Waking Ursa Minor: Riverda Rising, #1

By Helen Rygh-Pedersen

Waking Ursa Minor is the first book in the debut epic fantasy series, Riverda Rising by Helen Rygh-Pedersen. Spanning different countries and cultures it will take you on a journey of love and loss, the search for identity and a thrilling fight for survival.

 

As Gesland swelters in extreme heat, Serakela watches the nomadic clans make their way across the plains on their annual pilgrimage and resigns herself to the monotonous life of servitude at the institution which raised her. But Serakela is not the orphan she always believed herself to be. On the night a crazed assassin tries to kill her, her heritage is revealed catapulting her into an island-hopping fight for survival, and the search for the fabled Stone of Riverda.

The sundered islands of Riverda are dying. The earth magics that protected and sustained them before the Rivening are unbalanced; dwindling in some areas whilst stifling others. As time runs out and tensions rise, countries teeter on the brink of war, starvation and extinction. A way to save them has just arisen from the realm of rumour but Brother Okrafkus of the Separamus cannot allow this to happen.

Not only will Serakela's quest lead her to her long-lost family, rumour has it that she who wields the Stone will restore the islands of Riverda to their former glory. Rumour also has it that in doing so, she will unleash the evil that split them.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: HRP Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9788293831075

Book preview

Also by

Helen Rygh-Pedersen

Picture Books:

A Whiff in the Woods

Short Stories writing as

H. Rygh-Pedersen:

Heifer

For Morten,

without whom Riverda would still

be lost.

Riverda Rising

Book One

Part One

Prologue

The lights of the living sky were so bright, squirming in a tumultuous orgy of colour and energy, that they threatened to expose the cloaked figure scurrying down the palm-covered walkway that led to the steps of the palace. The waters of the lake that stretched before the ostentatious building reflected their brilliance with such intensity that the thousands of torches lining the citadel were almost unnecessary. Night had become twilight in their shimmering glow. The sheer physicality of the extra aether in the sky weighed down on the man hugging the shadows, constricting his rapid breaths like the muggy heat that came after a jungle rain. It was so thick that the wooden airships used to ferry folk to the floating islands above lurched sickeningly on the coloured clouds. They strained against their tethers, rolling as if on a sea about to be battered by a storm. The man looked up, the corners of his mouth turned down, his brow furrowed, as yells sounded from the crew of two vessels struggled to keep them from colliding. The pressure of the magic filling the sky also fuelled the crowd that had gathered below. The atmosphere was so tense the air crackled. It wouldn’t take much to ignite the spark of riot and revolt, setting die-hard loyalists against those who demanded their freedom from the absolute monarchs who had presided over them for centuries. He only hoped they’d hold out until he’d completed his task, then perhaps some unnecessary bloodshed could be avoided. Rows of Drained soldiers separated the man from the masses, yet still he pulled his cloak close around him so they wouldn’t notice Than, Grand Taik, right hand of the Taikez-to-be himself. He couldn’t let anything get in the way of tonight’s ceremony. The future of Riverda depended on it.

As he neared the base of the steps, he clung to the darkness offered by the thick jungle that surrounded the palace, flinching at every whoop of an ape or cree of a bird. Finally, he spotted the equally heavily cloaked form of the High Warlock making his way towards him furtively, holding a long object swathed in black silk before him as if it were a venomous snake.

Is he ready? Beads of sweat dotted the withered man’s top lip, but whether from the heat of the jungle or from nerves, Than couldn’t tell. All he knew was his own was just as wet. He drew the back of his hand across his lips and noticed it was shaking.

He is more than ready. Gods, he killed his own father for this, that’s how ready he is. Than shuddered as he remembered the crazed glee in the eyes of the Itzalid heir when he’d left him moments before. The procession will be making its way any minute now.

The ancient man held out the stick like object in his hands. "Are you ready?"

Than reached out and pulled back the silk that slithered from the object like a shed skin. There, in the warlock’s gnarled hands, lay the sceptre of the Taikez; its slender golden staff glinting in the light from the aether above. Nestled in the gilded cradle was the reason the gaseous magic hung low and heavy in the sky, drawn to it like a magnet; the Stone of Riverda. The largest solid embodiment of the veins of magic that ran below and hovered above the surface of Riverda, crafted at the hands of the old gods: the stone that connected and protected all living things, was also the means of controlling them. 

His hand shook as he reached for the staff, nodding with an urgency that frightened him. It must be done. He cannot be allowed access to so much power, he’s taken enough as it is. He drained a Nyfmi, a child of the gods themselves! Look, he pointed up at the stars that glinted through the swirling mists. One cluster, a rectangle with a three-starred tail, stood out from the others, its blue-white sparkle gone, replaced instead by a pulsating red glow. He’s taken the poor child’s life, his powers, and usurped his heavenly sigil. He’s all but immortal now. His voice dipped first into pity and then to despair. If he has control of the power-lines, of the aether and effusion...it’s only a matter of time before he will drain Riverda herself.

He gripped the sceptre in both hands and looked up into the older man’s eyes. He tried to swallow down the bilious lump that clogged his throat.

Are you sure it will work? The earth magics are so unpredictable... His voice trailed off as he thought of the possibility of failure. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would look like other than his own brutal execution, yet it would have dire consequences for every man, woman, child and beast of the Empire.

The warlock licked his lips as he thought how to answer.

One never knows with earth magic, but it is the only thing with enough power to possibly counter him. He half turned and motioned to the dais at the top of the steps. A line of figures, all shapes and sizes, creatures and creeds stood there waiting. The warlocks are assembled, our own private guard on hand and, he waved a hand to the floating isle just outside the citadel, supported by its near solid column of aether that glowed pink against the night sky, a small armada of airships at the ready, the Nyfmi look down on us from the Skyles, here and across the whole of Riverda. They will have vengeance for what has been done. Together, we will recite the incantation while you harness the power-lines to put him down.

The hollowness of dread sank in his chest.

And if it isn’t enough? If it doesn’t kill him?

The old man rolled his shoulders and stood a head taller.

Then he will be incarcerated in that tomb for the rest of time, of that I am certain! A Mer would have to birth a blue-haired bastard on land before the laws of nature and magic allow him to go free.

A horn sounded in the near distance and the warlock sucked his teeth before throwing off his cloak, the white of his suddenly exposed robes near blinding Than.

Come, it is time. Do not let him touch that sceptre and whatever you do, do not let go. You are the anchor.

Than gulped and removed his own cloak, displaying his ceremonial blue and gold trimmed robes beneath.

I won’t, even if it kills me.

The warlock who had begun to climb the many worn steps to take his place on the dais turned and looked at him with narrow eyes.

It may well do, your Lordship.

He said no more and left the Grand Taik stewing in his own fear.

The horn sounded again and the, until now, agitated crowd fell silent and divided, making way for the procession of the Itzalid heir. A score of Drained guards came first, their eyes vacant, but their weapons sharp, ready for use at a second’s notice. Their presence cast a chill over those they passed, forcing those nearest to shiver and shrink in on themselves. Nobody got near to a Drained. The ranks swelled with magical creatures of all shapes and sizes, a fury of fur, fangs, scales and pure muscle. Not fully alive, yet not dead either, they were the creation of the heir and his to control. Cross paths with the Taikez-to-be with magic in your blood and you could very well be joining the ranks.  Next came the dancing girls, swirling and gyrating in time with the lutes and drums, brushing off the chill and filling the air instead with the heady scent of seduction, and lastly a raised sedan chair on which sat the most alarmingly beautiful man ever to have graced Riverda. Slender of body and face, but with an athletic prowess lurking beneath his delicate skin, Niratt Itzalid’s face was split into a wide smile, his stone-coloured eyes glittering with greed over his narrow nose. He tossed his long black hair over his shoulder as the chair reached the bottom of the steps and lowered, allowing him to disembark. Without seeming to move his legs, he glided up the steps. He eyed the warlocks with a lazy glance before turning to look down on his soon to be people. Possessions. His pointed tongue slithered past his teeth and caressed his thin lips in anticipation.

Than made his way to the base of the steps, the staff gleaming in the ethereal light. Despite the heat of the tropical night, the flesh on his bare arms erupted into chilled pin pricks, the hairs standing on end as the heir focused on him. He looked up and caught his eye, his stomach clenching painfully as Niratt sneered. Slowly, not taking his eyes from the staff in the Grand Taik’s hands, the Taikez-to-be lowered himself to sit on the throne at the centre of the stage, ready to claim his birthright.

The High Warlock and his companions stepped forward, forming a semi-circle behind the throne. The old man raised a vial to his lips and drank. Then he began the ceremony, his voice magnified and projecting over the crowd gathered in the citadel and up to the Skyle above.

After loss comes new life. Such is it with a coronation. Taikez Melanius Itzalid’s reign was cut short by illness... he paused, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. The young man on the throne didn’t show any sign of grief or sorrow at the mention of his father’s untimely passing. He merely looked impatient. But such was the will of the gods. We are gathered here today, to begin the reign of our new Taikez, Niratt Itzalid...

Than didn’t hear the rest of the words of the coronation ceremony as he mounted the stairs staring at the man who must be stopped, the man he had led on this path of corruption. He had started this. Now it was time to end it.

His feet carried him blindly to the dais as he felt every single eye of the crowd burrowing into his spine. The air was so heavy with aether now, he could almost taste it. He breathed in deeply, hoping some of the vapours would make their way into his bloodstream, calming yet also strengthening him. The sceptre lay flat across his open palms, ready to be presented to the new ruler of Riverda. He reached the platform as the High Warlock finished speaking and bent forward, holding the sceptre out for his new ruler to gaze upon the responsibility of the powers that would soon be his. He swallowed painfully as he raised himself from his cautious bow and looked into the eyes of his friend. Nausea washed over him in a sweaty wave and he licked his lips.

Niratt leaned forward conspiratorially.

Come on, Than, smile. This is what we’ve waited so long for. It’s finally time. He winked and ran his tongue over his teeth. Now give me that sceptre so we can go and drain some of those delicious-looking dancing girls.

The Grand Taik gave a weak smile and glanced behind the Taikez-to-be at the warlocks. They nodded in unison, joined hands, and began to chant.  Than closed his open palms and slid his hands apart down the shaft as he pointed it, gem first, at his old friend.

The wind began to pick up, swirling around the lights in the sky, pulling them down through a whirlwind funnel into the stone now pointed at the heir’s chest. Niratt looked about in confusion.

Than! What are you doing? Give me the stone! The Itzalid heir made as if to jump from the throne and snatch it, but found himself bound, the stone chair warping around him, enclosing him as the gemstone began to glow.  Dark-robed figures stepped up at his sides, chest straps adorned with tiny glittering vials, ready to throw at the Heir to weaken his power; the warlocks’ guards.

Niratt growled.

You traitor! You’re all traitors! With his left hand he made a grasping motion and the nearest guard was swept off his feet and pulled by an invisible force towards the throne. He grasped at the flagstones wildly, trying to slow his trajectory. It was no use. With a flick of his wrist, the Taikez-to-be flung him into the air. As he squeezed the talons of his clawlike hand together, the guard screamed in agony, his body folding in on itself, cracking, smoking and charring until all that remained was a smouldering ball of carbon that he launched at the other guards. It left a hole in the first’s stomach and knocked a second down the steps. His screams of pain brought a manic smile to Niratt’s eyes.

This ends now, Niratt. Than’s voice cracked as he held himself steady against the ever-strengthening wind when the sceptre began to shake, a bolt of crackling light shooting from its tip.

The Taikez screamed with fury and countered the earth magic with as much of his own as he could from his bound hands. They met with a crash so loud that it took Than a moment to realise he was deafened, but noise was not a concern right now. The sheer strength of Niratt’s power nearly knocked him off his feet, but he roared, and held the sceptre steady with his powerful muscles. Sound returned in a boom; the screams of the crowd running for their lives as the whirlwind grew, the clash of weapons as the Drained fought those who realised what was happening and tried to protect Than from their grasp, the strained chanting of the warlocks as they struggled to contain the writhing man who was using all his strength to free himself from their binds. Stinging sweat dripped into his eyes, forcing him to blink away from the ever-ricocheting lines of power that pushed each other back and forth. He was beginning to tire and the point of impact made its juddering way back towards him. The lights in the sky had disappeared, sucked down into the gemstone, leaving the power battle a blinding source of light in the black night. The staff was shaking wildly, the force of the aether surging through it from above spilled over the gem’s cradle and down the golden shaft, towards Than’s right hand. As it oozed over his flesh, he screamed like he had never screamed before. His hand, a molten orange glow against the night sky, was melting, contorting, infused with so much raw power he thought his heart would stop. His knees buckled under the torment, but he held on to the sceptre with all his might.

With the help of the constant barrage of potions driving him to foul-mouthed distraction, the effusive stone of the throne had nearly reached the Taikez’s face and hands, yet still he fought it. Niratt grinned at his betrayer’s pain and shouted at him through gritted teeth.

You’re going to regret this, traitor. Even if you lock me away in this tomb. I swear on the Stone of Riverda itself that I will be back.

And I will be there to kill you once and for all!  his voice came out in pants as white-hot pain shot through Than’s entire body. He forced himself to his feet once more and pulled on his own power source, the power he’d stolen from others, just as his opponent had. Let their lives not have been in vain if he could use their essence now to finish this. 

As he expelled the magic in a blast that sent air bursting through the surrounding whirlwind, the stone in the cradle glowed with such intensity that, without thinking, he removed his left hand from the staff to cover his eyes. In a last-ditch attempt to stop the stone from closing around him, Niratt threw a bolt of power from his vanishing hand. It hit the crystal side on.

The crack that sounded shook the earth down to its core, knocking all present off their feet. The staff was flung from Than’s hands down the steps, half of the gemstone flying off into the toppling undergrowth, and landed with a splash in the bubbling waters of the lake. The aether whirlwind sucked itself back up into the sky, taking anything in its path along with it; leaves, branches, flagstones, even entire trees, their roots ripped from the moist jungle soil. One of the airships had broken its tether and came hurtling towards the platform. He ducked with an explosion of curses; certain his end had come but the creaking hull missed him by inches. The smallest of gasps was ripped from him as a stray rope from the ship wound its way around his ankle. He looked around wildly for something to hold onto, but in vain. As the vessel and its screaming crew were sucked upwards on the wind, he was dragged up into the air, spinning and turning with the spiral of disappearing power just as the platform he had been standing on collapsed and the sealed throne fell through the earth, the palace collapsing on top of it.

Spinning around wildly in the vortex, Than watched in the dying light as the lake frothed and churned, the shores splitting, chasms swallowing the jungle as the earth was ripped asunder. The courtyard of the citadel erupted into splintered shards of rock, throwing people high into the air, slamming them into rock faces or skewering them on spires. Others disappeared, sliding down the smooth marble into the churning earth below, swallowed up before they could even cry for help. The groan of tumbling buildings drowned out the screams of those they crushed as the great palace of the warlocks fell to its knees in a plume of choking dust. The dying world screamed in an ear-splitting howl as the column of aether light supporting the Skyle flickered once, twice, and then went out altogether. There was a split second of stillness before the landmass and all who dwelt there were sent hurtling to the ground, their screams of terror lost in the pandemonium whilst Than was swept away into the black nothing of an aetherless sky.

Chapter 1

No Naked Flame

The dim light that shone weakly from behind the layers of glass and copper of the safety lamps was matched by the hushed atmosphere of the bar. Those in booths huddled around their taps, whispering in croaky, Fume-laced voices whilst those at the bar hung their heads and sucked from the communal taps in silence. The light was not intended to see one another by, merely to see the teat of the Fume tap and to find the oblivion it offered.

Order summat or get out, the stubble-headed barman threatened the beggar at the bench before him. He folded his thick hairy arms over his grease-stained tunic. The man he addressed looked up into his blurred eyes with sharp blue ones and smirked. Clearly the proprietor enjoyed a sneaky toke of the Fumes whilst on shift.

Gin, the beggar rasped. His voice made the barman squint a little harder into the shadow of his hood, as if certain he’d heard it somewhere before.

You better have coin to pay for it or...

He was silenced by the clink of coin on wood.

Leave the bottle.

With a sullen nod, the barkeep turned to the row of dusty bottles behind him. Pulling the cork from the neck with his yellowing teeth, he reached above his head to fetch a stubby glass and set it before the beggar. He poured a measure and set the bottle down hastily as a yell from the far end of the bar alerted him to a client who’d clearly had too much.

Oi! Get him outta here before he’s sick all over my bar!

The beggar shook his head almost imperceptibly as two dark-skinned bouncers hauled the man drunk on Fumes towards the door. Turning back to his bottle, he was surprised to find his glass in the hands of a woman. He took in her rouged cheeks, her exposed breasts and over-exaggerated posture. The woman, summoned by the call of his currency, pressed herself between the bar and his open legs. She knocked back the drink and looked coquettishly down at his crotch.

Now, what’s a tatty ol’ beggar like you doin’ with so much coin? She placed her hands on his knees and let them wander, an action that squeezed her breasts closer together. Maybe you ain’t a beggar at all but someone looking for a good... Finally, she raised her eyes from the pattern she was tracing on his inner thigh to his face and gasped. There was no mistaking who the sallow features belonged to. The ugly scar that ran down from his forehead, over his crooked nose and stopped in the middle of a gaunt cheek, made his expression even more severe. Without so much as blinking, the beggar covered her mouth in what to onlookers looked like the caress of a man considering his purchase.

Give me away and I’ll slit your throat right here. Make no mistake. The man paused and looked around the bar from under his hood. No one appeared to have noticed. It was just a tart drumming up business. The woman nodded wide-eyed and he dropped his hand.

Yes, Brother Okrafkus.

Hssh! he scolded, raising his hand once more. She blanched in terror, but he pulled her closer, caressing her soft hands for a moment before slipping in an eight-sided argot. He turned his piercing eyes to her doe-like ones. Leave now. Take this to the end of the street. There, you will find a bakery. He let his hands wander over her curves, playing his part of the lecherous old man. Buy two pies. The chickpea and apricot is surprisingly delightful. Take them, go home and feed your children. Do it now and do it quickly.

The prostitute’s brow furrowed with confusion as he released her hand. Yes Broth—

He cut her off with a look. She nodded and, summoning all her strength, pushed him away from her and walked towards the door.

Jus’ wastin’ my time ’ere. Nothin’ but a load of beggars and junkies. She turned to wave at the barkeep and cast a weary glance of what could have been thanks to the man in disguise at the bar before slipping past the bouncers and out into the only slightly fresher air of the docks.

Okrafkus ignored her and returned to his bottle; drank two shots in quick succession before pouring another, which he sat on the table. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow. Whether this was from the near exposure of his cover or the fact that his cover was dressed head to toe in thick woollen rags over his habit whilst the entire island choked in the insufferable heat, he didn’t know. The droplet ran into the corner of his eye. It stung, but he didn’t wince, he didn’t curse, he just knocked back the gin and wondered when his team would arrive.

A kerfuffle at the doorway caught his attention. A tall man wearing a student’s cap was squirming uncomfortably as the bouncers performed their routine pat down.

Is this really necessary? his voice was educated and clipped, on the verge of insulted. The heavy-set bouncer folded his arms across his chest and pointed to the sign above the door which read in crudely painted letters:

‘NO NAKED FLAME’

Tinderboxes, pipes, smokes and matches in the box. His voice was as thick as his physique. Okrafkus watched the fellow, dressed too finely for a stinking hovel like this, sigh and reach into the folds of his satin-lined robes to pull out a silver filigree tinder box.

I warn you, if this goes missing—

You’ll what? the bouncer interrupted, looming over the slight man whose slicked back hair lurched out of place beneath his cap as he winced. A few of the regulars looked up from their trances at the commotion and the student swiftly regained his composure. He pointed a finger to the gatekeeper as he threw the delicate object in the box with the other less expensive incendiary items.

Just see that it doesn’t.

The undercover monk held his glass close to his chest and rolled his head drunkenly as the student passed behind him and made his way to a private booth at the end of the room. He had to get closer. There was no way a rich, educated man like that would come willingly to a place like this. Something was afoot.

Gripping the half empty bottle in his hands, Okrafkus set about walking unsteadily towards the booth, stopping here and there to ‘beg’ the Fume takers at the tables for any spare coin. As expected, he got no response and was ignored. Just the way he liked it.

He neared the booth the student had run to and saw it was crammed full of other such men, all of them looking around nervously.

Letting his gin bottle sway from his fingertips, he staggered towards an empty chair nearby and slumped into it, head back, lolling. He could feel the eyes of the students upon him. Allowing his eyes to shut and every muscle in his body to slacken, he released the bottle slowly, letting it to drop to the ground and roll towards the booth. Then he waited. They’d be making sure the drunken beggar really had passed out and was not about to dive under their legs in search of his precious hooch. Okrafkus didn’t move, but slowed his breathing so that the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was visible. The cloying scent of the fumes made his stomach churn and the longer he sat there, the harder it became for him not to clear the scratch in his throat. After an age, they began to talk.

Is it true? Did you find evidence?

My friends... here it is...

An awed hush fell on the group as they leaned in to look at the parchment that crackled as its owner rolled it out on the table.

Where did you find it?

In the university archives. It seems there was once a foolish young monk who didn’t feel the need to report this to his superiors or lost it before he could.

Well, his idiocy could be our gain.

Okrafkus scowled inwardly. The way they were talking about his brotherhood made it obvious who these men were. Fusionists. People who believed that Riverda should be reunited, brought back to one vast island. ‘Better together’–their crude slogan was popping up more often these days as the heat made tempers rise, scrawled across the whitewashed walls of the city faster than his brethren could remove them. If only they knew the truth. Now, not only was he stuck in a dingy Fume bar with intoxicated layabouts, but he was also surrounded by Fusionist scum. Saliva gathered in his mouth, making him want to spit his disgust at their feet. Instead, he let it turn bitter on his tongue.

... the issue of the last agents. This child, this Serakela, must have the hidden artifact, or at least know where to find it. The conversation had moved on to a point that made the monk sweat. Could it be true? Had they found the artifact capable of completing their goal, the artifact he had let slip through his fingers all those years ago? He had to see what was on that parchment.

He lurched towards the table in search of his lost bottle just as the doors to the front and the back of the bar burst open and in trooped his back-up. He rolled his eyes. Impeccable timing, as always.

Halt in the name of Nerosus! chorused the black robed, bare-armed monks, armed to the teeth with newly sharpened weapons that gleamed viciously in the lamplight.

In the split second of confusion at their entrance, the finely dressed young student reached out his hand to retrieve the parchment, but found his wrist caught in the vice-like grip of the drunken beggar who looked at him with threateningly sober eyes.

I wouldn’t do that if I were you, he croaked, throwing his hood back to reveal his dusty, dreadlocked hair and his identity, Brother Okrafkus of the Separamus, to the chaos that ensued. Round them all up!

The barkeep, eyes wide with fear, made for the back door, only to be marched at spear point back into the main room. He held his hands above his head in surrender, stammering futile excuses.

Ain’t nothing funny goin’ on here. Fumes is legal! Got my licence and everythin’!

But it was no use. His bar had been raided in the name of the Fume-hating son of the Felitian Emperor, which meant only one thing: imprisonment followed by certain death.

The monks lurched for the nearest Fume addicts, who in turn suddenly seemed to have regained enough consciousness to scurry away like cockroaches in panic. Their exit, however, was blocked by the armed men, so in their desperation they hurled themselves into a Fume-fuelled battle.

Teeth, nails and fists joined the melee as well as bottles and the odd chair. One small, but wily man, his eyes completely fogged over, ran continuously at the exit before being thrown back again and again into the confusion. His final attempt was met by an exceptionally large monk, biceps bigger than the poor man’s head, grasping his neck and lifting him off his frantically flailing feet. He spluttered and coughed as his air supply was cut off but he still had enough strength to kick the man in the groin.

The monk roared in pain and threw the man with immense force along the length of the bar, smashing everything in his path: glasses, bottles and Fume taps.

Okrafkus, having brought down two of the Fusionists in his attempt to get the parchment, stopped abruptly as the broken taps let out a deafening hiss, their sickeningly sweet contents escaping into the room. The finely dressed student also stopped, dropped his hands, and allowed his terrified expression to melt away. The corners of his mouth curled upwards into a crooked grin.

Here, he held out the parchment as he shouted above the din. If it’s so important to you, take it...

Okrafkus didn’t need a second invitation, despite his confusion. He snatched it from the soft hands of the student and shoved it into his habit. His head was beginning to spin. He stared dumbly at the student, who was still smiling, and had walked towards the blue-eyed monk.

As Okrafkus glared back at the young man who refused to back down, he saw a destructive madness in the eyes that peered out from behind the dishevelled hair.

Little good it may do you though, Brother Okrafkus. He spat the name out as if it were poison. For if we are to go down in this grotty little bar tonight, then I’m taking all you Separamus scum with us! Better together! Reunite Riverda!

The monk had little time to question his statement as the student raised his hands to his waist, cupped the air with grasping hands, and closed his eyes. Then the lamps began to flicker.

The dim, forgiving light that had swathed the bar was slowly replaced by a harsher one as the flames inside the safety lamps grew steadily brighter.

Okrafkus’s eyes grew wide with horrific realisation. This man was Blooded by Fire. For all the show he’d made of not wanting to give up his tinderbox, he’d had no need of it. Any flame in the vicinity was at his disposal, which, combined with the leaking Fumes meant only one thing.

Everybody out! Okrafkus roared above the racket.

But sir, the addicts—

Okrafkus grabbed the monk by the hood of his habit and threw him towards the door. Unless you want to be blown to smithereens, get out of that fucking door right now!

Panic of a new kind swept through the room. Monk and addict alike ran for the doors, stepping over those who were comatose or fallen. The Fire Blooded student kept his stance, pouring all his effort into his task, the light burning brighter and more intense, the flames hotter and hungrier.

Okrafkus found himself at the back of the bottleneck the doorway had created.

Shit.

He had to get out. He had to live. True, he had valuable evidence on him that had to be delivered to the Father, but he couldn’t die here, not like this, in a filthy Fume bar at the hands of a Blooded Fusionist!

I’ll see you in the afterlife, Brother! the student panted through teeth gritted with effort as the light in the bar became a blinding white. Sharp pings of the inner glass cracking in the lanterns began to sound.

In the monochrome world that now filled his vision, Okrafkus ran over the tables to the grime-covered windows that peered over the rundown docks. Without hesitation, he hurled himself through the glass just as the first lantern in the bar exploded.

His world turned to slow motion. As he fell, he felt the ripple of power that surged from the back of the bar, growing in strength as each lantern shattered, marrying flame and fume. The wave of the explosion that decimated the bar and the buildings on either side flung him like a rag doll to the other side of the road. He slammed into damp, seaweed covered cobbles with a painful crunch.

He turned with a groan to the scene of destruction that lit up the night sky. He hadn’t thought it possible for the summer to get any hotter, but the intense heat from the spreading fire seared into his skin and proved him wrong. Against the backdrop of the orange light, he could make out people running to fetch buckets to douse the flames, crippled figures crawling away from the blaze, or merely reaching out to others for help. His ears rang painfully, muffling the cries, the groans and screams of distress that rang over the hillside city.

As soon as he was able, he raised himself to his feet, checked that the parchment still lay protected against his chest, and like the other surviving Separamus that slipped into the narrow, labyrinthine side streets, Okrafkus slunk away into the darkness.

***

Okrafkus burst through the door of the Father’s office, sending orderlies scurrying in his wake, and slammed the parchment down on the polished wood of the table.

What is the meaning of this?

The sight of the composed man behind the desk, unperturbed by his outburst, enraged him further. Due to the lateness of the hour, he was wearing a lavish black banyan over his nightshirt, but otherwise looked as though he had been waiting for him.

I’m sorry, Your Holiness, he just rushed past me! an orderly moaned, picking himself up from the ground.

That’s quite alright, Brother. Go and get some rest. The chubby monk bowed and exited the room, closing the thick, studded door behind him. Okrafkus’s chest heaved.

Well?

The tall, slim man did not speak, merely motioned to his subordinate to be at ease, yet Okrafkus was never at ease around the Father. Instead, he crossed his arms and waited for an explanation. He didn’t get one. The man he had grown up with, been trained with, didn’t even look at the parchment.

Exactly what I want to know, Brother Okrafkus. I send you on a simple mission at the behest of the emperor to—

I still don’t understand why you are whoring us out to that tyrant, the monk interrupted, but his words were ignored as the Father continued to speak in a louder timbre.

—to round up some harmless Fume addicts and instead you and your team blow the place sky high! He slammed a hand on the table and rose so that he was level with Okrafkus.

Well, news certainly travels fast. He heard the petulance in his own voice. He’d run through the night, not pausing for breath to get here.

It didn’t need to! the Father shrieked. The blast shook the whole city and surrounding countryside! You idiot! What in the name of the Oracle happened?

The monk scowled and nodded at the piece of paper on the desk. I suggest you take a look at what I prised from the hands of the Fusionist rebel before he used his Blooded power to blow the place up.

The Father clenched his jaw as he deigned to unfold the creased parchment and read its hastily scribbled contents under his breath.

‘The stone has been hidden for the trail to go cold. We will send word when Serakela is of age so that she may bring it back to us.’ There is a child? You never mentioned a child!

Look familiar, Brother Archivist? Okrafkus allowed himself a sneer as he addressed his superior with his previous title. No, I did not, as there was no child on the boat. There was also no stone as they’d already hidden it.

Well... it would appear, the man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his throat as he strove to regain his authority, that you did not completely fail us, Brother. You messed this up once before, but you will not this time. Find the child, find the stone. It’s more important now than it ever was. Every day we take in more and more would-be Fusionists for Conversion. Support for their cause is growing as the economic and political situation on the surrounding islands deteriorates. We should be thankful we live in such a stable dominion... yet we cannot be so foolish as to sit on our laurels and let their numbers grow any more than they have been doing. The heat is making people anxious as crops fail. We cannot let the islands be reunited. It will be the ruin of us all.

The dreadlocked man shook his head slightly in disbelief.

I beg your pardon, Father? Rage boiled through him. He leaned forward; soot-stained fists clenched. That cataloguing script is written in your hand, is it not? And so, what I want to know is why this information was not passed on to me all those years ago... as it should have been?

The Father swallowed and avoided meeting Okrafkus’s eye.

You deliberately hid it, didn’t you? So that I would fail. Okrafkus laughed bitterly. Oh, you just couldn’t stand it, could you, that the Father favoured me more than you? Do you know why he did, hmm? Because you were a snivelling, weaselly little runt who only survived long enough to take his vows because of me!

The Father stood, his face turning puce.

Fine! Yes. I hid it and I rejoiced in your downfall. You jumped up son of a wh— he was unable to finish his sentence due to the fist that met his jaw. He was knocked back into his chair, clutching his mouth and mumbling in muffled outrage. You just attacked your superior! I’ll have you Converted for this!

Okrafkus shook his head. No, you won’t, and I’ll tell you why. He picked up the parchment, folded it, and placed it in his habit pocket. I will send this to every institution in the country, I will have it copied and sent to our brothers overseas, to the emperor, to our allies, so that all will see it was you who sabotaged the goal, the reason this order even exists, out of spite. Have you forgotten our own teachings? Why we do this?

He sighed. He was sick of this. Sick of the Order. He’d had enough.

I’ll go find this girl and the stone and destroy them. I will clean up your mess, on one condition.

The Father looked up, fear in his eyes. And what, pray tell, is that?

That when it is over, you release me.

His superior laughed. Release you? My dear Okrafkus, you must’ve hit your head in the blast. Once one takes the vows of the Separamus, you are one for life.

The time for talking was done. With a roar, Okrafkus overturned the desk, grabbed the wraith thin man by the throat, and pushed him up against the wall.

If I succeed, then there will be no need of the Separamus, and I will not use my training to be some tyrannical Emperor’s rented militia. Do we have a deal? He squeezed his hands tighter when the Father didn’t answer. Finally, he nodded his head. Okrafkus released him to slump in an undignified manner to the floor.

Fine... but you are not to set foot here again until you’ve completed your task. You succeed or you die trying. Is that quite clear?

Okrafkus tilted his head and looked out from under his raised eyebrows. You know as well as I that those are the terms of service. How can I do otherwise?

How do you know where to find her? The leader of the Separamus raised himself to his feet.

You really weren’t a good archivist, were you? The address was written on the front of the missal, and although most of it has been smudged beyond legibility, the island's name remains. That’s how I know.

Okrafkus turned to leave, but the Father stopped him.

Aren’t you forgetting something, now that you are going back into the field?

He walked stiffly over to the shelves that lined the wall on either side of the mantelpiece and removed a polished wooden box. An ‘O’ was carved elegantly on the front. Okrafkus stretched out his hand to take the box that he knew contained his Thelba; a small part of his soul that linked him to the monastery and the Separamus forever.

After all... We will need to get word if you fail in this mission... again.

***

Jumping down from the wagon, Serakela grunted. It was hot, very hot. Yet here she was, trussed up in her ceremonial best which, she admitted to herself as she smoothed out the creases on the dark blue calico, was plainer than the everyday wear of the Hutsikger locals who milled around her. Her shift was wet with sweat under her stays and the ribbon holding her bonnet in place was just a tad too tight, rubbing the skin under her chin raw.

Jedd, stay with the horses. The young man who had helped her down shouted back at the boy who’d been about to descend. He scowled but sat his rump back on the seat, pulled out a kerchief, and wiped the sweat from his brow. I’ll escort Miss Serakela to the haberdashery.

The girl in question bowed her head meekly. Thank you, Talmai.

The Head Prefect merely grunted, tugged at his braces purposefully and strode out into the traffic so fast she struggled to keep up with him. He wove in and out of the people clogging the High Street so quickly she knew he was trying to keep his distance from her. He didn’t want people to know they were together. After all, why should he? He was the handsome son of a rich trader, and she was... well, she was different. As always when she was in town, she kept her head low, so that the wings of her bonnet hid her pale face, but people always stared. It’d been too hot to wear the gloves that normally covered her white, slender hands, so in the ferocity of the noonday sun, they shone out like beacons of her foreignness. She was thankful when Talmai held out his hand to help her onto the covered porch of the row of shops on the other side of the street. He pulled out a purse and handed it to her.

Here, the money for the fabric. I’ll meet you back here in half an hour. If you finish early, just wait. He drawled nonchalantly.

But... but you are my chaperone. Madame said you were to stay with me the whole time! Where are you going?

The Head Prefect laughed. No one is going to touch you. Besides, how much chaperoning do you need in a shop full of women? Like I said. I’ll be back.

Hot anger flashed through her as he walked away. He didn’t care that her virtue was at stake. She knew no man would touch her on the premises, but that was not the point. It was unseemly for a young girl to be out unaccompanied. She felt the eyes of the matrons and their exquisitely dressed charges, judging her the minute she pushed open the shop door.

They whispered to each other behind their fans as they pretended to compare ribbons.

That’s the one I was telling you about. Funny little thing.

Orphan girl up at the school.

She looks like a ghost... gives me the creeps!

And no chaperone!

She could kill Talmai. She swallowed and composed herself as she stepped into line, pretending she hadn’t heard.

She let her eyes wander the shelves stacked to the ceiling with colourful bolts of fabric, some plain, others patterned. One wall was covered with spools of ribbon, which two young women were currently perusing. They tutted and seemed so displeased that the aging man behind the counter swept over to them, bowing slightly as he did so.

Is anything amiss?

The taller of the pair, raven hair tied up neatly under the powder pink bonnet that framed her mint green and pink patterned dress, answered. Have you not got any of this year’s Smash braid?

A faint hush fell over the room as everyone tuned into the conversation.

Now, surely a good Puritan woman such as yourself wouldn’t want a clan ribbon like that? Can I not interest you in—

The smaller, slightly dumpier of the pair cut him off. This year’s Smash is hosted by the Tagishan. You do understand what that means, don’t you? The Tagishan purple will be in all their weaves and ribbons. It’s the most expensive thread on the whole island. Why, to own such a piece would be... Her voice trailed off, but everyone answered it in their heads. It would be the ultimate statement piece to flaunt your wealth and superiority, even if one were to not actually wear the ribbon.

The shopkeeper coughed. I’m afraid I tried to purchase some, but was unable to coax it from the clanswomen...

The young ladies sighed and turned to leave when a portly matron in expertly starched collars leant forward, her large bosom aquiver with gossip.

I saw one selling some earlier, on the outskirts of the Old Town. They’ve been staying there overnight on their way to the Smash. Hurry now and you might just catch her! But remember, don’t look them in the eye. That’s how they curse you!

Serakela didn’t hear the rest of the exchange as the thin man placed his eyepiece on his perspiring nose and motioned her forward to the counter.

Good day to you... Miss, the shopkeeper addressed her pointedly. And what can I help you with?

Serakela fumbled with the drawstring on the purse and withdrew Madame’s instructions.

I’m here to buy the last of the... her heart dropped as she read the spidery script, discounted brown calico.

She heard a titter from behind her as the young woman in the mint green dress giggled before waltzing out of the shop, eyes laughing at her through the glass. For once, couldn’t the benefactors order something other than the cheapest, ugliest fabric for the schoolgirls? The Pilots only knew how much money their parents spent sending them to that institution. Serakela’s face burned as she gazed around the shop, taking in all the lovely printed cottons, the height of summer fashion.

The shopkeeper smiled politely, although he couldn’t keep the smirk from his eyes, pushed the thinning strands of dark hair over his bald spot and tapped his fingers together.

Yes, Miss. I’ll bundle that for you now, although it will take some time. Would you care to wait on the porch?

No, thank you. I think I’ll take a walk.

She held her head up as she walked out of the shop as quickly as she could, trying to keep up with the two young ladies who walked hand in hand towards the Old Town, their disgruntled chaperone striding alongside. If she could keep at a close enough distance, people might assume she was with them, or was their servant at the very least. All she knew was she had to get a glimpse of that purple thread; this might be her only chance before she was hauled back to the drab world of browns and blues of the school forever.

She almost crashed into the two young ladies, so suddenly did they stop at the entrance to the Old Town. It was a hive of activity as the people of the clan took down the portable canvas rooves from the stone walls and packed their things into wagons ready to move on.

Ought we to be doing this? the shorter girl whispered to her friend. The pair of them had turned strangely pale at the sight of the clan. Look! They really do wear their Totems unsheathed!

A gloved hand shot to her mouth, but her friend took a step forward.

If we don’t, we will never get that braid... Look, there she is!

She pointed a little way down the street to where a comely middle-aged woman sat on a blanket on the ground. Her long braids hung on either side of her neck, trailing their way down her tight-fitting dress. Her arms were bare, muscles shining as she wove the threads pinned to the blanket before her through her expertly nimble fingers. Her face markings were simple and unsmeared by the heat, unlike those of the overdressed girls who tiptoed towards her.

Praise the Pilots girls, what can I help you with? her kind voice was accented as she looked up and extended the usual greeting.

Praise... Pilots. They mumbled something inaudible and Serakela took a step closer to better hear what was going on. Her eyes widened and her heart beat faster as she took in the contents of the blanket. Scarves, dresses, bolts of fabric and bundles of ribbon in chevrons of greens, blues and a brilliantly bright purple surrounded the woman. Never had she seen any cloth so beautiful. The woman herself was wearing a band of the clan weave around her head. Serakela crouched lower, inspecting the wares on sale as closely as she could without touching them, although she desperately wanted to run her hands over the fabric.

And for your friend, before I leave?

The woman stood and began to pick up the edges of the blanket, signalling the end of her working day.

Serakela looked up at the two young women who jumped at the sight of her. The one in the green dress sneered as she snatched the shawl she had just purchased from the clanswoman, her confidence returning.

Oh, she is not our friend, and if I were you, I’d count your wares. You never know what she might have taken.

Serakela’s pale face burned with shame and indignation as she watched the wealthy girls and their chaperone totter back to the safety of the High Street, cackling all the while.

She was about to turn and make her way back to the haberdashery to wait for Talmai when a soft hand touched her arm.

Would you like to buy anything, my dear?

She looked up hesitantly into the dark eyes of the bareheaded woman, scuffing her feet on the ground.

Oh, I’m afraid I have no money... I just wanted to see it.

She turned to go but the woman’s voice stopped her. Do you like it?

Serakela lifted her head and smiled. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen... and that purple... it makes my heart sing! How is it made?

The woman laughed. You have an eye for beauty. She tied a finishing knot in the braid she had been working on. It’s from the sea. Nothing I know on earth can be so bright. The purple comes from an anemone on the coast of our homeland.

The woman tried to raise herself to her feet, but groaned as her knees cracked. Serakela bent down to help her without thinking.

Thank you dear, you have a kind soul. The woman patted her hand and shifted her bundle onto her back. May the Pilots protect you.

And you too, Serakela called back. She smiled at the exchange. After all, they’d been taught–that the clans were proud, arrogant and volatile people–the fact that she had just had a better conversation with one of them than her own people filled her with a shy sense of pride. She should be getting back. Lowering her head into the acceptable pose for a young woman out in public, her eye caught a flash of colour on the ground. There, on the toe of her dusty black boot, snaked the bright braid the clanswoman had held in her hand a moment before. She must have dropped it.

Serakela looked around wildly as she stooped to retrieve it, but the woman had disappeared. Suddenly, a rough, calloused hand slammed down onto her wrist.

Where did you get that?

Startled, she gasped and looked up at the young man who had spoken. His deep brown eyes were narrowed with suspicion, but that didn’t mar the refinement of his face. His high cheekbones and straight nose were accentuated by the thin winged strip of black kohl that ran across them. Not a shadow of stubble lined his angular jaw. His black hair poured over his shoulders like silk, save for the top third, which was tied atop his head by the same braid that dangled from Serakela’s right hand. She didn’t know where to look. She shouldn’t look him in the eye, but then, if she looked lower, she found herself staring at his almost bare and muscled chest. Thankfully, his nipples were covered by a length of weave that ran down from either side of his neck, secured in place by a metal belt at his waist. Had they not been, she wouldn’t have been able to even stammer a reply.

I... the lady... she must’ve dropped...

You stole it! He gripped her