Rowena Daniells - The Ursuper

Upon the Stormy Sea

Fyn stood in the crow's nest, squinting into the westering sun to watch the merchant ship's mainmast fall. It groaned like a toppling tree, taking rigging and sails with it, leaving him with a savage surge of satisfaction.

As the two vessels drifted apart, he could just make out the merchant captain shaking a fist at the Wyvern's Whelp.

But Fyn felt no qualms. The Merofynians' ship had been laden with Rolencian treasures stolen from his homeland. His vision blurred, hot tears of grief stinging his eyes. His mother, father and eldest brother were all dead. Even little Piro…

He must not think of Piro. Must not dwell on how his thirteen-year-old sister would have felt, seeing their father killed under a flag of truce. Had Overlord Palatyne executed their mother in front of Piro, or had she been killed first? He hoped she hadn't watched. He hoped she hadn't wept and pleaded. Somehow, he couldn't see Piro doing that. She'd be angry and defiant to the end. A sob caught in his throat.

Why was he torturing himself?

Because he should have arrived in time to warn them of the invasion! Fury and shame burned within him. Here he was, press-ganged to serve on the Wyvern's Whelp, when he should have been back in Rolencia. All his family were dead except for his brother, Byren, and his cousin Cobalt.

Cobalt lay injured in the castle, forced to serve the invaders as their puppet king, while Byren was in hiding with a price on his head. Before Fyn had been press-ganged, he'd promised Cobalt he'd help find Byren so they could unite Rolencia against the Merofynians.

Frustration ate away at Fyn. If only he could reach Byren to let him know he wasn't alone.

A bird cried. He blinked and looked up, seeing a sea hawk circling above. Far beyond it, a scattering of high, lacy clouds glowed, reflecting the sun's rays from below the horizon. An extravagant display of stars had already claimed the eastern sky.

His hand rose to touch the Fate, which he wore hidden beneath his jerkin. This was the first time he'd been alone since finding himself tied up in the ship's hold.

Pulling on the chain, he brought the stone out. It lay heavy with potential in his hand — Halcyon's Fate, a mystic's tool. His heart picked up pace, pounding in his chest.

A sense of inevitability swept over Fyn. He'd known he was going to attempt this, whatever the risk, first chance he had.

Slowly, he sank to sit with his back to the mast, and the Fate cradled in his palms between his raised knees.

The opal flickered to life, awakened by his Affinity and need. The same fiery sliver of light that illuminated the high clouds above lurked in the stone's cloudy depths.

Fyn stared into the opal, seeing eager glints. Somehow, he had to bend its power to his will and locate Byren, but Halcyon Abbey had fallen before he could begin his proper training. All he had to go on was basic acolyte training, the whispers he'd heard and the experiments he'd tried on his own. The mystics master would have said Fyn knew enough to get himself into trouble, but not out.

He grimaced. There was no help for it, he had to use the Fate. If it attracted any enemy renegade Power-workers, he'd pull back and hope he could escape. After all, he was stuck here on the Wyvern's Whelp, way out on the Stormy Sea. It was not likely they could send Merofynian warriors to capture him.

But it wasn't his physical body that was at risk.

He could feel the power of the Fate, its Affinity-induced heat almost burning his skin. The one — and only — time his friend Feldspar had used the Fate, he'd bled from the nose and passed out.

Ignoring his trepidation, Fyn focused on Byren, trying to recall his brother's essential self. Last midsummer, they'd all gone fishing on Sapphire Lake. He grinned. Byren had hauled him out when Lence had thrown him off the boat. How Piro had laughed…

He mustn't think about Piro.

Gritting his teeth, Fyn narrowed his focus, recalling how Byren had come to wish him luck in the Proving, when his future with the abbey had been decided. Lence hadn't bothered. What a pity Byren wasn't the first-born twin. He would have made a better king than…

Fyn blinked. With Lence dead, Byren was the king's heir. In fact, with their father dead, Byren was the uncrowned king of Rolencia.

How could King Rolen, his louder-than-life father, be dead? Painful loss laid Fyn bare.

His vision blurred and, when it refocused, he recognised the mystics master, although the background was pale and shimmering, as if sunlight danced on mist.

Relief flooded Fyn. Now he wouldn't have to battle the power of the Fate alone. Master Catillum would tell him what to do.

But before they could communicate, Fyn's sight wavered again and, when it cleared, he saw Byren marching across a field, wearing the fabulous manticore chitin breastplate, a faceless host of warriors behind him. A banner flapped in the breeze, depicting a foenix battling a leogryf, which was odd because that wasn't Rolencia's royal banner.

Was the mystics master trying to convey a message with symbols or was Fyn seeing an Affinity vision of the future? Frustration gripped him. Without the proper training, he didn't know what to make of it.

His sight wavered again. This time he saw Master Catillum battling a wyvern, armed only with a hunting knife. The Affinity beast's claws raked the mystics master, but he didn't back off, didn't try to flee. He kept ducking and weaving, trying to slip under the wyvern's guard. A man with a hunting knife could not hope to defeat a full-grown wyvern. Fyn opened his mouth to warn Catillum, but no amount of straining could unlock his voice. He was paralysed, as in a dream. Urgency drummed through him as, with every strike, the mystics master weakened.

Tears of frustration and horror burned Fyn's eyes, streaming down his cheeks. His vision wavered, but not enough to prevent him seeing Catillum fall to his hands and knees.

Wait… Catillum was missing his left arm, but in the vision he was whole-bodied. What did this mean? Why -

Something struck the side of Fyn's face and he fell sideways, thudding into the rails of the crow's nest, his return to the present so abrupt that nausea threatened.

'That'll teach you to doze!' Bantam snapped. 'There's rocks, wyverns and storms, not to mention Utland raiders eager to rob the Wyvern's Whelp. So you keep your eyes peeled and if I catch you sleeping again, you'll be down there getting your back lashed, even if you are the captain's golden boy!'

Fyn apologised, and went to tuck the Fate inside his jerkin.

'What's this pretty bauble?' Bantam reached for it, then pulled back with a curse. 'Heathen Affinity!'

'Never.' Fyn bristled, even as one part of him realised the little quarter-master had to have some Affinity of his own to sense the Fate's power. If Bantam had been Rolencian he would have been sent to serve the abbey or face banishment. To abbey-trained Fyn, Bantam was the heathen. Fyn stiffened. 'This is a holy relic, blessed by the Goddess Halcyon herself.'

The little man snorted, clever eyes fixed on Fyn. 'You might have won Cap'n Nefysto's trust with your abbey martial training, but I'm not so easily convinced. What were you up to, boy?'

Fyn licked his lips. Although the captain had attacked a Merofynian ship, Nefysto was no friend of Rolencia. Fyn dared not reveal his true identity, or that his brother, Byren, had survived the invasion.

Bantam's eyes narrowed.

'I was trying to contact the mystics master, to see if he still lived,' Fyn confessed, hoping the half-lie would do. He knew Master Catillum was alive, since the mystic had already contacted him via the Fate, before warning him not to attempt to use it again.