Captain Bjorn (Tales from The Compass Book 1) by Anyta Sunday, Dru Wellington

Captain Bjorn
    Four hours, and still nothing but two pieces of copper.
    The moon winked brightly in the sky and waves tossed themselves against the jetties and docked ships, smelling of kelp and dried mussels. My throat stung in the salty air, and around me the planks of the wharf groaned as if to tell me to shut-up and go home already.
    Passersby glanced my way, then averted their gazes to the cliffs behind me.
    I sang louder through the cold, trying not to stare at the thin green scarf at my feet with it’s two coppers; trying not to calculate how much debt was owed our landlord by the end of the month.
     
    “ . . . Needle light crosses the land no more
    Gone the touch from the stars to the shore
    Heart of the Needle once brilliant and bright
    Shattered, cursed half our men to a hundred year night
    Softly sleeping though The Compass grieves and quakes
    Magic stirs though loved ones might never wake
    Northern and Southern Lights once glittering and fair,
    Now seem to mock, to laugh, to glare . . .”
     
    I finished the song my brother had penned and blew warmth against my hands.
    “Lights Above,” I prayed, “let me earn just one more coin.” Enough to slink into Dwharfs to stake my earnings on a game. One that I’d win, thanks to the pair of Queens tucked in my belt.
    A group of people spilled onto the wharf and, hauling in a breath, I dove into another song. A few yards away, one of the men slowed to a stop as his comrades pushed on and into the tavern.
    I focused on the large golden bow of the nearest ship, watching the man from the corner of my eye. Would he drop me the coin I needed?
    He dressed well enough: molding over broad shoulders, a brown coat fastened with brass buttons; a gleaming golden hilt topped his sheathed sword, and his boots shone with a recent polish . . .
     
    “. . . In the South, Lights are green and glimmer
    North, they’re blue and softly shimmer
    In the East, the morning dawn grins bright
    West, the dusk yawns a bejeweled sight . . .”
     
    The lyrics made me dizzy; made my skin tingle. I sang them like I knew what I was talking about, though I’d never left the East—though I’d only ever ventured so far as King Turrock’s castle, to drop off a chest my father had made.
    I sang the last line and swiveled towards my one-man audience, giving him a shallow bow and a grin. “Perhaps you’d like to add to my pitiful collection?”
    Chestnut brown hair framed the man’s face and a wedge of lamplight heightened the strong lines of his jaw and nose. “A gifted voice, but the lyrics are soaked in naivety.”
    “Naivety?” I pocketed the two bits of copper and snatched up my damp scarf.
    “The song glorifies the kingdoms,” he said. “Makes them sound beautiful.”
    “Aren’t they?”
    “Take out bastard King Maas, the greed and the violence of the North, the hatred toward the South . . . then perhaps.”
    He drew out a coin and tossed it to me. I caught it against my chest. Gold. “Generous, thank you.” I eyed the bulky pouch at his belt. “You talk about the vices of the kingdoms—do you have vices of your own? I’m a good hand at cards.”
    The man came forward, taking me in with a sweep of his gaze. He glanced toward Dwharfs, the tavern his comrades had shuffled into, and smiled. “I’m a better hand. You’d best keep your coin.”
    I smirked back at him. “Care to put a wager on that?”
    * * *
    After another day’s singing, I added three copper pieces to the previous night’s winnings and bought Mother the scissors she needed.
    Pouch almost emptied of coin, I headed back to my home at the far end of town. The trail curved through a mass of dense trees, opening to a view of a quaint stone cottage, two rosebushes out front. At the fringe of the woods, I breathed in the welcoming smoke that wisped out of the chimney.
    Inside, my twin brother read aloud from a worn armchair—a story of hope, of gallantry, of a happily ever after. The poor commoner comes into