Page 109 of The Queens and the Kings
Britt gasped, rearing back. As quickly as the sculpture came to life, it collapsed. Withering into itself, it spiraled into a simmering blob. The Teller shoved both hands into the clay. It splattered all directions with a finalthud.
In its place lay a braided leather cord. The Teller opened his eyes, lifted the knotted braid, and held it to Britt. Tawny threads twisted together, like gathered willow branches and leather. An otherworldly sheen emanated. Arcane.
“A wise woman will wear this if she is asking questions about the Siren Queens of old.”
Britt hesitated, staring at it.
“This is all . . . real?”
“Believing in a thing does not make it real,” he murmured, “but if it is real, it will continue to be so with or without you believing it.”
Britt wrapped her unsteady fingers around it. “Thank you.” The braid felt cool and sleek in her hands. It would fit her wrist, and would be long enough to hide under her clothes. His expectant stare felt like a punch in the chest.
“And yours?” he inquired.
She knew exactly what to say. “My greatest secret is really my greatest fear.”
A hungry look filled his eyes. “What is it?” he hissed with a greedy smile.
“That my parents died, and my aunt despises me, and Pedr left to be on the ocean, and Malcolm resented having to care for me, because I’m not worthy of their love.”
The Teller’s eyes widened. His expression collapsed into surprise. The braid glowed in her hand. He glanced at it, then her, with a quizzical expression.
“The arcane says you are not lying, You may go in peace, Britt of The Isles. May you fare better against the Siren Queens than those of old, and your brother.”
Chapter Thirty One
PEDR
Britt swiveledfrom the left to the right as she entered Pedr’s quarters, smelling like seaweed and salt and sunshine. She sank to the bench across from him, cheeks pinked from hours in the sun. He hadn’t relayed how much walking to Jordaire’s cottage required. The fatigue showed in her eyes, bringing a wash of guilt with it.
Denerfen sprang off his shoulder and cut toward her with a delighted cry. He nuzzled close. Britt hadn’t known the Teller’s true identity as the Arcanist of Land—though he felt relatively certain she’d probably figured it out during the story—which is why he’d suggested Denerfen stay. Just in case. Jordaire might appear like a helpless old man, but he leaped on weakness like a cat.
A pretty dragul would be a prize.
“Where’s Henrik?” she asked, breathless.
“He left an hour ago.”
“To go where?”
“Klipporno. A message came for him.”
Shadows and surprise filled her eyes.
“From?”
He cut her a sidelong glance. What was her draw to the man, anyway? Though, to be fair, plenty of people had asked Mila the same question about him.
“Selma, if it’s any of your business.”
Her eyes widened.
“What?”
Pedr nodded toward the side of the ship, where the missing rowboat should have been. With a martyric sigh and deep disappointment, she reached into a pocket and tossed a braided willow bracelet onto the table. He stared at the signet on top, blinking. It reeked of soil and earth and loam and mold and time.
The Teller. That bastid.
