Page 68 of The Queens and the Kings
“These are plans from my general to attack Stenberg. I’d like the thoughts of two former soldats who want their own revenge on His Glory. Very few mainland generals or high-ranking leadership have ever made it to Stenberg’s shores. Which is a mistake we will not make in the future,” she added in a pinched mutter.
Einar stepped forward, plucked the paper off the table, and unfolded it. Silence ripped through the room when he handed it to Henrik, then returned to his position in front of the door.
The details were sparse, but thorough. Her General leveraged the northern Stenberg shore as the basis for an attack, which was a foolish approach for several reasons. Taken with their minimal experience, however, it made sense. Their understanding of Stenberg’s interior was thwarted as well. Too few buildings, no clear designation of the Compendium. He skimmed it twice, then returned it to her.
The Ladylord, watching him with abject curiosity, said nothing.
“It’s a poor plan,” he stated.
Her lips curved with a hint of feminine coyness. “I know it’s a poor plan, Henrik. That’s why I’ve inquired after your assistance.”
The rock in his gut gained ballast, percolating a haunting question that refused him peace. Did he truly want to embed himself in mainland affairs? He wanted to go quietly into the night, find Selma, convince Britt that he was worth keeping around, and never, ever think of Stenberg again. This revelation into his own desires was not entirely new, but some facets surprised him.
Since when did his future mental plans involve Britt?
Since now.
This moment.
The realization bathed him in painful prickles. Battle pulled him inexorably forward, and how was that fair to her? What he wanted didn’t matter. It never had. Outside forces controlled and worked his world, jostling him toward an undesired and ever present fight.
Peace was not his.
Only war.
Andthiswas why he couldn’t give Britt what she deserved. Time. Affection. Promises for more. The bitterness of his life led to this moment every time. He knew war. Death. Destruction. Safety for others, not himself. No matter how he tried to ignore it.
The current chose the path.
The moment Einar shifted his weight, angling closer to Henrik, Henrik knew what would happen next. Einar didn’t disappoint.
“We’ll help,” Einar declared. His voice was rock hard, deciding the moment. Henrik felt no irritation. He was not their leader. Einar was his brother, his equal. He could decide as much as Henrik.
But Henrik felt uncertain. They could not retract from this step forward, so now he had to stuff Britt into his inner, hidden box of beloved treasures. Later, he’d discuss it with Britt, and he’d break her heart. A tale as old as time for soldats.
The Ladylord drew up, her expression unabashed with surprise. Her brow rose, lips parted.
“You’ll help?”
“Only,” Einar continued with a level stare, “if preparations are made to protect innocent Stenberg citizens, and if we are guaranteed responsibility for His Glory’s demise.”
“And,” Henrik added, “if we understand what youreallywant. There’s more here at play, as you’ve intimated.”
Alma’s fragile fingers flashed a wide, silver ring as she pressed her palms together. “Acceptable. We aren’t interested in wholesale slaughter, only to remove a lying fool from a position of power that has had far reaching effects for us.”
Henrik frowned. “How?”
The Ladylord paused, as if taking his measure for the first time. The hair on the back of Henrik’s neck rose.
“For the past one hundred years,” she picked up the swan and began to refold it, “the leader of Stenberg and the leader of the mainland have abided by a treaty formed beyond current memory. Stenberg provides the mainland with quarterly shipments of a mineral called damma. It’s difficult to find. We used to receive regular shipments from the far eastern citadels, but they were toppled in a civil war, and who wants to deal with them? Stenberg has this rare mineral, so they offered to sell it to us.”
Einar glanced at Henrik, who shrugged.
“You may know it by a different name,” she said with exaggerated politeness. “I believe Stenberg locals call it sealstone. We haven’t received a shipment in more than four months, soon to be five.”
She gestured to a map on the wall, decorated with strings that showed shipping lanes between mainland cities along the coast, and very few between the Isles and the mainland. A pale brown string stretched from the tiny island nation of Stenberg to the brown dot of Klipporno.
Several realizations hit Henrik all at once. His Glory had a hidden export market that no one knew about, except perhaps a very small ring of wealthy Stenberg citizens. The powder that smelled like sealstone on abandoned frigate number thirteen may have been this very export. To make tenuous matters worse, the mainland wanted to go to war over this export.
