I scoop my hands into the anger. It’s wet like white clay, molding in my hands and draining between my fingers until I’m only left with the sharp glass of his pain. I push the glass into my palms, wincing as I try to absorb the emotion. I can’t take all of it. His pain is inconsolable, with the depths of the sea. But I do take some of the burden from Georg. I can see his face soften as he stands in front of me, his rage quivering as his eyes become wet. Sigourney Rose has always had the kraft to sense another’s thoughts and emotions, to control their mind and body—but she never considered how she could use her power with a little bit of empathy.
Georg doesn’t realize what I’ve done. His heart pounds and he tries to force down the swelling grief for his brother.
I continue to speak to him and all the men. “How do you envision our land without the Fjern?” I ask them. “When I picture the islands, there’s only peace. We rely on one another without attempting to cut each other down for power or coin. This is what separates us from them. We won’t use each other in the way that the kongelig have used us. If we want to be different, we need to begin that change. We won’t abandon our own people.”
The men hesitate. Georg works his jaw back and forth. The frustration he feels is with himself. He had been determined to see Sigourney Rose dead, but he’s beginning to waver. He doesn’t understand why he wavers, though I can see the shift in emotion. Sigourney sees it, too. She gazes at me openly. Fear echoes, but she’s curious as well. Astonished by the power she’s witnessed. She wants to understand how I managed to control Georg as I did. She wants that power for herself.
“Sigourney Rose could help us win this insurrection. We don’t know how she could be useful yet. But if we kill her, it’ll be too late when we need her in the future.”
The hesitance remains, but only because the men, Georg included, are afraid of what I will do once Sigourney is released. I could tell Malthe what happened here tonight. Malthe is not as merciful as I am. Though the kongelig are gone, Malthe has still used the whip on his guards when they don’t obey his commands. I’ve suggested that he not, as has Marieke, but Malthe has told us that we shouldn’t concern ourselves with how he leads his men.
“I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done tonight,” I promise them, my voice low. “You won’t be punished.”
Though anger and hatred still rages through him, Georg steps away. Without another word, he begins to march down the hill, returning to the barracks where the guards under Malthe have slept. The other men follow, their torches flickering. Some look over their shoulders at me as they walk. It’s strange to them that I would spend so much effort in saving a former member of the kongelig, especially one that had been my mistress—one that had tried to have me killed. It was only because of the weakness of the tree branch and the mercy of the spirits that I still stand here. I understand their confusion. I see how that confusion could take root and grow into mistrust and disdain. I need to be careful. The hatred that the men hold for Sigourney Rose could easily transfer to me.
When the guards leave me and Sigourney alone, we stand in the dark of the courtyard in silence. With the torchlight gone, the only light is from the silver full moon above. Sigourney’s legs are weak and shaking. She almost falls in her relief, but she would never willingly show me that vulnerability.
“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is hoarse.
There’s an echo between us. An echo as she feels that I know her thoughts, and that she knows mine. The longer I have been in Sigourney Rose’s company, the more her kraft has melded with my own. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. To suddenly enter another—their minds, their emotions—is invasive. The power is strongest with Sigourney. Her thoughts reveal that she believes it’s because she is the source of this kraft. She finds it interesting, the way my kraft has evolved. The ability to end another’s power and take that power as my own has grown tenfold.
“You’ve grown stronger,” she tells me. It’s been weeks since I last saw her.
I don’t bother to answer. She senses that I see this is true. Though it was a shadow in comparison to my ability now, my kraft hasn’t changed. I could stop the abilities of those around me for a time and borrow a shadow of that power in turn. But it feels like my kraft had only been embers, glowing dimly in the dark—and that Sigourney’s power was oil, sparking my kraft into a blazing flame. My power has begun to evolve in ways I’m not sure I understand. It’s odd to feel indebted to Sigourney Rose for this. I don’t like the feeling of owing her anything.
I gesture, and she walks without struggle. She marches back up the stairs and through the heavy front doors, down the dark hall of mold and dust, air covered with a layer of ash and salt. Paintings were torn from the walls, leaving faded shadows where they’d once hung. Rooms hold overturned pieces of furniture and rotting and tattered curtains. Some rooms leave scorched evidence of little fires behind. Sigourney wasn’t put in the dungeons, but in an empty room at the top of a set of collapsing stairs. One wrong step, and the staircase of stone might come crashing down. The room’s door is usually barred from the outside, locking her within. Inside of the chamber, part of the wall has fallen, giving a view of the island and the black night. The shadows of bats flit across the sky, and the chorus of birds and frogs and crickets rises to the moon and smear of stars. I can see the shimmer of the black sea in the distance and hear the gentle hush of the waves washing ashore.
Sigourney had once considered jumping from the fallen wall and risking death, but she’d decided against it. She was left here with her cot and ragged sheet. Marieke has taken care to nurse her wounds with aloe and herbs. The woman brings her food—salted goat and fish, mango stew and porridge in the mornings. She brings books to Sigourney so that she can read. She carries a bucket of saltwater to help Sigourney wash when the sun is at its height to help her cool off from the heat since she lives in this room without much shade from the burning light. Islanders see Marieke do this every day, and they see Sigourney living in a room of Herregård Constantjin, and they’re angry.
Sigourney wonders why I saved her as she steps into her room. I’ve saved her several times. I was supposed to have cut her throat the night of the uprising, and the day that I imprisoned her here, Malthe sent me with a blade to complete the job—but each time, I let her live. Sigourney can recognize that I hate her as much as I hate any of the kongelig. Why, then, do I show her mercy? She wonders this without speaking, knowing that I hear her thoughts. I leave and close the door, pressing the bar back into place.
CHAPTER TWO
The meeting room hasn’t changed. Mold still leaks from the stone floor, and the wallpaper cracks and peels like dirt under the sun. Seven of us are here. The newcomers, the ones who have joined us in this meeting room—Geir, Olina, Tuve, and Kjerstin—are at the other end of the table, while Marieke sits to the right of Malthe, and I’m on his other side. Malthe is at the head, where the dead king once sat. Agatha’s seat remains empty. The girl died almost a month ago, but we haven’t had time to properly mourn. Her burial at sea had been a quick ceremony without tears. Her memory deserved better, but there were too many plans and strategies to discuss, too much training to oversee, too much work to be done.