Page 177 of The Queens and the Kings
With a twitch of his hand and a mocking bow, Onskar left. Himmel followed, mouthing a silent, “Do nothing,” as she faded.
Jerked back to his ship by the navel, Pedr screwed his eyes shut. When he threw them open again, he stood in his cabin, sweat soaking his body, his knees shaking.
Exhausted, he collapsed to the ground in a heap.
Chapter Forty Eight
HENRIK
Shadows and secretsfilled the Temple courtyard as Einar and Henrik slipped through the Compendium, soldats filtering into various positions without opposition. No one stopped them because everyone had moved elsewhere. Arvid’s and Ingemar’s small rebel force of fighting sailors also faded to black.
Stenberg dropped into calmness.
A harried calm.
An unstable calm.
So violentlycalmit was ready to crack.
At the doorway into His Glory’s Temple, Henrik paused. Einar, behind him, glanced at Harald. He nodded only a few steps away.
“I’ll guard the door,” Harald promised. “You kill the bastid.”
Einar smiled.
They slipped inside. Unease filled the Temple interior. The immaculate space reminded Henrik of the inside of a tomb. Reverberative. Empty. Filled with ghosts, whispered promises, as much as space.
Henrik had never been inside, but he only skimmed the varied decorations they passed. Depictions of the sea god, Norr, filled nooks and crannies chiseled into the sealstone walls. Sculptures and statues and paintings and other strange amalgamations. He couldn’t hope to understand the mad symbology.
The place was surprisingly vacant. No roaming soldats. No errant sailors. Not much beyond the still and pervasive hallways. Noiseless, Einar and Henrik glided over marbled floors and beyond sealstone walls interrupted by arched windows. Fresh air poured inside.
They spiraled higher.
Einar led the way, having given into a fully feral side. Revenge gleamed from the depths of his hungry gaze as he scanned rooms, hallways, and decor. Henrik trusted every carefully planted foot, kept his left hand armed with a knife, his right hand with the cudgel.
Death lingered in the air, seeking.
After ascending a thin, curving staircase so tight it barely allowed their shoulders, Einar crouched. A fist stopped Henrik. A familiar and distinct voice spilled into the confined space. Vilhelm, the motivated but young soldat Henrik grappled with what felt like a lifetime ago.
“Reports confirm that Captain Arvid has been seen, Your Glory.”
“Henrik? Einar?”
“I would assume so. Our intelligence didn’t indicate them specifically.”
“We would be foolish to assume otherwise. The rest of the deserters?”
“No word, Your Glory.”
Henrik held his breath, waiting for a footfall or scuff to confirm that His Glory and Vilhelm strode closer to theirstaircase. If the two of them descended these stairs, then His Glory and Vilhelm would have the advantage of higher ground. Not that higher ground would stop Einar.
Walking footsteps carried His Glory’s voice farther away. “Thank you for the report. Where is Ingemar?”
“I haven’t seen him in several hours.”
“Dealing with the impending skirmish, no doubt. Do you have any reports from the Third or Fourth Captain?”
“Last report was an hour ago, and all was well. The navy companies are ready to battle along the outer perimeter, and close in from the east.”
