Septimus, 1658 - a small port town on the coast of Avalon

   The tall ship plied its course across the waves, but it was no more
than a mark on the horizon for the boys standing at the shore. They
couldn't be much more than seven or eight years old each, and it was
already beginning to grow dark. At least half an hour would pass before
they could guess what ship it might be, and half an hour more to be
certain. They each knew that staying out much past sundown would mean a
sound lecture from a worried mother -- not to mention being sent to bed
with no dinner -- but none wanted to miss seeing the ship arrive.

   "I think it's Vendel. Look at the prow! Do you see the figurehead?"
Matthew chattered excitably, "It's a sea serpent. I've seen that ship
before. It's a Vendel merchant."

   James scowled. "What, you mean the Scaled Mistress? She's in Castille!
What would she be doing coming here, now?"

   "Maybe it's El Halcon," whispered Charles. The other boys turned their
eyes down.

   "How long has it been?" asked Matthew.

   "Four months." He coughed. "Dad's been gone longer than that before,
though. One time he was gone for over a year! Captured by pirates, he was.
He told me all about it. His ship was being dashed, and crashed, and
smashed against the waves, its hull crying out like a wounded banshee, the
wind answering like a wolf in mad pursuit..."

   They had heard him tell the tale a dozen times; he himself had made his
father tell it to him a hundred more. But they listened, the same as they
listened to it every time, imagining themselves hanging from the rigging,
as the cannon shot shook the masts, swinging across the the open sea to
the deck of the pirate schooner, knife in hand, falling only to 
insurmountable odds, plotting escape, and -- before the story's end, they
were stopped by a sudden voice.

   "Hyear! Y'boll's git ta hand f'r us, strong for a few shillin's, eh? If
y' kin 'elp empty ar 'ull ere the pitch falls, it'll mean double, if yer
willin'."

   Matthew and James gasped and spun about, the memories of the pirate
battles fresh and intermingling with the present. Charles, though, only
laughed. Jackson slapped him on the back, "Good t' see you agin, boy. We
wuz jus' in the Eisen lands oursel', and I saw yer ol' dad. 'E says it'll
be at least another month before 'e's home, but 'e wanted me ta gi' you
this." He handed across a small metal disk, very much like a coin, except
colored a dull grey like steel. "They call it the Drachen Iron. I don'
know what good it is as coin, but it's a fine piece of plate they make o'
it, I tell ye."

   The boys crowded around to get a look at this strange new metal.
"C'mon, no time fer gawkin' now. I'm sure as stone yer mums'll be 'appy a
hear ya doin' an honest days labour, if ye's wanna 'elp us get those
crates out. And I broughtcher some books, them philoserphies they got down
in Castille, jus' the kinna thing you've been askin' about. Le's hup,
light's a-spillin'."

   The three followed him off to the end of the pier where the ship was
docked, and where men were already at work unloading goods. The boys' help
wasn't really needed, but the sailors enjoyed having them around, and
Jackson knew the few shillings they paid them would go further in their 
mother's purses than in a sailor's holed pockets.

      * * *

   Quartus, 1663 - aboard El Halcon, somewhere near Montaigne

   The waves lashed the the deck, and Charles was drenched. A bit taller
than he was before, a bit stronger, and toughened by a few more Avalon
winters, he was still only twelve, and still a boy in his mother's eyes. 
But his mother wasn't here, so he had to be a man.

   "Charles! Get over to the mizzen chains, make sure they're held tight!
Manuel, steady the yard arm!" The boatswain barked orders left and right,
in both Castillian and broken Cymru. "You there, man, haul in the
topsail!" An inexperienced bystander might be worried at this frantic
rushing and racing, the battle against the wind and the waves fought by a
few mortal men riding atop a heap of timber and cloth. An experienced
sailor would recognise this as normal. A little too much wind was better
than too little, and any seaman who couldn't keep his balance at a thirty
degree tilt would be better off to be a paying passenger than to try
passing himself off as a sailor.

   Charles, however, was an inexperienced bystander. His heart was in his
throat as his feet slipped left and right across the drenched wooden deck.
He threw himself fully into each task given him, fearing that the
slightest failure could cost him his life. In truth, the other men could
have let him know this storm was nothing, but it was more fun to exchange
sly grins with the boatswain as they did their duties silently.

   The sea calmed a bit after a couple hours. The breeze steadied, and El
Halcon wasn't even taken off course throughout. Most of the other sailors,
one by one, left off to find other entertainment until their shifts were
needed on deck, but Charles stood on deck, watching the sun set on the
western horizon.

   "Beautiful, isn't it?"

   Charles turned to his father. "How far are we?"

   Carlos smiled. It was the same thing he had wondered himself, on
countless voyages. He knew Charles wasn't asking how far they were from
Vodacce, where the ship was headed. He wasn't asking how far they were
from land, the nearby coast of Montaigne. He was asking how far they were
from Avalon, from home. "Not as far as it feels."

   "The storm, earlier... are they all that bad?"

   He couldn't help himself but to laugh. "That wasn't a storm, son.
Once you've seen a real storm, you'll know. For now, come below and get
something to eat. The stew is nothing like your mother makes, but it'll
warm you at least."

   "I'll be there in a minute." Carlos nodded, and went down to the mess.
Charles pulled out the locket that hung around his neck, and opened it. It
was only a simple brass design, but inside was a small portrait of his
mother and father, standing in front of their home. It was done many years
ago, and his mother held the infant Charles in her arms. Behind the
picture -- it couldn't be seen, but Charles knew it was there -- was the
disk of dracheneisen he'd kept for the last five years. He'd held it many
times, while Carlos was away at sea, and Charles was at home, waiting.
Now he held the locket, thinking of home.

      * * *

   Corantine, 1666 - aboard El Halcon, near Zepeda

   A half dozen sailors stood arm in arm on the deck, singing an old
Castillian ballad of battles won and lost. The Captain and two of his
lieutenants -- Carlos Algun and Pedro Maderas -- confered a small ways
off.

   "The men are pleased," noted Maderas, "as well they should be. Two
Montaigne vessels defeated in one day, and a hold full of Montaigne
prisoners to bring home."

   Carlos nodded, "A great victory, but a costly one. We've lost a lot of
men, and there's no gunpowder left for the cannon."

   The Captain only listened to the two men. Whatever his own opinions, he
didn't share them.

   A voice called down to interrupt their reverie. "Ship ahoy, Captain!
Montaigne frigate, twenty points to port!"

   "Hard to starboard," the Captain called to the helm. The boatswain,
along with many of his other men, had met their fates on the sea that day.
"Full sail. If we can make it to shore, we can pick up aid from the rest
of the navy."

   "Or more likely," said Maderas quietly, "the Montaigne cowards will
turn back as soon as land is in sight."

   "That's *if* we outrun them. If it's a frigate, they're almost
certainly faster than us in the water," Carlos mused sourly.

   The ship sped across the waves with all the swiftness her sails could
give her, but her pursuers were relentless. Long before the coast of
Zepeda was in view, the cannon began to fire. There was a miss, and a
miss, and a hit.

   The deck shook, and the Captain gave an order he'd never hoped to give.
"We have no choice. We can't fight back: we have no cannonfire, and our
men would be severely outnumbered if we let them catch up and tried to
board. Raise the white flag."

   From across the waves, a Monaigne lietenant stood on the deck of the
Rouge Blaireau, watching El Halcon through his spyglass. "They surrender,
mon capitan. They have raised the white flag, and they send a message in
semaphore. They ... they say they have Montaigne prisoners, and wish to
turn them over, if we agree to stop the attack. How shall we answer them?"

   Captain Henri Lavache only sneered. "Reload the cannon for another
volley! They are defenseless. We shall have them easily."

   "But Sir! They have surrendered. What honor is there in attacking a 
ship that shows the white flag?"

   "Honor? Your honor be damned. This is war. In war, there is no honor,
only glory. Load the cannon, Monsieur Devoe."

   "Aye, mon Capitan."

      * * *

   Nonus, 1666 - a small port town on the coast of Avalon

   A young man sat on the beach with a small journal, making idle notes
and watching the horizon. It was beginning to grow late in the season, and
fewer ships were willing to brave the kind of weather winter brought.
There was a ship on the sea, approaching the dock, and Charles recognized
it. It wasn't the one he hoped to see each day, but it might bring
information. He rose, and walked slowly down to meet it.

   "Hail, is there any news of the war?"

   Jackson climbed down. "Aye, Cha'les. I 'ave 'eard tell o' the 'awk."

   Charles eyes lit up, but dimmed again when Jackson wouldn't meet his
gaze. "Well, out with it! What do you know?"

   "Yer father's ship, she were a brave an' noble vessel, she was. He
officer an' crew, they couldn't be beat by no one in a fair fight."

   "What happened?"

   "She was outmatched; she 'ad to surrender to ship o' Montaigne swine.
But they di'n't 'ave no respect for 'onor, the foul, putrid, daisy-weak
and phlegm-minded..." Jackson trailed off into a stream of ill-will under
his breath. "The Montaigne captain, Lavache, 'e shot at the white flag. 
The 'awk went down, ne'er a chance t' defend hersself. They took no
prisoners; lef' them all t' die on the waves."

   "You lie!" Charles spat. "What is this, a game to you? Throwing rumors
in my face, pretending they're real? I don't want your stories; I want to
know the truth."

   Jackson sighed. "I unnerstan' 'ow you feel; I lost me own dad to a
vicious storm off in the west seas when I was not much more 'n your age. I
tell you th' truth though, as well an I know it." He laid his hand on
Charles' shoulder, and then turn back to his ship.

   Charles turned his back and walked away. He kept walking, unheeding of
the time of day or the path his feet took. Through the darkness, through
the forests, unthinking, unfeeling, he walked. Whatever lives in the woods
at night ignored him, or perhaps watched over him, and it wasn't until
morning tipped the horizon that he finally came to himself.

   When he did get back home, his mother jumped up from her chair.
"Charles! Where have you been? I've asked you countless times not to stay
out the whole night. With your father away in Castille, you're all I have
left."

   "A ship came yesterday."

   "Did it... bring news of your father?"

   Charles told her what he hand been told, and they both wept.