Malthe doesn’t look at her chair. He’s angry that he allowed her to leave the room that night, costing her life. He’s angry with me as well. If I’d cut Sigourney Rose’s neck as I was ordered to on the ship as she attempted to escape the islands, then Agatha would still be alive. Instead, I’d brought Sigourney here because she’d asked me to. I brought Sigourney here, questioning the decision to kill her and hoping to show her mercy. Malthe was furious. He demanded that Sigourney Rose be killed, and Agatha volunteered. Agatha had been eager for the chance to prove her power against the Elskerinde for a long time. She’d chased Sigourney from the room, hunting her across the island.
The events of the night are unclear when I see the memories in Sigourney’s mind. Too much of it had been muddled by Agatha’s kraft, and she couldn’t tell what had and hadn’t been real. The only fact is that we’d found Agatha’s body on the rocks, a deep wound in her side. Malthe guesses that she’d smashed her head as she fell from the cliffs. Agatha had been stubborn, and she’d let her anger control her, but her youth had promise. None of us said this, not out loud, but we hoped that Agatha would be the savior we needed. Her power—her kraft—had been the strongest I’d seen. She was stronger than me. Stronger than any of the kongelig—stronger than even Sigourney Rose. She’d had the potential to save us all, if she had lived.
We’ve spent hours in the meeting room already, as we do every day with our updates and maps and strategies and plans. Malthe is frustrated. “What are we waiting for? The spirits to come and free us from the Fjern? We must attack Niklasson Helle.”
Niklasson Helle is where the kongelig wait with their power. It’s where Lothar Niklasson went after he and other kongelig escaped from Hans Lollik—where he orders his Fjern to attack our islands.
Geir, an older man, is thin and gives the appearance of someone who might break if he were to fall, with gaunt cheeks and white hair. He’d spent his years hidden away on Nørup Helle. The man had been a part of the network of whispers, helping to organize the attacks to the north whenever messages came to him from Hans Lollik Helle. He made a habit of singing the songs of islanders in his mind, again and again, so that no one would be able to discern his thoughts. Whether they had kraft or not, it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. Songs fill his mind. The old habit is difficult for him to break.
His voice is low when he speaks. “They outnumber us with both resources and the number of Fjern guards who will fight for them.”
Olina is against this plan as well. “We would lose the battle. We’re safer here on Hans Lollik Helle. Would be safer, if we moved our command to the north.” Olina is older, perhaps in her thirties or forties, though she isn’t sure of her age. She has always been a cautious woman. She doesn’t take unnecessary risk.
“We’re in a war,” Malthe says. “We’ll never be safe. Don’t delude yourself.”
“It would be better to stay here, barricaded against the Fjern, and wait for aid. I’ve prepared letters making requests.” Olina has mastered the tongue of the Fjern and can write in their hand, trained by her master, now dead, so that she could write his letters for him whenever his fingers cramped in his old age. Olina regrets poisoning the old man, a cousin of the Solberg, when she really did have much to thank him for. These are the ways the Fjern have taken our minds. We should be grateful to them that they haven’t killed us and that they provide us with food and clothes as they take our freedom. There are some islanders that believe these lies. It worries me that Olina is one of them.
Malthe shakes his head. “You’ve prepared letters that won’t make it past Skov Helle before the Fjern find the scouts and send us back their heads.”
Though I agree with him on this, I also realize that we can’t attack Niklasson Helle—not yet. We aren’t ready. “We need to wait for the right opportunity.”
“This is the right opportunity,” Malthe says. He still can’t look at me. He hasn’t been able to, since Agatha’s death. “They wouldn’t expect an attack. We hold the advantage of surprise.”
“We have no advantage,” I tell him. “Our power is here, on Hans Lollik Helle. We need to communicate with the other islands first.”
The islands to the north. Our revolution was meant to spread to all of the islands of Hans Lollik as we took back our home from the Fjern. But our people lost the battles of Larsen and Jannik, and by the time the message to begin the slaughter of the masters had spread to Solberg and Niklasson and Lund Helle, the Fjern had been warned by the fires and smoke in the distance. Scouts and survivors that returned to the royal island reported that the Fjern attacked the islanders before the battles could begin. Guards, whether they had agreed to be a part of the rebellion or not, were gathered and indiscriminately killed. Solberg, Niklasson, and Lund Helle are the strongest of all the islands of Hans Lollik. They’ve become a safe haven of all the Fjern of these islands, including the few kongelig who managed to escape Hans Lollik Helle.
“When we attack, we need to ensure that all of the islands are ready to attack as one instead of as a disjointed ambush.” And with patrols of the Fjern and daily battles between scouts and guards at sea, it’s been difficult to pass messages to the islands of the north. The islands we do hold haven’t been helpful in this war. Valdemar, Skov, Årud, Nørup, and Ludjivik Helle have not proven useful when it comes to resources or strategic positioning.
The others agree with me. It’s better to wait until we can attack as one, instead of sending smaller troops of guards to their deaths. Malthe isn’t pleased.
“And what, exactly, is it that you do, Løren?” Malthe asks me. “Why are you allowed into this meeting room, giving your opinions and making decisions?”
I feel frustration rip through me at Malthe’s question, and then shame. I don’t like to feel emotion. Emotion is a distraction. Even something like anger, rage—the hatred I feel for the Fjern—can cloud my mind. Still, I need these emotions, or I’ll become complacent. Some islanders have convinced themselves that a life of slavery is all that they are meant for, happy to live under the foot of their masters. There were some across the islands that fought for the Fjern, willing to betray their own people for the only life they’d ever known. They were too afraid to take their freedom. Disappointment, pity, rage. It’s necessary to feel emotion so that I’ll have the will to fight.
Every person at this table has a task and a purpose. I have none. I’m only here because my kraft had been helpful once. But it isn’t helpful, not anymore. I have no role. When Malthe asks me what it is that I do, the others look at me and wait for my response. What else can I say?
“Nothing,” I tell him. “I do nothing.”
No one speaks. Malthe clenches his jaw in his silence. The kraft isn’t mine, but I can still feel the echoes of Sigourney Rose’s power move through me. It’s difficult to determine if the disdain I feel in Malthe is his own or if it’s one that I’ve imagined. You do nothing, I can feel him think, and yet you have the respect of all.
“We’ve achieved everything that we can for the day,” he announces. “Tuve, your messenger will leave before morning light.”