Water Princess: Through the Storm

Prologue

Screams echoed off the royal bedchamber’s walls, undampened by the tapestries hung around the room. Tindra, the Queen of Croy, panted, trying to catch her breath from her latest outburst. Sweat flowed across her tawny skin, soaking the rug beneath her. Her left hand gripped King Fitzeirick’s tight enough to grind his knuckles together. The stump where her right hand had been pressed hard into his thigh.

“I can’t,” she gasped, collapsing against her husband’s chest, “keep this up.” Her firesything talent did nothing to help her. Given how little her straining now affected the candles around the room, her exhaustion was obvious.

With the labor dragging on more than a day, Fitzeirick wished his wife were a stonesyth so she could draw stamina from the floor like he could. Or if I could transfer some of my energy to her. “You’re doing fine,” he said. “Just remember to breathe.”

Bera, Tindra’s handmaid, offered her a cup of water. “Drink, m’lady. All is well.”

Tindra gulped down a mouthful as Bera wiped the queen’s brow.

“I can see the top of the baby’s head,” Abi, the royal herbalist, said, looking up from her position between the queen’s knees. “Another push should do. Bera, stand ready.”

The handmaid gave the cup to Fitzeirick, moved to Abi’s side, and grabbed a soft, knit, drying cloth.

Tindra drew a deep breath as weary muscles clenched. The grunt forcing its way through her clenched teeth rose to another scream as her body pushed. “Congratulations, my Queen, you have a daught— Oh. Oh, my.”

“What?” Fitzeirick shouted. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s another hand,” Abi said.

“My daughter has three hands?” Tindra asked, leaning forward to see.

“No, you have another babe!” Abi said. “Bera, cut the cord and clean her. My Queen, your work is not done.”

Twins! The thought brought goosebumps to Fitzeirick’s arms.

The guttural sound coming from his wife broke the king from his shock. Everything seemed to happen faster this time. Soon, he cradled his son, and Tindra held their daughter. The babies’ cries brought smiles and tears all around.

“Congratulations, your majesties. They both look healthy,” Abi said. “My Queen, they should eat soon. I’ll help you get settled while the king spreads the good news.”

Tindra nodded and leaned forward. Fitzeirick hesitated before handing his son to Bera. Once he was certain she wouldn’t drop him, he lifted his wife off the floor. Abi took their daughter and cradled her while Fitzeirick carried his wife to their bed.

After one more long look at their newborn twins nursing, Fitzeirick left to make the proclamation.

* * *

At dawn, after the first full moon of the twins fifth year, a procession led them to their roan—the test to determine what their sything talents were. Captain Agrim and Sergeants Sibbi and Svan, dressed in gleaming, tan, leather armor, led the way out of the capital’s southern gate.

Princess Meyla, wearing a simple, unbleached, linen dress, followed the men who were both guardians and playmates. Loosely braided, chestnut hair brushed the tops of her shoulders with each step, and her bright, brown eyes looked everywhere, gazing at the people lining the streets to watch them pass.

Prince Regin trailed behind his sister, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and loose pants made from the same cloth as Meyla’s dress. His hair and eyes were lighter than hers, closer in color to his mother’s. The young boy kept his eyes forward, doing his best to imitate the guards ahead of him.

Behind their children, King Fitzeirick and Queen Tindra walked hand in hand, beaming with pride. Tindra predicted her daughter would be a strong firesyth and her son would be a stonesyth like his father. Fitzeirick had noticed different tendencies in his children, but Tindra insisted he was mistaken.

Roi and Grima, the royal advisor and his wife, followed their rulers. Einns, Grima’s son, stayed in the castle, manning the kitchen—his favorite place—to prepare a special breakfast for the royal twins. Roi had escorted Fitzeirick to his own roan where it was determined he was a stonesyth.

When Fitzeirick was his children’s age, he lived in the far eastern lands of Croy with his mother, Sar’sa. She was a war trophy for Eirick, his father, from when he took those lands from Varia. Though Jarl Eirick cared about his bastard son, his duties as leader of Croy kept him in the capital that day. Fitzeirick was thrilled to be with his children today and wondered if his father ever regretted not being there for him nearly thirty years ago.

Three more guards, their armor matching those leading, brought up the rear. Onlookers bowed and shouted their greetings and support as the royal family passed.

Tradition and an abundance of caution dictated the trial be held well away from any structures, lest an exceptionally strong but untrained child damage something important. In a clearing off the road but in sight of the wall surrounding Croy’s capital, three people waited in a loose circle. Bera rested her foot on a stone ball; Botulf, the capital’s master blacksmith, stood near a small fire; Abi sat near a wooden block a few steps away.

The procession stopped at the edge of the road. Before the twins scampered ahead, Fitzeirick put his hands on their shoulders and kneeled as they turned to look at their father. Tindra stood next to him, resting her hand on his arm.

“Remember,” Fitzeirick said, looking from daughter to son, “go to each element and try to feel what’s in front of you. There’s no hurry, so don’t rush.”

“Focus, breathe, and take your time,” Tindra said.

The children nodded, turned, and scampered toward the challenges. Dew from the ankle-high grass wet the bottom of their clothes as they made their way to the clearing.

Fitzeirick stood.

Tindra took his hand.

Everyone else spread out to watch as the test began.

Regin, being about half a hand taller than his sister, reached the stone before her. As he stooped to put his hand on the orb, Meyla rested her hands on her hips and tapped her foot.

Tindra squeezed her husband’s hand as the stone opened for their son. Regin took a piece of honeybread out of the ball, turned to his parents, and smiled before biting into the treat. Fitzeirick noticed it took more effort than he expected for his son to work the stone open.

Meyla brushed her fingers on the rock and nothing happened. As her brother tried to open the wooden box, she pressed hard against the ball, but it didn’t open. She hit it with her fist as Regin abandoned the wooden box, unable to open it.

The fire bent to the boy’s will before his sister reached toward the wooden box. Tindra gasped as he pulled a strip of meat out of the flames.

Her shock turned unpleasant when the wood moved as soon as Meyla’s fingers contacted it. “My daughter cannot be a woodsyth!”

I tried to warn her, Fitzeirick thought, putting his arm across his wife’s shoulders.

Chapter 1

“Regin,” I said, “watch where you’re going.”

Ink sloshed, threatening to spill each time the wagon jostled.

“Yes, Princess,” he said, before sticking his tongue out at me.

I snorted at my brother, dipped my quill again, and returned to my journal. Fortunately, we’d had good weather for the trip—a few clouds hung in the sky, but none threatened rain, so I didn’t have to keep my book in my travel sack.

I’m nearing the end of the exhausting ride home from Varia. Still, it was nice to spend time with my grandparents at Dauphi and the eastern keep is surrounded by so many interesting plants and deep forest. But best of all was speeding across Lake Lusebel in the boat Kurt’s men built for my fifteenth birthday. Cousin Jonus and my brother would rather spend their days playing soldier or looking for other adventures, usually in the form of pursuing one of the many girls who caught Jonus’s eye.

Going by the stories I’d heard, that was a habit passed down from his father. From my understanding, Uncle Crum was quite the ladies' man before he met Aunt Jesca.

That’s not to say Jonus isn’t attractive. He got his father’s messy hair but it’s the sandy color of his mother’s. And his blue-green eyes are so bright, sometimes I think they glow. But he’s practically family so his silver tongue doesn’t work on me.

And don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the thrill of a good hunt as much as anyone; stalking prey through the trees and brush, using my talent to find where the animal has disturbed the plants. It certainly gets the blood pounding in my ears but it doesn’t compare to the feeling of being out on the water. The wind in my hair, surrounded by a peaceful expanse.

Considering I could catch a meal with a hook and line, if Uncle Crum and Aunt Jesca hadn’t insisted I spent time with them, I’d have only come ashore to cook. Not that learning new woodsything skills from Aunt Jesca wasn’t fun. To be honest, I like her more than Mother.

“I see the southern gate, sis,” my brother said, pointing.

I waved to Fargrim, the closest rider to me. He nodded, put his heels to his horse’s flank, and rode ahead to announce our arrival.

Instead of watching them, I looked back at the cart carrying my boat. It was light enough for one horse to pull, but two traveled faster, and Uncle Crum insisted on making sure we got home quickly.

It wouldn’t have bothered me to take our time traveling back through my father’s homeland. On the trip to the eastern pass into Varia, we spent a good portion of a day visiting the memorial to those who died when Satra invaded. Father raised the stone himself, putting the names Sar’sa, our grandmother, and Aesa, his first love, on the first stele. Since then, nine more blocks had been pulled to the surface. Each was marked with the names of Croians taken by the once barbaric nation on Croy’s southern border. It made the history my brother and I had learned about our nation feel real. I couldn’t help but shed tears.

The people who settled these lands after the war ended—a mix of Croian, Varian, and Satran—are hard-working and welcoming. Most who moved here worked for years repairing the damage done by Satra’s invasion.

After establishing himself as Croy’s king, my father made Satra pay for their crimes. He led the army that conquered the nation and kept it under Croian rule longer than my brother and I had been alive.

Angering Father is not a good strategy.

Capping the jar of ink, I wiped my quill on the cloth in the back of my leather-bound journal and put everything into the pack resting between my feet. Thundering hoofbeats announced approaching riders. Bolverk led the group of mounted warriors.

“Well met!” my brother and I called out together.

The men saluted when they got close. “Princess Meyla. Prince Regin. Well met and welcome home. Your parents are eager to see you.”

I bet Mother couldn’t care less if I came back. Pasting a smile on my face, I returned their salutes. “Lead the way.”