Page 168 of The Queens and the Kings
Henrik eyed him. “You two spoke a lot about the Arcanist of Souls.”
Einar ignored him.
“What is a soullock?” Arvid asked with less patience.
“Concentrated arcane, I guess? Pedr’s not all that clear, and he’s difficult to wrench details from. It’s nothing good, I can tell you that. Don’t touch the shimmering substance or the bodies. If you can avoid it, don’t get close.”
Arvid’s jaw flexed. “Got it. Avoid everything.”
“Who did this?” Henrik asked, scanning the area in confusion. Devastation of this level required instigators—sailors, most likely—but there were none in sight. A flash of color drew their attention to the left.
“His Glory, certainly,” Arvid muttered. “But the question iswhenand is it in retaliation against the rebels? Was he trying to prevent citizens from escaping?”
Henrik’s upper lip curled. “I can’t imagine what else this would be.”
“The bastid might have known all along,” Einar said.
“Norr help us if he did,” Arvid replied.
A flare of the strange light illuminated the ground, fanning in a single line that zipped as fast as wild pigs flee. It spread outward in an obnoxious spray, consuming whatever lay in its path. After the flare, it settled, burning into a smolder along the ground. Ash created in seconds.
“He knows,” Arvid said.
The seething hate rolling off Einar compared to the sun. “That bastid brought the arcane against Stenberg residents after a lifetime of claiming that the arcane didn’t work here?”
“So it would seem, but something else may be happening.” Arvid cut a sharp, sidelong glance to Einar. “I need your brain, Einar. Not your ire. Get it together and do the job of a soldat, not a mourning lover. If you make assumptions, they’ll get you killed. I need you here. The three of us are going to advance to the Compendium and end this.”
“I’m not a mourning lover,” Einar snapped. “I’m a man who is avenging his future bride before he finds her again.”
If the strange statement confused Arvid, he gave no sign.
Reluctantly, and with greater humility, Einar said, “You have me, Captain.”
“The bloody bastid probably always had some arcane stored, just in case,” Henrik said, low. Disgust tainted his tone. He couldn’t fathom that he hadn’t sought this fight as much as Einar.
“Bastid,” Einar confirmed with venom.
“We split up.” Arvid motioned to the right with his chin. “Einar, take that side. I’ll go dead ahead. Henrik, split left. Converge across from the Archives, and stay outdoors. We need to know what arcane we’re advancing into before we enter any building.”
They moved in silence, dissolving into different night paths.
Muted colors flared with vague patches in the distance, but never near the cluster of buildings that contained the Compendium, which housed all the places where His Glory lived, worked, or gathered. The Archives, the Temple, servants quarters, and more. No signs of destruction lingered near them.
Henrik slid between two remaining market structures and into a tight alleyway. A lifeless woman sprawled on the ground, blocking the path. The glimmering remnants of arcane withdrew beneath her as he skirted by. Something like a sigh escaped her lips.
A soullock.
Awful.
A hushed cry preceded the clatter of falling boards. Henrik tensed as an older gentleman flailed by, eyes wild, sobbing under his breath. At his feet, the subtle remains of a familiar object lay in shreds. It looked exactly like the glowing fire orb the sailors used.
Henrik grabbed a stick, nudged the glowing circle. Fine, hair-like threads formed an ashy halo around the orb. A slash mark as long as Henrik’s arm had burned into the ground where the orb broke, as if someone lobbed it there. No smell issued from the rising tendrils.
He nudged aside the burning coals, which flared and clung to the stick. Fire shot up it, racing hard. Henrik released it, jerked his hand away a second before the arcane touched him, and hissed through his teeth. The stick melted into thready ash, instantly gone. A larger pile lay off to the side, probably a body.
His stomach twisted at the careless death. Such a horrid use of something that Pedr had already proved could be wielded in less desultory ways. Of course His Glory would turn something like the arcane into a deadly and destructive force.
Henrik prodded a similar pile of ash. Whorls rose higher, similar in composition. A miscellany of colors swirled within.
