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majestic horseshoe-shaped cove where the ships of the trade docked. Most of the women, with the
exception of two Necromanian warrioresses and one Chrystallusian lady of questionable lineage were
native-born Ionarians. The men sitting on the Council of Five represented the five nations sailing under the
Privateer Brotherhood of Montyne Cay: Ionary, Chale, Serenia, Necroman, and Oceania. Virago and
Chrystallus were not part of that representation.
“We don't trust that damned navy of theirs,” Neevens had explained to Syn-Jern one evening when Sorn
asked why no Viragonian flags flew from any of the ships in port.
“You let one of their so-called pirate ships in here and the next thing you know, you just
gods-be-damned well might have their whole bleeding armada breathing down your neck. That godawful
Tribunal of theirs has been threatening for years to dig us out of Montyne Cay. They would if they could
find us, I reckon."
“What about Chrystallus?” Syn-Jern inquired. “They don't have much of a navy, do they?"
“No navy at all!” Neevens scoffed. “Have you ever heard the like? What kind of kingdom don't have a
navy?” He had shown his contempt of the Chrystallusian rulers.
“Little men, they are; about so high. Weird eyes, funny way of walking and talking. You ever see that girl
of Brod's? She's from there."
Syn-Jern smiled. “She's lovely."
“Hell fire, boy! You been cooped up too long!” Neevens snorted, “if you think Lin See's ‘lovely'!"
“How do you think she views us?” Syn-Jern laughed. “To her, our eyes must look funny; we must sound
strange to her ears; seem out of proportion because of our height."
“Ain't the same!” Neevens blustered, striding away. “Ain't the same, at all!"
Sitting on one of the tallest cliffs, his eyes out to sea, Syn-Jern thought back to his conversation that night
on board the Wind Lass and sighed. Things had been a helluva lot simpler then. Now, they were as
complicated as they could get.
“Want some company?"
“You're a glutton for punishment, Saur,” Syn-Jern remarked, craning his head to look up at his visitor.
The sun was behind Weir Saur and all he could see was the height of the man and a white halo of light
around his head. “I'd have thought you'd had your fill of me for one day."
Weir chuckled and sat down, crossed his ankles and braced his forearms on his raised knees. “I have
these feelings, sometimes,” he said. “They say my mother had the ‘sight'.” He glanced at his companion.
“She was from Oceania."
Syn-Jern nodded. “I've heard it said Oceanian women have such power."
Saur's voice was hesitant when he spoke. “As I've heard, there are some Viragonian men who wield
those same powers.
“It's happened once or twice before,” Syn-Jern said softly.
“And you've never told anyone."
“Who should I have told?” Syn-Jern asked. His tone was sharper than he intended. He tore his gaze
away and returned his vision to the heaving seas.
Weir laid his hand on Syn-Jern's arm. “Was your life really all that bad, Syn-Jern, or is that just the way
you remember it being?"
Swinging his head around, Syn-Jern stared at Weir. “You saw what happened today? If I'd done that
when I was a child, my own mother would have had me burned at the stake as a warlock! She was a
very religious woman. You have to remember: before the Burning War, Holy Dale, where she was born,
was the motherhouse for a group of nuns. She would have lit the faggots beneath my feet had I been
accused of witchery."
“Syn-Jern, you can't believe that. A mother..."
“Maybe not your mother, Saur. Maybe not any woman you've ever known. But my mother would
have.” He pushed himself away from the ground and stood, glaring out to sea, imagining his mother's face
as though it were before him that very moment. “She was terrified of the Tribunal, even more so of that
sect of sorcerers that run the Tribunal."
“The Domination?” Weir
majestic horseshoe-shaped cove where the ships of the trade docked. Most of the women, with the
exception of two Necromanian warrioresses and one Chrystallusian lady of questionable lineage were
native-born Ionarians. The men sitting on the Council of Five represented the five nations sailing under the
Privateer Brotherhood of Montyne Cay: Ionary, Chale, Serenia, Necroman, and Oceania. Virago and
Chrystallus were not part of that representation.
“We don't trust that damned navy of theirs,” Neevens had explained to Syn-Jern one evening when Sorn
asked why no Viragonian flags flew from any of the ships in port.
“You let one of their so-called pirate ships in here and the next thing you know, you just
gods-be-damned well might have their whole bleeding armada breathing down your neck. That godawful
Tribunal of theirs has been threatening for years to dig us out of Montyne Cay. They would if they could
find us, I reckon."
“What about Chrystallus?” Syn-Jern inquired. “They don't have much of a navy, do they?"
“No navy at all!” Neevens scoffed. “Have you ever heard the like? What kind of kingdom don't have a
navy?” He had shown his contempt of the Chrystallusian rulers.
“Little men, they are; about so high. Weird eyes, funny way of walking and talking. You ever see that girl
of Brod's? She's from there."
Syn-Jern smiled. “She's lovely."
“Hell fire, boy! You been cooped up too long!” Neevens snorted, “if you think Lin See's ‘lovely'!"
“How do you think she views us?” Syn-Jern laughed. “To her, our eyes must look funny; we must sound
strange to her ears; seem out of proportion because of our height."
“Ain't the same!” Neevens blustered, striding away. “Ain't the same, at all!"
Sitting on one of the tallest cliffs, his eyes out to sea, Syn-Jern thought back to his conversation that night
on board the Wind Lass and sighed. Things had been a helluva lot simpler then. Now, they were as
complicated as they could get.
“Want some company?"
“You're a glutton for punishment, Saur,” Syn-Jern remarked, craning his head to look up at his visitor.
The sun was behind Weir Saur and all he could see was the height of the man and a white halo of light
around his head. “I'd have thought you'd had your fill of me for one day."
Weir chuckled and sat down, crossed his ankles and braced his forearms on his raised knees. “I have
these feelings, sometimes,” he said. “They say my mother had the ‘sight'.” He glanced at his companion.
“She was from Oceania."
Syn-Jern nodded. “I've heard it said Oceanian women have such power."
Saur's voice was hesitant when he spoke. “As I've heard, there are some Viragonian men who wield
those same powers.
“It's happened once or twice before,” Syn-Jern said softly.
“And you've never told anyone."
“Who should I have told?” Syn-Jern asked. His tone was sharper than he intended. He tore his gaze
away and returned his vision to the heaving seas.
Weir laid his hand on Syn-Jern's arm. “Was your life really all that bad, Syn-Jern, or is that just the way
you remember it being?"
Swinging his head around, Syn-Jern stared at Weir. “You saw what happened today? If I'd done that
when I was a child, my own mother would have had me burned at the stake as a warlock! She was a
very religious woman. You have to remember: before the Burning War, Holy Dale, where she was born,
was the motherhouse for a group of nuns. She would have lit the faggots beneath my feet had I been
accused of witchery."
“Syn-Jern, you can't believe that. A mother..."
“Maybe not your mother, Saur. Maybe not any woman you've ever known. But my mother would
have.” He pushed himself away from the ground and stood, glaring out to sea, imagining his mother's face
as though it were before him that very moment. “She was terrified of the Tribunal, even more so of that
sect of sorcerers that run the Tribunal."
“The Domination?” Weir
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