Ashiakin listened to Dorian with a frown, his eyes still held captive by the ocean’s vague horizon. He was inclined to disagree with the composer, but felt that he might be more likely to be quiet if he did not challenge him. There were more important things for him to worry about than minor arguments with their captive academic. I can’t see what part Iorlan wants Dorian to play in all of this, he thought. He is knowledgeable, perhaps, but I have not heard a word of anything that could begin to save Salvar.

He could only roll his eyes at the man’s suggestion that they play at being three characters in a story. As distasteful as he found the idea, something nagged at him, telling him that there was sense in Dorian’s words. With the room’s temperament being as fragile as it was, there was no reason to fight against its wishes.

“Aye, comrades,” said Ashiakin half-heartedly, trying not to let Aerran and Dorian know how embarrassing he found this charade, “we’re off for treasure and women and glory and whatnot. Our enemies will rue the day they set eyes on us.”

Aerran smiled at Ashiakin, forcing back a laugh. “The seas look treacherous up ahead,” she said, playing along. “I hope we don’t run into any trouble.”

“There’d be no trouble that we couldn’t . . .” Ashiakin said, faltering, distracted by something that now loomed before their tiny vessel.

It was a door. He could say with certainty that it had not been there before, although he had no idea at what point it had appeared. It hung above the ocean, situated firmly in the air, with no walls or floors beside or beneath it. A great breeze ripped across the sea and the door flung open, clapping as if it was being struck against a wall by the wind.

“Well,” said Ashiakin, turning to Dorian and grinning reluctantly, “it seems that you weren’t as useless as I thought you’d be. Well done with that, really.”

But as he turned back, his heart sank. A giant hand—attached to an equally giant arm—was reaching through the open door and heading straight for their tiny ship. Its fingers were poised to capture the vessel in one swift motion.

“Ashiakin, Aerran!” a deep voice bellowed, seemingly from nowhere. “Dorian! Stand still and I will help you! You’ve nothing to fear, I’m getting you out of there!”

Ashiakin, still uncertain as to whether or not the hand was trustworthy, grabbed one of the vessel’s paddles and jabbed it like a spear into the center of its palm. The paddle snapped in half easily, a drop of blood splashing down onto the boat. Although the hand pulled back immediately, it surged forward with even more force and swept up the passengers into its gigantic fingers.

Ashiakin twisted and squirmed, trying to pry the fingers apart so that he would drop back onto the ocean. Then, on one of the fingers, he noticed something. It was the ring of an Arbiter of the Church of the Ethereal Sway.