Page 179 of The Queens and the Kings
Certainty thrived in the metaphorical and methodicalthrowing to the winds of chancewith Einar at his side. Every sense Henrik honed over the past thirty years came to full fruition. He moved into the instinct that came easily and with refined trust.
As they stole down the hallways, sounds increased. Shuffling papers. His Glory muttering. “Where is he? He said he’d support. This is not enough.”
Vilhelm’s low reply, mostly inaccessible at first. “I’m sure all will be well, Your Glory.” It had the rote sound of an uncertainchild attempting to comfort a frustrated parent. Vilhelm, so determined to prove himself before time had taught her ways.
Einar and Henrik slipped along the edge of the hall until a doorway with flickering light underneath came into view. No soldat stood outside in protection, which was serendipitous. Henrik prepared himself for something arcane and dangerous. Hidden soldats or lethal weapons.
Nothing appeared.
Einar strode next to Henrik, visibly unnerved by the ease of their approach. They matched equal and mutual purpose with every silent step. Their chins rose, shoulders widened, grips strengthened. Each step bore them closer.
To finality.
To death.
To revenge.
To true freedom.
This had nothing to do with commands, with the soldats, with His Glory wanting something they couldn’t—and wouldn’t—give. This was freedom at work. Imperfect, perpetual freedom.
Henrik embraced it.
The noises led them to a door at the very end of the hallway. Minute decoration preceded it, with thin, small tables cluttering the walkway. Henrik’s calm, methodical heart reassured him as they closed in. He was ready. He’d chosen. He knew exactly what called to him.
Freedom’s song.
His life, which he decided. Out of love for his brother, hope for better, and a desire to be with Britt every moment after this, he needed this battle.
Ten steps.
Eight.
He didn’t look at Einar. There would be no final farewell, just in case. Nothing but the unrelenting confidence that they would prevail.
Six.
Four.
Einar held up an arm, knife at the ready. There would be interior, protective soldats.
Two.
One.
The half-closed door exploded open under Henrik’s kick. It slammed against a wooden wall, splaying wide to reveal a startled His Glory, a more startled Vilhelm, and two soldats near the windows. They watched the wrong area.
Snarling, Einar hurled himself into the room at a sprint, streaking right for His Glory and gleefully assuming much of the risk. Henrik, taking advantage of their two-second lead, focused on Vilhelm, closest to His Glory.
His Glory folded back with a cry of alarm. By the time Einar crossed the floor, the two soldats intercepted him halfway across the room.
Vilhelm threw his hands up, braced his legs back in a stance to avoid a frontal assault, and prepared himself for Henrik. Anticipating this response, Henrik swerved slightly left. His right hand connected with Vilhelm’s left shoulder, throwing him to the side. Vilhelm bobbled. Henrik used the chance to wrap his ankle around Vilhelm’s exposed calf, taking the leg out from under him.
Vilhelm toppled.
Henrik chased him.
His body weight shifted into his arms. The world passed in winnowing seconds as Henrik dug into the ground. He drove Vilhelm down, down.
