By the time Marieke and I return to the battlefield, Geir has appeared at Malthe’s side like he’d been there all along. When asked where he was, he simply says, “I was hiding.”
Marieke, Olina, and Malthe are frustrated by his lack of explanation, but Geir only watches me. He expects me to use my kraft—his own power lets him see that this is the only plausible action I could take—and I do. I sink into him to see the truth: He’d been in the secluded Nørup manor, as it was his preference to be far away from the revelry and social politics and emotions of humans that he just could not understand. He was studying the stars when he suddenly realized he’d missed the obvious. The Fjern would never stand to have their islands taken by the people they consider savages, yet they hadn’t attacked in weeks. Why not? The answer came to him:
The Fjern must have learned somehow that we had certain preparations in place. We depended on the mangroves as a natural barrier, and scouts surveyed the sea from the hilltop and the bay, ready to warn of any oncoming ships. It was a realization that couldn’t have come without the help of someone on this island. Yes, Geir saw what I’ve also begun to suspect. There must be a traitor. And if there’s a traitor, then they must have told the Fjern how lax we’d become, expecting victory from battle on the sea. The only obvious result would be an ambush by foot, sneaking onto the bays and managing to take Tuve and his guards by surprise. The only night for such an ambush would be when there was no moon and the sky was a cloak of darkness. It was then that he began to hear the screams.
Geir knew that the manors, where so many islanders had taken residence, would be attacked. Geir had studied the island of Hans Lollik Helle enough to know of an alcove hidden away from the main bay. He went there, and when he saw a boat abandoned by the Fjern in the sand, he pushed the boat out onto sea. It was the safest place to hide on an island that was being attacked. He simply waited for the battle to be over.
Malthe eyes Geir with suspicion. He thinks it’s strange that the man knew of the attacks but did nothing to prevent them himself. “You could have warned us, Geir.”
“It was too late,” he says. “By the time I realized that we were ambushed, I could see that the only possibility of me surviving was to escape myself. My death wouldn’t have helped this rebellion.”
He’s right about that, at least. We do need Geir and his kraft if we want to have any chance at winning this war. At one point, only Geir would have inspired any sort of suspicion from me. I don’t get the sense that Geir is lying. I don’t think he’s responsible for Tuve’s death, and I don’t think he’s the traitor on this island. But I still question why he keeps his kraft a secret from the others. If it’s for a strong reason, it wouldn’t do any good to expose his secret at this moment. I’ll have to ask Geir to speak alone with me later.
“We’ve lost Tuve,” Marieke says, matter-of-factly. There isn’t any time for emotion. “We’ll need a new spymaster. Someone to lead the scouts.”
“Might I suggest Kjerstin,” Geir says without pause.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Olina asks. She doesn’t appreciate Kjerstin’s brash personality.
“She’s young,” he acknowledges, “but she has the mind for it.” I can feel the thought that follows: Perhaps more than Tuve did.
“We’ll have to see if she recovers,” Malthe says. He hasn’t looked at me since I returned to the camp with Kjerstin in my arms, but I’ve seen that expression many times before. I feel his mind planning my punishment.
“Morale is low,” Marieke says, gazing out at the encampment. The bodies have been cleared for the most part, the worst of the wounded moved into the barracks, but we don’t have many supplies. The last of the fruit groves were destroyed. The sun is rising higher. The sky turns a pale blue, and within a few hours it’ll be at its height. We’ll be hungry. Tired. We were comfortable, at least, fighting off the Fjern before—but they’ve forced us into the position where we have to make a move.
“Everyone needs to keep their heads down and continue working,” Malthe says. “That’s the only way we will survive this.”
“You forget that not everyone here is a guard under your command,” Marieke says with more bite than usual. She’s been frustrated with Malthe all along, as I’ve seen at the meetings—for commands she disagrees with, and especially for his plotting against Sigourney.
Olina agrees. “We can’t simply keep our heads down. We’re hungry, and there’s no more food.” She’s always deferred to authority. She’d always followed her master’s orders without complaint, or any desire to fight. It’s interesting to see someone like her be such an instrumental part of the uprising. But with the near loss of the war, she chooses to voice her anger. “What do you propose we do? That’s what everyone wants to know.”
“I have given my orders,” Malthe says.
Marieke continues. “They don’t want commands to continue training. They don’t want a commander at all.”
I understand what Marieke is implying, and I wish she would stop. But she looks directly at me.
“I’ve heard from several that they would like to see Løren as our leader,” she says.
There’s silence following her words. Malthe still refuses to look at me, but I see a flicker of an image of me hanging from my neck. “Who has said they’d like to see Løren as our leader?”
“It doesn’t matter who.”
“It does if you’re spreading lies.”
“She isn’t lying,” Geir says. “It makes sense that the people would want this. Løren is young, charismatic, offers hope with his kraft—and from what I’ve heard, he was the savior of the rebellion last night.”
“I haven’t heard anyone voice their desire for Løren Jannik to lead us.”
“Then let me voice it now,” Geir says. Surprise sparks through me. Geir’s words are powerful, though he won’t meet Malthe’s eye and his shoulders hunch, his back bent in his older age. Malthe could pick him up and break him in two. Geir is very aware of this. Yet he still speaks the words. “I would like to see Løren as our leader.”
“I would, too,” Marieke says without hesitation. She has no trouble meeting his gaze as she speaks the words.
Olina nods. “I would as well.” She’s still angry, but she can sense the danger in voicing this particular opinion. Even as she tries to meet Malthe’s eye, she blinks again and again. But she feels safe voicing her opinion when the others have also.
Malthe stands tall. Fury pulses through him. He hides it well, except for the twitch of his nose, the downturned corners of his mouth. “The guards would not follow him.”
Marieke has had enough of Malthe. She turns on her heel and shouts to the field. “My people,” she yells, voice unwavering. Heads look up and turn to her. I nearly reach out to put a hand on her shoulder, to stop her from continuing. She speaks without the full consent of the group. I wouldn’t want to move forward as the leader without Malthe’s agreement, too. But she only ignores me. “We have survived a night of hell, thanks be to the spirits, and it was due to the courage and leadership of one man. Shout his name.”
There’s no hesitation. My name is yelled, again and again. I close my eyes. I can feel the vibrations of power, strength, admiration—and Malthe’s rage. I can feel how he wants to strike me down with his blade.
“My people,” Marieke yells again. “It’s clear, more than ever, that we need a true leader. Someone who will shine a light on a path, littered with the bodies of the Fjern, and guide us to freedom. Tell me,” she says, “who you want your leader to be.”
I watch the crowd of our people, invigorated by Marieke’s words. Some stand as they clap and stamp their feet, and one beat rumbles through the ground, one pulse as they shout my name again and again. And suddenly, I realize that this moment isn’t about me, or Malthe, or any one of us here on this island. This moment is about all of us and the revolution for our freedom.
Malthe disagrees. The name shouted from everyone’s lips isn’t the name he wante
d to hear. A spasm cracks his expression of calm, and finally he looks at me with a gaze that lets me see just how much he would like to cut my neck himself.
“What say you, Løren?” A sliver of him hopes and expects that I will decline. I might have, once. But I cannot. I accept the cheers that rise across the island.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I’m expected to leave the slaves’ quarters. The people wouldn’t want a leader who sleeps alone in the dust of where we’d been oppressed, no matter my reasons. Marieke suggests I take residence in the manor of Herregård Constantjin instead.
“I’m not ready.”
I whisper this to Marieke as we walk from the fields and up the hill to the manor.
“You are ready,” she says, “and if you aren’t, then you must make yourself ready. We need you, Løren. You’re the only one of us that can hold the people together as you have. If Malthe takes control, we won’t last much longer.” We’ve all seen that he hasn’t made the right choices in leading our people. He would send us to our deaths to attack Niklasson Helle, would train each and every islander into the ground under the hot sun. He continues to use the whip, holding on to the old ways of keeping power. Marieke is right. If Malthe were to take control, there’s little chance that we would win this war.
We continue, Marieke taking my arm, out of breath as we walk up the slope of the hill. We stop to survey the island beneath us and the dying embers of its smoking groves. It isn’t lost on me that the closer we come to the manor, the harder it is for Marieke to take her eyes away from the tower that holds Sigourney Rose. It isn’t lost on me, either, that with me holding more power than Malthe, Sigourney’s chance of survival has heightened.
Marieke gives me one of the chambers least touched by the battles. It’s where a guest of the king would have stayed. She and I agree that sleeping in the room of the king himself would be tempting the spirits too much, and that the dead Konge Valdemar could somehow find his revenge.
The room itself was once beautiful, but now the wallpaper yellows and dirt is spread across the marble floor, weeds growing from cracks between the tile and walls. The sheer gauzy curtains were the sort most of the Fjern had in their chambers and their sitting rooms. They’re tattered, and the breeze blows through its holes. A wardrobe holds one lone spider and forgotten pants and shirts that Marieke says may fit me when she holds them up. The balcony doors, glass shattered, open to a view of the mangroves and the sea. The bed is too comfortable when I sit on its edge, the white sheets too soft. I think to myself that I might end up on the ground at night anyway, preferring the hardness against my back. I’ve only ever slept on a wooden floor at night, and I prefer the reminder of where I’d come from and who I am. If I allow myself to sink into a soft mattress at night, I might become comfortable and complacent with my position. I might forget that I’m at war, only to open my eyes to find my neck already cut.
Marieke has decided that we all need a few hours of sleep. It wouldn’t do any good if we went from battle and into the meeting room to make key decisions on the next steps. We plan to reconvene when the sun is on the western end of the island, beginning its descent. I lie in the bed, but I don’t sleep. The sunlight is too bright and my mind is too restless. I spend the afternoon staring at the cracks in the ceiling. I close my eyes and I think of my memories of this island. I’d attempted to escape from Hans Lollik Helle many times. The island was farther north than Jannik Helle, so I would wait for the storm season, when my father would bring me here as one of the Jannik personal slaves. I’d nearly drowned once. I decided to attempt swimming to freedom. It was impossible. I knew that as I dove into the black water at night. But the moment I decided to swim to freedom was also the moment I decided that I would rather be dead than return to Hans Lollik Helle alive. That’s what I told myself, but when my arms and legs weakened and I began to swallow water, salt burning my eyes and nose and tongue, I was afraid to lose my life.
I woke on the shore of Hans Lollik Helle. I coughed water, thinking of the images that’d flashed through my mind as I sank beneath the waves. My mother, her back to me always. The islands that burned with fire. I asked the spirits why they hadn’t let me drown. None answered me. I wonder if this was why: this moment, this rebellion. The spirits were never done with me. But when I have fulfilled my purpose, death will collect its debt.
By the time the sun is about to set, I can hear the prayer songs rising across the island. I’m the first in the meeting room. I almost take the seat I regularly do, but I realize I’ll be expected to sit at the head of the table where Malthe has been sitting. The chair is heavier than the others. Its rough wood splinters beneath my fingers when I pull it out, scraping it on the stone floor. I sit. I’ve already begun to worry that I’ve made a mistake in taking the position as leader. I try to remind myself that this role has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the revolt. The people need a symbol of a leader that they can unite under. They need someone who can give them hope—someone they respect rather than fear. If I am the person they need to play this role, then I will.
Olina, Marieke, Geir, and Malthe each come into the room and take their seats. Malthe sits to my right without speaking. He seems calmer than he was hours before, but I can still feel an undercurrent of rage inside of him. Kjerstin is still unable to leave her bed, though a healer said that her condition seems promising.
The discussion we hold this evening is more tense than ever before. This isn’t surprising. The battle slapped us awake. We had been hesitating, waiting for the right moment to strike. We haven’t been aggressive enough. We’d become complacent—too confident in our strategy in fighting the Fjern at sea, eating and drinking like we aren’t at war, waiting to be attacked instead of making a move against the Fjern first. We were just happy that we still lived against all odds. Since the battle, the stakes are higher. There isn’t much food left. There are stews of fruit that will quickly spoil and dried strips of meat from the carcasses of goats that had been slaughtered and roasted in the first nights of the celebrations. However, Marieke estimates that, rationed to only one meal every day for each person on this island, we would last two weeks at most.
Geir can see that we only have two options, but I can sense him waiting for me to speak the strategy instead. “Our hand is being forced,” I say to the room. “We have to make a decision. First, we could have the island evacuated. Everyone could escape to the north, and we could allow the Fjern to take hold of the royal island.”
“That isn’t an option at all,” Malthe says. “We can’t abandon the island.”
But Marieke disagrees. “There isn’t much that’s left for us here. Our supplies and food have dwindled. There isn’t any point in staying here if we can leave.”
The loss of the latest battle still shudders through us all, shattering our morale. Maybe it’s best to leave the island behind and start fresh elsewhere with a new base and more supplies and more guards to rely on.
“Still,” I say, “while surrendering the royal island of Hans Lollik Helle doesn’t mean surrendering the revolution, it does mean a retreat and giving up a vital piece of the board.” Papers are spread across the table, including a map of the islands. The most central island to all the islands of Hans Lollik is an important position in this game. Giving it to the Fjern could allow them to continue pressing forward and pushing us back, taking all of the islands of the north until we have nowhere else to run.
“We should start again,” Marieke says, “in a place with more access to resources.”
“This was the first option,” I say, “but I think I agree with Malthe.” My words surprise everyone at the table. “We should stand our ground. We can’t give up such a vital position.”
“And our second option?” Malthe asks.
“The second option would be to send anyone who is not a fighting guard to another island for food and safety. Not everyone needs to be here.”
“Those who are injured and those who do not train to be
a part of Malthe’s guard could leave the island for Årud and Nørup Helle,” Olina says thoughtfully. “Perhaps even farther north.”
The northern empires have always felt more like an abstract concept to me and to all of the islanders who have never left Hans Lollik. I’ve only ever seen flashes of the empires to the north from Sigourney Rose’s memories. I don’t think we could send ships so far, but any of the other islands will have more capacity to hold people who do not fight battles in our war. People leaving Hans Lollik Helle would also lengthen the time fighting guards can survive on this island with our rationed portions. The main danger is whether the Fjern are in the waters surrounding us, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Their ships have scouted the sea for the past two weeks. They’ve relentlessly intercepted our messengers and killed them so that we can’t reach the guards of the northern islands with our orders. If the islanders were to escape to the northern islands without the guards to protect them, they would likely be killed. We’re not sure if the north has been attacked. The Fjern could have been working to surround us here on Hans Lollik Helle without us realizing we’ve already lost all of the other islands.
“And what about the people?” I ask Marieke. “Do you know where the majority stands?”
“There’s a desire to attack the Fjern directly, rather than concerning ourselves with surrender and retreat. They’re angry. They want vengeance.”
“We’re not exactly in a position to attack,” Olina says.
“We can’t just stay on this island and wait for the kongelig to make their next move,” Marieke says.
Geir agrees that we’re taking too much time. “The Fjern could be planning another attack on Hans Lollik Helle as we speak.”
“We should send a message to each of the northern islands,” Olina says. “We don’t need to wait for Kjerstin’s recovery to move forward.”
King of the Rising Page 8
