to man two ships.
There was even a waiting list of sailors who were more than eager to set off for Chrystallus with Syn-Jern
Sorn, just in case a man got ill or for some reason changed his mind about going.
“It's like this, Cap'n,” one man explained as he stood before Weir and Patrick. “We all seen how he's
come along. We feel kinda like godparents to him, you know? There's been some of us who's taught him
a thing or two. Mind ya, he's got a long way to go afore he can be a real pirate like us.” The man puffed
out his scrawny chest. “But he's learning. You have to admire the lad, now, don't you, Cap'n?"
“He may have been sired by old Duke Sorn; but the lad ain't nothing like that jackanapes!” another
stated. “This boy's got heart! You see how he can climb that rigging?"
“And he be charmed, he be!” one of the Chalean sailors commented. “He be one of the Chosen! A man
ain't afeared to sail with the likes of him! Why we had a full-blasted gale headed our way when we
brought him aboard the Lass! Remember how the sea just went calm like all of a sudden?"
“That's cause he's a NightWind,” Neevens told anyone who'd listen. “They be charmed, that's a
certainty!"
It was true Syn-Jern had learned a lot from the pirates, but most of it he had already learned, and
forgotten, as a young man in the Storm Warrior Society of his homeland: riding, the essentials of
swordplay, the use of various weapons. In order to win his spurs, he had endured and done well enough
at a variety of events on the tournament grounds. But he'd never won an event and he'd always suspected
it was his father's influence, and money, that had eventually forced the judges to pass him when he was a
boy; and his own wealth and quasi-social position in young adulthood. It would have been an
embarrassment had he not been awarded his spurs.
Yet he had not learned the intricacies of knighthood. He had never learned how to use his sword with
finesse, how to think each move in advance. His horsemanship was fair to middling, but under the expert
tutelage of a Viragonian warrior, he came into his own on the back of a mighty gray stallion Weir gave
him just a few days after the incident at the training ground.
“Sometimes it's just having the right horse, or the right weapon, Syn-Jern,” the warrior said wisely. “If
the weapon doesn't fit your hand like it was molded there, you can't fight as well with it as you can with
one that feels like a natural extension of your own flesh."
“What are you going to call him?” Stevens asked, keeping well away from the mighty hooves that pawed
at the ground near Syn-Jern's feet.
Syn-Jern's eyes shone with love and admiration as he stroked the horse's withers. “His name is
Windchance,” he whispered. He looked at Stevens. “It was the chance of the wind that brought me here.
Without that storm that blew the Tamarind off course, I'd probably be back in the Labyrinth right now."
No one asked how he had escaped the penal colony and Syn-Jern did not volunteer the information; but
the men of Montyne Cay found the fact that he had escaped the hellhole of Tyber's Isle, to be one more
positive thing about the young man.
“You got to admire the lad, you do,” Stevens swore. “Like I always say: you can't keep a good man
down long!"
On the morning of the day they were to set sail for Chrystallus on the evening's tide, Syn-Jern set out on
his own away from the compound in search of the mysterious sound he kept hearing from the jungle. He
left the beach behind, walking deeper than he ever had before into the interior of Montyne Bay's inland.
Before long he was out of sight of the beachside village and entering a forest so thick and lush, he had to
fight his way through the foliage and undergrowth.
Pushing aside low-hanging branches of mango trees, he ducked under the rosy-red fruits and smiled as
the early morning dew fell silently on his naked back and shoulders. The day
There was even a waiting list of sailors who were more than eager to set off for Chrystallus with Syn-Jern
Sorn, just in case a man got ill or for some reason changed his mind about going.
“It's like this, Cap'n,” one man explained as he stood before Weir and Patrick. “We all seen how he's
come along. We feel kinda like godparents to him, you know? There's been some of us who's taught him
a thing or two. Mind ya, he's got a long way to go afore he can be a real pirate like us.” The man puffed
out his scrawny chest. “But he's learning. You have to admire the lad, now, don't you, Cap'n?"
“He may have been sired by old Duke Sorn; but the lad ain't nothing like that jackanapes!” another
stated. “This boy's got heart! You see how he can climb that rigging?"
“And he be charmed, he be!” one of the Chalean sailors commented. “He be one of the Chosen! A man
ain't afeared to sail with the likes of him! Why we had a full-blasted gale headed our way when we
brought him aboard the Lass! Remember how the sea just went calm like all of a sudden?"
“That's cause he's a NightWind,” Neevens told anyone who'd listen. “They be charmed, that's a
certainty!"
It was true Syn-Jern had learned a lot from the pirates, but most of it he had already learned, and
forgotten, as a young man in the Storm Warrior Society of his homeland: riding, the essentials of
swordplay, the use of various weapons. In order to win his spurs, he had endured and done well enough
at a variety of events on the tournament grounds. But he'd never won an event and he'd always suspected
it was his father's influence, and money, that had eventually forced the judges to pass him when he was a
boy; and his own wealth and quasi-social position in young adulthood. It would have been an
embarrassment had he not been awarded his spurs.
Yet he had not learned the intricacies of knighthood. He had never learned how to use his sword with
finesse, how to think each move in advance. His horsemanship was fair to middling, but under the expert
tutelage of a Viragonian warrior, he came into his own on the back of a mighty gray stallion Weir gave
him just a few days after the incident at the training ground.
“Sometimes it's just having the right horse, or the right weapon, Syn-Jern,” the warrior said wisely. “If
the weapon doesn't fit your hand like it was molded there, you can't fight as well with it as you can with
one that feels like a natural extension of your own flesh."
“What are you going to call him?” Stevens asked, keeping well away from the mighty hooves that pawed
at the ground near Syn-Jern's feet.
Syn-Jern's eyes shone with love and admiration as he stroked the horse's withers. “His name is
Windchance,” he whispered. He looked at Stevens. “It was the chance of the wind that brought me here.
Without that storm that blew the Tamarind off course, I'd probably be back in the Labyrinth right now."
No one asked how he had escaped the penal colony and Syn-Jern did not volunteer the information; but
the men of Montyne Cay found the fact that he had escaped the hellhole of Tyber's Isle, to be one more
positive thing about the young man.
“You got to admire the lad, you do,” Stevens swore. “Like I always say: you can't keep a good man
down long!"
On the morning of the day they were to set sail for Chrystallus on the evening's tide, Syn-Jern set out on
his own away from the compound in search of the mysterious sound he kept hearing from the jungle. He
left the beach behind, walking deeper than he ever had before into the interior of Montyne Bay's inland.
Before long he was out of sight of the beachside village and entering a forest so thick and lush, he had to
fight his way through the foliage and undergrowth.
Pushing aside low-hanging branches of mango trees, he ducked under the rosy-red fruits and smiled as
the early morning dew fell silently on his naked back and shoulders. The day
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