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.
EIGHT
Bringing Judgment
Merrick felt like he was sitting on a powder keg. Sorcha was mortally offended by the Young Pretender’s use of the weirstone and seemed unable to realize that their transport, and most likely their life, relied on him.
“He’s a danger,” Sorcha growled, sucking down the last of her cigar and flicking the remains over the edge. “We’re supposed to protect people from loose cannons like this Pretender.”
Something about being fished out of the water had really irritated the Deacon. It was almost as if she would have preferred to drown. The Bond between them was no weaker; Merrick could feel her tension in his own bones.
Wearily, he rubbed his head, feeling a headache build behind his eyes. He was unable to tell if it was his or hers. “We’re all tired, Sorcha. Can we please just rest and recover a little? Being attacked by two geists in four days has really taken it out of me, and you’ve had one more than that.”
Her eyes locked with his, and there was a strange giddy sensation as for a minute the Bond swallowed them. Both of them felt it, but it was Sorcha who turned pale.
“All right,” she whispered. “Yes . . . Yes, that is probably best.”
As she went into the cabin, Merrick turned around to find Nynnia at his side. Her dress was torn, but her dark hair had dried in soft curls around her face. Merrick’s eyes darted over her, but the tears in her clothing were not matched by any injuries he could see.
None of the crew was nearby; most of those not busy were clustered around the hold hatch where the Breed horses had finally been stowed. Gently, so as not to alarm her, Merrick took Nynnia’s arm and guided her farther away.
“I have arranged for you to stay in the Captain’s cabin,” he started. Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened a little. Merrick felt all the blood rush into his face. “Oh, no . . . no . . . The Captain has kindly given up his cabin. You will only be sharing with Deacon Faris.”
“Very well.” The young woman sighed. His partner had not taken any care to hide her dismissive attitude to the other woman, so it was Merrick who found himself making excuses.
“Faris has had a difficult week; her husband was badly injured and . . .”
“I’m sure she has,” Nynnia said quietly. “It’s just I don’t think she likes me very much.”
Merrick looked down into her soft brown eyes. For a woman who had survived both shipwreck and sea monster only to be rescued by what amounted to pirates, she was very calm. She seemed very young and yet there was a cord of strength in her that ran just as deep as in Sorcha. Through his Center, he glanced down at her. She was so vital and lovely it bled into the ether. With the Young Pretender and Nynnia on board, and with the water no longer providing protection from the geists, Merrick feared they were in great peril.
“She is not as bad as she seems, and it would be best if you stayed close to her.”
“Why?” Her doe eyes were wide, and with a lurch, Merrick recalled the feeling of her lithe body pressed against him while Melochi swam.
He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. On the whole, the Order frowned on discussing the Otherside with the ungifted; mostly, they believed it only inspired people to dabble with things they knew nothing of. Yet Nynnia was in as much danger as the rest of them and she deserved to know. Merrick cleared his throat, glancing around one more time just to be sure. “Have you heard of the Curse of the Rossin?” He made a subtle gesture up to where the flag of the beast flapped.
Nynnia looked at the flag with the mer-lion creature. Her brows drew together in a frown, still pretty but perhaps more human. “Everyone knows the Rossin is just a story, the creature that gave the ruling family their name . . .”
“And strength to rise to High King over all the other princes. We studied it in the Abbey; the most famous case of geist familial attachment in the book. This ancient unliving creature made a deal with the family, giving them its name and power to rule. In return they agreed that their heir would belong to the Rossin, and could never be born anywhere but Vermillion.”