Spectyr by Philippa Ballantine

addressing the Young Pretender. She was addressing his Curse: the geistlord within. Fear flooded up through Raed, and his thoughts darted to those belowdecks. The danger to his crew was real, and he had to do something.
    “Raed?” The hatch to the cabin popped open, and Tangyre emerged carrying a tray. For one frozen moment the three of them stood facing one another in an unlikely tableau.
    Then the stranger moved. Raed wascloser to ure what was going to happen, but what he certainly was not prepared for was the woman charging at him. He was suddenly caught in a tangle of arms and hair, and her strength was unexpected. Raed found himself tumbling over the gunwales with the woman clawing at his face.
    They hit the water hard. It was warm, murky and choked with silt and weed. Raed inhaled in shock and drew an unfortunate draft of it into his lungs. The woman’s hands were now on his throat, and there was nothing the Young Pretender could do. Her grip was like iron, and though his fingers scrambled at hers, he could not pry her loose. Raed caught a fractured glimpse of his attacker. She did not seem to worry about the water; instead, her gleaming eyes focused solely on him.
    A peculiar lethargy stole over Raed. A long second passed where just giving up felt like the easiest course. But then he thought of them. Fraine, his little sister, lost somewhere in the Empire, abandoned to a bloody and cruel fate. Sorcha, the redhaired Deacon, who he had said good-bye to on a pier. Her words had been strong, but her blue eyes had been soft. He’d been certain they would see each other again.
    For those two, he would not give up. Yet he was falling—spiraling into darkness. What other choice did he have but to call out to the Rossin? His Curse. His enemy. His only hope.
     
    Down in the depths of blood and bone, the Rossin stirred as his host called. Life was fading around them both, smothered in dank river water and under the golden eyes of the woman.
    It could stay quiet and let their attacker have her way. By the time that twisted geistlord had crushed the Young Pretender, the Rossin would already be far away inside the body of Fraine—next in the bloodline.
    Yet that powerful entity did not like to give in to another of his kind, and the royal line was not as large as it had once been. Hatipai may have been a shadow of her former power, but he was not. The Rossin called on his shape.
    Raed’s body was his material, and the geistlord stirred and molded it to his own purposes. Sinew and muscle snapped, twisting out of the woman’s unnatural grip even as her hands clawed deeper. The Rossin’s mer-shape, the one that was emblazoned on the flag that flew over the Dominion , sprang into being; the front a great pard, all claw and tooth, while the rear of it a coil of mighty scales and fins. The muscle-bound shape flicked its tail and dived deeper.
    Hatipai’s hand was wrapped around its fin, and she would not let go. The Rossin roared into the water and snapped at her with long teeth.
    It was beginning to recall how it felt to have a real enemy. Those of its kind that had relied on the faith and worship of humans had faded and withered. He had never expected to face another.
    Yet here she was, in a form stitched of stolen bodies, glaring at him with radiant hatred.
    You helped them imprison me. You betrayed me to humans! After all these generations her voice was the same, as beautiful as broken stained glass.
    You wanted to destroy my bloodline, my home, he replied as he swam deeper, all the time twisting and turning to shake her off, but not quite able to reach her with his teeth.
    It didn’t matter. She wore a human body. It could be a useful thing but also a liability—especially when stolen and stitched as hers was. It told the Rossin one important thing; she had to be on the very edge of nonexistence to form such a worthless vessel.
    Yet, as the Rossin swam deeper and deeper, he realized something else—so was he. The battle