Sending forth his heir to be tested by Vyrthr—god of the seas, weather, and of treachery—was Lord Wylderrjor Steel-Hand’s most solemn duty, and he’d been dreading it all season. He knew the agony of losing a son all too well. The idea of losing another…

But, boys had to become men eventually.

He was proud of Sjívull. The lad was tall and handsome, having inherited his mother’s grace rather than Lord Wylderrjor’s grim fortitude, and her wisdom rather than the stern temper that had earned Wylderrjor his epithet. Sjívull would grow to be a wise lord in his own right, and rather sooner than Wylderrjor was ready. For now, though, he was still untested. Still yet to earn his lordly name, or lead men through a trial. A plumeback hunt in the autumn, when the seas were fickle but not yet dangerously so, would suffice.

So, Wylderrjor had commissioned Wavebird, as fine a ship as money could buy. Twenty strides long with as many rowing benches, a clean white sail, and a carved figurehead depicting her namesake. The ship was a beauty. With a good wind behind her and an experienced crew, she’d slice through the water like a knife. The final touch was to send one of his most trusted men to guard and advise the boy, one Drynllaf Gwelinsjar. Only a rare and talented man could have fought honorably in so many battles and still emerge without a battle scar.

Every preparation a father could make was complete. He’d given wine and sacrifice to the sea, read the portents, judged the weather with all the skill he’d earned in his own sailing career. The time was right. His son was ready, the ship packed to the beams, his men well-fed, strong and lasting.

Nothing a Luck Feast couldn’t improve, of course.

“Father, you look about ready to crush your cup.”

An important aspect of a Luck Feast was, of course, that those needing luck only lightly imbibed. It was for everyone else to distract the gods of mischief and ruin, and to enjoy the full excesses the gods of wine and debauchery could bring…

And pay for it, the next day.

Wylderrjor jumped slightly and broke out of his fretful (and somewhat drunken) thoughts to smile at his son. Sjívull gave him a knowing look.

“You’ve been worrying half the year,” he said. “You could at least relax today.”

Wylderrjor sighed. “You’re right,” he admitted. “But don’t let your mother hear me say so. She’ll think I’ve gone soft!” He set his cup down. It was almost empty anyway, and Wylderrjor would be damned if he were any kind of sober on his son’s own Feast.

Sjívull laughed and topped it off. “Has Mother ever thought you hard-handed?”

Wylderrjor snorted and shook his head. “Your mother,” he declared confidently, “thinks I’m pillow-soft and tender as a roast. And that’s the way it should be, lad. Means I’ve kept her safe these long years.”

“Your mother,” an amused voice corrected him as lady Ethjeyni leaned in from behind to kiss Wylderrjor’s cheek, “thinks he should be glad to go soft.”

Wylderrjor beamed up at her. “Heard that, did you?”

“Half the hall heard it, my love. You’re a thunder-voice when you’re drunk.”

“And rightly!” Wylderrjor boomed. “I shan’t be quiet and sober today of all days!”

His words prompted approving cheers from every table, and much hammering of cups and cutlery upon wood. The feast was going well.

“The tide is in, my love,” Ethjeyni told him quietly, and Wylderrjor felt himself get a few degrees more sober. “It will turn soon.”

“It’s time, then,” Sjívull said. He clapped his father on the shoulder as he stood. “I’ll round up my crew.”

Wylderrjor watched him go, then sighed and took Ethjeyni’s hand to squeeze it. “…I was far less nervous before my own trial,” he confided.

“There goes our future and our hearts,” she agreed, and sat with him. “And if the rumors from Lord Erthrif’s hold are true…”

“If he lays a finger on my boy, there’ll be blood,” Wylderrjor snarled, quietly. “I’ll have his gold, his lands and the head of whichever man he sends.”

“They’re only rumors.”

“Then Erthrif Storm-Rider had better hope they remain rumors.” Wylderrjor drained his cup in one savage gulp, then rose to his feet. “He’s a vile one, love. As warped as bad wood.”

“And Sjívull can handle him,” she replied. “You saw to that.”

Wylderrjor made an uncomfortable noise, but nodded. “Aye. Well. That’s what this trial is all about, isn’t it?”

He held on to his foul mood for the ensuing couple of hours as the feast-goers filed out of the hall and down to the docks, where Wavebird was waiting. Sjívull had been to sea in his father’s company before, and Wylderrjor had no doubts about the boy’s sure-footedness or seamanship. Now that the moment was here…his fatherly anxiety faded, to be replaced with conviction. He’d raised a fine young man. Now, it was Sjívull’s turn to prove it.

Still, he held his wife’s hand tight until the ship was no more than a shadow in the ocean haze, then gone. And upon returning to the feast-hall, he drank and sung and feasted all the louder and so did Ethjeyni, to bring good luck and turn the Gods’ eyes their way, rather than toward their precious heir.

He woke in the morning to a gods-spitting curse of a hangover, and to a bird from his spies in Erthrif’s hold: a mercenary ship had set out on the tide, and were last seen on a heading to intercept Wavebird and her crew. He sighed and threw the scrap of parchment into the fire. The king had forbidden his lords from spying on one another, though everyone knew it still happened. Best not to hang on to incriminating evidence, however.

As for Sjívull, Wavebird, and the mercenary crew sent after them…

It was out of his hands now. All he could do was pray.