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
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
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