I watch both of them with equal suspicion. Many have hidden their thoughts from me before, but as I enter the thoughts of Jytte and Lothar, each time I can find no hint that either one is the true murderer. They both seem sincere in their belief in my guilt, but one of the two must be hiding the truth. Which of the kongelig is to blame—for the murders of the others, for the death of the king? Lothar Niklasson has questioned each of the kongelig, and interviewed me multiple times—but he’s never been questioned himself.
“I’m not the guilty one,” I tell him, and he’s unsurprised that I know his thoughts. “But I can’t help but wonder if you are.”
He is surprised by my accusation—even smiles, then laughs, exchanging looks with Jytte, whose expressionless face remains still. There’s a spark within her. It would be most helpful if she could, in fact, find a way to blame Lothar Niklasson for the death of the king, even if she knows that it was me. This would be a way to be rid of Lothar Niklasson without having to take her guards to battle, risking her own life in the process.
“Me?” he says. “You know my thoughts, feel my emotions. If it was me, you would’ve known before now.”
“People often become rather good at hiding their thoughts and emotions from me, with enough practice,” I tell him.
“I have nothing to hide.” His heart hammers in his chest at the thought that I might have learned, might have realized, the sort of love he’d held for the king. This is the only secret that Lothar Niklasson has to fear. He’s killed before, yes; of course he has killed to become as close to the title of regent as he has now. But he hasn’t killed the kongelig of Hans Lollik Helle. He hasn’t killed the regent. This he feels—or wants me to feel, forcing a lie into my kraft.
“Who have you killed?” I ask him. “Tell me, and I’ll see if your memory includes Erik Nørup. You want me to see that you feel badly for the boy, but you could have killed him yourself. And Olsen Årud? Couldn’t you have ordered your guard to burn down the Årud manor? Beata Larsen might have been an easy first choice to kill, to get her out of the way.”
“This is ridiculous,” Lothar says. “I’m not the one on trial here, Elskerinde Jannik—you are.” He turns to Jytte. “See how she turns the truth around? How she makes me defend myself?”
Jytte hesitates. “It is true that we’re at a disadvantage,” she admits. “Your kraft to force all to tell the truth works on everyone but you. But still, Elskerinde Jannik must also answer for her own crimes.”
“I have nothing to answer for,” I tell her. “If you’re looking for an excuse to punish me and strip me of my title and my legacy, then you won’t find one.”
She clenches her jaw and raises her chin. Jytte knows I’ve seen her thoughts, her plans. She would make me a personal slave of hers if she could find a way to control me, and she’s sure that she can find a way. She’s false in her anger for the death of the king. Jytte Solberg can’t hide that she’s relieved the king is dead. She’s glad, even—happy, that I’ve cleared a path for her to the throne.
If Jytte is successful in all her plans—in becoming queen of these islands—I’ll be trapped on Hans Lollik Helle for the rest of my days, without my freedom, living as the rest of my people do. I should be ashamed that this is a fear of mine, to be treated as my people are treated. To lose the privilege of freedom, and of being a member of the kongelig. I know the pain my people have suffered, and I have done nothing to help them. Because of this—because of me—Marieke is dead.
It doesn’t matter if Lothar is to blame for the king or not. It doesn’t matter if Jytte ever realizes the truth, or if she succeeds in taking the throne. I don’t care for these politics any longer. I’ve lost, and I’m willing to leave, to escape these islands as long as I have my freedom and my life. “Am I guilty or am I innocent?” I ask him.
Lothar, regardless of his personal feelings for me, doesn’t lie. “As far as I can see, you’re innocent.”
“Then I’m free to leave.”
I stand, and Jytte hesitates—but she can’t argue with Lothar’s judgment, not openly, not unless she means to start this war here and now. Both sides still need to prepare. If she decides to hold me against Lothar’s will, the battle will be sparked, and she still needs the guards of Solberg Helle to arrive, to attack and take Lothar captive. Her guards will arrive by tomorrow’s end, and Lothar’s head will be hers. Jytte doesn’t want to let me go, but I’m not worth risking the crown.
A slave comes forward, cutting through the ropes that bind my and Løren’s hands. I demand a boat be prepared to take me to a ship. I declare that as I wasn’t able to become regent of Hans Lollik Helle due to the king’s ruling before his death, I have no more ties to the royal island; and so I’ll leave for the north, as so many of the other kongelig have before me. Jytte tries to think of a way she can stop me—keep me imprisoned here, without anyone else’s knowledge—but she decides to let me leave. Allow me to find my peace in the north, as she focuses on becoming regent and grasping these islands in her control. And when the time is right, she can find me again. She’ll send her scouts to the north to search for me, the dark-skinned islander who speaks with the lilting tone of those from Hans Lollik, who acts like I believe I’m of equal worth to the Fjern. It should be easy to find me again, and with the connections Jytte has, she could have me kidnapped and drag me back to these islands as her slave—there’s no one in this world who would care, no one who would miss me. I would kill Jytte Solberg myself before I allowed such a thing to happen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I don’t take many of my belongings—only enough dresses to last the trip to the north, and Løren, who remains silent. He stands on the deck, watching the passing of the islands, the darkness of the ocean beneath us. I wonder if he plans to jump into the sea just to escape me. Løren has never left Hans Lollik before. He’ll see, for the first time, waters that aren’t clear with the blue of the sky, nor pregnant islands of green. He thinks to himself that he won’t necessarily miss these islands—only that this is all he’s ever known. The idea of going to the northern empires, with people he knows nothing of, the cultures and languages… for the first time, I feel unease in him. Fear, even.
He’d been afraid as a child. He was scared most of his days, running and begging for his life, trying to escape his brother and his father, praying to the spirits for their protection. But now his life has purpose. A mission, a plan. This mission gave him more than just a goal. It made him fearless. If he died, then so what? It was only death, and he had achieved so much in this short life of his. He was willing to die for this plan—and for his people.
It had been a slow start, over the years. A network of whispers across the islands, whispers that he hadn’t been allowed to hear. He had the blood of a Fjernman, after all, and couldn’t be trusted. The other slaves would whisper about taking their machetes and cutting the necks of the masters while they slept, but they would become silent whenever they saw Løren, gazes filled with a hatred I’m familiar with. At first, Løren accepted this hatred. There was nothing he could do. He had the blood of a Fjernman, his skin lighter than the islanders around him, and there wasn’t anything he could do to change the hatred in their hearts. But after Løren hid in his cave, and his friend had come to him, pointing—and when his friend was hung by his neck—Løren had grown tired of running, tired of being helpless and at the mercy of his brother and father. If he was going to die, he wanted to know he would die with a purpose.
There was a slave who trained him and the other young guards during the storm season on Hans Lollik Helle. In Løren’s memory, Malthe was as quiet as he is now, intimidating in his silence. Løren knew the risk he took. If he was wrong, Malthe could easily have Løren killed, called a traitor to the guard and to his masters, executed before all on the royal island. But he hadn’t been wrong. Løren had asked if Malthe knew of the whispers. He’d been fourteen, and the other boys in the quarters where Løren slept had been subdued for many years now, the memo
ry of their friend, accused of holding kraft by Aksel, fresh in their memories. Løren was annoyed that they’d given up so easily, at just the reminder that they risked their lives for freedom.
Malthe told Løren to leave the matter alone; told him that he was just a child, and he’d find himself dead and ruin all of the years’ worth of work if he attempted to force his way into their plans. But Løren was relentless. He had kraft, and as far as Løren knew, he was the only slave with kraft who had been allowed to live. Løren also knew his kraft was special, powerful. Not many of the slaves of Hans Lollik Helle had kraft. Only two others did, kraft that they kept hidden, knowing that they’d be killed if the kongelig ever learned of their power. One eventually was: an older man of Jannik Helle who had the power to see others’ dreams. And then there was the girl, the child, who the others kept hidden as often as they could, afraid that she might accidentally use her kraft and be killed, no matter that she was only ten years old. Løren whispered to Malthe that he could be of use. They needed someone like him.
He was right about this. Malthe hadn’t wanted to admit it, but it was true. So far, everyone involved had been slaves Malthe could trust with his life—islanders who were willing to die for the freedom of their people, and to kill for their people, too. Malthe was willing to kill. He was the head of the Lund guard, and so this meant he often had to complete his duty as my captain. He’d killed many of his own people. He’d executed slaves with kraft. He thought of them often, the innocent islanders who had done nothing to deserve their deaths. Their only error had been in being born with skin as dark as his. He whispered his prayers to them, thanking each for their sacrifice. The girl in the fields of Lund Helle—he thought of her often, as she’d so reminded him of his beloved, who smelled of lemongrass and rose-mallow tea. He had to act as the head of my guard would, or he would cause suspicion and lose his position. He needed to keep my confidence, to best serve in this uprising. He was willing to do anything for his people—was willing to lead a rebellion against the kongelig—but they had no power among them. Those with kraft had been so routinely rooted out and killed that there were no known islanders with the power left. After Løren asked Malthe to allow him to join for the entirety of the storm season all those years ago, he was allowed to hear the whispers—the quick and hurried meetings by the bay, in the groves, within the kitchens under the loud clang of pots and pans and shouted orders.
This plan of theirs would take years of careful thought and action. The slaves on the royal island could have attempted the smaller uprisings, as so many did across the islands of Hans Lollik. But Malthe was insistent that they wait for the right opportunity. If they didn’t, then just like all the rest before, their uprising would be quickly quelled, all of them killed—especially on an island that held all of the kongelig and all of their power. There was no point in attempting to band together as one to kill the kongelig and their descendants in one attack. The kongelig would simply use their kraft to subdue the islanders, and Malthe was realistic as well. He knew that there’d inevitably be slaves who would refuse to join in the fight, and who would even fight on the side of their masters. So is the extent of those who had no imagination for their own freedom. It’d be a battle they would easily lose, and there would be little hope for the islanders to find their freedom again.
The group agreed that they had to be patient. They had to wait for the right opportunity. Make their connections across all of the islands; learn which slaves to bring into the fold. They’d known of Marieke, even so far away in the northern empires, speaking to the network of islanders in the streets of the cities we crossed. At an inn, there had been a keeper with his lilting tone who held letters for Marieke, sometimes for years, knowing she would return to him again. The regal islanders in the street, who knew their freedom and did not question their worth—they, too, had messages for Marieke, and wished her luck in finding freedom for her people. Marieke had always reminded all the slaves of Hans Lollik Helle to have patience. Even if it meant continuing the plans into the next generation; even if it meant none of them would be able to witness freedom themselves, she reminded them to wait.
She’d told them of me. After the Jannik guards had slaughtered my family, Marieke saw the potential in the role I could play. I was the bridge that the slaves of Hans Lollik Helle needed. The kongelig who was an islander. The woman who could spark the revolution. My growing powers of thoughts, my ability to control, and the skin of my people: I was the key they needed.
Marieke couldn’t help but feel love for me at times—she would sometimes pretend that I was her daughter, brought back to life by the spirits—but still, she knew who I was. She never forgot that I’m a daughter of the Rose, and that I feel love for myself and for my family name first. She didn’t believe me when I told her of my plans to take the title of regency for myself so that I could free my people. She could see the hunger in my eyes—this desire for power of mine, to become queen of these islands. She wrote to Malthe and the others of Hans Lollik Helle: I wouldn’t be an ally in their plans. I couldn’t be trusted. I was a true member of the kongelig.
Marieke knew I was nothing like my mother; and even if my mother had still been alive, Marieke and the other slaves would not have trusted her for their freedom, either, just as they did not trust me now. I wouldn’t be raised a martyr, a leader in their revolution. Instead, I would be used as the perfect target of the Fjern of Hans Lollik Helle. The islanders would work slowly, carefully, so that no blame could be placed on the slaves, and so that no one would see the revolution until it had already passed, and each of the kongelig were dead. I would work as a distraction. With every death of a kongelig, the Fjern would place the blame of the murders on me, focus on their plots to have me killed, without seeing the truth before them, the truth that was so plain. They wouldn’t think to question the slaves, who remained so docile and obedient.
Marieke helped me with my own plans to arrive to Hans Lollik Helle—my return to Lund Helle, my betrothal to Aksel Jannik. She was always there, guiding me and pushing me to return, always so wary of me knowing her thoughts and her motives. She called my kraft evil and taught me to respect her mind—but still she was always so careful to hide any thought of the uprising whenever I was near. What strength this must’ve taken her, to keep the secret of her betrayal from me for so many years. She primed me, readied me for my role in the game, but still she worried that once I arrived on Hans Lollik Helle, I’d be able to learn the truth quickly—she’d had practice, but what of the others of the uprising?
It’d be too easy for me to pass by any of the slaves and know even a snippet of their thought. As easily as that, the uprising would be over. Marieke traveled the northern cities when she learned of Løren, the boy who held the kraft to end the power of those around him. She had been patient, and finally her patience was rewarded: Løren was the missing piece that was so needed. Løren would be kept close to me, to use his kraft to hide the truth of the rebellion, to block my ability from the slaves who worked around me. If I ever attempted to enter their minds, to know their thoughts or motives or feelings, I would only be met with the same mask I was so familiar with when I attempted to read Løren’s thoughts and he didn’t want me to see into him. I didn’t notice; I was dismissive of the slaves, didn’t consider that their minds might be worth reading. I only felt their hatred following me, avoided their thoughts out of fear, so focused was I on the kongelig and who among them might be the murderer of Hans Lollik Helle.
Aksel had been drunk in his mother’s sitting room, eyes closed, whispering of his love for Beata Larsen; and Løren had whispered to him that it would be nice if someone could simply be sent to kill me. Aksel had agreed. He gathered the guards he felt he could stand to lose, and when his brother volunteered to join the guards to ensure my death, Aksel had agreed. He didn’t think his brother would survive such a battle, but he hoped that Løren would kill me before his own neck was cut.
Yes, Løren could have killed me that
day, easily; he had been trained to kill from such a young age with a sword and a machete. But he had no plans to take my life. He needed to only cut me, to make it seem like he’d wanted me dead as he’d been hired to do, so that I wouldn’t question his true motives. The slaves of Hans Lollik Helle had agreed: They needed to take the risk that I might have Løren executed without a second thought. Malthe had whispered his prayers as they approached the grove. So much depended on my choice, and whether I would keep Løren alive. They couldn’t force Løren upon me on Hans Lollik Helle. I would be as dismissive of him as all the other slaves, and would avoid him just as much as all the rest. I would never have realized the kraft he held. The islanders knew that if I learned of his power, this kraft would draw me to him. I’d always needed to control those around me, after all—and if I couldn’t control Løren as I could others, I would inevitably do what I could to oppress him. Malthe and Marieke needed to take the risk and hope that Løren would be spared; hope that his kraft, and the wall between us, would make me curious enough to keep him alive, and to keep him near. This worked better than they could have hoped, of course; not only did I allow Løren to live but I made the man my personal guard. He was able to follow me and block the thoughts of any slave I approached.
The king was killed by the slaves of Hans Lollik Helle. They killed him as he sat on his throne. It had been an attempted beheading, though the machete wasn’t sharp enough. His body was carried to Valdemar Helle—the islanders didn’t want to drop his body into the water, in case it washed ashore again, and it was only out of spite that they didn’t burn Cristoff Valdemar. Denying him his entry to his Fjern gods was only the start of the uprising.
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