endless expanse of black just beyond these buildings awaited.
A massacre.
“This is fresh,” Einar hissed. “The attack must have happened when we started evacuating.”
“Same arcane, too, I’d wager.” Arvid gestured toward a body on the right side of the road. A farrago of colors leached from the pale face. “Almost like . . . a cloak.”
“No,” Einar said. “It’s different.”
Arvid muttered, “It looks the same.”
“It’s similar, but not the same,” Einar countered. “See how the hues are darker? The other was lighter, the colors less robust. I think this is the same arcane source, but a different weapon. Something . . . worse. Can’t you feel it?” He shuddered. “If I’m right, it’s called a soullock.”
“A soullock,” Arvid repeated, deadpan.
“Pedr mentioned it, but I’m not sure ifthisisthat. A soullock can only originate with the Arcanist of Souls.”
