Page 41 of The Queens and the Kings
He surfaced.
The moment he breached air, Pedr shouted incomprehensible phrases. Number thirteen drifted away, the rope abandoned. Weak tongues of bright pink fire sprang from Pedr’s hands and onto the frigate. They spread like oil across the deck.
“Henrik!” Britt shouted.
His focus shifted.
Blood coated the top of the water, staining his fingers pink. He registered a hatchet sticking out of the water, impaled into a soft white shift, a second before he understood Britt’s rabid scream.
Horror overcame him when he recognized Agnes’s hair trailing in the water, spreading wide. The hatchet began to sink at the same moment Einar emerged. He drew in a breath, shucking the water from his hair, and said, “That shite piece of?—”
He choked off.
Henrik, swearing a litany of curses, lunged for Agnes before the sea claimed her. He closed a hand around her falling arm, yanked her to the top. Einar was at his side, panting.
“Agnes? Agnes!”
Her head lolled, unresponsive. Water streaked over her closed eyelashes. The hatchet, leeching blood into the water, crushed her breastbone. It jutted from the bottom edge of her heart.
Einar gripped her and whispered in raw disbelief, “Agnes?” His hand touched her unresponsive face. “Agnes?” he demanded. “AGNES!”
Pedr leaned over the side of the ship. “Swim here,” he barked. “Right now! That frigate is going to blow up.”
A deranged fire crackled. Surging plumes of heat overtook the decks. The powder caught to flame with undeniable furor.
“Einar,” Henrik shouted. “Swim!”
Einar didn’t hear him. He’d wrenched the hatchet from Agnes’s chest and blood ballooned in the water. A stark whisper broke his lips.
“Agnes?”
A rope landed in the water next to Henrik. Britt’s horrified expression peered at him from above, near the top of the rope. Henrik grabbed it, plunged under the water, and wrapped it around Agnes’s waist. Once secure at her back, he surfaced.
“Take her up!” he called.
Einar, thrashing in the water, shouted. “Don’t you dare!”
“Take her!” Henrik demanded.
Pedr appeared over the top of Britt, then retreated. Moments later, Agnes elevated out of the water, moving in jerky gasps. Her arms and legs hung to the side, limp. Cherry red blood stained her dress. Pedr and Britt must be pulling her instead of the arcane.
Heat from the frigate radiated, threatening to consume them as Einar choked. Agnes disappeared over the sidewall, and the rope returned. Flames roared from the frigate, a black cloud bursting. Despite the continuing separation of the ships, the heat threatened to torch his skin.
Henrik gripped the rope, shoved Einar’s foot into the loop that once held Agnes, and shouted, “Ready!”
This time, a steady pull took them higher. The arcane clearly built power up as they distanced from the ondednightmare. They elevated quick; the rope slung them onto the deck with hard thuds.
Henrik’s head smacked the ground, his ears rang. Einar shoved off the deck, raced away. He skidded on his knees to Britt, who cradled Agnes in her lap. Tears rolled down Britt’s cheeks, staining the skin a bright red.
“Agnes,” she whispered, stroking her shining, auburn hair. “Agnes.”
Henrik rolled onto his back, filled with a terrible, awful certainty. After several ragged breaths, Britt came into view. Tears clotted her eyes when she pressed her hand to his cheek.
“Henrik?”
“Fine,” he growled.
The sails unfurled. Color zipped through ropes like overhead trails. The jolt of the ship gaining instant speed whisked them to the east again. The distant conflagration issued repetitive bursts of sizzling flames, belching sable smoke. If they had been any closer, the shrapnel would have impaled them.
