Page 67 of The Queens and the Kings
An hour later, the Ladylord greeted them with a mildly irritated twitch of her lips. “Soldats,” she called. “What a pleasure to have you both here. Finally.”
Her tacked-on word did little to dispel the tension in her voice. She greeted them from a flat surface outside of her home, near a cluster of rocks sunk into the ground. Loose, linen pants billowed around her calves, flapping in a wild breeze off the ocean. She stood tall, shoulders back, chin erect.
Einar and Henrik stopped fifteen steps away. Their soldier escort from the scribe office quickly evaporated. The Ladylord kept Henrik’s intense stare.
“Your point has been taken, soldat. You don’t like being out of control in a negotiation, and you don’t like leverage over you. I hear you.”
“I never said that.”
“And yet,” she sang, “I understand perfectly. At the end of our discussion, I will share the results of what my scribes have found. As requested.”
Henrik silently admitted she had, in fact, understood.
Einar folded his hands in front of him, a lazy insolence in his expression when he said, “Before we proceed, Ladylord, allow us to make a few things clear: First, we hate assumptions. Don’t make them. Second, we recognize no leader to give us orders, certainly not you. Third, we don’t formally recognize any negotiation of terms out of our purview. Isthatsomething you understand?”
A flicker of genuine surprise appeared in her eyes, nearly negating the latent potency of Einar’s words.
“No leader at all?”
Einar shook his head.
“Not even His Glory?” Her eyelashes fluttered as she comprehended it. “Your rebellion must be as complete as rumors report.”
“We don’t abide by rumors either, Ladylord,” Henrik said. “To Einar’s first point on assumptions.”
“Had you accepted myinvitation,” she said with cool annoyance, “you would have met several high-ranking officers in the mainland navy, had a chat with them about Stenberg, and potentially planned an opportunity to attack His Glory with our aid.”
“Well, shite, Einar. Sounds like we missed our own party.”
Henrik’s flat tone inspired a fleeting amusement in her eyes.
“If you would like to join me, soldats, I’d be willing to speak with you in my office. We can discuss yourpurviewthere.”
They followed her onto the rocky path and up toward the house. Cool air flowed over Henrik as he stepped out of the sun, into shadow. She motioned toward several open chairs in silent invitation, but neither sat.
Einar stationed himself at the door, blocking the entrance, his eyes on the exterior garden they just left. Henrik planted himself in the middle.
The Ladylord—he mentally called her Alma—grasped the handle of an ornate water pitcher, tipping water into a glass below without spilling a drip. Something in the careful movement felt calculated and premonitory.
“Your split with His Glory must have created a tidal wave on your island.” Her musing observation required no response, so he waited for her to muse her way to the end of her thoughts. “I imagine that other soldats have risen in rebellion, while othersstayed. Knowing what I do of His Glory, the results must have been . . . unappreciated.”
Alma, glass in hand, regarded both of them, but the weight of her stare fixed on Henrik. Mention of His Glory brought Einar’s animosity to the forefront. It rolled off of him in thunderous waves.
“As I mentioned before, Henrik the soldat, we have a shared enemy. Against that shared enemy, we might be able to do grand things. The mainland would like to help you defeat him.”
“Why?”
Her jaw ticked as she regarded him. “He complicates things, reneges on promises, and makes everything more difficult than it needs to be.”
Intuition stirred in his gut. “I’m going to need more information than you’re giving if we’re to make an alliance.”
“Me too,” she replied.
Henrik nodded. Fair was fair. They both held their cards close. There was obviously another reason for her actions, but she wouldn’t reveal why without a concession from his side. He lifted his hand to his chest, then to Einar.
“What would you want from us?”
With a roll of her wrist, she conjured a paper folded into an intricate swan that perched pleasantly on her palm. She lowered it onto the nearby table, where it rested like an ivory decoration. A show of arcane such as this was no accident. She knew one of the Arcanists or had access to one, and she wanted them to know it.
