Leaning out the window, the breeze throwing his hair back and deafening his ears to the sounds of the city below, Galier could almost be convinced that he was out on the water himself, commanding a ship as he had once before. The smell of the docks, of salt and tar, was near enough and the misty drizzle that came from encroaching ctormclouds shared some kinship with the spray of broken waves. Those sensations had never had much appeal to him before, but since Jormand’s departure, he found himself more and more drawn to the sea and to the memories of a life spent navigating that vast expanse. Out there he wasn’t alone, not like he was here in Maerin.

He thought it strange that memories such as those tugged so firmly on his heart. He knew that he had never enjoyed the sailing or the soldiering that Martim Derran had insisted on. In his mind he knew that well, but as of late he thought of those days often, and half of the time, when he wasn’t resentful or angry towards the old man, he found himself staring out at the ocean wistfully, hungering for the swaying of a good ship’s deck beneath his feet. The rough hewn wood of the Captain’s Cat was a poor replacement.

He’d watched the lone ship depart from the harbor that morning. Its lying flag, marked with the sigil of house Teloway, whipping from side to side and telling of the storm to come. For a moment he had considered rushing down to board it himself. He had felt compelled to. The season, the weather, it all reminded him of Derranhall and he found himself missing his time there as he never had before.

He couldn’t really put a finger on what it was that he missed. In truth, it had mostly been miserable. Martim had been a harsh and sometimes brutal teacher―especially to Jormand, though Galier had been on the receiving end on more than one occasion―and there had been little time left for Galier to enjoy. It was all marching, sailing, and fighting. Things that Galier had no aptitude for, as Martim had often said. Galier had been ecstatic when he and Jormand had been ordered to sail south for Maerin. So why was he longing for what had been torture to him back then?

He shook his head and put the thought out of his mind, hoping to just live with the pleasant sensations for the time being, but the spell was already broken. It all crumbled to bitterness with those memories. With a sigh he pulled himself back into his stuffy little office. His skin tingled as he wiped cold mist away and it began to warm. Some things about the sea were less pleasant than others. With one last look towards the harbor, he pulled the heavy shutters closed and bolted them tight. Storm clouds deeply darkened the horizon. Today was not a day to leave windows open.

Galier’s little office, narrow and crowded with its few pieces of furniture, was considerably more inviting now. A desk free of clutter and a conscience free of guilt for neglecting the work made the room seem bigger, somehow.

But even though the ledgers and contracts that had, until only hours ago, filled his desk as well as his mind were gone now, he felt as if there was something he was forgetting. Some task that had slipped his mind in the sheer mass of work he had suddenly taken on, only he could not think about what it could possibly be. The uncertainty settled in his stomach like a ball of lead but he tried to put it out of mind.

There was nothing to be done about what was forgotten and he was feeling decisive, so instead of fretting about it, he decided to take ation. He had nothing pressing to see to and, despite the weather, or perhaps because of it, he felt like a walk. A long one. Wandering through the city was unfailingly a calming activity, especially on days when oppressive clouds bore down, turning the deep streets into dismal tunnels. The city felt different when it wasn’t baking beneath the southern sun. The wind and rain made Maerin into an alien place, like it wasn’t being used for its intended purpose. Some people said it made them feel uncomfortable, but for Galier it was exhilarating.

The streets would be near to empty with the storm approaching and even though his bout of nostalgia had been interrupted, something about the weather and the season made him want to be out in it.

He stopped by his own room before leaving the inn. Keeping it reserved even when the inn was full didn’t make the most financial sense and Galier was tempted to just let it go more and more frequently. He only used it sporadically; often he ended up sleeping in his office anyway. But it did serve a purpose. His office was not nearly large enough to fit the ornate bureau that took up half of one wall. Inside were Galier’s most prized possessions. Coats, jackets, shirts, and tunics of the most luxurious and exotic fabrics money could buy. Jewelry and ornaments crafted by long-dead master smiths that were worth more than his inn. Few in Maerin could hold a candle to Galier’s collection. It always filled him with a swell of pride to fling open the ornately carved doors and feast his eyes on the riches within. Or it usually did. Today he did not spend a moment longer dressing than was necessary. Today his purpose was not to impress or astound. It was practical.

He chose a simple wool coat, dark blue with a minimum of crimson embroidery, much more modest than he would usually wear, but it would be getting colder. He would want the added warmth. It was cut in an old northern style, hardly fashionable at all, but it allowed for a wider range of movement and the thick wool would keep water off for hours. Bundled inside the coat was a short linen tunic, red to match the embroidery, and a short pair of sailor’s breeches.

It was the coat he had worn to Maerin the first time. Designed to look archaic at Martim’s order and crafted to allow for Galier to perform the duties of a ship’s captain without impediment. He hadn’t worn it since then, opting to replace it soon after. Martim had seemingly forgotten Galier was even there after his big entrance.

Even though he would be dressing plainly, Galier was sure to make himself look presentable. He touched up his makeup in a small mirror on his washstand. Nothing too extravagant, nothing that would run too heavily in the rain. He confined himself to those pastes and powders that would not be too negatively affected by the weather.

He left the room looking much less like a man of his station, his hair combed and styled simply, his clothes arranged in a manner befitting perhaps a successful merchant, and his face painted properly. Not ostentatiously. It was functional, if not to his usual standard. Today he did not want to be the seat of a noble house. Anyone who saw him would pass him by without much thought. A lord of little importance maybe, or a somewhat successful businessman. Exactly what he had been before Martim’s death. Before everything had been turned on its head.

He did not pass a single person until he made it to the common room. One man sat at the bar, his head held in his hands, while the bartender refilled his drink. Neither of them acknowledged Galier as he passed.

The streets were nearly empty outside of the Captain’s cat. So empty that the faint sound of traffic out of sight was the only thing that could be heard, aside from the constant crashing of waves. Everyone would be hidden away in their homes, waiting for the coming storm. Galier would be too, if he had any sense and he did consider it, but something made him want to move. Better to do it now than to wait until he could no longer restrain himself and burst out into a torrential downpour. He would just have to find some place to shelter when the storm broke.

The stairs creaked as he descended, the wood already beginning to moisten and warp with the storm’s damp prelude. He could have had them built out of stone, with the amount of times he had had them replaced so far, it might have even been cheaper, but people came to the Captain’s cat for the atmosphere and authenticity. Stone steps would not have fit.

As he took the last step onto the cobblestone street, he turned to look at the staircase. It was beginning to look dingy again. Perhaps a little too real. A noble clientele expected certain standards. He sighed and shook his head ruefully. Maybe stone would be the way to go this time. He would have to wait some months though, it wouldn’t do any good to have the wood replaced only to have it damaged by the coming months of rain and damp, cloudy days that were to come.

Making a note in his head to see to it that the steps were replaced, he wandered into the roadway proper, where the cobbles were noticeably more worn compared to those on the sides, where he promptly ran directly into a woman rushing down the street.

Galier stumbled backwards, trying to catch his balance on the uneven stones, but it was to no avail. He flailed for a few paces before landing on his rear on a particularly uneven patch of cobblestones. He hissed in pain and knew that he would be feeling those stones for days after.

The woman he had run into managed to keep her footing much better than he, though she let the small bundle of leather-encased scrolls she had been carrying tumble to the pavement, where she was now scrambling to pick them up. She was having considerable trouble, what with trying to pick them up while keeping her wide-brimmed straw hat on her head with one hand. It was meant to keep off the worst of the sun, Galier assumed, as it did not appear to be helping much with the rain.

He scrambled over to help and found the scrolls to be confoundingly difficult to handle. The smooth leather cases were already thoroughly wet, despite only having been exposed to the thin drizzle for a few moments, and his fingers couldn’t easily grip them. He did manage to get them into a pile eventually, aided by a substantial amount of cursing.. The woman handed him a ribbon to tie them together with, it would be easier to keep them together that way, and as he looked up to take it, he recognized the damp face under the hat’s brim.

It was vague, like a familiar voice calling from streets away and it took him a moment to place. She clearly had some old blood heritage, her deeply tanned skin, dark hair, and dark eyes were enough of a clue, but she wore commoners’ clothes. A simple dress after the old blood style, little more than sheets tied at the waist, shoulders, and wrists, and utilitarian leather sandals. The sandals and dress were hardly ornamented at all and added with the pastoral hat, she certainly did not look like anyone important.

He handed her the newly tied bundle of scrolls and she smiled with thanks. Then it hit him, where he had seen her before. When he had first run across the philosopher Stellaphrena giving a speech in a square on the southern side of the city, and then again at her lecture near the shore. It had only been a week ago. Strange that it felt so long. Each day felt like twenty as of late, though they passed too quickly to notice. Now if only he could remember her name… Ana something? Perhaps just Ana? It seemed a little too simple for the old blood…

She offered him a hand and he graciously took it, standing up with a little more pain from his bruised rear than he would have liked. He nodded to her in thanks, but when he looked up, she was bent almost double in a surprisingly practiced bow.

“Lord Derran,” she murmured in a voice that sounded mortified that she could have possibly been an inconvenience to him. “Forgive me, I was not watching where I was going.”

Galier was taken aback. He had been about to apologize himself, the collision had obviously been his fault. He had not been watching the road and assumed it to be empty, or that anyone there would make way for him. He felt properly chagrined about that.

“Oh please, it was my fault. I should have been more careful.” Galier replied in what he hoped was a disarming tone. In truth he wasn’t sure, he had just had the beginnings of an idea, and while the gears spun in his head, his mouth lagged behind.

Ana nodded, as if accepting Galier’s apology, but her subservient posture said that she did not really. Well, it was the best that Galier could hope for. Commoners were a strange lot, especially the old blood. Few ever came over from their motherland. Usually only those with close ties to nobility. Favored servants, important warriors, occasionally a makeup artist or tailor, but rarely did they come alone.

Ana finally straightened fully, though she still looked at Galier with her head down and eyes peering up from below the rim of her straw hat. Strange. He hadn’t remembered her acting like that before. Strange to think that anyone who followed Stellaphrena would defer to nobility. Perhaps it was only an instinct to keep out of trouble. Some of the more powerful and more distant ladies and lords had reputations of being dangerous to cross, especially if your name did not carry much weight. Especially the old blood.

“You’re Ana, right?” Galier asked, encouraging her with a smile. He didn’t want to develop a reputation like that, especially with his newfound importance. He knew the value of having contacts in the lower circles of Maerin. Lana had reminded him.

She nodded. “I’m honored that you would remember, m’lord.” She murmured, her voice hardly louder than the sound of the soft rain on her hat, but she looked a little less hesitant. That was better at least.

Galier had learned from Lana that these things took time. A life spent stepping cautiously around nobility made for habits that were difficult to shake.

He wished he hadn’t thought of Lana. The pain of her betrayal still stung, no matter how many times he told himself that he didn’t care, that he’d only known her for a matter of days. The thought that she might have been captured by the guards, or worse, hurt more still.

Shaking his head to clear it and clenching his teeth to focus, Galier handed the bundle of scrolls back to Ana. She took them back hesitantly and flashed him a quick smile before tentatively continuing on her way down the street, her feet splashing in the small puddles that accumulated between cobblestones.

Galier stayed in the roadway, unsure of where to go now. He did not want to go the same way as Ana. She already seemed uncomfortable around him and he didn’t want to make her unduly anxious but if he went the other way, he would only end up in the harbor proper. Crisscrossed with canals that would be flooding soon and more or less devoid of the cover tall buildings provided, it would not be the safest place to be during a storm.

Then Ana looked back, damp chin brushing her shoulder.

“Are you coming?” She asked, still continuing on her way as if it were a foregone conclusion.

Did that mean there was another lecture today? He couldn’t imagine Ana would be inviting him anywhere else.

Galier shrugged and jogged to catch up with her. He had nothing better to do now, and he had an inkling of how he might play it to his advantage. The last time he had heard Stellaphrena speak, she had railed against the established aristocracy. Well, perhaps not quite that, but she had expressed an amount of discontent. Her students seemed to agree. If he could somehow get them to support lord Kalagor’s little coup against the Monarch… Well, suffice to say, it would not hurt to have more support. Galier still did not know how much of a help the army Martim had been gathering would be. Northmen were not known for being particularly skilled soldiers. Not compared with the dedicated imperial troops that seemed to be swelling in numbering within the city walls as of late.

He had heard whispers from the patrons at his inn that it was more than that too. Small holdings outside of the city seized to quarter troops. Abandoned farmsteads that suddenly seemed to be occupied but with no crops planted and no livestock grazing. No, a group of supporters within the city would not hurt. Especially if those supporters would not get caught up in the political tensions that surely existed between the leaders of this revolt. Lord Kalagor and lady Ealhold were not the best of friends and who knew where Unferth’s loyalties really lay. With his purse no doubt.

Regardless, Galier could do with some supporters of his own. House Derran was playing a pivotal role, but it was as if Martim’s ghostly hand was directing every action. Galier himself held little sway, if any. He was a placeholder. They would want to be rid of him as soon as a successor for Martim was chosen. He would have to prove himself to be indispensable before that happened if he wanted to stand any sort of chance.

Running only a little recklessly, Galier was able to catch up to Ana and her quick stride. She covered a grin with one hand as he splashed up, his unbuttoned coat blowing wide in the wind and his hair wet and tousled. Strangely enough, he didn’t really mind. He was excited for the lecture. He had only been to one before. Well, one and the tail end of another. But the way Stellaphrena spoke captivated him and left him wanting to hear more. It was strange. He knew that he should not be listening to what she had to say but… If he was willing to overthrow the rightfully appointed ruler of Maerin, what was a little more?

It was a poor justification. He knew it. He just didn’t care. It was enough that he was free from the monotony of contracts and ledgers that had enveloped his life since his instatement as house seat. It was enough to have his interest piqued, no matter how foreign and antithetical to the world he knew those ideas were. Perhaps that wasn’t the worst thing. The world he knew could be brutal, uncaring, and dangerously corrupting. He had always known as much, but speaking to Lana, hearing the things that she had accepted as simple facts of life. Beatings and murders in broad daylight, worse crimes too, the kind Galier preferred not to think about, all perpetuated by what she had called “his kind” with a sneer… Who was to say what Stellaphrena preached might not be better? Not that he really believed it.

Galier noticed that he was lagging behind, lost in thought, and Ana was beckoning for him to hurry. He obliged, quickening his pace so that they could walk shoulder to shoulder.

“So how did you like the last lecture?” Ana asked probingly, once Galier had caught up again. She obviously wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but what had he really expected of a commoner? A stilted conversation wasn’t the worst thing.

“It was interesting,” Galier replied, “Well maybe a little more than interesting.”

He grinned and shook his head, thinking about how caught up in it all he had been. He had tried writing down some of what he had heard a few hours after the lecture, back at home, but everything he was able to produce did not even compare with what he had heard. He had been left with a jumble of ideas on a stack of crumpled parchment, hardly any of it coherent or connected at all. He was eager to hear it from Stellaphrena’s mouth again. He must have missed something, it had all made so much more sense when she had said it.

Ana gave him a knowing look that dimpled her cheeks under their sheen of mist.

“She has that effect on people.” Ana said fondly. “It doesn’t work so often on… people like you, though.”

What did she mean by “people like him” exactly? Nobles, maybe. Stellaphrena’s ideas couldn’t be very appealing to them. But Galier had seen young Scythese of Sapho there, he was one of Stellaphrena’s most ardent followers, or so he gathered. Did she mean northmen? He hadn’t seen many there, but then again, the southern district of Maerin was populated mostly with old blood families rather than new, and by extension, their servants, soldiers, and tradesmen who all happened to be of the old blood as well, more often than not.

It didn’t really matter, though it did make Galier feel a little uncomfortable. Stellaphrena had made it clear that he was welcome to attend the lecture and Ana had encouraged him to come with her… She didn’t even seem to notice the effect of what she had said. She continued on her way, completely oblivious. Galier chalked it up to poor conversational skills and elected to change the subject.

“How long have you been attending her lectures?” He asked, hoping that he could learn a little more about Stellaphrena’s ideology through one of her students. It might help him make sense of things if he had a little more background knowledge.

“Oh I don't know,” Ana said with a shrug, “Maybe three years, maybe four… I followed her over from Sapho. We stopped in Thais for a while, then came here. To tell you the truth, it doesn't feel like that long at all.”

Galier knew that Stellaphrena had spent a good part of her self imposed exile in Sapho, ostensibly training with seers―women who claimed to be able to see the future. She still wore the veil to show it, but he hadn’t realized just how long she had been collecting followers for. It might be difficult to convince them to cooperate with his plan if they were attached to her leadership. He might have to convince Stellaphrena herself, a substantially more difficult task, he would be willing to wager.

“Did the others come with you from Sapho too?” Galier asked.

Ana laughed and shook her head, flinging little water droplets around from her loose hair. “No, no. Not many of us actually decided to leave. She had a much bigger group there, you know.” She nodded to herself wistifully, as if remembering a better time. Galier understood that feeling well.

“Only a few of us are left now,” Ana continued on, “You met Tyche, she was training with the seers in Sapho, like me. So was Sancte, have you met her?”

Galier shook his head. The auditorium had been filled to bursting with students, memorizing all of those names would take years, he thought.

Ana shrugged. “You’d like her,” she said offhandedly. “Oh and of course there’s Scythese. He was there before me and Tyche. I don’t actually know how long. I’ve heard some people say since he was a boy, ten years or more. Think about that…” She trailed off, staring down the street, then blinked and took a sharp breath. “The rest were already here, as far as I know, like you. Most of them are working folk though. I’m sure you understand why it might appeal to them.”

Galier nodded. He did understand, all too well. If enough people believed in what Stellaphrena had to say, people like him, the aristocracy, would be obsolete. Perhaps that was ideal for the working people of Maerin, but he knew the nobles would resist. And they had a lot of good bronze and iron to resist with. If that was Stellaphren’as goal… Well, it would probably make it easier to convince them to oppose the Monarch. The difficulty would be afterwards…

Ana did not seem to notice the awkward pause as Galier contemplated the possibilities that line of thinking produced and she was more than happy to keep talking about Stellaphrena. She spoke reverently, with bated breath and never lacked something more to say. It was electrifying. That feeling of enraptured attention he had felt at the lecture, it wasn’t only him. Ana understood too. She spoke of Stellaphrena with the awe most reserved for the empress herself. Except it was real.

***

Scythese dragged his feet and walked with his head down through the beginnings of what would likely be a long and violent storm. The mild rain soaked through his hair, leaving it lank and hanging before his eyes. The soles of his sandals snagged on cobblestones with each step, nearly carrying him to the ground, but he kept moving. He couldn’t stop moving. He had somewhere to be…

Around him the tall buildings of Maerin reared through the mist, making strange, towering shadows in the haze. The storm would break soon, Scythese could feel it. The fine hairs on his arms stood on end. Droplets of water clung to the ends of each one. With every step, he sprinkled the pavement with a fine spray. It chilled him to the bone.

His tunic was plastered to his back and the front hung down wetly. He had been in the rain for some time now, but he couldn’t be sure quite how long. He had started the day by paying a visit to the harbor. To a specific harborside workshop. The rain had started just after he left. That had to be hours ago now… Since then, Scythese’s mind had been awhirl with impossibilities.

Osmund’s shop hadn’t been anything special. The man was just another harborsmith. It was nothing more than a smithy and a storefront crammed between a warehouse on one side and a canal on the other. Nothing special.

Scythese had arrived after the shop should have opened. The door had been ajar, light spilling out from inside, reflecting on the wet street outside. It squealed when Scythese entered, strange for a smith’s shop, he’d thought.

Strange was the wrong word. Even now, Scythese convulsed remembering it.

The floorboards within were as wet as the street. Shining and rippling with flawlessly reflected lantern light. A sea of crimson to mirror the one outside. This one as still as the other was violent.

Scythese had never met Osmund before, never even seen the man, but Stellaphrena had described him well.

With toned muscles far beyond what a smith really needed, Osmund was the paragon of a new blood man. He was tall, that had been evident, even though he had been on the floor. And he was beautiful. Pale skin, pale beyond possibility, and blood red lips that still held the last fading vestiges of a sultry smile…

Scythese stopped dead in the middle of the street. His feet refused to move any further. Tremors were spreading from his hands inward, and with them, veins of cold so powerful it forced tears through his tightly shut eyelids.

His lips trembled with sobs even as his stomach forced up mouthfuls of bile. He was long empty, but the merciful rain had washed all that away. There wasn’t anything left. His body didn’t seem to care. What else could there be? Something, something had to still be there. Something had to be causing the shakes, the vomiting, the tears, and the cold. Oh, and the COLD.

He rammed a fist into his mouth to try to stop the pitiful squeal that came from deep within somewhere. Teeth bit deeply into his flesh, but his mouth already tasted like blood, what was a little more? A little more cursed blood…

Oh but he could feel it coursing through him, ceaselessly and without mercy. It beat with a discordant rhythm that shook what little there was of him. It was so vast, what was he compared to it?

Stellaphrena told him there was no curse. It was nothing but a story. Only it wasn’t. Oh but it WASN’T. Right then Scythese could feel that it was real. There was something in there, pervading every part of his worn and weak flesh. Something that should not BE there!

Trembling with the exertion of moving muscles that worked against him, Scythese moved himself. Slowly. Slowly but onward.

The steps did not come easily. Each splash and jarring impact on the cobbles made him want to scream. It was all too much. He felt it too much. His blood didn’t want him to move. It wanted him to collapse in the street and it wanted him to think. So he didn’t.

Stumbling was too generous a term to apply to what he did. Using his hands and his knees, even his elbows as often as his feet, Scythese forced his rebellious body down the empty street. No one was there to witness his shame. The thought made him want to laugh, but he was crying too much.

So he kept going, dragging sodden flesh wrapped in tattered cloth across the stones towards a salvation that he knew awaited him. Somewhere ahead of him, beyond the rows of identical buildings.

He passed ministry after ministry. Each one glowed with a welcoming light and offered respite. Inside there would be comfort and a solution, if a temporary one. But he never made it to a door. Something else moved him further.

He had been to the ministries before, many times. They tended to his curse and they would again, but it would still be there. It still lurked just beyond. They could make it disappear for a time, but then something would happen and it would return, always stronger.

He froze once again, his teeth clenched and lips pressed together so hard that they shook with the effort. He tried to keep the cry inside but he could still hear it, like the whining of a fly that would not leave his ear. With it came fresh hot tears, leaching what little warmth was left in him out where it ran with the rain.

Then he moved again, and on and on, through endless identical tunnels, walled by buildings and roofed by angry clouds that washed away his shame. Every step, the rain cleaned him again and let him continue on until, finally, blissfully, he stopped outside of a familiar stone edifice.

The door stood open and inside it was dark as night. He stumbled in on hands and knees. Gone from the cleansing rain, he left bloody handprints on the floor and made them unrecognizable as he pulled torn knees across them. Inside it was cold, but it didn’t matter because at that moment the cold within him, the cold that permeated his bursting veins, abated.

Because she was there. Sitting upon the lip of the stage, hands folded on her lap. She was waiting for him.

She stood as he entered. Resplendent in a dark dress that twinkled with captured starlight, she consumed his whole vision. Behind him, the door closed. The only light came from her, because she shone. She shone from stars on her dress, stars in her hair and stars in her eyes.

Oh those beautiful eyes. He had so longed to see them. He could admit it now. Always hidden and tempting him behind the most meager of veils. They shone brightest of all, her pupils replaced by points of light so bright that they illuminated her whole face, casting jagged, shattered shadows upon him. He basked in the light, grateful that it could be given to him.

“You found him, didn’t you disciptor.” She said. She knew of course, it was right that she knew.

Scythese nodded, shaking drops of water from his hair and drops of blood from his lips onto the floor.

She smiled and he smiled along with her. She offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet and they stood, only inches apart.

“I’m proud of you, disciptor,” She murmured and Scythese could feel her breath against his forehead. He was shaking, all of him, but it wasn’t the curse. It had subsided. No, this was different. It too was cold, it too gripped him, body and mind, but she was the cause.

She leaned even closer and he felt her lips press against his forehead. Cool and smooth and oh so soft. His skin tingled with barely contained fire threatening to burst. He could hear himself panting like a dog but it was far off and faint. Her arms closed around him, holding him up as he sagged on weak and mangled knees. But she was strong. She would not let him fall.