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  It was his dark curly hair and maybe the touch of Ancient blood in him that did it. Everyone always assumed he was only a teenager, when in fact he’d seen twenty-three years his last birthday. Sorcha might be in her late thirties, but he still bridled at the assumptions she’d obviously made about him in the first thirty seconds. Age had nothing to do with competence as far as Merrick was concerned.

  “Haven’t we met?” she said, eyebrows knitting together in an expression that wasn’t totally related to memory recall.

  For a second he froze, and only Deacon training kept shock off his face. Then he realized what she must mean. “You taught a basic class in structure of the Gauntlet in my second year.”

  She grinned in a somewhat feral way. “You asked a question about Teisyat, didn’t you?”

  At the time, Merrick recalled experiencing the same sick feeling that was building up in his stomach now, but he had indeed asked the question. He couldn’t be sure that she remembered what it was, but he did. How much control does the tenth Active Rune require?

  She hadn’t answered, just glared. It had been innocently asked, though, for at that moment he’d had no idea she was having problems with that very same issue. Now he decided just to shrug and take refuge in the “I’m just a Sensitive” act.

  “Well,” Sorcha sighed, “we better get this over and done with.”

  Merrick’s heart leapt, racing like a jackrabbit’s, but he held his hands palm up to her. The bustle of Deacons and lay Brothers at the door suddenly seemed like it was calling to him. If he just darted out into the corridor, he could join them and get away from this moment.

  He took a quick, nervous glance down at his hands; mercifully, they were still dry.

  Placing her palms down against his own, she locked eyes with him. Hers were the darkest blue he’d ever seen, with an almost-black circle right round the iris. For an instant nothing seemed to be happening, and then came the tug.

  It was his first partnership; he knew it was her fifth. She was not gentle, but then, he’d not expected her to be. The wrenching pull broke him free of the real world. He was plunged down into Sorcha Faris, spiraling into her eyes and consciousness in a way that actually hurt. He could feel the bright gateway within her, that place through which the Actives drew power from the Otherside. Inside her head, it burned hot and white and large, and it seemed ready to consume all that he was.

  With a stifled yelp, Merrick returned to his own body. The Bond was formed, fragile and not at all comfortable, but definitely there. It would take some time for him to adjust to the awareness of Sorcha in the periphery of his senses.

  “Good, then.” She snatched back her hands and for a moment almost looked like she might wipe them on her trousers. “I see you have your Strop. Is the rest of your kit packed?”

  He nodded. “I got it down to the stables last night. I understand the Abbot wants us to leave immediately.”

  “That’s what I heard.” And then she turned and strode out of the room, utterly confident that he would follow after.

  Fear and anger did a brief battle inside Merrick’s head. She might only be of average height, but she moved as quickly as a person twice as tall. He found himself at a near trot to keep up with her. In this way they made smart progress out of the confines of the Abbey, toward the outbuildings. Novices were already in classes but the lay members of the Order were up and about. At this time of the year there was little to do in the gardens, but many were bustling around the stables. Geist activity was not solely limited to manipulating humanity. Locals often brought their livestock in to be freed of unliving influences.

  Sorcha was going to ignore him as much as she could. She was colder than the late-autumn day, and the only thing Merrick had to warm himself was his growing anger, so he nurtured it a little.

  “Perhaps”—he smiled at her while matching her pace— “perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened outside the gates two days ago? The whole Abbey is rife with rumor.”

  Her stride broke for just an instant. “The Abbot will talk about it at Matins when it is appropriate.”

  “Ah, but you see, we will be gone before that happens; and besides, now I am your partner . . .”

  Sorcha stopped completely and spun about. He observed how she held her body in tight, tense lines. “Are you trying to irritate me? You’re bringing up things I have no control over, and I don’t like having no control. Having no control makes me exceedingly cranky, and when I get cranky, I eat novices for breakfast.”

  Merrick found himself enjoying the moment. He could actually vaguely sense her discomfort on the edge of his perception. He liked it. “Fair point,” he replied with a slight twist in his lips, “but I am no longer a novice and therefore not on the menu. I only want to be the best partner possible.” The tinge of humor in his voice was apparent even to himself.

  It was also immediately obvious that his gentle dig was not the sort of thing she appreciated. Her mouth opened a couple of times before she finally ground out, “You can do that by being the quietest partner ever.”

  He made the universal lip-buttoning gesture with one eyebrow cocked. Sorcha stared at him hard for a minute, before turning away and shaking her head. “Unholy Bones, I need a smoke.”

  Merrick followed her meekly into the stables. The idea of pointing out how the infirmary staff had told him that smoking of any sort was injurious to a person’s health popped into his head. However, pushing the point, he sensed, bordered on the dangerous. Many of the Deacons smoked and drank. It was not as if there was any injunction against it, and the life of a Deacon was generally not long.

  His would be shorter than most if he crossed his new partner. After what he’d seen as a child, his fear of her wasn’t going to go away. But he might have discovered a way to hide it.

  Inside, the lay Brothers had saddled up two of the Abbey horses for them. The Breed was almost as ancient as the Order; jet-black, tough as a mountain pony but as beautiful as any from the Emperor’s stable. If there was one real perk to doing battle with the forces of the Otherside, it was the chance to ride one of the Deacon Breed.

  None of the Deacons actually personally owned any of the Breed, since the only objects any of them kept solely for themselves were the tools of their trade, but particular animals became favored by certain Deacons. Sorcha was examining her stallion, running her hands down his legs and over the withers to check his fitness. She was taking more care doing this than she had in forging the Bond with Merrick. Sometimes being a Sensitive was too much to bear.

  “Shedryi?” Merrick cocked his head and examined the stallion. “He was shipped over from the old country, wasn’t he? A bit long in the tooth to be relied upon, surely?”

  Sorcha glanced up, and her look was pure venom. “And what about me, young Deacon? Would you say I’m a bit long in the tooth as well? Shedryi and I have a real relationship, which is more than can be said for us right now.”

  Not being that clued up on his horseflesh and also sensing danger in the air, he decided to concentrate on his own mount. As a novice he’d been trained to ride on a variety of lesser horses, and had sat on one of the Breed only in the last few months of training. He’d not settled on a favorite and was happy enough to accept the stablemaster’s choice.

  Melochi was smaller than Sorcha’s stallion, but she seemed well proportioned and more biddable. Her wide dark eye followed him with an expression that might have been resignation, but that was better than the fierce look in Shedryi’s. Merrick made a mental note to keep out of the stallion’s reach. He had a wicked look about him, as if he had understood the man’s aspersions. The pack mule, who he found out was named Horace, was tied to the pommel of Melochi’s saddle and looked resigned to his lot in life; following around the superior breed. Merrick wondered if that was to be his lot as well.

  Having completed her check of horses, mules and supplies, Sorcha swung up onto Shedryi. Merrick could have sworn she was still glaring at him. “I take it you are a g
ood enough horse-man to keep up.”

  He shrugged. “Winner of the All Novices four-hundred-yard gallop, runner-up in the—”

  “A simple yes would suffice,” Sorcha grumbled, her bandaged fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as if she were in pain.

  “Well, then . . . I suppose so.”

  “Good, because the fastest way north is going to be the road. The currents around Vermillion are treacherous this time of year, and no ships are leaving until next week at the earliest.”

  “The Abbot needs us there that urgently?” Merrick had been so long thinking about the ramifications of partnering with Sorcha that he had not really taken much note of their first assignment. “I can catch up on the details when I read the report,” he said as smoothly as possible.

  This was obviously immensely cheering to his new companion; she actually chuckled. “I’ll get you up-to-date with the salient points on the way, lad. You won’t have time on the ride to be reading any reports. Keeping your seat on these roads will be enough work.”

  And with that, Deacon Faris urged Shedryi out of the stable and onto the open road, leaving her fifth and newest partner to once again rush to catch up.

  FOUR

  No Place for Sanctuary

  Raed walked down to the beach with a knot in the pit of his stomach. By the rowboat, five of his crew members waited. Explaining to them the small concession he’d been able to get would be just a taster for explaining to the whole ship.

  The title Young Pretender was not one that Raed would have wished on anyone, and yet he had a crew of thirty men and women willing to tie their fates to his. He felt responsible, deeply aware that any decisions he made would affect them. Most followed him in the vague hope that one day he would sit on the Vermillion throne, others because their own families owed allegiance to his. Not one of them wanted him to have the same miserable existence as the Unsung.

  So now they traveled the coast, trading and stealing where necessary. Some might call it piracy, yet it was essential for them to keep moving. Even being this long on dry land made Raed a little nervous. He found himself down the cliff path to get to his crew, despite knowing that he bore bad news.

  Aachon, his first mate, was watching him with the eagle intensity the older man gave to everything. His clothes were as ragtag as everyone else’s, but somehow he pulled it off better than even Raed did. His olive complexion and dark hair could have made rags seem noble. Aachon had been looking after Raed for years, given the care of the Pretender by his father the Unsung. It was a duty that he took incredibly seriously.

  “How was your request received, my prince?”

  Raed had tried getting Aachon to call him by his given name; the request, or even the order, never seemed to stick for very long. He felt his stomach tense but he tried not to let any of it appear in his stance. “We have been given permission to berth in Ulrich.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.” Byrd, the youngest member of the rowboat crew, had none of his elder’s respect for the name and supposed title. Raed was often glad of it.

  Aachon’s head, however, jerked in his direction. Byrd took the hint and was silent. “Ulrich, my lord,” the first mate whispered under his breath, his expression dark. “Such a place is a deliberate insult.”

  The rest of the crew looked away, probably as embarrassed at Aachon’s feeling of dishonor as Raed was. Sometimes he felt his first mate should have been born the Pretender. He could certainly recite the whole family tree of the Rossin and name all the major battles in their history.

  Raed sighed and clapped a hand on his friend’s back. “We are starting to run out of sway in this neck of the woods. The new Emperor is gaining support every day. Some are saying he is a better ruler than any in my family ever were.”

  “But he is a usurper,” Aachon spluttered. “He has not the right to the throne that he sits on—they should remember their place!”

  “That is not what the Assembly are concerned with, and it was their choice, after all. Let’s keep our eye on the positives. For right now, we have to be able to keep on sailing. As long as we do, there is hope.”

  The two men held each other’s gaze for a moment, and it was Aachon who finally looked away. With a shake of his head he seemed to suddenly lose a few inches in height. “You are right, my lord—excuse my rash words. It matters little where we make repairs, as long as we do.”

  They quickly scrambled into the boat and pushed off. The feeling of water under him was soothing. He was glad to find that the Curse had not activated in the middle of Felstaad’s court; that would have put the cat among the pigeons, and would most likely have ended rather badly. He shot a look across at Aachon and guessed the same thought was probably in his head too.

  It had been nearly a year since he’d dared set foot on land, but it had been worth the risk. Felstaad would not have dealt with any of his crew, even the charismatic Aachon. Now at least they had a destination.

  Raed turned his head toward the mouth of the bay, and there moored in the gentle currents was home. Dominion was a small, fast brigantine, with a nice shallow draft that allowed her into shallow harbors that many could not travel. She was the one thing his father had ever given him, apart from an unwanted heritage, and now she was the only vessel in all the seas that still flew the flag of his family; a roaring lion with the tail of a mer-creature, the Rossin. It had once been a creature of magic. Now it made Raed shiver. It was a warning from the Ancients, one that none had believed until his birth.

  “My lord.” Aachon touched his shoulder, no doubt noticing the direction of his gaze. His first mate had the observational skills of the Sensitive Deacon he’d so nearly become. He lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder. The rest of the crew were busying pulling for the ship and bantering among themselves. “There was a little trouble while you were gone.”

  He opened his right hand to reveal the weirstone that had cost almost a chest of gold to obtain. The polished orb was cobalt blue, but every few moments a sheen of white gleamed over the surface. This had nothing to do with the light. Raed knew it was heavy but Aachon carried it as if it were a child’s toy—that, it most definitely was not.

  Deacons were not the only ones to commune with the unliving; they were just the best trained. Aachon’s family had always been seers; hence the Unsung’s choice of him as Raed’s protector. But Aachon’s skill was not of the first order, and it was only with the acquisition of the weirstone that he was able to See into the ether.

  Raed dared a glimpse into the orb. The stone thinned the barrier between the beyond and the real world. It was a very dangerous thing, and it made the hair on his arms stand up, but it had saved them all on numerous occasions. “What sort of trouble?” he asked through a dry throat.

  “A couple of shades on top of the cliffs. Probably the souls of people lost in a wreck of some sort.”

  Raed concealed a shudder as best he could. As always the image of his mother’s horrified face flashed in his eye, the taste of her blood in his mouth. Not for the first time did he wish that suicide was an option. If only his sister, Fraine, wasn’t next in line for the title Pretender and the Curse that went with it.

  He just had to do his best by staying on the ocean. It would have almost served Felstaad right if he’d run across a geist in his court . . . almost. That was the danger of dry land: the constant threat of geists. If they had crossed his path on the cliff tops . . . He pulled his mind away from that possibility.

  And now they would be sailing toward another port, and with Dominion being pulled from her native environment, he would have no choice. “Well, maybe if I just stay on the beach with my feet in the water while we’re in Ulrich, everything will be all right.” He chuckled.

  Aachon frowned, never a connoisseur of Raed’s sense of humor at the best of times.

  The Pretender shook his head with a little sigh. “What other choice do we have, old friend? Dominion needs to be repaired and scraped down. She’s slow in the water and
we’re leaking every time the sea gets rough. We can only survive if we can run.”

  It was actually possible to hear Aachon grind his teeth in frustration. Most people just used it as an expression; the first mate used it as a method of communication. He nodded reluctantly.

  They had reached the heaving sides of their ship. Raed scrambled up the side with the others while the rowboat was tied in close to her stern. He hadn’t been born to life on the open seas, but after so many years he was as nimble on deck as those who had been. Aloft in the rigging he might not be the fastest, but he had been known to climb up if an emergency called. He might be captain, but he was all too aware that it was a title he sometimes had to work at.

  Up on deck, the rest of the crew waited. They were a collection of every ethnic group on the continent, with a slight majority from the warmer southern climes where the legend of the Unsung still might mean something. Most were male, though several women had also tied their fortunes to the Pretender. Now all were looking at him and waiting for the word on how his petition had gone.

  “Well”—he grinned at them—“as I remembered, Felstaad is a bastard.”

  They snickered at that, but held back the belly laughs until certain of the outcome.

  “But I finally convinced him that he might want to at least cover all the angles and give us brief sanctuary. He’s allowing us to make use of Ulrich harbor.”

  As expected, his announcement wasn’t greeted with uproars of delight. Several whispers murmured through the crew as some of the assembled turned to their neighbors with quiet questions about the unfamiliar port. Raed managed not to take it personally. He didn’t hold it against them, but he knew it was a reflection of his standing in the world; once, the mere mention of his distant father would have brought a bushel of princes rushing to his aid. Since the Assembly at Briet had brought the Delmaire man over, life had gotten harder and harder. If he thought about it too much, he might just stop running altogether.