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a pious luminary. Is that so bad?”
    “No,” Deacon said, unable to keep the weariness from his tone.
    “You might sound a bit more enthusiastic.”
    “I am.” But for Deacon, the half-lie set him teetering on the brink of a sin. All he really wanted was Jarl’s stories back, his mother fussing over him, and the chance to go to the schoolhouse with all the other children, even at the cost of a bloody nose from Brent Carvin once in a while.
    Aristodeus sighed. “I expected a degree of gratitude, but then, what do I know? There is a gulf of years between us, young Shader. It may be that I need to modify my approach. Tell you what, let’s take a short break.” He patted down his robe. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen my pipe, have you?”
    Deacon shook his head.  
    At least he didn’t voice the lie this time. In his mind, that made the sin less serious. He’d hidden the pipe earlier, knowing the philosopher would grow too irritable to teach until he’d found it.
    “Must have left it indoors,” Aristodeus said. “Take an hour to yourself. When we resume, let’s go at it with a little more gusto, shall we?”
    “Yes, Magister .”
    The second Aristodeus disappeared inside the house, Deacon slipped through the garden gate and set off at a run through the woods.
    An hour later, he found his father coming down from the hills that sheltered Friston from the sea. Jarl looked tired and haggard, every bit like a man who’d been away from home too long and badly needed a good meal, a hot bath, and bed.
    “Deacon?” Jarl said, stumbling into a run to meet him. “Aren’t you supposed to be studying?”
    “Got the day off,” Deacon lied, wincing at the sins mounting up. Next visit to Brinwood Priory was going to be a long one.
    “So, you came to see your old pa?” Jarl’s face softened, and he ruffled Deacon’s hair.  
    It was rare for Jarl to look anything but stern, except at nighttime, when he read to Deacon or made up ghost stories around the hearth fire.
    “I’ve… I’ve missed you, boy.”  
    He never called Deacon “son” and only rarely used his name. But at the same time, it was Jarl who encouraged Deacon to call his mother and father by their given names, which is something none of the other children were allowed to do. Gralia berated him about it from time to time, but all she got for her efforts was a huff and a grunt.
    “Then make Aristodeus go away.”  
    The words came out more harshly than Deacon intended, and he realized then just how unhappy he’d become.
    “Can’t do that,” Jarl said.
    A horn sounded, and Jarl looked off up the hill he’d just come down.
    “The alarum,” he said. “The Watch must have spotted something. Tell you what, why don’t you tag along?”
    No sooner had they crested the rise, than a man came tearing across the coastal path that ran atop the Downs.
    “Reavers, Jarl!” he yelled before he closed the distance. “Three ships in the Channel.”
    Jarl glanced at Deacon, then they jogged toward the man.  
    “Gallic?” Jarl asked.  
    Most trouble came from the province of Gallia across the Maranorean Channel.
    The man drew up panting before them. Deacon had never seen him before, but that didn’t mean a thing. Besides the families of some of the local children, he rarely got to see anyone; his mother wouldn’t allow it on account of the risk of corruption.
    “Either that or the Isles,” the man said. “You want us to fire the beacons?”
    Deacon let his gaze run along the line of hills receding into the distance. Atop the highest were set pyramids of wood that could be doused with oil and torched at the first hint of danger.
    “Not yet,” Jarl said. “Let’s get a look at them first.”

REAVERS

    A top the clifftop of Craven Head, the wind skirled in hazardous gusts. Deacon blinked against the icy spray coming off the Channel and tried to focus on where his father was pointing. The sea tilted, the ground lurched, and he swayed out toward the