Chapter Twenty Three
EINAR
If Einar spent one more day moored on the edge of the Westland beach, he would lose it.
He paced across the Rosenvatten’s bow, his steps tight and irritated and loaded like a coiled spring.
Only a few days had passed since Einar discovered Draven, Father King to the wyverns, in the cavernous Seat of the Father King.
The battle between sirens and wyverns reached a fever pitch at the time.
On Pedr’s command, Einar had left the underground chamber and returned to the Rosenvatten.
Only days had passed, but they felt like eternities.
Einar sat here for days after Britt and Henrik sailed off with the mainland flotilla to Stenberg and Kapurnick, leaving him alone. He didn’t mind the isolation, but the lack of understanding grated his nerves.
What was happening . . . anywhere?
At the castle?
Under the sea?
In Kapurnick?
Home, at Stenberg?
The ocean slap, occasional shuffle of Drake’s wings, creaking roll of the Rosenvatten, would never cease.
Hunting on the tattered beach left little to be desired, even with the dagger Pedr shoved into his hands as Einar left the Seat of the Father King.
The hideous knife lay in a drawer in Pedr’s cabin.
Einar had taken it with him to the beach to hunt, but hadn’t used it.
Chunks of gorgon still degraded in the sand and stank, and the Westlands fostered little that he desired to eat.
He killed some birds, but they tasted like leather.
Eleven days remained in his vigil.
Einar groaned.
Why did he promise to wait so long? As a soldat, he’d spent his fair share of time on the sea. Unbroken weeks on the waves and under the sunshine had never bothered him. There was a routine and movement.
Here?
There was nothing. Only dark thoughts, fears about Agnes, plans he couldn’t make, because he had no idea what lay ahead.
A sound drew his gaze up. A wyvern flew over the alpine peaks, skimming the sky with wide wings.
Grateful for anything to focus on except his maddening thoughts, Einar tracked the graceful wing beats.
He cut a hand over his eyes, shading the sun to better see.
The wyvern flapped higher until it flew too close to the sun to track. He cursed and turned away.
Yesterday, the wyverns began to stir in earnest. Tumult stopped by once.
Another wyvern he thought might be named Loren, based on what Tumult said when he came, materialized on the deck.
The probably-Loren wyvern woke Einar from a dead sleep, and stared for an awkward amount of time before leaving.
Einar couldn’t fathom why the wyvern bothered.
To his surprise, another wyvern glided over the ridge, headed for the Rosenvatten. This one appeared broader through the wings than the rest. A series of half-formed moons set in a dark line along the wyvern’s belly. Those markings weren’t familiar. Had he seen them before?
The wyvern lowered.
Einar cursed and scuttled away from the gunwale. The wyvern brought something—no, two somethings with him. Bodies. A woman, and a male. The male flew in a claw, the woman on his back. Einar would recognize that flaming copper head anywhere. He held his breath with the first moment of hope.
Pedr.
Wind from powerful wings swept Einar’s hair out of his eyes, sending spray across the deck.
The Rosenvatten dipped in the water as the massive beast landed on the stern, wings flapping faster, then calming.
He released Pedr with surprising care. Pedr rolled from his claw, settling on his back, limp.
Einar glanced from Pedr’s half-dead state and up to a woman sliding off the wyvern’s back.
She didn’t look much better than Pedr, streaked with mud, dirt, and tear trails.
Her dress barely held itself together, and she trembled.
She touched the deck with bloody, bare feet and pushed away from the wyvern, who patiently waited.
Was this Mila?
She studied Einar with unabashed openness. Hesitation eventually permeated her features, but she boldly stepped closer.
“I’m Mila. Draven says that you’re Einar?”
Swallowing, he nodded once.
The wyvern furled his wings and whirled into a black ball, elongated into a column, and became a familiar man with tawny skin, broad shoulders, and kind eyes. Draven. Einar never thought he’d feel relief to meet Draven again, and certainly not outside a confined and controlled area, but he did.
Sometime in the last several days, Mila managed to find Pedr.
Shite.
Einar licked his lips, attempting to make sense of these developments, arising from the utter nothing in which he’d flailed. His thoughts were quick to coalesce, hungry for anything to happen that wasn’t the slam of water on the hull.
“Father King,” he said, for lack of anything else.
Draven greeted him with a flattered smile. “It’s good to be the Father King, Einar, on any given day. But it’s especially good when acknowledged by a human. Thank you. I’ve brought you someone very special. To both myself and Pedr.”
Einar returned his attention to Mila.
“Mila?”
She inclined her head.
“It’s good to meet you. Finally,” Einar tacked on.
A little smile hinted at her lips, and it looked so much like Draven’s that Einar couldn’t stop staring.
“You as well.” She gestured to Pedr’s inert form. “He’s alive for now, but we only have seven days. Draven and I hope that being here will help Pedr wake up sooner.” Her eyes elevated, skated around. That softest of smiles tugged her lips higher. “It’s good to be back on this ship,” she whispered.
“Seven days?” Einar repeated. “Until what?”
Draven said with unparalleled calm, “There are a few developments to discuss, Einar. First, let’s take Pedr to his cabin, give Mila a chance to clean up, hydrate, and eat, and we shall discuss it when Pedr awakens.
If my nose doesn’t deceive me, Mila is not quite old enough to go without sustenance entirely. ”
Einar didn’t remember the proper arcane sequence to summon hot water for Mila to bathe with, but it didn’t matter. After Draven and Einar settled Pedr in his berth to regain consciousness, Draven quietly promised that all Mila required would appear after they left.
On the bow, Einar continued to stare at the Westlands.
He’d studied this view everyday for several days, but all the world looked different with Draven present.
Respect and outright awe followed the Father King.
Einar couldn’t sense arcane, but he sensed bold power, and Draven had it in spades.
Nobility, too. Einar never met someone who so thoroughly embodied might.
“I believe that the final layer of Pedr’s curse activated with their recent kiss after being reunited,” Draven said, thankfully fracturing the burdened silence. “It makes sense. Amalia is cutthroat and particularly wrathful against anything having to do with love or affection.”
“Why?”
“History hides her secrets,” he said with a vague air of indifference, “and so does Amalia. You’ll find a recurring theme through many of the Siren Queens when it comes to hatred of men.
Not all,” he added with a finger held upright.
“Stulla was always more level-headed and even-keeled than most. In some ways, it never made sense that she became a Siren Queen, but alas.”
He waved a hand, as if that explained anything.
Draven cleared his throat, as if sheepish to be caught in recollections.
“Regardless, based on his smell and the history Mila has given, Pedr suffered from the Noxaris curse. I believe he has seven days from the moment he kissed Mila to live, which is when he lost consciousness. He will only be aware and lucid for a handful of those days, and in decreasing amounts as he approaches the end. We cannot rely on him much.”
Pedr was the most reliable and infuriating being Einar had ever met. He couldn’t fathom what kind of arcane process would stop a man like Pedr. When the reality of what Draven said sank in, Einar frowned.
He didn’t like this at all.
“How do we save him?” Einar asked.
“According to my knowledge, only the Arcanist of Souls can stop an unanchoring. As the Seat of the Arcane Power, it is Onskar who administers and controls the arcane processes. We would approach him and ask him to stop it and save Pedr’s soul.”
Einar barked a laugh.
Pedr was doomed.
“Or we let Pedr obliterate,” Draven replied without change of inflection. “Those are the two choices.”
Einar closed his eyes and muttered, “Shite bastid.” Only Pedr would put himself in this position. He yanked a folded-up paper from his pocket and thrust it at Draven. Draven eyed it, then Einar.
“What is that?”
“A letter from Pedr’s sister, Britt. Onskar saved her from the landslide that destroyed the Siren Queens castle and took her .
. .” Einar hesitated, realizing Britt never said where she went.
“Somewhere else. He made a promise to release Pedr from his curse if Pedr gives up the arcane. She explains it all here. You might find it important?”
Brow furrowed, Draven accepted the paper. His eyes skimmed it quickly before returning it. When he spoke, he did so with great disquiet. “That letter changes everything.”
Einar’s brow rose.
A letter changed everything?
Draven readjusted his stance, a hand elevating to cover his mouth. Neither spoke for an extended time. Unable to bear it, Einar asked the most pressing question of all.
“Is it possible for Pedr to give up the arcane and live?”
Hesitating, Draven said, “I’m not entirely certain. Onskar is the Arcanist of Souls, so it would be on him to administer such a result.”
“Have you seen it happen?”
“No.”
“So Onskar is lying?”
“He could be.”
“Bastid,” Einar muttered.
Draven’s hesitance compounded, which brought Einar no hope or reassurance whatsoever.
“Whatever is or isn’t possible,” Draven said thoughtfully, “I can guarantee you that there are games afoot. Onskar has his own agenda and desires, which take precedence over everything else in Elestra. Whether Pedr is able to untangle from the arcane is the least of my questions.”
Swallowing his rising fury, Einar asked, “So we have no recourse?”
“None.”
“We have to ask Onskar?”
“Yes.”
Another litany threatened to explode from his mouth, but for Draven’s sake, Einar withheld. It felt . . . wrong . . . to degenerate into a cursing sailor with someone like Draven nearby.
“Fine,” Einar said, his words controlled and tone tight, “but how do we convince Onskar to stop the unanchoring? Beyond giving the miserable bastid what he wants, which is Pedr’s life and power? There’s no way Onskar will let Pedr live.”
“I agree. What this letter tells us is something else far more important: Onskar knows,” Draven stated.
“Knows?”
“About Mila.”
“What does she have to do with it?”
Draven ignored Einar’s questions. His shoulders lowered, hand fisting in front of his mouth.
Thoughts moved like smoke behind his eyes.
Einar left him to his cogitations, recognizing his tiny position in a vast game, and tried to hide his confusion.
Didn’t Onskar know about Mila before? As Arcanist of Souls, how couldn’t he know?
Draven contemplated, teeth jutting from side to side.
After several moments, he concluded, “Mila is quite special and was hidden for a reason. A foolish reason,” he added with a threat of impatience, “but we cannot erase history. This is certainly a bad situation, but still not impossible. Improbable, but . . .”
“What are you talking about?”
Draven ignored Einar’s snappish impatience to say, “After reading that letter, I believe I understand what Onskar truly wants.”
“What?”
“Mila.”
But how could Draven know what Onskar wanted? He’d been locked in a cave for a thousand years. The Father King continued speaking, sparing Einar the agony of a reply.
“Mila can be Onskar’s only true adversary and he hasn’t known she existed until recently.
Now he knows, per that letter, and he wants access to her.
” Draven tapped a finger on his chin. “Mila is an immortal being who doesn’t understand her arcane .
. . yet. We will work on that together, before she approaches Onskar, because this fight is Mila’s as much as it is Pedr’s.
” After a pause, he added, “Perhaps yours, as well.”
“Does Mila have hidden arcane tricks that I don’t know about?”
Brightly, Draven replied, “Not in the slightest.”
”But—”
“She has arcane abilities, but no tricks. Per her report, she hasn’t accessed said abilities yet. Meeting me has changed something inside her, so there is hope.”
“Yet you want Mila to go against Onskar?”
Draven turned, his wise stare slamming Einar like a sucker punch. “Yes, it’s precisely what I want. And you shall be a great boon to Mila, I think.”
“How?”
“That is a question we shall answer together. Strategy is why I am here to help you today. There is much you don’t yet know, Einar. We will change that together.”