Up on the quarterdeck, Raed the Young Pretender was giving orders to his crew. Nynnia followed Merrick’s gaze. To her the Captain would appear nothing more than a slightly rakish, bearded man, but when Merrick looked through his Center, he was almost blinded by the man. The halo of silver fire that burned through him was like a glimpse into the raging core of the Otherside.
Merrick could not look at him long through his Center. “The Unsung’s son was not born in Vermillion and he has inherited the Curse. The unliving are drawn to him . . . and when they touch him . . . the Rossin is unleashed.”
“Unleashed?” Nynnia smiled slowly. “But being a mer-creature . . .”
“The Rossin has many shapes, not all of them as pretty as the one on the flag, and all of them uncontrollable.”
“But they cannot cross water . . .” she whispered. “Everyone knows . . .”
“All the rules are being rewritten, Nynnia—even that one. We are not safe.”
She bit her lip and glanced down at her toes, swaying slightly. “What—what do you want me to do?”
“Stay close to Deacon Faris.” Merrick pressed her shoulder lightly. “She may be prickly as a desert cactus, but she is also the most powerful weapon against the geist.”
“Very well.”
With real relief he turned toward the quarterdeck himself.
“Merrick.” The tremble in her voice made him pause, as did her use of his name. “What are you going to do?”
“The thing I do best.” He smiled broadly and went up the first step. “Watch.”
Sorcha did not like the guard dog Merrick had set upon her. Those wide brown eyes followed her as she paced the Pretender’s cabin. Being closeted with nothing more than a girl, let alone a girl who was obviously made nervous by her, was demeaning. Sorcha realized that she had misjudged Merrick; he was a schemer. Making a deal with the Pretender was surely just the beginning of the end. Sensitives, if you didn’t watch them, could easily believe they were the boss in a partnership. Actives, they said, were nothing more than weapons to be used.
Sorcha strode to the window and looked out into the darkening sky. Night was sinking over the ship and, despite everything, she thought of the sea monster with a shudder. Surely that particular individual had had enough of life on the surface, but if the unliving could possess one, then they could possess others. That realization was deeply disquieting—enough to make her glad of her sharp-eyed partner above. Yet there was nothing for Sorcha to do but pace and feel uncomfortable under scrutiny.
She stalked the decks for a while, feeling more helpless than she had in years. On her return to the cabin she realized why.
In all her time as a member of the Order Sorcha had never let her Gauntlets be anything more than an arm’s reach away. But they had never been soaked in seawater, and so she had left them drying by the little range. The door was open a fraction and through it she saw something that made her freeze in place.
Nynnia wasn’t actually touching the talismans—that would have been dangerous—but her fingertips flickered over the tops of them. Curiosity was perhaps understandable—her words, however, were not. She was reciting the Litany of Dominion. Her voice was soft as she repeated the words an initiate learned in their first years in the Order.
Aydien, holds my foes as bay.
Yevah, my mighty shield of fire.
Tryrei, a peephole to the Otherside.
Chityre, the power of lightning in my fist.
Pyet, the cleansing flame consume them all.
Shayst, my enemies’ strength is mine.
Seym, makes me more than I am.
Voishem, no wall can hold me.
Deiyant, everything moves to my will.
Teisayt, the door to their world I dare not open.
The Deacon could not abide the travesty any longer. “You know the words, child.” Sorcha strode over and snatched up her Gauntlets. “But you should not meddle in the Order’s affairs.”
Nynnia flushed scarlet and scampered back to her side of the cabin. “Forgive me. I just heard the chant around the Priory.” She picked up some socks she was darning for the Captain and remained silent for the rest of the night.
Though the explanation made sense, it also disturbed the Deacon. What if Nynnia was more than just a stranger they’d encountered by chance? Sorcha shook her head. No—if anything was amiss with Nynnia, she trusted Merrick would have seen it. The world was already full of enough complications.
Trying her best to ignore her silent young companion, she decided that if the Pretender had given up his room, it was her golden opportunity to do some snooping. On the table were spread various sea charts that she could not see much of interest about, and the rest of the cabin was sparsely decorated. The only items that were intriguing were an old sea chest and a large leather-bound journal that she found rammed down the back of a battered chair.
Head on one side, she considered. One hand strayed to her Gauntlets while the other traced the outline of the embossed cover. She drew out one of the fine pins that held up her hair and set to work on the large brass lock of the journal. While the sea chest might contain treasures, the pages of a journal would reveal even more.
The little brown-eyed mouse in the corner squeaked. “I don’t think you should—”
Sorcha glanced over her shoulder. The woman was barely out of girlhood, sitting with her hands folded ever so properly. Undoubtedly she had some moral objection to Sorcha’s little piece of thievery, but then, maybe she’d never had to live in the real world. With a snort, Sorcha focused on the lock once more.
“No, I really think you should—” Nynnia ventured again.
“Don’t you dare—” Sorcha rounded on the other woman and then stopped. Standing in the doorway was the owner of the book she was trying to pry open.
For a moment, all three of them stared at one another like some comic tableau. In this light the Captain’s eyes were hard and green. Sorcha’s mind scrabbled for a witty excuse. In the intervening silence, the Pretender’s voice was flinty. “May you excuse us, Miss Macthcoll?”
The girl exited the room without so much as a whimper. Yet she shot Sorcha a strangely triumphant look, the expression of a far older woman.
Sorcha straightened and as calmly as possible slid the pin back into her hair. “I wasn’t aware that we had anything to say to each other, Captain Rossin.”
He carefully closed his own door and walked over to the table, his lips pressed together in a thin line above his neatly trimmed beard. Sorcha was not much of a Sensitive, but she was enough of one to sense something strange about the man. This close and all alone, he had a faint attractive scent: leather and sea salt. She couldn’t help it; she let her Center fall toward him.
Merrick was right. In the normal world Raed was a handsome man, but through geist-Sight this man blazed, and not just visually. Her partner had not mentioned the scent, but that was probably because he was a male. Raed’s was like a heady perfume. Sorcha’s Center enhanced all her usual senses, which could produce some rather uncomfortable chemical and physical reactions. With a little gasp, Sorcha put away her Center and dropped back into her body. She shook her head to try to get past the effect.
“Are you all right?” Raed leaned forward, his hand resting on the top of the charts. “Or just trying to apologize?”
Sorcha tried to still her racing heart. The unliving had many aspects, many ways to tempt mortals to bend to their will, and few were more primitive than sex. The possessed often displayed aggressive sexual behavior or urges. This man, this cursed man, had a flame in his core, a flame that was designed to draw people to him. Even those who weren’t Deacons would be unconsciously attracted to him; would find him good-looking, charming and very, very sexy.