Aachon kept hold of his weirstone, not putting it away as he usually did, as if to reassure himself and the rest of the crew that it was still alive.

“She’s a hazard,” the Young Pretender whispered to him, jerking his head sideways at the limping warship.

The first mate nodded, understanding immediately. He turned to the gun crew. “Two shots into her, below the water line, if you please, Mr. Eastan.”

The report of the cannons made Raed flinch. He didn’t turn around to watch the battered ship sink under the waves, though he heard many of his crew rush to the railing to do so. He couldn’t blame them for muttering among themselves. It wasn’t every day that a blood-soaked Imperial warship went down to the bottom.

He heard Aachon talking to Byrd. “We will send word to the Imperial Navy when we get to Ulrich. Their families should know.” It was a small danger, yet the right thing to do.

Raed swallowed hard. Those relatives would be better off without the knowledge of what had happened to their loved ones. The image of the desiccated Captain, reaching for his dead weirstone, was burned on the Pretender’s brain. He glanced up where the Rossin flag fluttered over Dominion. The mer-lion was hanging over him, just like in the ancient Curse.

Every assumption of his life had been blown out of the water, as conclusively as Corsair had been, and Raed needed time to pull himself together. He started toward his cabin.

“My prince”—Aachon intercepted him before he could reach the safety of his quarters—“I was thinking . . .” He paused to glance down at the swirling weirstone that he’d still not put away. He cleared his throat. “We need to be away from this area immediately and without delay.”

Dominion had been fast once—the fastest in the Northern Sea. Now, with so many barnacles on her hull and with all their running repairs, she wallowed in her native environment. Once a swift runner, she now could barely walk the course. Raed was about to open his mouth to make some quip, yet when he saw the serious look in his first mate’s eye, he knew what he was suggesting.

The Pretender glanced down at the weirstone for a moment; then he nodded. “When all the cards turn against you, it is time to stack the deck.”

Aachon grinned bleakly and spun about on the deck. “Prepare to run before the wind.”

Most of the crew scrambled up into the rigging, but Byrd, as always, was the one to speak his mind. He turned his sun-browned face into the slight breeze. “But sir, we’re nearly becalmed.”

“My wind, Byrd,” Aachon growled and raised the weirstone to his eye line. “Trim the sheets and batten down those hatches!”

As with every Sensitive, there was a touch of Active within the stern first mate. He seldom used it, but they had witnessed exceptional circumstances this day. Raed would normally have been cautious of any use of the Otherside near him, but he was filled with the desire to be away from this part of the sea. Besides, if a geist could cross the ocean, then maybe he needed to reconsider his options.

As Raed threw his oilskin over his frock coat, he turned and looked to stern. The air was coming alive. He preferred to watch the storm, rather than watch his friend create it. Aachon’s slack, white-eyed look was more than disconcerting; it was positively unnerving. To the south, the clouds were already pulling together and darkening. The sunny day slipped into grayness, and the tang in his nostrils filled Raed with heady delight. Despite the nature of the coming storm, he couldn’t help but revel in its power.

It had been an unholy day, so it seemed fitting to end it with an almighty thunderstorm. Lightning cracked within the clouds and the crew cheered. It seemed a strange reaction, but Raed understood. After having felt so rudderless for the last few months, it was invigorating to be in control of something.

Naturally, it was a different story once the storm was summoned. The winds began to howl and the reduced sails of Dominion whipped in response. Raed turned around to catch Aachon. The tall first mate staggered a step back, his dark complexion pale. There was a decided tremble in his hands as he replaced the weirstone into his pocket. They both looked to stern, into the wind and the clouds that were now coiling on themselves.

“Let’s see that thing catch us now,” Raed yelled in Aachon’s ear. The storm would follow the weirstone that had cast it.

Despite her barnacle-cased hull, Dominion leapt away as if she had only been waiting for the signal. Even with her reduced sail, the storm filled her, sending her flying like an ungainly dancer through the waves. It was not quite as dangerous as a natural storm, but still there was hazard in it. Crew scrambled to clear the decks, until only a few held the essential posts.

Raed, however, would not go below. He wanted to experience the storm and to keep an eye on his ship. Aachon, naturally, was at his side, perhaps not quite as excited by what he had wrought; his Deacon training ran very deep indeed.

In the steel gray light, they ran before the clouds for many hours through the night, with only the occasional glimpse of stars and moon to guide them. Wind and water lashed him, but Raed smiled back into it. For this moment, they had control, and it seemed his ship was reveling in it as much as he was. Surely not even a curse could catch them at such a speed. For those blissful hours, storm-tossed and hectic, the Young Pretender was happy again.

The feeling was, however, broken the next day. Aleck, still up the crow’s nest, began yelling something, waving his hands before pointing to port. Raed strained his ears to catch the look-out’s screams above the roar of the storm. He pulled his spyglass out from underneath his oilskin, and after a moment’s difficulty he managed to train it in the direction Aleck was pointing.

It was another ship, some sort of trading vessel by the look of her; not as fast as Dominion, even in her current condition, and she was in the clear air, so they were pulling away from her. Whatever she was, she was not an Imperial Man-o’-War. A large collection of seabirds seemed to be circling the vessel. It was certainly curious, but not dangerous. He was losing interest, unsure what Aleck was so concerned about, and Raed was about to look away when he saw something else odd—something he’d seen only once before in his time on the sea. The water all around the other vessel began to churn as if it were boiling. He could see huge clumps of seaweed bubble to the surface, and white foam and bubbles gathered around the other ship’s hull.

Every sailor knew that there were creatures in the depths, but they were seldom seen, only whispered about. Raed pulled Aachon around and handed him the spyglass, just to make sure that his eyes weren’t deceiving him. They both gaped as the beast, easily twice the size of the boat it preyed upon, wrapped its coils over the masts before bringing them crashing down. The monster had a huge, wedge-shaped head that hung malevolently over the wreck. It reminded Raed of a man crushing a nut in his fist. Dimly, they could make out tiny forms leaping into the ocean in desperation to escape.

It was the law of the sea: Dominion’s crew could not sail past such a disaster. Raed squeezed Aachon’s shoulder, leaning in closely to bellow his decision. “Dismiss the storm. We’ve got to help.”

Aachon merely nodded. Raising the weirstone once more, he turned to take back the power that was driving the storm. The cobalt blue stone flashed white, but to no immediate effect. Once summoned, a storm was not so easy to dismiss. The first mate braced himself on the deck, prepared for the drain on his strength.

“All hands,” Raed bellowed, and Laython leapt forward to ring the bell with incredible vigor. The crew boiled out from below with almost military quickness. “Hard to port,” he called, spinning the wheel as nimble hands unfurled the sails. Luckily, the wind was dying a little at his back, or they would have been torn to shreds.

Riding the last of the storm’s strength, they tacked toward the thrashing monster and the dying vessel. “Have you got a plan?” Aachon was almost staggering from side to side with weariness. Dismissing a storm was at the very edge of his power.

Raed grinned. He knew a thing or two about sea monsters. “They can’t last long at the surface, those scaly demons,” he shouted back. “Ripping that ship apart should have exhausted the thing.”

“Should?” His first mate shook his head. “You don’t sound exactly certain . . .”

“Think of it as an experiment. We’ll be able to sell the results to any number of interested scholars.”

“And if your supposition is not correct?”

“Then we will at least die with the knowledge that we have been part of the scientific process!” Raed turned the wheel as they came about.

The smell of rotten seaweed and salt was almost overwhelming. As Dominion swung around, the other ship’s back broke with an almighty crack, the few remaining masts crashing into the water as the monster’s coils contracted in a last deadly embrace. The wreckage bobbed on the water for a few seconds, wood entangled with the twisting and scaled form, and then began to slip gradually under.

Raed shot Aachon a satisfied grin as the creature sank out of view. His first mate raised a pointed finger. “Not just yet, my prince.”

The Pretender knew better than to tempt fate; somewhere down there, the monster was probably finishing off what it had taken for its enemy. Creatures of the deep were not known for their intelligence.

He dashed to the side and helped to cast out ropes. The water was full of flotsam and jetsam. Barrels and chests bobbed around in the churning waves. Dominion’s crew set about pulling people in as quickly as possible. Those they pulled free of the sea were weak and stunned, and they slumped down on the deck. Traders traveled with few crew, as few as they could get away with; every extra person cut into profits, after all. However, when Raed asked the shaking survivors, it seemed that the Captain had gone down with his ship.

“My lord!” Snook was busy pulling in a rotund and puffing man, but she paused and gestured out to the sea. Leaning over, Raed saw a remarkable sight: a horse swimming for all the world as if it were a dog. The brave animal, black with a star on its forehead, carried a man and a woman, both plastered to its back.

The crew, spurred on by the sheer courage of the beast, whistled and called. “Get the loading nets out,” Raed shouted.

It took some maneuvering, but the man on the back of the struggling creature managed to get the horse into the net, and soon, with much grunting and complaining, the crew had it on the deck. It was a beautifully proportioned mare; Raed wasn’t so long from land that he couldn’t appreciate that.

The man slid from its back and helped the woman down. She stood still and dripping on the deck while he darted to the gunwales, peering down with some level of urgency, before dashing up and down. Raed could also recognize great concern. “What is it, lad?”

The other turned, and with a start the Pretender recognized the silver mark of the Order on his cloak—a cloak that might be emerald green when dry. The young man’s hair was plastered to his head and his brown eyes were wide. Deacons did not lose themselves in the Sight like the lesser-trained witches might, but Raed also recognized that the man was Seeing.

“My partner,” the Deacon gasped. “She’s alive out there somewhere, but very weak. We have to find her.”

Raed yanked out his spyglass and trained it on the soup of debris bobbing around among the waves. For a few moments, he could make out nothing but corpses and wreckage, and then, miraculously, he saw movement. They glided a little closer, as if the sea itself was impressed with such survival. By rights any still-living thing out there should have been crushed by all manner of debris, if not snapped up by the monster itself.

“Another horse,” Snook whispered. “By the Ancients, what a creature!”

At first it looked like this larger animal was alone, but as the powerful creature drew closer, urged on by the calls of the young Deacon, it was possible to see that it was dragging another form. This one was not on the horse’s back; it was being towed through the water, apparently trapped in the bridle. It was hard to make out if it was a living shape or not, but by the Deacon’s worried calls, he must have Seen that she still breathed.

With a little more finesse this time, they managed to get the stallion up using the cargo net; another of the Breed, by the look of him. However, this one had more life to him than the mare. As soon as his hooves touched solid ground, he reared up, dropping his charge finally to the deck. The stallion’s eyes were wild and froth flew from his lips as he swung about, neighing, snorting and kicking his heels.

The crew dove out of the way as the maddened horse leapt and kicked, but despite the stallion’s frenzy he was all the time careful not to trample his rider. Whatever else the Deacons did, they trained their horses well. The young man tried to call out commands, but something seemed to have snapped in the equine’s mind. Raed knew all about that.

As he watched the stallion flinging himself about, Raed reached down and touched that cursed bit of himself, the animal part. More nimbly than a mere mortal could, he stepped in and laid his hand against the wet and taut skin of the stallion. For a moment horse and man regarded each other, dark rolling eye to his calm hazel ones. They each recognized something within the other.

“It’s all right,” Raed whispered. “You have protected her, and now she is safe.”

It was like the strings were cut. Blowing hard through his nostrils, the magnificent beast bowed his head, and now could be seen trembling on his feet.

The male Deacon and his pretty young companion ran forward and, together murmuring to the beast, managed to lead it away. Carefully, Raed rolled the still form on the deck over onto its back. It was a woman indeed, near his own age with a mass of damp red hair and a bruise on her pale forehead. Breath, however, was coming through her parted lips, and stirring in her breast. Raed’s eyes drifted to her badge of the Order; the upraised fist surmounted by a wide-open eye. That as well as the Gauntlets pinned into her belt and the dark blue cloak all confirmed it; she was an Active Deacon.

Her eyes flicked open so suddenly that it took Raed a moment to realize that he was being examined as thoroughly as he was examining. They were deep blue and there was no confusion in them. Like all Deacons, she was assessing him thoroughly.

One corner of her lips twitched. “The Young Pretender.” Her voice had the lilt of someone born in Delmaire. Despite everything, it was a pretty accent.

Raed flinched, hardly expecting to be recognized so quickly—if at all.

“Not quite as young as expected, though.” The Deacon, even half-dead, had a sharp tongue. Pushing her hair out of her face, she levered herself up onto her elbow. Raed had been about to offer his hand but pulled it back after a glance at the expression on her face. This was a woman who didn’t need help. She climbed carefully to her feet, obviously feeling bruised. Gently, she touched her wounded forehead, winced, and then straightened her cloak about her. She tilted her head toward her partner in acknowledgment that he had also survived, and then patted her pockets.

A smile of relief crossed her face. “Thank the Bones.” She pulled out a small package, unwrapped the oilskin from it, and then popped open the tin it revealed. A small sigh escaped her as she took out one of the cigars contained within.

The crew around her was completely silent. Dropping a Deacon into a middle of outlaws was like releasing a wolf into a herd of sheep. Certainly, they were not part of the Imperial Army, but the Order had been brought over by the Emperor and the Deacons owed him allegiance. The crewmen shuffled their feet and looked to Raed for guidance, wondering perhaps if he would order them to tip their new passengers back over the side.

While they contemplated, the woman had managed to get one of her cigars lit and was watching them through the gray-white smoke. The look was measured and predatory. Deacons gave Raed a pause. Aachon had told him a little of their training, which would have been enough to unnerve many, but it was their attachment to the Otherside that particularly worried him—his Curse made that a major concern. Since she knew who he was, she would also have heard the rumors of it. The one disastrous time a more kindly Deacon had tried to “fix” him still loomed in his memory. He wasn’t about to allow a repeat.

The woman drew in a long mouthful of smoke, a confident gesture somewhat lessened by the slight tremble in her hands. Apparently a brush with death could give even a Deacon pause. Raed shot a look to his right where the young man was stroking the stallion’s neck. His equally assessing gaze was directed at the woman; no question who the dominant partner was.

Finally, the woman removed her cigar, licked her lips and gave a little bow of her head. “Deacon Sorcha Faris. This is my partner, Merrick Chambers.”

“And Miss Nynnia Macthcoll,” the male Deacon blurted out, indicating the beautiful, dripping woman who had tucked herself against his side.

Raed did not miss the slight twist of Deacon Faris’ lips; it was hard to tell if that was jealousy or something else. But she was now looking around the ship, taking in the set of the sails, the armaments and the huddle of wide-eyed crew. Her neck even craned upward to look at the flapping flag with his family device on it. She raised an eyebrow but did not comment, merely taking another long puff. “Thank you for the timely rescue, Lord Rossin.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, but walked somewhat gingerly over to the stallion. He raised his exhausted head and blew through his nose in a whicker of greeting. “Hello, my handsome Shedryi,” she whispered to him in return, before bending to examine his legs gently, and then proceeding to check his flanks. A couple of minor gashes marred the fine black hide, but Raed could see the horse was otherwise in remarkable shape.

Sorcha then proceeded to inspect the mare, her back to the captain and his crew.

“You all right, Merrick?” he heard her ask her partner. The young man nodded mutely, but his clear brown eyes remained fixed on the others. He understood a precarious position when he saw it.

Finally, Raed had had enough. “If you are quite finished, Deacon Faris, perhaps we can discuss what just happened?”

She turned and regarded him with that keen blue gaze. “You mean the monster crushing our vessel, or your use of an illegal weirstone?” She touched her Gauntlets lightly, reminding the Young Pretender of the power a Deacon could wield. He knew a signal when he was handed one. Watch yourself. You may be a lord, but I can dish out a storm of pain.

It was one of those few times he actually felt glad for the Curse. Pretender and Deacon locked gazes. Raed heard Aachon shift uncomfortably at his side, but he didn’t look. He dared not contemplate what was running through his first mate’s head. Being face-to-face with the Order must have been a real shock.

This was not how people were supposed to react after being pulled half-dead from the sea. Raed could feel his blood warming and driving away his concern over the Deacons on his ship. Sorcha’s lips were crooked in a slight smile, waiting for him to break. He knew he couldn’t match the patience of a Deacon, or comprehend what she was actually thinking. The training they received would have made them excellent and dangerous cardplayers.

“It was your Emperor who made them illegal”—Raed pointed to the flapping Rossin flag—“and as you can see, I am not one of his citizens.”

The blasted woman was about to answer back when Merrick stepped between them. “We don’t want to seem ungrateful, Captain Rossin. It is just that my partner has had rather a shock. It would be churlish of us to complain.” Obviously he was annoyed and worried about his more argumentative Deacon, but he was controlled enough not to give her a look. Raed would have loved to have known what communication was shooting between them. Aachon had never got to the stage of sharing a Bond, but he’d talked about it with some longing. Raed, however, was not sure he’d want to share anything with this prickly, sharp-tongued woman, beautiful as she might 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.