Martja’s face broke under the strain. “Now, Jannick! Those are just childish stories. It is time to give them up. I won’t be here…” She collapsed into sobs, her long silver-gold hair falling over her face.
“I’m sorry, Mother. Sorry!” He stroked her shoulder. “I’ll be good…” Jannick did his best to try not to think of the Wind Barons but had trouble reconciling this new information with the collected lore of his childhood. It’s not fair at all, he thought, to have everything taken away at once. His young memory was full of those tales, and now…
Jannick’s first memory was his mother’s face glowing by the whale-oil lantern, staring intently at her knitting needles. She was making a sweater for papa, who got very cold on the fishing boats. They waited for his arrival once every two weeks. Martja planted potatoes and leeks in the thin volcanic soil, and Jannick helped dig small holes with a wooden shovel. Twice a year he helped her paint their house, which was a bright color between yellow and red called “orange.” His mother told him there were fruits of this color that grew on islands far to the south, but Jannick had never seen them, except in a book. He mistrusted books, though, because papa told him they were “full of devils.” Instead, he had put his trust in his mother’s tales.
To Jannick the barons were tall, shadowy figures with golden circlets around their foreheads and heavy ringed fingers. Occasionally, his mother told him, they were the restless spirits of those who had died while committing an act of passion or rage, whether for good or ill. Therefore, they were not the most reliable sort of lords, capricious and quick to action. They might battle a sea serpent to rescue a sailor, or they might swoop down on an enormous eagle and sink an entire ship. Despite these tendencies, they had many