Spectyr

Raed took the piece of vellum with his father’s seal on it from her extended fingers. That piece of wax said the Unsung was still alive—so there could be only one other person who could bring Tangyre so far.

His hands were sweating as he snapped the seal and read what was written there. Even in panic and loss, his father wrote long and florid passages. His son found himself scanning down the letter to get to the real story as quickly as possible.

The raiders came in the middle of a storm—they took Fraine. You have brought attention to our family after so many years of peace. This is all your fault.

“I am sorry, Raed.” Tangyre touched his shoulder and squeezed.

A wave of numbness passed through him as he recalled his sister’s curls and deep blue eyes. She was fifteen years younger than he—a product of their parents’ reunion after years of separation. He remembered carrying her on his shoulders when he’d been home between sea battles.

All this was naturally before the Rossin’s Curse came to fruition and their mother was killed under its claws. Fraine had been so sweet, yet with a streak of genuine stubbornness that was required of anyone bearing the name of Rossin.

His sister’s existence was the one reason Raed had not taken his own life in the terrible dark times after their mother had been slain by the geistlord inside him. Like he, his sister had been born outside of Vermillion, and therefore if he were to die, the Curse that plagued their family would fall on her next.

Now Raed feared that his father was right. He had opened the door when he’d gone into Vermillion. Their enemies had almost forgotten that the Rossin line still existed. Even the Emperor.

Tangyre’s hand tightened on his shoulder. She smelled of sea salt and leather armor.

“How hard did the old bastard try to get her back?” Raed was fully aware his voice cracked with anger and guilt.

Tangyre stiffened. “It wasn’t his fault; there was a storm and—”

“He should have sailed through it!” he snapped, yanking his shoulder back out of her grip. “He should have chased them to the Otherside if necessary!”

“Your father is far too sick to take to ship,” Tangyre replied, “but he sent all those at his disposal to get your sister back. We lost four in the storm, and the scum still outdistanced us. Once they reached Imperial waters they went up the Saal River—and that was as far as we could go without frigates.” She looked him in the eye defiantly. “Having our ships blown out of the water by the Imperial fleet would not get Fraine back.”

For an instant Raed wanted to scream that she’d been a coward, that they should have followed his sister down to the last man—but then logic washed over him. He nodded stiffly. “So how did you find me?”

The corner of Tang’s lips twisted in an ironic smile. “I still have plenty of contacts on the mainland. I took a guess that reports of a Pretender to the throne along the coast of Gallion pertained to you.”

Though she was a friend, Raed did not like the idea of anyone being able to track him so easily. To mask it he replied swiftly, “So you brought Gullwing? ”

Captain Greene turned and pointed toward the ships moored at the jetty, bobbing under the light of a full moon. Dominion was as identifiable as his own hand, but also now he could make out another familiar shape tied next to it.

He had many fond memories of running the deck of this sloop as a child. She might be one of the older ships left to them, but she was also light, fast, and often carried the word of the Unsung from the Coronet Isles. In the last few decades, though, there had been precious use for that to be transmitted anywhere.

“She is my ship now,” Tangyre replied, “and one of only three others to survive the storm.”

The two captains, trailed by the still-wary Aachon, walked back toward the jetty. Tangyre ran her eye over the Dominion. “However, you look in good order.”

“Not good enough to take on the whole Empire”—Raed stroked his short beard—“so you best tell me what you know.”

“Our informants tell us only that the ship sailed up the Saal—but from there, the trail runs cold.” Tangyre tucked her thumbs into her belt. “Your father asks you to follow.”

Had the Unsung really thought he wouldn’t? Raed managed not to take his anger out on Tangyre; she was but the messenger. “You may tell him I will find her.”

“My Prince,” Aachon finally rumbled, “unlike his father, is not afraid to go against the edicts of the Assembly of Princes and the Usurper.”

Raed was shocked and surprised. He had never heard a bad word from Aachon’s mouth about the Unsung, let alone the suggestion that his choice to remain safely in exile was some kind of cowardice. It was not an uncommon view.

Captain Greene tilted her head but chose to completely ignore Aachon’s comment. “My ship shall return to the Coronet Isles, my Prince. I will remain and help you.”

Looking into those flinty gray eyes, Raed knew there would be no argument. Tangyre would cling to the outside of the Dominion even if he gave her a direct order; she had taken the kidnapping of Fraine as a personal affront.

“Very well, then,” Raed said, tucking his father’s missive into his pocket. “Luckily Aachon and I have discussed this before. We have a way to both get us back into the Empire and strike at an abomination.”

Tangyre’s eyebrows shot up. “That sounds most impressive.”

“My Prince always is.” Aachon folded his arms so they bulged. He could not have looked more imposing even if he’d been made of stone.

Raed rolled his eyes. “Forgive my first mate, Tang. He hates slavers almost as much as I do.”

“Perfectly understandable”—Captain Greene pressed her lips together—“a pet peeve of mine as well. I already suspect that this is going to be a most satisfactory outing.”

FOUR A Warning from Beyond

“Your husband is now properly dead.” Merrick found it amusing how unaware his partner was that her tone was far from reassuring. She sounded so merry that the widow had to be wondering if something dire had happened inside.

The younger Deacon could understand Sorcha’s mood, though; he too had been glad to come face-to-face with a genuine geist. The strange message it bore, however, was unnerving. The three months of quiet were well and truly over—he didn’t need to be Deacon Reeceson, with his wild talent of prescience, to know that.

The Arch Abbot had kept them occupied with as many menial tasks as he could find since the incident in the ossuary. They had guarded endless empty corridors, escorted wagon trains of porcelain, and entertained every vapid courtier in the palace. With Rictun’s eye so firmly set on them, leaving Vermillion was going to be as problematic as getting in had been when they had been hunted fugitives.

“So what’s the situation, then?” The light, firm voice at his side made Merrick wince.

Turning, he saw that Deacon Kolya Petav had once again followed them on assignment. Though still pale and thin after months of recovery from the geist attack outside the Imperial Palace, Sorcha’s husband was stubbornly sticking to his rights as a partner. Kolya, as in all the other times, had not an ounce of guilt on his face.

Merrick blinked, unable to quite believe it. He knew if he was in Kolya’s place he would not dare Sorcha’s rage; instead he probably would have been curled up somewhere sucking his thumb like an infant in swaddling clothes.

Two months ago Sorcha had gone to the Civic Court, spoken the ritual words three times, and signed the writ before the worthies as required. The final death knell for her and Kolya’s marriage would be accepted in another full spin of the seasons. By comparison, breaking the Bond of partnership was almost impossible—at least when one of the party would not accept it.

Deacon Petav was definitely not giving up on that particular side of his relationship with Sorcha. Instead of accepting his soon to be former wife’s petition, he had gone before the Presbyterial Council and put up a strong argument for his rights. Why he had done that was still a mystery.

This was the second time he had turned up while Merrick and Sorcha were on duty. Now he stood before