Geist

be.

Bless Snook—she took a step toward Sorcha, her thin form offering no danger. “We need to sew up the wounds on your horse, and I could take a look at your head as well.”

The Deacon glanced around, as if realizing for the first time that there were other people on deck, injured sailors from the cargo ship, exhausted horses and concerned onlookers. Raed wouldn’t have said that the wind went out of her, but she let out a little sigh. “Thank you,” she said to Snook and allowed herself to be led back to her stallion.

Her partner whispered something to the younger woman, who nodded and hung back as he approached Raed.

“My apologies, once again.” This Deacon at least seemed more reasonable. They moved out of the way as the crew hurried to get the injured and horses settled. “We have had a . . . difficult couple of days. This is the third attack in a week that Faris has had to endure.”

Even though Raed had been out of the general flow of society, he knew that the Order had been getting on top of geist attacks in the last year. He could not conceal his surprise. “Three?” His mind flew back to the massacre on Corsair, and his blood chilled again. “I am sorry to hear that, Deacon Chambers.”

A brief smile flitted across the man’s pleasant face, and he suddenly looked very young indeed. Was the Abbey now initiating children? “No more than we are, Captain. We were on route to the town of Ulrich, as our Arch Abbot had received reports from the Priory there of an upsurge in attacks.”

“What?” Raed’s hand clenched the hilt of his cutlass. He swallowed hard. “Geists . . . in Ulrich?”

He knew that he would be unable to conceal anything from the sharp eyes of a Sensitive Deacon. It was pointless to try. They would know the details of the family curse. He nodded as calmly as he could, though. “We also are heading for Ulrich, Deacon Chambers. They have one of the few safe harbors where we can make repairs.”

A slight frown appeared between the other man’s brows, but disappeared quickly. His smile was just as small. “Call me Merrick, Captain. I’m not one of those Deacons to stand on ceremony.”

“Unlike your colleague?” Raed glanced across the deck to where her tousled red head was bent over the wounds in her stallion’s side.

Merrick was a good partner; he did not make any comment. Instead, he tilted his head. “It strikes me that we may be able to offer you assistance, since you were kind enough to risk your ship and crew to rescue us.”

“How so?”

“I understand the particular . . . difficulty you labor under, personally. We, as Deacons, may be able to offer protection.”

Aachon was watching from the sidelines, a look of caution plain on his face, while his fingers kept close to his pockets. He had never revealed why he’d been cast from the Order, but his distrust was also evident. Yet, he had never repelled any geists. He could tell his captain where one was, but lacked the skills a Deacon could employ to stop it from latching on.

Raed paused, wondering if there was any other way. Could he not just drop off these troublesome Deacons and sail away? The answer was, of course, no. Dominion had nowhere else to go. She and her crew were near the end of their tether. It was Ulrich or nothing. However, the Deacons were part of the machinery of the Empire—the Empire that had been chasing him and his father for the past three years.

“I can assure you”—Merrick straightened up—“that the Deacons are not officially part of the Imperial forces. We seek to keep the Otherside out of this world, and have little concern for what the military is tasked with.”

The Pretender managed to not look shocked. This man must have been incredibly perceptive. He hoped that was all it was. “And Deacon Faris?”

Merrick rubbed his hand through his hair wearily. “She is the most powerful Active in the Order. You will find no better protection from the unliving. Yet, we are only recently Bonded. I will try my best to convince her, but she . . . Well, she has her ways.”

As if Sorcha knew they were talking about her, she raised her head and glanced in their direction. Raed once again felt those blue eyes pinning him down for observation. “I am sure she does,” he replied.

The young Deacon was about to turn away when the Pretender grasped his shoulder. He didn’t know why, but he found himself asking the question that had haunted him for years, the one that he had been unable to ask that aloof member of the Order. “You would See better than most, Reverend Deacon. How do I look through your Sight?”

Merrick’s brown eyes seemed kind. They focused on him, and he flinched back a little.

“Is it hideous?” Raed queried, terrified at the response.

The Deacon actually looked puzzled for a second. “On the contrary, my lord, you blaze in the ether.”

“Blaze?”

The other raised his hand as if to sketch a halo around Raed. “You look like silver fire.”

“That’s a good thing . . . isn’t it?”

Merrick sighed and glanced away, once again seeking out his partner. When he turned back, his expression was somber. “It explains many things. You burn so brightly, Prince Rossin, that it is no wonder the unliving are drawn to you.”

Raed felt the diagnosis like a hammer blow between the shoulder blades; he swallowed hard.

The Deacon lightly touched his shoulder. “It will be all right. Sorcha and I are very strong, and when we get you to the Priory, there will be others to assist.”

The tone of his voice was calming, but Raed now knew the truth. He blazed in the ether, and sooner or later the geist that had killed Corsair would be drawn to him. That geist, or something worse.

He watched Merrick return to his partner, and speak in a low voice to her. Sorcha waved her cigar at him, almost jabbing him in the shoulder. She threw her hands up in an exasperated gesture, after which she shook her head for a minute before eventually, grudgingly, nodding. It was impressive, the way that Merrick handled her. Then she was striding over to Raed. Her hair had dried somewhat, and was now a lighter bronze color. If he blazed in the ether, the woman bearing down on him blazed in the real world.

“Captain,” she growled, folding her arms and glaring at him. He was slightly taller than she, but somehow it still seemed she was looking down her nose at him. “I understand my partner has made an agreement with you.”

“You prefer not to reach your destination? Or perhaps swim?”

Her lips twisted in a smile that had nothing to do with amusement. “No. The people of Ulrich need us, and your ship is the only one currently available. Your agreement with Deacon Chambers stands, but I just want to make one thing clear.”

“Yes?”

“When we leave Ulrich, all bets are off. You are not only a fugitive from the Emperor, but you also make use of illegal and dangerous weirstones.” Replacing her cigar, she chewed on the end a little.

“Fair enough,” Raed replied. Watching her fume seemed to calm him. “But there is one other condition.”

Sorcha tilted her head back and looked at him with hooded eyes. “What might that be?”

“I insist that you and your partner take my cabin.”

The Young Pretender had enough experience dealing with difficult people to know that giving them what they least expected often sucked the wind out of their sails. It did indeed seem to work on this particular prickly Deacon.

She was stumped for words for a moment, but eventually she pushed back some of her curls and replied. “Thank you, Captain.”

With a little bow, Raed turned on his heel and made for the quarterdeck. It was always sweet to get the last word in, and he had a feeling that if he lingered, he would have lost the advantage. The loss of his cabin for a few days was little compared to that victory.