ORIGINAL FICTION - fantasy - (6 Parts)

[starpollen]

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Chapter One

Clicking.

Ticking.

A quiet clanking of tin sheets and soft snicking of gears and springs. A light brush against the cheek, snow falling through starlight…

The clicking turns to ominous chittering… the hungry snapping of metallic jaws… the clattering of hinged legs…

A face, rugged, with a strong jaw and corded neck. But the skin is pale, the gray eyes shadowed. A ribbon of blood curves down from the dark hairline to the ashen cheekbone. The lips move, but make no sound…

A shape floats behind his head, all whisps and smoke – a coiled snake with a golden rose in its grasp.

The chittering becomes louder, closer. Suddenly there isn't enough air, the darkness pressing in tight and hard all around…

I wake with a gasp, throwing one hand out in front of me as if to push against the offending night. Sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades, my hair moist, thick and heavy against my neck.

Gods, I hate this part. The heaving breaths, the dry throat, the cloying damp that makes my nightdress stick to me uncomfortably while my heart thunders like a summer storm in my chest. My nose tickles and I let loose a gut-wrenching “HEK-SNNSHSHHEW!” before I can stop myself.

I throw the blankets off with a groan, my bare feet hitting the stone floor as I snatch my nightdress up from my hips and toss it to my sleeping pallet. For just a moment I revel in the night air that slips across my bare skin before I shrug on my batist tunic, lifting my long hair free and wrapping it around itself to tuck it away from my still-sweaty neck. Fumbling around in the dark for my cincher, I hiss as pain explodes from my foot when I stub my toe on the pallet frame.

“OWw! Hehh… IKSSSHHEWW! Heh-KNNGT!” I’ve got to stifle them or I won’t be able to do what I must do next.

I don’t bother to light the small stub of a hand candle. My fingers follow the grooves in the walls until I find the heavy oak door, and give it a firm shove. Light stampedes into my eyes, causing me to squeeze them shut with another hiss, pinching my nose closed as another sneeze tries to sneak forth. “IIH-kkgnxxt!” Shuffling down the musty corridor, I cross my arms and press my hands to my ribs, praying I won’t meet any of the other Sisters. They are all so…what’s the word? Fervent? Childlike?

Annoying.

Every single one of them lives for this. As I listen to the too-loud-whisper of the fabric against my legs and try not to snuffle the congestion that I know will shnungk loudly if I inhale, I slow my pace in case any of them happens to sleep light. I can’t help but wish it were one of them making this muted trek. But alas, no. It’s me.

It’s always me.

Reaching the inner courtyard, I veer to the right and make my way towards the west wing, careful to keep in the shadows made by the fluted roofline. The moon is strong tonight, and its rays would only exacerbate the problem.

Outside the doors to the Nave, I can see the two guards standing vigil. Eunuchs both, old and wizened, they nod in greeting as I approach. Not for the first time, I curse my mother, the goddess Gredna, and my own rotten luck. Why did I have to be born a girl? Why did my mother have to have her wretched fascination with the Priestesses of Sight, and the dark waters of the Gifting Pool?

“Heehhhhh…” my breath comes ragged. I squelch another sneeze in my elbow, “Eeeeee-IIKXNGT!” Gods, the tickle is getting worse.

I cross the threshold and push such thoughts from my mind. Inside, the Nave is eerily, dangerously silent. Moonlight descends in a bright shaft from the center oculus of the dome, falling onto a silvery globe the size of a large pumpkin sitting on its golden pedestal. Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and approach the center dias where the Orb sits. It is a fickle thing, the Orb. One must be careful not to leak emotions or stray thoughts when in its presence, or one may find herself anything from mildly stunned to instantly sublimated.

Once at the steps to the dias, I turn my hands in the age-old position of supplication, woodenly whispering the prayers that ask the goddess to bless my endeavor, and receive my Trace. Feeling the pressure building up inside my nose, I close my eyes, open my mouth, and...

"Ah... aah... uhg... aaaaGSHHOUH!"

Although I did not see it, I know what a bystander would have observed. A shimmering misty fountain would have accompanied my sneeze, laden with my night’s vision, and would have wrapped itself around the Orb like a sheer cloth. It would have hung for a brief moment, sparkling like frost on a window pane before settling deep beneath the surface, leaving only a subtle patina to mark it’s passing.

I have seen it many times. The fascination has long since passed.

Unfortunately, I am not done. “Aaahh-AAHHCCHHUU!" My body jerks forward: I am a very violent sneezer. I sigh and sniffle back more of the mucus, rubbing my nose with the palm of my hand in a circular motion, feeling the twinge and tingle all the way down to my throat. I fan the air in front of my face. "Huhuh... ahh... uh..." my nostrils flare, mouth opening as my head tilts back. "Uh... aaahACHHHUH! AACHUH!" The sneezing is the greatest relief compared to the pressure and the itching. "Achuh! Ehechuh! Uhaahcchuh! Chuh!" I stop for a breath, but my nose is still flaming. "Ah... Achouh! HAATCHHOOUH! Ugh."

After my breath is gone, I stand still, waiting for the slight light-headed feeling to subside. The first time I ever did this, I stepped away too early and ended up with a nice crack on my skull from the stone floor when I fainted. Elder Mother had… well, I’ll be polite and say not pleased. The truth is she had set me to washing the blood off the stones, using my hair as a rag. I had Moonlight duty for a month afterwards, and still shudder to think of it.

Once I feel my head settle evenly on my shoulders, I step away from the dias and recite the appropriate ending prayers, thanking the goddess for her kindness in the Tracing, and her benevolence of the gift… I stepped away from the Orb – one never turns her back on it – and bowed my prayer all the way to the door.

On the other side, I had to grind my teeth in an effort not to spit as the words made my mouth taste foul.

In case I haven’t made myself perfectly clear: I hate this.

The old eunuchs still stand stiffly, like carved statues. Over the years, they’ve seen thousands of us come to these doors, hundreds of times a year. And although it has been inexplicably decreasing in frequency for the last decade, at the moment it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop anytime soon. That’s my long-winded way of saying they pay me no attention, and I slip back to my chamber without incident.

Unfortunately, once there I discover that I am not to be alone. Elder Mother and First Aunt are inside, waiting for me.

“Ryvaen,” First Aunt says stiffly, by way of greeting. “You have had a Trace tonight?”

“Yes, Aunt,” I reply, my stuffy voice dutifully respectful, my eyes downcast. Downcast because I am sure if I raised them they would be able to see the disdain shining from their depths. I can dissemble, when I must. But after being woken from a sound sleep and having to make a Trace – my eighteenth so far this month, and the month is not halfway gone – I have little energy for dissembling.

“Another?” Elder Mother rasps, disbelief coloring her tone. “Impossible.”

I dare to raise my eyes at this, piercing her with my languid gaze. She is a wizened old crone, nut-brown skin stretched so thin over her brittle bones that I can see her veins, her breath muddy and cobwebbed. I know why she is bitter: she has not had a Trace yet this year, and if she passes the rest of it without one, a new Elder Mother will be chosen. First Aunt is the most likely candidate, having shadowed Elder Mother these past seven years. But if First Aunt also has not made a Trace then both will be replaced. First Aunt is secretive and cunning: I wouldn't put it past her to waken in the middle of the night and walk the corridor just to make us think she has made a Trace. But the Orb does not lie. We will know for certain by year's end, and if their worst fears come to life, not all the midnight walking in the world will change what is. Mercifully, when the last decision had to be made five years ago, the previous Elder Mother had died. At her Farewell, there had been a few tittered whispers about the dwindling number of Traces, of fewer daughters being brought to the Temple, but they were like ghost stories told by children in the dark – a timorous thrill, nothing more.

Now, they are the elephant in the room. Too real to be spoken of, as if the words will send the creature into stampeding madness. There are so few of us now that we no longer share rooms. When I was a child, there were three or four of us to a cell, laughing and talking long into the night like sisters. But year after year, more leave, the Sight abandoning them to a life of fearful uncertainty. They are not allowed to remain. Young and old alike, they walk out the doors on trembling legs, biting their lips and giving those backwards yearning glances of the condemned, hoping somehow for a last minute stay…

First Aunt clears her throat, and I can feel their eyes on me. Both of them hate me, because I am the one the visions choose. I am the one whose breath graces the Orb, whose visions are stored in its rhenium depths. They hate me because I have everything they've ever wanted. Everything they live for.

Well, they can have it.

Believe me, if I could give it up, I would. In a heartbeat. Unfortunately, even though the gift is something that is given, it’s not something that can be given away. They know I hate my gift, and hate me all the more for despising what they crave.

“Ryvaen,” Elder Mother tones, her dry voice cracking like insect carcasses under foot. “The king has requested our most gifted Priestess be sent to him,” on her tongue the words turn sour, acrid; on her face, a sneer. “His request was urgent, and irrefutable. You will leave at first light.”

I am sure the surprise shows on my face. Leave?

I have not been beyond the walls of the Temple since I was first brought here as a child. At the age of seven, when I first began the dreaming that woke me in the night, I was led by my mother to the Gifting Pool, where the Priest took me – trembling with trepidation – under its dark waters. When I emerged, my mother was gone, and the Priest handed me to the then Elder Mother, who brought me here.

Part of me is terrified. What will it be like out there for someone like me? Someone... cursed.

At the same time, part of me is exhilarated. Freedom from their hooded eyes. Freedom to rise when I choose, eat what pleases me, and to walk where I will. To see forests, the sea, perhaps mountains... And, surely… Surely once I'm away from the Temple, putting distance between myself and that blasted Orb, surely I will finally be able to sleep through the night in peace.

Bowing to show my acceptance, I wait while the women leave without a backward glance, knowing they are as glad to be rid of me as I am to be rid of them. And should the King's errand last long years or mere days... I have no intention of ever coming back.

The door shuts behind them, and I fly into motion, yanking open the chest at the foot of my bed and throwing my satchel on the sleeping pallet. Something unearthly moves me, my conscious mind shutting down as I mechanically choose what I will take and what I will leave. My healer's kit, of course. In the years since the Sight began to wane, the Priestesses have turned to other pursuits to retain their followers: healing, weaving, gardening. Healing has been the most successful, as it seems that those graced with the Pool's silken waters also seem to gain extraordinary healing powers. And I must say that enjoy it. I find a curious satisfaction in the mending of a broken bone, the cooling of a fever, the first cry of a newborn babe.

Stuffing some woolen leggings and shifts into the bag, I sweep my gaze over the room once more. I am relieved to discover that there is nothing here that I will miss. The lumpy pallet, the cold stone floor, the small window that aims moonlight right on my face while I sleep. The first few rays of sunlight begin to peek over the horizon, sending a warm glow over the oak beams above, dust motes dancing down its angled beam. I sit on the pallet - for the last time - and haul on my leather boots, my shaking fingers fumbling at the laces. My breath comes short, and I heave a deep sigh as I stand, hoist my satchel and lay its strap across my chest, adjusting it for comfort. I turn for one last look, and am surprised when my heart gives a pang in my chest. This room is all I have ever known as mine, my whole world. Suddenly it looks so small.

There is a sharp rap on my door, impatient, forced, and I jump. They want to be rid of me that badly, do they?

Well, believe me, the feeling is mutual.

Edited November 16, 2007 by starpollen

[starpollen]

Part 2

The first hours on the road are pure bliss. I revel in the freedom, the solitude. At the Temple on a day like today we would be engrossed in our duties: pulling weeds, carding wool, brewing potions for the sick, all accompanied by an incessant chatter among the Sisters. Not that I was included in conversation, of course. I have not had more than ten words spoken to me in at least five years, not since Leya joined the hundreds to loose their Sight and was sent away. She had been the last to befriend me, though even then it was painfully obvious that the Orb wanted to play favorites. When she was gone, I became practically anathema, which made the friendly noise of others all the more unbearable to hear.

Now, I feel the sweet breeze on my face, the sun on my back, and merciful quiet. The Priestesses had sent me off with half-hearted waves, not even bothering to watch me make the first turn in the lane before retreated into the safe enclosure of the stone walls. The iron gate had clanged shut, echoing ominously in the small valley, and for a moment I'd felt fear drop into my stomach. Then, I'd shrugged it off.

I had been allowed to take a horse, and while I do own that he is a magnificent creature - near 16 hands high, his hide a dark brown that is almost black and long, lean legs - at the moment... well... he and I do not get on very well together.

True to my luck, I am allergic to him, and have spent more time sneezing than not. Most of the time it goes something like this: "Hah... hah hah hah... Ohh, thad...hah hah... oh by dose... id hah... idches so... hah...buch... hah hah hah-AAASHOOO!! AAIIISSHOO! IIISHOOO! Hehhehh... EEHSHOO." I pause for a moment, drawing a long, congested breath through my stopped-up nose, then bringing my fist up to rub my itching nostrils vigorously, trying to open up my nasal passages, gaining little relief before "I... ahh... ohh... Heaheah... I'b godda... heah, heah, heah... IIH IIIH heaheaHEAH-EEAASHOOO! EETTCHOO!! TTCCHHOO! HEESSTTCH!!" My sneezes are rough and desperate, body consumed by the reaction in my nose.

I had not thought to pack any medicinal herbs for allergies in my healer’s kit, and haven’t seen anything growing in our travels that would help me. I just thank the gods it isn’t early spring: my allergies are the worst when the trees are pollinating.

As if my allergies weren’t distraction enough, I am also trying to get used to his shifting gait, but his feet seem to find every bump, hole, branch, root, and dip in the road. Also, he has this irritating habit of flicking his tail - presumably to ward off flies - but it is so long it whips around to scratch my face. I've let him take his head, which I think is generous of me, considering the urgency of the king's summons, but he alternates devilishly between a near standstill and a loping trot that sends my teeth cracking and my back aching. One would not think it would be such a hardship to simply sit still…

One obviously has not met this horse.

He reaches around and bares his big horsey teeth in an attempt to bite my leg: only a quick yank of the reins stops him short.

"Whad the...! Dho! eeeEHHHSHOOOO!!"

It is official: he doesn't like me. What it is about me that makes other beings so detesting of my presence? Do I give off some odor of which I am unaware? Is my visage offensive? I am not terribly vain, I don't think, but I have always thought myself tolerable to look at. On a few occasions - the Harvest Festival when I was seventeen, for instance - I think I have cut a rare figure. Why then do I seem to draw such rotten luck in companions? The horse jerks his head, nearly taking the reins out of my hands, and I pull him back sharply, wrestling for control. "Now I know why First Aunt was so willing to let me take you," I mutter under my breath. I bet she thought this would be good for a laugh, imagining me playing tug-of-war with a horse the entire journey to the palace.

We have passed through the valley, into and out of the small forest at its mouth, (I loved the patterned shadows the leaves made on the forest floor) and for the past hour or so have been passing through gently rolling farmland, the neat rows of cabbages and lazy grazing cows lulling me into a sort of half-doze. We have met no one on the road, which suits me.

The beast's steps falter again, and I feel an uncomfortable pull on my inner thighs and a brief stab of fear that I'll fall off. "Will you stohb?!"

He's doing this on purpose.

As we rise over the crest of the next hill, I see something on the curve of the horizon. It shimmers in the late afternoon sun, seeming to be a large glass blanket stretched across the rim of the earth.

"The sea..." I can't help but whisper, my breath catching in my chest, eyes squeezing shut as I smother another “EehggGSHEW!” in my elbow.

I'd heard tales, woven words sung by bards beside fires in winter, but never imagined it would look so vast, so beautiful, so perfect. In the distance I can also see a little village nestled along the curve of the water. This would be the town of Bryndt, where I would board the ship bound for the north, where the palace lies. At last! I could use a hot bath, a meal, and a soft bed. I grip the reins tighter, confidence swelling my chest, and squeeze my knees to show the animal I mean business. I give him a swift kick of my heels into his flank, intending merely to spur him into a lively canter...

Instead, he bolts.

My neck is whipped back, my head nearly snapped off. Somehow I have the presence of mind to make a wild grab for his mane, lacing my fingers into the long, coarse strands which flick dangerously in my face, making my eyes shut tight.

"Hey!" I screech, terrified. "Whoa! Slow dowd! Stohb! Help! Whoa!" Of course, I know the horse hears me. And damn him, he runs that much faster. I clamp my legs down, tuck my head, and hang on for dear life. I'm only praying he'll tire quickly after our day's journey, where we have stopped only once for a drink in a clear forest stream. He keeps running, faster, farther, not stumbling now, oh no, running with the grace of a god. I'm clinging to his neck, arms aching from the strain, feeling each bone jolted near to pieces. The big stallion lengthens his stride, flashing over the ground so fast I am surprised when I crack open one eye not to find us flying. The wind whips both our manes, mine coming free from its twisted knot and streaming behind us. I imagine we make quite a sight, racing down the hill, a fiery of ribbon of hair trailing down towards the sea.

After what could have been the length of half the world, the bay stops short with such force that suddenly the air is below me and the grass above as I am flipped over his head and sent sprawling to the dirt. I cry out, a crater of terror opening up in the pit of my stomach. The landing is... less than enjoyable. Fire races down my arms, across my knees, and my vision washes red as my head cracks sharply on something hard. When I finally come to rest, I lie there still for a moment or two, trying to separate out one pain from another, assessing their severity with heaving breaths. I wiggle my feet, testing. From there I shift one leg, then the other, grateful when no more than a trembling ache responds, suitable for one unaccustomed to riding who has spent the whole day in a saddle. I shift my hips next, grateful that they are not broken. Raising my arms, I grimace to see ugly scrapes running from elbow to knuckles, and also on my palms. Grass, dirt, and small stones are wedged in the lacerated flesh. I heave myself upright with a groan, closing my eyes as blood rushes from my head and my vision snows.

I sit for a moment or two until it passes, seeing that my tunic is torn and bloody around the knees - more grass, dirt, and small stones there, too. My shaky hand presses against the back of my head, where the flesh is tender and already beginning to swell. Thankfully there is no blood.

I turn slowly, fixing the hairy fiend with a stare that would cause any mortal being to disintegrate. All he does is stand there, idly munching a strand of grass.

"You dow, if I were you," I grind out. "I would't loogk so bleased with byself." I brace my bloody palms on my bloody knees and haul myself slowly, painfully to my feet. I limp to where he stands, snatching the reins and fisting them tight, forcing his skinny face close to mine. "I decide wheder you eat todight, dag! I decide where you'll sleeb: in a dice warb bard, or id the cold dight air. I decide wheder to sell you to a butcher shohb for stew beat. So if you have eddy sedse tucked away id thad thick skull of yours, you will BEHAVE!"

We stare into each other's eyes for a long moment, a battle being silently waged. Finally, he lifts his nose and blows softly in my face, a gesture that very much seems to communicate apology.

It makes me sneeze, a violent “HHAAAARRSSCCH!"

I roll my eyes, allowing the tension to drain from my shoulders. "Cub od," I mutter, swiping at my cantankerous nose. "I'b starved, ad sore, ad sdiffly, ad bleeding. Ad you're..." he cocks one ear. "Well, you're a paid id the ass. Let's ged to towd before dight falls or we kill each odher, whichever cubs first."

The big brute actually stands still while I swing into the saddle with a muffled hiss of pain and a stifled sneeze. He lowers his head, actually waiting for me to touch my heels to his flanks before moving forward. And, maybe it is just because I no longer care, but I'll be damned if the beast does seem to make an effort to avoid all those bumps, holes, branches, roots, and dips in the road. His gait evens out, becoming a gentle sway that is not only bearable, but surprisingly comfortable. After several minutes of riding along in silence, I reach a hand down and stroke it along his velvet neck. I think I've made a friend.

We reach the town just as the sun is sinking into the sea, its fiery light turning the black water gold on the edge of the sky. I blow my nose soundly in my handkerchief, clearing my sinuses so I don’t sound quite so affected. I then find the livery at its edge with no trouble - who could mistake that smell - and turn my horse over to the old attendant.

“Three coppers for the night,” he croaks, his eyes watery and unfocused. He gives a bellowing “HAARRAASSHHOOO!!” off to one side, sniffling his bulbous nose and breathing through his mouth like a fish. It looks as though he’s got a bad cold.

I fish three copper coins out of the pouch First Aunt had given me, insurance from the king that the Priestess he requested would actually make the journey to him. She had handed me the pouch with barked instructions:

"Follow the road to the town of Bryndt, find a boat called Moira going to Caermellor, where the Lord of Altyr will escort you to the king. The journey should take no more than a week, goddess willing." Her mouth had stiffened, her expression stretched, as if she suddenly smelled something foul. "Safe journey."

The old man takes the reins from my hand with a crooked smirk, and I pull myself up straighter. "There will be two coppers extra in the morning, if I feel he has been well cared for," I tone, trying to sound old and worldy wise, experienced. In truth, I have little concept of whether this is appropriate. I once went with a group of Priestesses to the small village of Trens on the other side of the valley for a fair, and watched a flashy nobleman do the same with coins of silver. As I have no silver, I pray the coppers will be sufficient to buy my new friend a night's worth of comfort. Not that he truly deserves it yet, but Hilla always did say that one could catch more beasts with berries than with worms.

It seems to be the appropriate thing, because the man grins toothlessly, his black gums causing me to shudder before I can stop it. He doesn't seem to notice, however, and leads the horse inside with another resounding “HERRRRUSSSHOOO!” I turn and face the street, suddenly reminded that I am nervous about my first sojourn alone. Why Elder Mother did not give me a companion is no mystery - she doesn't care if I arrive safely or not. Should something befall me, the king's messenger (who rode out shortly before I did, on a much faster horse) can confirm that a Priestess was indeed sent. Another would be sent to take my place, though I am not sure who, since to my knowledge no other has made a Trace since before Midwinter. One would think they would have considered me more precious - the only one the Orb still favored - but perhaps they hope that with me out of the way the object will relinquish its unwelcome obsession, and all the Priestesses will begin receiving visions again.

I stride across the street, weaving among small farm carts and busy townsfolk.

Spotting an inn, The Red Owl, its weathered sign blinking at me in the sun, I make my way toward it, smiling a little. I like the name, "Red Owl." It sounds happy and inviting. I picture a cheery common room in my mind, braided bar wenches with ribboned corsets serving warm ale in clay crocks. I keep my gaze fixed on the arched red door, not daring to glance at the people around me going about their business. In truth I would love to gawk and stare, but I have too much pride. I have to look like I know what I'm doing, like I've done this a hundred times before. Because the last thing I want is for people to stare at me, wondering who the hell I am, thinking I don't belong here...

I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime.

The wooden latch is rough and warm under my fingers, and I hesitate only a moment before lifting it and stepping up inside. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they do I almost turn around and walk right back out. Instead of the cheery common room of my imagination, I see dingy smoke-stained walls and cracked tables. A large woman stands behind the rickety bar, scrubbing ineffectually at something on the counter that I don't even want to guess about. My heel slides back, ready to turn and run, but her voice stops me.

"Room for the night, dearie?"

I freeze, caught.

"Um," I swallow, scrambling to find that bravado I wore so well in the street. "Yes. A room, please."

She raises her eyebrows at the 'please,' and my heart falls to my stomach. Was that wrong?

"Well, come on then," she beckons, waddling her large body out from behind the bar and over to a stained sheet tacked across a doorway. "This way."

My stomach is churning, and I grip the handle of the medium sized hunting knife tucked into my belt. Not that I know how to use it. Behind the sheet is a rickety staircase, and we ascend. "I'm Mrs. Terk," she huffs, clearly not used to making this climb. "Room for the night is five coppers, breakfast is two, served between first light and the three finger mark. Baths are three coppers, though I wouldn't bother if I were you, dearie" she glances over her shoulder. "Not if you're bound for Caermellor." At the top, a narrow hallway with several doors on one side, windows on the other.

"How did you..."

"Oh," she replies as we make our way down the hall, her large posterior swaying back and forth, brushing the doorknobs on one side and the window sills on the other. "I seen the messenger come off the boat yesterday, riding hell bent for the Temple. He stopped for a drop of ale, and mentioned he was sent to fetch a Priestess." She stops at a door, her hand on the wooden latch, and looks me over.

I know what she sees standing before her, covered in trail dust and blood, smelling like horse. A wilted flower. The years of bitterness, I am sure, have marked my face, and I do not radiate power, as a Priestess ought. Too old to marry, too young to be sent out unescorted. Glancing out the window, I see that the sun has sunk nearly out of sight, a thin sliver of scarlet on the sea. The windows have no glass, and I can smell the sharp tang of the salt air pricking the back of my throat. Old widows travel the roads daily - we've had many come to the Temple over the years, making pilgrimages in search of healing or to ask Elder Mother to speak to their dead. But a woman of my age on the road would have her husband, her father, her brother at her side. I should be here with a man, with my children, perhaps on a journey to the royal city so my husband can find work. I have heard that many are leaving the country for the city, as farms dry up, as livestock succumb to illness.

Instead, I'm a shadowed priestess on a vague mission to a distant king. A fitting symbol of our withering land. It galls me.

I draw myself up to my full height, fixing her with a chill stare, pressure building in my chest. "Enough." I tone, my voice like deep snow, reverberating impossibly in the small space. The air seems to freeze, crackling with something old, something powerful. It chases the flush from the woman's cheeks, turning them cold and pale, her eyes fearful. It blows through like a wind, here then gone. After, she bobs her head, clicking the latch and swinging the door open with a quick bow, stepping back so I can enter the room.

Like everything else it is small, but unlike everything else is surprisingly clean. The window here does have glass - albeit cracked - with some faded floral curtains, a small down pallet, an iron brazier in the corner for heat, a wash stand and low chest against the wall. "Send up stew and bread, and then I wish to be alone. That will be all," I command dismissively, channeling First Aunt with a cynical grin. I bring eight coppers out of the pouch, dropping them in her trembling hand without a glance, then hear her clump away back down the stairs. I kick the door closed, ducking my head out from under my satchel and letting it drop to the floor with a thud. I'm suddenly so tired, I can barely see straight, leaning back against the door with a ragged sigh. I look longingly at the pallet, but I know if I sink down now I'll fall dead asleep and miss my dinner, because I am sure no amount of knocking in the world would wake me in this state. And I'm starving, the cheese and bread I had when I stopped by the forest stream long past.

So, instead I go to the wash stand and pour the water from the ewer into the chipped bowl, pick up the rag, and start to sponge off the sweat and dust and redness from my face, neck, and arms. The cool water feels good to my allergy-swollen eyes, sluicing down my breastbone and causing goose bumps to roll in waves across my skin. I scrub at the scrapes on my arms and hands, feeling the sting from where dirt and pebbles come free from my flesh. Shortly the water turns dingy, and I open the window and fling it into the street, checking first to make sure I don't drench an unknowing passerby. I refill the basin and start on my legs, hiking up past my knees to clean the wounds there, not caring that the hems of my tunic at the neck and the ankles are getting soaked. I'm taking my time, scrubbing the dirt from my skin and allowing the action to relax my mind.

Something had happened in that hallway, when I spoke in anger. Something that unsettles me. I've never heard of a Priestess having any power other than what came with the Orb: to see visions in dreams, to record them in the stone's depths, to use the stone to contact the dead, to make potions from the Orb-kissed moonlight for the sick. In short, the Orb is the key. There has never been an instance where a Priestess could wield power without the Orb's influence. So what was that out there?...

A knock on the door nearly has me jump out of my skin. "Yes?" I call, forgetting for a moment where I am.

"Stew, milady," comes the woman's quavering voice.

"Leave it," I bark, dropping the rag in the bowl. I'm done with people right now. After a day of blissful solitude, I am not in the mood to see anyone, talk to anyone, and especially be stared at.

I hear the clink of crockery, and her shuffling gate fading away. Rolling my eyes, I yank the door open and stare down at the wooden tray containing a cloth-covered bowl, a cup of ale, and hunk of brown bread. I lift it and bring it inside, careful not to spill it as I kick the door closed once more and bolt it shut. I want to try to sleep as undisturbed as I can, if I can. Part of me is jittery, nervous about falling asleep.

I haven't slept a night through in ten years.

Plopping on the short chest with a thunk, I lay the tray across my lap and lift the cloth. A warm, spicy aroma floats up, igniting a ravaging hunger in me the likes of which I've never before experienced. Tearing off a hunk of bread, I dunk it in the warm stew and blow on it for barely two breaths before plunging it into my mouth. As the hot liquid fills my tongue its spicy sweetness, my eyes close and I elicit a satisfied sigh.

This place may be a dump, but it sure makes a mean stew.

The bowl is empty before I know it, and I toss the flat ale back with another deep sigh, a warm lethargy spreading through my bones. I set the tray down and take off my cincher, dropping it to the floor with another thud, before crawling blindly to the pallet. Barely managing to pull the quilt over my body, and despite my nervous misgivings, I am asleep within three heartbeats.

[starpollen]

Part 3

The chittering returns, soft and sinister in the distance. The hungry snapping of metallic jaws… the clattering of hinged legs…

A man’s face, rugged, with a strong jaw and corded neck. Dark hair curls around his brow, damp with sweat. The skin is pale, the blue eyes shadowed and dark with pain. A ribbon of blood curves down from the dark hairline to the ashen cheekbone. The lips move, but make no sound…

This is familiar.

But then the image fades to a man's back, his shoulders wide and full, torso narrowing to a trim waist. Muscles ripple and stretch, showing him to be strong and well formed. But where there should be shoulder blades, instead there are large blisters, wider than two hands’ breadths, red and swollen. The man writhes in pain on a large carved bed, panting in harsh gasps.

The scene blurs and shifts up to an overcast sky, rain pelting down. A bustling dock, sailors hauling rope, shifting crates. Down a narrow alley, collapsed and huddled against a stack of crates, the same man shivers, drenched, clutching a thin cape around his trembling form…

Pain washes over, burning, freezing, consuming.

The chittering overwhelms. Red washes the vision, swallowing her up...

I come awake with a cry, face down, hands buried in the sheets, clutching them in a white-knuckled grip. Sweat is pouring out of me, my brow fevered, my limbs shaking so hard my teeth rattle in my skull. I push away the quilt and lurch to my feet, diving for the ewer of water and lifting it directly to my mouth. There is just enough left for a long, lukewarm drink and a splash for my face before I grip the wash stand with both hands, leaning against it and dropping my head with a shaky sigh. My muscles burn fiercely, aching from the day-long ride, the fall, and the violence of the nightmare.

"I hate this," I whisper, tears filling my eyes and sliding down my cheeks. I had hoped beyond all hope, prayed with every fiber of my being that once away from the Temple these visions would cease. But they haven't. If anything, this one was stronger, more vivid than any I have ever had. And I don’t know what will happen now, now that I can’t walk down the corridor to the Orb and release it into the stone’s depths. Shall I slowly go mad with it? Become a babbling beggar on the street? I have heard rumors that girls who have the dreams and are not turned over to the Temple become thus. The thought chills me.

“Hah, hah HHEEEHAACCSSH!... hoh god... HAHH...CCHSSH! EEHSCCHH! HIIISSCHH!"

It begins.

"Dammit!" I curse, flinging the wash stand over with a crash and covering my face with my trembling hands. I hear voices cry out from below, movement in the house, and wince. There is no way to explain this display of temper, no way to take it back. I could try to claim it was an accident…

I pull my hands away from my face and my eyes widen with shock. The scrapes on my palms are gone – vanished as if they had never been. Lifting my tunic I discover that my knees, too, are inexplicably whole.

That Terk woman had seen that I was injured: there will be no way to explain this.

Turning, I snatch up my cincher and belt it on, sneezing a few times as I grab my satchel and dig for the pouch of coins. I fling four extra coppers on the bed for the broken stand before unbolting the door and marching down the stairs. At the bottom, I flick the sheet out of my way and stride through the common room, not bothering to glance into the night-dressed Mrs. Terk’s shocked eyes, or her pig-like husband's fearful growling countenance. I’ve got to put as much distance between myself and the Temple as I can, many leagues between me and that cursed Orb. Surely I just need to be further away, and the visions will stop. Bursting out the front door, I head straight for the stable.

The night is near gone, dawn close, to judge by the smell. Early morning has a unique scent, one I have come to know well over the years. I am to find a boat called Moira that will take me to Caermellor, and I have a silver piece for their trouble. The stable door is cracked, and I slip inside. The old stable hand I gave the horse to yesterday lays in the first stall, passed out drunk in the hay, snoring to wake the dead. My horse is in the third stall, munching happily on oats. He whickers in greeting, and I saddle him quickly. He turns his head to watch me, ears flicking in what looks like confusion.

"Sorry, boy," I say as I jerk his girth tight. "Change of plans… "AHG-SSCCHHSS!"" I wrench the stable door open and lead him out, swinging up into the saddle with a groan as my overtaxed limbs protest vehemently. I kick him into a canter, and he responds a little sluggishly, as if still questioning, half asleep. My nose protests, spraying several wet "EHHTCCHSSS! ahh eh-ehhSSCCHHSS!! SSCCHOO!" as we go. We follow the street down, my eyes glued to the rise of masts over the thatched roofs, hoping I am heading for the wharf. We wind our way quickly to it, coming around a corner where the houses fall away and we are suddenly confronted with the vast expanse of the sea. The sun is coming up behind me, casting weak glittery light across the water. Despite this morning’s unfortunately events, I can't help but suck in a quavering gasp - I've never seen anything more beautiful.

Turning, I press my knees into the horse's side and urge him down the quay, my eyes scanning the various vessels, looking for the painted names scrawled on weathered planks.

"Mermaid," I mutter, half to myself, blowing my nose to rid it of some of the horse dander. "Painted Pony... Emprise... Ocean Queen... Waterwitch... ah... Moira."

I rein the bay to stillness and look at the ship moored at the end of the long dock, swaying gently in the salt breeze. She is a small carrack with sturdy planks, rigging neatly strung. She looks clean and sea worthy, inspiring confidence. For the first time since leaving the Temple, I feel a small twinge of relief.

“EESCHHOO! CHSCCHOO!”

I swing down, grasping the bay's reins and leading him to the gangplank. I tie him up and set foot on it, grasping the scratchy ropes with both hands.

"Ho there!" a voice calls, halting me. I squint up into the lightening sky.

"Hello, the ship?" I call back, sniffling and swiping my nose with the handkerchief.

"State your business," the voice replies, a man’s voice, gravelly but firm.

"I am a Priestess of the Temple, sent for by the king," I call, thankful my allergy isn’t betrayed in my voice, eyes sweeping the ship looking for the mysterious speaker. "I was told this ship would take me to Caermellor."

This is met with silence. I grip the ropes tighter, feeling their braided fibers cut into my skin, holding my breath. Please, I beg in my mind. If I am denied boarding, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know the roads, the towns. Where to go, what to do to live. I won't go back to the Temple. Not in a thousand years…

Finally, the voice returns, "Permission to board."

My knees go weak with relief, and I clutch the ropes to keep my balance. I clear my throat and manage to call back, "What of my horse, sir?"

"Bring him too, milady," he replies promptly, sounding a bit condescending.

I nearly stumble as I turn, untying the reins with shaking hands. The ship!... Two thirds of the way to Caermellor, in scarce more than a day’s travel. Despite my usual run of rotten luck, despite the dark shadow of the unknown awaiting me in the king’s castle, despite the dream that hovers even at the edge of my waking thoughts, I am tingling with excitement. I lead the horse up the gangplank, keeping as far a distance from him as the reins allow so as not to launch into another sneezing fit, watching my feet so I don’t stumble, seeing also the wooden planks underneath give way to bottle green waves.

At the top of the gangplank stands a sailor dressed in patched breeches and a mismatched coat. Shirtless, dark hair curls like springs on his chest. Unlike most men I have seen, he has no beard. Indeed, apart from his wiry chest he has no hair at all – no whiskers, no eyebrows, no hair upon his shiny brown head. A gold chain hangs in the dark nest, a bright red tattoo spiraling around his neck and whorling over his left cheek.

“Mornin’ milady,” he grunts, voice rough and gentle at the same time. “You’ve made good time. We didn’t expect to look for the king’s Priestess until mid-day at the earliest.”

I pull myself up straighter, growing just a little bit weary of having to project an air of power and confidence. “The king requested a Priestess of the Temple,” I reply, voice round and deep, my gaze fixed on his yellowed eyes. “And so I come.”

His mouth twitches a fraction in an expression of surprise. Clearly I am not what he expected, and I am sure I do not look the part. My tunic is water-stained, bloody, dirty, and wrinkled. I know I do not look as old as I feel, do not seem to be a powerful Priestess the likes of which would be called upon to serve a king.

Still, here I am, standing expectantly, my expression fixed the bored arrogance I am copying from Elder Mother.

“This way, milady,” he mumbles, stepping aside with a sweep of his hand. The horse and I step onto the deck, and I hesitate a moment, expecting to have to adjust to the rolling of the waves… but all is still. I do not betray my disappointment; somehow I expected a ship to feel different, to be a world apart from the solid earth which has always been under my feet. The horse, unsurprisingly, is not affected. He butts his head against my back to urge me forward, and I go, trying to seem composed and calm.

“I’ll take yer horse,” the sailor offers, and I give up the reins gratefully. He leads the bay towards a set of double doors. He swings both open, and disappears into the dark depths of the ship, where I can see a steep ramp leading down.

I stand on deck, waiting. The morning light is serene and peaceful, the breeze crisp and cleansing.

After several long moments, he reappears.

“Where are the other sailors?” I ask.

“Sleepin’ it off,” he replies. “I lost the toss and got stuck with dawn watch, but they’ll be up and about soon. Once I’ve got you settled in your cabin I’ll wake the captain and we’ll shove off. Might get to Caermellor a day or so early, if we keep the wind. Don’t suppose you’re a weather-worker, eh?”

My brows furrow in confusion. Weather-worker? There are people who can control the weather?

“Ah, no,” I reply, trying to sound like he should have known this already.

He is not fooled.

“Oh well. Never hurts to ask,” he coughs, clearing his throat and spitting on the ground at his feet. I cringe. “You been married, miss?”

I am a little confused, wondering what that has to do with anything. Then I see the look in his eye, hungry, leering...

“Yes,” I snap quickly, dread filling my stomach, hoping I’ve rightly guessed what lewd thoughts he harbors. “And borne children. All have died, thank you very much, not that I see it as any of your business.”

The smoldering look fades from his face, replaced by disappointed resignation, and my shoulders release a little bit of their tension. I was right – he is one of those who are fascinated by the idea of the virginal Priestess, a holy prize here for the taking.

He turns and gestures that I follow, and we traverse the deck. I notice for the first time that it is more expansive than I would have thought. There are two single doors on the opposite side, one with a large round porthole and the other with no porthole at all. For the second time this morning, I beg silently, Please let us go into the one with the porthole. I don't know that I want some dark descent into a reeking hold with this abhorrent man...

The goddess must be on vacation.

He jerks open the windowless door. I discreetly find the handle of my hunting knife again, not sure if I have the strength to fight him off if it comes to it. Thankfully, I don't have to. A man steps out from the shadows, obviously a man of some importance. His form is trim, lean, and he wears a pointed cap, set jauntily on its edge, a large white feather tucked into its band. I follow the line of his body before I can stop myself, his clean breeches tucked into shiny black boots.

"The Priestess, I presume?" he asks, and I feel my cheeks flush. He is younger than I would have expected - perhaps ten years older than myself. His face is wind-scarred, but not unhandsome. His eyes are dark and intelligent, and his body moves with a spark that only the young possess, leaning gracefully into a half-slouch that is both casual and powerful.

"Yes, Cap'n," the sailor replies, and I incline my head to acknowledge his status. He returns the gesture, removing his cap and bowing deeper and more elegant than I, glancing up at me from the deepest point of his bow with a look that sends heat racing down my spine. His black hair flops into his eyes, adding yet more roguish flair.

"I am Captain Forsyr. May I ask what you are called, Lady?"

"Ryvaen," I reply, my voice hoarse and unsettled. It does not please me that he has disarmed me so thoroughly with a mere glance and honeyed voice.

Apparently it does please him.

He straightens with a smirk of self importance, extending his long-fingered hand to me. "Come, Lady Ryvaen. I shall show you to your cabin. That will be all, Groc," he tosses the dismissal into the air, the bald sailor giving me one more sidelong glance before turning and heading back to whatever it is he does on this infernal tub. The Captain places his hand on the small of my back as I pass him, guiding me through the doorway, causing the hair on the back of my neck to prickle. I have seen other men do this for their women on occassion, a gesture that can be at times supportive and gentle and other times possessive and arrogant. Three guesses which kind this was.

Lucky me.

The air is close, but not sickening as I had feared. I think I can detect a slight hint of the reek from below, but I am not sure if I truly smell it or if it is simply burned into my nostrils and saturated in my clothing. Down a short corridor and through a door on the left is my cabin. The room is perhaps six paces by four: fairly large by ship's standards, I surmise, based on what I've heard. There is a small cot, a wash stand; it is surprisingly clean, and - thank the goddess - there is not one but two portholes.

Maybe she's not on vacation.

"Here you are, Lady. Your home away from home for the next few days. We'll cast off in just a few minutes, so if you feel the ship lurch, don't be alarmed." He pauses. "I will have to ask you to keep to your cabin as much as possible," he continues, a look of annoyance passing like a dark cloud over his features. "Your midday meal will be brought to you, as will your evening meal. I can allow you to walk the deck for an hour at sunrise and an hour at sunset, weather willing."

I own I was struck dumb for a moment or two. This is a surprise. "May I ask, good sir," I reply, trying for regal coolness. "Why the imposed confinement?"

"Well..." he drawls. "My men are..." he crosses his arms and leans against the door jamb with rakish grace. "...untutored. Good sailors, all. But lacking in gentility. I wish I could guarantee your safety simply because of the mantle you wear. But I cannot." He seems truly chagrined at this, and my estimation for him recovers just the slightest degree. "My cabin is down this corridor at the end, and so I can hear you if there is trouble during the night. The two hours a day of which I spoke will be the times I can be on deck unoccupied to guard you. The rest of my time will be spent charting our course and managing the crew. I don't know if you've been on a ship before," the look on my face probably tells him I haven't. "But this run will require much of my energy and concentration."

I sit on the narrow cot, spine straight, not bothering to take my satchel off my shoulders. I look him full in the face, my chin high, "Is our course so dangerous, then," I toss out in seeming interest. "And the crew so very untutored as to occupy so much of your time as all that?" In truth, I don't wish to spend another blasted minute in his haughty, discomfiting presence if I don't have to. However, I have quickly assessed that this Captain likes women to fawn over him: I can play the part.

"Mm, yes and no," Forsyr replies, his eyes sparkling with mischief, bravado, and not a small amount of allure. "'Tis not the most difficult course on the Nine Seas, but 'tis no cakewalk, either. Luckily for you I have traveled it many times, and am confident it will not be a serious test of my skill." He reminds me of a rooster preening before a hen. "We will pass through the Chill Stream Latitude, which can bring with it some nasty storms. Especially at this time of year." He rakes me with another assessing glance. "I hope you've a strong stomach."

Staring at him with batted eyes, I nod.

A bell clangs out on deck, and he rolls his eyes. "Duty calls." He flashes a crooked smile, showing me his two gold teeth, and makes another graceful, grating bow before exiting, pulling the door closed behind him. I see that there is a bolt on my side, and waste no time making good use of it. Only then do I take the satchel from my shoulders and hang it from a peg on the wall, taking stock of my situation.

Once again I find myself trapped, at the mercy of another's whims, reliant on them for sustenance and protection. It vexes me to no end.

Flinging my body down across the cot, I lie on my back with my arms above my head. Several days, he had said. No more than a week, First Aunt had guessed. My meals brought to me, not allowed out on deck but one hour twice a day. I may as well have stayed at the Red Owl and let the sheriff take me to jail.

On the other hand, I do have two portholes. And the best part is, I won't have to deal with people.

I stare out at the water for the rest of the day, noticing when the ship casts off with a strong heave. I've discovered the porthole glass can be unscrewed, and I keep my face near an open one so I can suck in the brisk sea air. As the sun has risen my cabin has become stifling, and with the wind picking up the boat is rocking against the surf, causing my stomach to feel a little tipsy. I am fortunate, I think, that I am not truly seasick. If I could not get to the air, it might be a different story.

A sharp knock at midday startles me from my reverie. Yanking the door open, I see a greasy, pock-faced sailor there with a tray of fish. I take it from him with no words, shutting the door in his startled face. It isn't half bad - a little bland for my taste, but it's warm and falls apart in my fingers. I lick them clean and return to my water-gazing. It's amazing what thoughts occupy one's mind when one has hours of idle time on hand. I find myself remembering stories from my youth, humming ditties and bits of songs, thinking I could see my reflection on the sun-kissed waves. We seem to move like a bird in flight, catching a strong current and cutting through the foam. Sometime in the afternoon I doze, still hearing the scream of the gulls and slap of the waves on the hull. At sunset, another knock. This time, the Captain, accompanied by yet another sailor. This one is fairly clean-cut, hair cropped close and bright red shirt tucked into his breeks. His face is open and honest. It must be the constant wind and the strong sun that lightens their hair but darkens their skin, making it impossible to determine their age.

"Milady," the Captain says, sweeping another graceful bow. "I hope your first day at sea has been to your liking."

"It has," I reply, and am surprised when I mean it.

He grins, a flash of gold at his lips. It sends heat clean through me. "May I invite you to join me on deck?"

I incline my head, exiting into the corridor ahead of the men, feeling their eyes on my back. The honest sailor pushes past my shoulder to open the door for me, and I sweep past him with nary a glance, maintaining my regal persona. Since I am to become Priestess to the king, I may as well get used to it.

The air on deck is magnificent, the sky a golden glory on the horizon, fading to a deeper, profound hue of night. I go straight to the railing, laying my hands on the sun-warmed wood, close my eyes, and just breathe. I have been inside walls my whole life, and never before thought I would be uncomfortable inside them. But after these hours of confinement I am amazed to discover how precious it is to be unsurrounded, steeped in expanse. The wind lifts strands of my hair free from its braid, blowing across the deck and bringing with it the scent of promise.

I feel a presence beside me, and know without looking who it is.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

I nod.

"It's all I've ever wanted," Forsyr continues, voice soft. "The sea, the sky, the wind... freedom to go where I will, to be master of myself..."

Opening my eyes, I glance at him askance. His words ring true, speaking to something deep inside me. His words are my own, ones I have whispered to myself for as long as I can remember. Yet I cannot help myself: I do not trust him. So little time we have spent together, yet he addresses me as if seeking to share something profound? To what purpose? Hilla always said that everyone wants something from you: the sooner you figure it out, the sooner you can either give it to them or get out of their way.

"What of you?" he turns, leaning his back against the railing and resting on his arms. "Do you know what it is awaits you in Caermellor?"

I lift my shoulders, letting them fall with a short sigh. "The king, I suppose."

"What does he want?"

My brow furrows. "He is the king," I reply, as if he should know this, looking back out towards the horizon. "He sent for a Priestess. I assume he has a dream that needs interpreting, or to speak with an ancestor... It is not for the Temple to question-- "

He chuckles, stopping me. "I am surprised, Lady Ryvaen, that you would follow anyone's will so blindly. You do not seem the type."

Anger flares in my breast. How dare this self-important boor to presume to tell me what I would and would not do? I look out over the water, trying to ignore his presence and regain that peaceful joy, when Forsyr's hand suddenly covers mine, singeing my knuckles. I jerk away, heart in my stomach. Our eyes lock, his deep and unreadable, mine I am sure are shocked and furious.

"I beg your pardon, Lady," he murmurs, stepping back slightly. "That was forward of me."

I glance around and see a few other sailors watching us, and my rage burns hotter than ever. "I would like to go back to my cell, please," I hiss through gritted teeth. I can only take the fawning wretch bit so far.

He nods, brow still furrowed, turning out and opening his arm in a gesture for me to lead the way. I bite the inside of my cheek, loathe to leave the darkening bowl of the sky, the crispness of the falling night. My hour is not yet up - not even halfway up - and already I have given away this small freedom. Willingly.

Damn.

I blow out an exasperated breath. "Wait," I whisper, and he turns back to me, his black hair glinting with flecks of red in the dying sun. "Sir, you must understand..." I begin slowly, willing my indignation to bed back down. "I..." He looks at me expectantly. "I would like to stay here, if I may," I continue softly. "Alone, please."

Mercifully, he retreats, and I spend the rest of my hour undisturbed. When the sun has disappeared entirely and a few stars glint in the velvet night when the honest-looking sailor comes to escort me back to my cabin. I bolt the door and lean my back against it, closing my eyes and feeling the hard wood press into my shoulder blades. Heaving a ragged sigh, I remove my cincher and boots, hanging one on the peg and letting the other drop to the floor with a thud. I squeeze onto the small cot and curl around myself, trying to shut out the day, the strangeness, the impossible difficulty of it all.

Why me?

All I've ever wanted was freedom. The freedom to choose... to have... to be. Unbound by another's demands.

But everywhere I turn, I find someone else who expects, who wants, who takes. For my mother, I am her second chance. For the Temple, I am their credibility. For the messenger, I am his duty. And now for the king, I will be his... whatever. Seer, mystic, fortune teller. Until my task is done: errand discharged.

Then...

What then?...

I lie for a long while conceiving scenarios. I could work my way from town to town, interpreting dreams, speaking to the dead, healing the sick. Make enough money to build myself a small hut in the mountains, becoming one of those recluses who only come to town once or twice a year for supplies, to whom young women slink begging for love potions, about whom rumors flicker. Or I could find a small island, a shack on the shore; I could toss bones for coin or read tea leaves, brewing potions from the salt water. I might deign to work for the king a few extra weeks, earning enough to buy myself a large, isolated farm, where I could keep sheep for wool, cows for milk and cheese, pigs and chickens for meat, and grow my own vegetables. Have big-bellied barn cats with swinging teats and bounding spotted dogs...

In short, never again live inside a crowd.

I fall asleep shortly after this imaginative whimsy, but my sleep is not restful. I wake often, first near midnight when I hear boots clomping down the corridor, pausing right outside my cabin. Forsyr, I think, my heart hammering. He is strong enough, I am sure, to break the door down, if he were drunk enough. Or maybe if he weren't. After a few tense moments, the steps continue down the passage and I hear the whine of a hinge as his door swings shut. I sigh, but my relief is short-lived. A cloud shifts to reveal the full moon, and I am suddenly pierced by its heavy beams, feeling the silver rays slip across my skin and crawl down my throat. My eyes glaze over and visions assail me, vivid figures stolen from the dreams of the unsuspecting: three soldiers crawling through the undergrowth, one with a shock of red hair... a long-haired girl, naked, swimming under the water towards a shining light... a dark-skinned boy running, flapping his arms hard and taking off, flying through the air ... a red cat with black paws... a clear glass baby squirming its shiny limbs...

I cover myself with the blanket, trying to block them out. But I can't. I toss and turn on the cot, stretching my legs then curling them up, my arms up over my head, then down at my side when they lose circulation. My nose twitches and tingles, but I can’t seem to get anything out of it. This always happens in the moonlight: it tickles and teases, but doesn’t offer the relief of a good explosive sneeze.

It gets so bad at one point that I take a pin from my hair and stick it up my nose, poking and prodding until two wet “SSCCHHSS!! SSCCHOO!”s burst forth.

When the knock comes at dawn, I am relieved and spent.

It's pock-face again, holding a bowl of gruel in his skinny hands. I take it and push past him, flying to the deck like a homing pigeon, seeking refuge from the cabin which has become a gulag, choking me. Once there, I throw myself down on a stack of ropes with a sigh. The wind is still going strong, whipping my hair and drying the sweat on my skin, and I pray silently to the goddess that she keeps it going, speeding us to Caermellor. Where I'd better find the Lord of Altyr waiting at the foot of the gangplank, if he knows what's good for him. I spoon the hot mush into my mouth, watching the rising sun.

A furtive glance finds Forsyr at the helm, cap hanging down his back, wind-whipped hair writhing like black snakes. He glances at me and I quickly turn away before he can see I was watching him. Happily, I am left alone to enjoy my breakfast. My eyes feel as gritty as the gruel in my bowl, but I merely rub them wearily and lean back against a barrel, enjoying the radiant dawn. When Pock returns for me (indeed, I have decided to name the crew myself, since none but Forsyr have decided to grace me with theirs) I follow him silently, closing the door and barely remembering to bolt it before sinking down on that cursed cot. Blessed sunlight streams through the portholes, and within moments I am asleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

I'll see how you like this before posting more. There is more - lots more. Hot captains with sneezy colds. (hehe) So I'll see how this goes over and if you seem to like it I'll post again. Cheers!

[Blah!?]

Muahahaha... I like. I like it very much. Please, do continue.

[Lady K]

I am fascinated by this tale thus far! I love your main character. Her personality feels vivid and realistic and really draws me into the story. I'm also intrigued by the flashes of visions and the purpose of the mysterious Orb, and her summons to the King. Oh, and the awesome sneezing doesn't hurt either! (Bring on the hot captain with the terribly sneezy bad cold! ) By all means, please continue posting this!

[relative]

wow this is great! i'd buy the book when published. definitely. intriguing and captivating and believable even through the fanatsy. love it. i cant wait for more

thank you for posting.. and adding to it

[starpollen]

Warning - no sneezes in this part, but gets us to the next part, where there IS. Heh heh.

Part 4

I am dead to the world when I feel the numb pressure of a hand clamp on my shoulder. "Dymas," Kelron's distant whisper, near frantic. His tone jerks me awake at once; I'm standing before I know it, lightheaded from the sudden change of position.

"What?" I bark, rubbing a hand over my face and feeling the rough stubble of my unshaven cheek. "Is he worse? Why didn't you fetch me..."

His hand on my arm slows me down, but does not stay me. Words tripping over one another in their haste as we run, he blurts, "I don't know how it happened honest one minute he was lying there and the next he was up and swinging roaring like the legions of hell itself were advancing it was all we could do to keep him from knocking one of us down and even then Torshyb took one to the head and can't stop vomiting but the next thing we know his cloak is missing and we've checked the corridor and the stairwells and his horse is still in the stable and the guards haven't seen him and..."

We stop short in the doorway to my lord's chamber, and I sink to my knees, dizzy with exhaustion and fear. The bed curtains are torn down, bowls and chairs knocked about as if blown by a fierce gale. My mind races, trying to form some sort of plan, some kind of action.

"Where would he have gone?" Kelron asks, truly mystified. "He couldn't have gotten very far - he's so weak..."

But I know my lord: he knows this house like he knows his own face, it secret ways and passages. Even fevered and delirious, he could run circles around us blindfolded with both hands bound. A fearful image pops into my mind: him collapsed in some forgotten passageway, rats crawling across his face...

I drag myself to my feet, barking orders: "Kel, take the north passage, get Nib to take the south. Pull all the guards: one should be stationed in every corridor, have Mrs. Fibbs' staff check every room. Listen carefully: we should at least be able to hear him sneezing." We all scatter, eyes sweeping, frantically calling his name.

But it's no use: he's gone.

x x x x x x x

Chapter 2

The sunlight helps, and I sleep deeper than I have in months. No dreams disturb me, no visions, no nightmares. I open my eyes to late afternoon doldrums, the ship idling and waves lapping languidly against the hull. I stretch, feeling the tension pop from my joints and a large yawn distend my face. I feel better. Much better.

The clouds occupy my time between waking and dinner, their feathery patterns gently brushing the tips of the sky. When the dinner knock arrives, I rise and answer with more peace than I have known lately, almost - but not quite - giving Pock a smile. I take the fish plate on deck, finding my pile of rope and settling into it with a contented sigh.

Forsyr is standing by the railing, looking out across the expanse with his spyglass. He must have decided his cap wasn't necessary anymore, as it's nowhere in sight. He's clad in a black vest and white sailor's shirt, striped trousers and red sash around his waist. It's so blatantly "sailor-like" it's almost comical. After a moment he turns and sees me, staring for a moment before seeming to remember he's got a spyglass in his hand, and closes it. He strides over, and I am in such a good mood that I shrug when he gestures to be allowed to sit down beside me. We both lean back against the barrels, watching the sun make it's daily descent to its watery rest.

He is quiet, sitting there, and I can feel the warmth emanating from his body, hear his soft breath. It's very affecting, all that sinewy masculinity just inches away. I raise another piece of fish to my mouth to hide the fact that my eyes are drawn to his hands. I've always thought men's hands were an attraction - especially those that are strong and lithe, with elegant fingers. Forsyr's hands are excellent specimens, leading to well-formed arms and fine shoulders. I can appreciate a man as well as any other.

Finishing the fish, I start to set the pate off to the side, but he holds his hand out and takes it from me - fingers brushing mine sending lightning through my arm - setting it on top of the barrel at his head. We sit in silence together for several moments longer, and I sigh before I can stop myself, enjoying a rested body, full belly, and beautiful view.

Hearing this, he cocks his head, then clears his throat.

I stiffen slightly.

"Milady," he murmurs, in tones low and gentle. "Please forgive me, truly, for my intrusion yesterday. We live an uncommon life, those who make their home on the water." He pauses, and takes a breath. "As with all men, oft we take on the characteristics of what surrounds us: in my case, the sea. She is both calm and wild, as many know, her currents running hot and cold, swift and slow. But only those of us who keep close to her bosom know that she is also impetuous, rash. I forget that the rest of the world changes gradually over time, hides what it feels, and is lukewarm at best." I turn to him slowly during his speech, rapt at his eloquent admission, at the shiver his voice sends down my spine. He does not look into my face, but out at the water: his eyes soft and adoring, as if beholding a lover of many years. "I did not think, and I upset you. I did not mean to cause you distress."

I nod, unable and unwilling to give as lengthy a response. He does not seem to expect it, and an acceptable wordless harmony is reached. After another moment, he speaks again, still low and calm, as if afraid to incite me. "They tell me you did not answer the midday knock." I am silent. "You do not wish a meal at that time?" I shake my head no. "Very well," he shrugs. "It is not much of a meal anyway," he comments, tone light. "Stale tack and beans, at best."

The silence stretches. Yet - like a child - he cannot let it be, and soon must break it again with speech.

"Your name, Lady Ryvaen. Do you have surname?"

"Hursyte," I reply, nearly a whisper.

"My given name is Ban," he replies. "Ban Forsyr."

"Ryvaen Hursyte," I repeat, and he holds out his hand. I look at him for a moment, then extend mine; he takes it gently, bowing his head. Were we standing, this would be the traditional greeting of two nobles, a formal introduction. It would have taken place at a banquet or ball. We would have been introduced by our fathers, or brothers, and it would have been assumed that we could then move in each other's social circles without preamble, perhaps even court, were our families inclined to make a strategic match.

As it is, we are on a dingy pile of ropes atop a rocking tub halfway to Caermellor. Not the most noble setting, to be sure.

He smiles again, a different smile than the ones he's given previous: more soft, more real. Next to this, the other seems a crude mask designed to fool drunken party-goers at a feast. This is radiant, intoxicating. He drops my hand, returning to his contemplation of the water. Perhaps it is the rest, or the meal, or his moving speech, but I am the next to break the silence.

"How did you come to be a Captain, sir?" It is a safe question, I think.

"Ban," he insists.

"Ban," I amend.

He smiles, shifts, pulling a knee up to rest his arm upon and stretching the other leg out in front. I'm mesmerized by the muscles that riple under his trousers as he does so: he is uncomfortably bewitching. "Well, it's no wonder, really, if you consider my birth," he lowers his voice and glances at me. "I am the son of an unfortunate match: a selkie and a village woman." I can't help it, I stare. "Myran - my mother - had been spurned by the man she was to marry, left standing before the priest on her wedding day and so, in her grief, went down to the shore, intending to plunge herself beneath the waves. As she fell to her knees in the surf, she shed seven tears into the water, and within moments a handsome man stood before her, beguiling and mysterious as the sea itself. He lifted her from the water, cradling her in his arms and taking her up to a cave in the cliffs where they became lovers. Seven nights she came to the cave and waited, and seven nights he lay with her. On the eighth, when he did not appear, she knew he would never return. Nine months later was I born."

I know my face betrayed my shock. A selkie's child? Half human, half denzien of the sea, rumored to possess a longer span of years than mere mortals and strange affinities for the water. Males were reported to be particularly appealing to women, seductive and astucious...

No wonder he unsettles me so.

Somehow knowing that causes much of the glamour to fall away. In the fading light he now seems to be just a man - sun spotted skin, thin strands of grey in his black hair, crinkles around his eyes. He is still a fine man, to be sure, his strong build no illusion, but not the powerful enigma that he had been just moments before.

My eyes narrow. "Why tell me this?" I cannot help but whisper. "You could have made up some story about your father being a fisherman, or that you were stolen in infancy by pirates, that you ran away from home at twelve and hied away on a ship." He could have lied - easily, and more safely - and yet he had not. "Why tell me? You know nothing of me. What if I sell this secret in Caermellor, and wizards come looking for you?"

He looks at me then, eyes naked in the golden light, stripped bare. What I've said is true: wizards could come take his blood for potions, strip his skin to make covers for their spell books. Selkie skin is impossible to come by, used to protect books one doesn't want destroyed, for it won't burn no matter how hot the fire. Being half-blood, his skin would not fetch so rare a price as his father's, but there are lesser wizards who would pay for cheap knock-off skin. Or poachers who would take his skin to fob off to the unsuspecting as real.

"Why surrender such power?" I whisper, feeling what he'd given me resting like a coiled spring in my chest.

"You are a descendant of Sanyté," he replies, his tone indicating that this should have been obvious. "You would no more sell me than you would sell yourself."

I'm a what?

"I'm a what?" I have to say, out loud.

He smirks at first, "You jest..." But then he looks into my face, and what he sees there tells him I do not. His brow furrows. "You ... you cannot be serious."

I roll my eyes. "I do not know how to be more plain. Explain yourself, sir."

He stands abruptly, and I notice suddenly that night has fallen. "I cannot now," he states gruffly. "Night has fallen, and there..." I hear a thump from below decks. "You must get to your cabin." Taking my arm, he pushes me towards the windowless door, more urgency in his grip than I would have thought necessary. I'm issuing small noises of protest, but he ignores them and thrusts me into my room, pulling the door closed with a firm click. I bolt it out of habit, not thinking until I hear him striding away that I am not even remotely satisfied with his answers.

My day-long sleep has left me awake and restless. Full moonlight bathes my cot, and I cannot force myself to go near it. Instead, I pace between the door and the washstand, searching my memory for any reference to someone named Sanyté...

Nothing.

I hear strange thumps and groans throughout the night, the tedium almost enough to drive me mad. As I dare not lay down on the cot, I sit against the far wall, arms wrapped around my drawn-up knees. The hours pass, and when breakfast arrives I do not venture on deck, but eat the bowl of gruel with Pock watching me curiously. When I hand the bowl back he shrugs and ambles away. I close the door and curl up on the cot, content to sleep the day away undisturbed.

I hear a knock at what I assume is midday, but all I do is roll over and go back to sleep. I wake later in the afternoon, the sun low on the horizon and clouds gathering force in the bleak sky. I watch them blow in, curling like fists. The water turns choppy, the ship lurching as the waves begin to roil higher, nearly reaching the portholes. Screwing back on the glass, I suck in a deep breath. A storm. It follows that one would find us now - we are about halfway to our intended port, the Captain apparently has guarded secrets I'm to get him to reveal, and I've established a daily rhythm which while not comfortable is certainly comforting. Of course there would be a storm.

This is me we're talking about.

It hits us just before sunset, sky darkening and rain drops plinking against the glass. No sunlight means no light at all, as I have no means to light the candle on the washstand. Within moments the sound of rushing water pounding overhead drowns out the sound of the wind, the creaking of the timbers deepening to grating groans. My satchel falls off the peg with a thud as the ship plunges up and down the waves, my stomach rising to my throat and falling to my toes with sickening violence. I crawl to the cot, gripping its wooden poles in a vain attempt to keep upright and to keep my stomach out of my mouth. We toss for hours, until my bones feel rattled to dust and my head fair split with pain. Every once in a while I hear running feet on deck, muffled shouts of sailors. Once, I hear an agonizing scream, running feet, then ominous silence.

Needless to say, no one brings me dinner.

They may have forgotten me, or rightly ascertained that I have no business on deck right now. It never crosses my mind to unbolt the door, to go out and look the storm in the eye. Instead, I try not to think about that scream, about the silence that followed. I hum, recite prayers, and at the storm's worst sing at the top of my lungs, anything to stay sane. The squall passes in the wee hours of the morning, but the rain does not cease. It falls heavily, plummeting down from above as if weary with its own effort. I peel my fingers from the cot poles, sitting shakily on the edge and lowering my head to my hands. A knock on the door startles me out of my reverie.

"Y-yes?" I answer, standing on trembling legs and wobbling to the door, sliding back the bolt. On the other side, a haggard, soaked Forsyr leans wearily against the wall, eyes dull, face pale as cold ashes. Water runs in rivers down his oilskin cloak, though it looks as though it has not done much to keep the rain out. His white shirt is practically transparent, hair plastered to his skull.

"Lady?" he whispers, voice hoarse. "How do you fare?"

I swallow, trying to moisten my dry mouth, leaning against the wall myself as I do not know if my legs will bear me. "I-I am well. How fares the ship?"

He nods weakly, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. "Well enough," he is out of breath. "She took quite a beating, but we managed to hold her together. You are certain you are well?"

"Yes," I reply with a faint smile. "I am well. A little hungry, perhaps."

His eyes widen, mouth dropping open. "Forgive me! Of course... I..." He drags himself upright, swaying for a moment before staggering down the hall. "I shall return shortly..."

I feel bad at first and nearly call out to stop him - he is obviously spent, and I am sure something happened during the storm that leeched the blood from his cheeks and set the glaze in his eyes. But he seems a little grateful for the activity, a purposeful mien settling over his features just before turning away. I stumble back to my cot, leaving the door open, and sink down on it with a groan. After several long minutes, he reappears, clomping down the corridor with two covered bowls half sheltered under his cloak. He stands in the doorway, more water cascading to the floor and puddling at his feet. His cheeks are flushed now, still out of breath, but a little more spark in his eyes. He holds the bowl out.

"Milady, breakfast is served," he breathes, a half smile on his face.

I can't help but grin. "Come in, Captain. Share my meal."

His smile fades. "I dare not," he replies, glancing down at his sodden state with a scowl. "Trust me, the rain is better kept out of one's quarters if at all possible. I will eat in my own cabin."

Some sudden impulse seizes me. "May I... may I join you?" I don't know why I ask - perhaps I just need to get out of my own cabin, to be somewhere else for a while. Anywhere else. Perhaps I need company: surviving that gale, knowing deep down that another of our party was not so lucky. Perhaps part of me knows he needs this, too, having to inform a family, a crew...

His head jerks up, eyes wide with surprise. To his credit, he recovers quickly, the rakish smirk curving his lips. "It would be my pleasure, milady." With a careful sweep of his bowl-laden arm, he gives a grand bow, gesturing that I proceed ahead of him down the hall to his cabin. I stand with what grace I can muster, give a small curtsy and sweep past him, tossing a playful glance over my shoulder.

I don't know what's come over me.

With both his hands full, it falls to me to open the door and lead us inside, and I don't know what I expected, exactly, but what I see isn't it. Other than the large glass window taking up the whole of one wall, his cabin is not the grand palace I assumed would fit a Captain's rank. No draping silks, no fine brocades. No large globe on which to plot the world. Instead, a double bed in one corner, a dressing wardrobe and screen in another, a frayed rug upon the floor, a battered table and chairs strewn with maps, and dusty sailcloth curtains. He sets the bowls on the table and hastily rolls the maps away.

"I apologize for the sorry state of my chambers," he mutters as he stuffs them in an unnoticed urn. "We are on the last leg of our journey; when we put into port at Caermellor I'll hire someone to come aboard and clean. I've laid by some silver from this run, part of which I plan to use to buy some niceties for this room which I'm sure you see is sorely lacking. But I am sad to say that now," he clears a chair and pulls it out. "Now we must be surrounded by meanness."

I cross to sit, perching lightly on the edge, taking a bowl for myself and spooning its mushy contents into my mouth. He stalks over to his wardrobe, opening it up and rifling through until he finds drier garments, ducking behind the screen. I hear him peeling the wet clothes from his body, watch as they come sailing over the top of the screen to land on the floor with a squelching pop. After several long moments he appears, drier and probably warmer, and sits opposite me. We eat in companionable silence as we watch as the sky begin to lighten through the wall of windows. The rain still falls, not looking to let up anytime soon. Though I have had a head start, he finishes first, dropping the spoon into the bowl with a long sigh. He must have been starving. His arms rest on the table, head dropping down so his chin touches his chest. Even from where I sit I can see his eyelids drooping. I take another bite of mush, one question burning in my mind.

"Who was Sanyté?" I murmur, trying not to startle him but needing to ask in spite of myself.

His head snaps up, eyes bleary. "Sorry?"

I take another bite, speaking around the mouthful. "Sanyté." I am sure this is not the time to ask: the poor man is ready to drop. But I've always been impatient. Call it a character flaw.

"Sanyté," he repeats, rubbing a hand over his face as if to press some life back into it. His gaze finds mine, slightly unfocused. "I must admit I am deeply disturbed that no one has told you. It is obvious, you know. Your coloring is a dead giveaway: ice blue eyes, brown skin, and your hair..."

I pull my braid around to look at it. It doesn't look like anything special to me, just hair. "What about it?"

"It's practically white."

My eyebrows raise. "So?"

"Do all the Priestesses your age have white hair?" He cocks his head.

"Well... no." First Aunt and Elder Mother do, but they are much older than I. Many of the other Priestesses are older. The ones that aren't have mousy brown or black hair. A scant few have dingy yellow, more brown than gold, and none as light as mine. "But no one has ever made mine seem like anything special..."

Then again, if they had thought it was odd, no one would have told me. I wasn't spoken to.

"Did your mother have light hair?"

I frown, remembering. Her face appears: skin pale, eyes dark, and... curled wreath of black hair.

His stare makes me squirm. "Your father?"

Again, I shake my head. What little hair my father had was brown as dirt, his eyes like dark mud. I stare at him, confused. "How..." My voice cracks. I swallow and start again. "How is that possible? How could I have none of their looks? Am... am I not their child?"

Ban leans back in his chair with a shrug. "Only they know. There are things... well, you'd have to ask someone else." He leans his arms back, linking his fingers on the back of his head. "Sanyté was the first woman to see the future. She had a shrine not far from where your Temple sits today, on the site where there used to be a large deposit of rhenium. She was born of god and moral union: Phyntasis, god of dreams, and Cermynta, a woman of uncommon beauty who reveled in the night. Cermynta would take long walks when the moon was full, bathing herself naked in its rays. When Phyntasis first beheld her, he was so captivated by her that he sent himself to her in dreams, begging for the chance to court her. For three nights she dreamed of him, and on the last night she relented, proclaiming in her half-waking state that she would accept his advances. The goddess of the harvest was the most jealous of their devotion, having wanted Phyntasis for herself, and cursed Cermynta, saying that when the visions descended she would be rocked with paroxysms of sneezing. They were not permitted to marry - he being a god and she being a woman - but while she lived he took no other. They had only one child: Sanyté. She was born of the moonlight: silvery hair and ice blue eyes, with her father's immortality and gift for symbolic dreaming, rich in imagery that spoke of the past, present or future. But she inherited her mother's brown skin, willowy form, passion for the night, and ticklish nose. She held her court at midnight, waking from dreams rich and pure and sneezing them into the rhenium slabs. Young men and women came to learn from her, and it was she who first created the Pool of Gifts and the Orb, under her father's guidance. Seven years she ruled the Shrine, teaching, prophesying." He stops, not managing to stifle a yawn and a shiver, exhaling thoughtfully. "Echecratys was a young man, having arrived at the shrine and beheld her, became enamoured of her because of her beauty. One night, he carried her away and violated her. She crawled back to the shrine, bruised and torn, cursing all men upon the earth: they would be denied access to the visions, the Pool spurning their bodies and Orb ignoring their presence. Her father found her body there, by the Pool, and took her away with him to the moonlit clouds. She was never seen nor heard from again."

My jaw was on the floor. Why was I never told this? The origin of our Temple, the first Priestess... and this history is not taught to us? We know nothing about where we come from. I sputter for a moment, fighting through the confusion, the fury, for the words. "H-how... why would..."

"No one has told you," he finishes, lowering his arms and heaving a great sigh. "I can't answer that. I can't even tell you how accurate the myth is, or if it is written anywhere for you to look. All I know is that it is one of the stories my mother told me as a child, supposedly one of the stories my father told her during their brief time together. I just assumed the Temple would have known, that perhaps that was why you were chosen to send to the king." He stares at me, the very air becoming still. "You look just like her."

My eyes are aching, ears ringing, thoughts swirling. "So... what... what does this mean, exactly?" I whisper, still trying to piece it all together in my head. Is he trying to tell me that my visions come from my ancestry? From some bastard blood coursing through my veins? That would be the absolute worst thing I could possibly hear: that no amount of distance between me and the Temple will make it go away, that I'm stuck with it for the rest of my life...

He shakes his head, another shiver raking his frame. "I don't know for sure. I don't know more than I've told you. What I meant up on deck is that I know what I am, and I know what you are," he leans forward, eyes sparkling with all the glitter of a dark, moon-speckled wave. "And neither of us are what we seem."

I can't take any more. The sun has risen, bathing his cabin in a weak glow, shadowed by the falling rain, and with its rays come a heavy lethargy to my limbs that his tidings only serve to make more laden. I push myself up from the table, stumbling blindly from the room as tears fill my eyes. I slam the door to my cabin closed, throwing the bolt and flinging myself down on the cot, great sobs ripping me near to shreds.

Never to sleep a night in peace, never to dare to walk in the moonlight for fear of the dreams which I cannot escape, perhaps to sink into madness when I cannot give the visions over to the Orb: I still vow never to return to the Temple, the repugnant source of all this misery.

Hours later, I sob myself to sleep.

[starpollen]

Took a while to get to this part, I know. But hopefully worth the wait...

Part 5

I waken to grimy cheeks and gritty eyes, a heaviness in my head that even sound sleep did not lift. It is dark out, the sky clouded, though the rain seems to have ceased, being replaced by a chilly mist. Not knowing the time, I rise and wrap my blanket around my shoulders, unbolting the door and for the first time set foot on deck unaccompanied. I do not worry about the 'untutored' sailors: at this point my spirits are sunk so low I don't care what is done to me. The mist is sharp, seeming almost to turn to sleet around me, cutting my skin. I pull the blanket closer, peering through it. The seas have calmed somewhat, though still a little choppy as the wind is moderate. The sails are full, a man I have not seen before at the helm, skin darker than the sky behind him. Looking around, I see that only the dark man at the helm, Pock in the crow's nest, and I are on deck. I find my rope nest, wishing something like Forsyr's oilskin were covering it as it is now soaked beyond endurance. I do not sit, instead debating whether to return to my cabin or go exploring. My thoughts suddenly turn to my horse, wondering how he is enjoying this trying journey. The thought of venturing down into the fetid stable to see him turns my stomach, but I cannot think of aught else to do.

Finding the door on the other side of the ship, I see a lantern hanging just inside the passageway and take it up, casting a dim glow on the ramp as I descend. The air becomes more rank the lower I go, and I wrap the blanket around my face to shield myself from the worst of its assault. At the bottom, I see that my horse is not as alone as I: two others occupy boxes, along with a cow and a cage of chickens. I suppose the cow and chickens are used by the ship's cook for milk and eggs, to mix with oats that make our morning gruel. I raise a hand to stroke my mount's velvet ears, combing my fingers through his coarse mane. He seems glad to see me, whuffling at my blanket and lowering his head so I have easier reach. After only a few moments my nose is tickling and seizing so badly that I sound as though I am possessed, “Hhhh... hah ahh HAAH AAHHH...." Pinching my nose, I start pulling my hand up and down frantically, trying to rub the inside of my nose to stave off the sneezes. I can hear the squishy noises my full nostrils make as I squeeze and pull them roughly. "Hohh... I’b goig to... sdheeze...” I don’t know why I talk to the horse: habit, I guess. Sometimes I get the urge to announce my sneezes; I don’t know why. “Hahh... haHH... god id idches! I deed to... hahh... god, I... iih iihh... hai wadt to sdeeze... soh... bahdly..." For some reason I can’t coax it to come, and soon my eyes are streaming with tears. It builds and recedes, and suddenly in a fit of desperation I bury my nose in the horse’s mane and inhale deeply, craving relief.

It works too well.

"EEHPPFFSHHOO" UhhhohUH-IISHOOO! *sniff* IISHHOO! *gasp* IISSHOO! Oh goh...AAHTTTCCHHEWWW! Ahh...ahhh...ah...ah-kSHOOOO!!!" I sneeze so hard that I knock an empty pail off the wall. "Oh, goh... EESHOOO! Oh, UUHHSHOOO! TTCCHHEW! PPFCCHHEW! I jusd deed... ahahhhhKaaaaTCHOOO!!! Oh god... ehhhehhehehhEEIISSHOOO! "I... ahh...ahhhh...iksssTCHOOO!!"

I have had all the air down there I can stand, and having satisfied myself that he is well, I turn and rush to get back up on deck.

The air is pure enchantment, crisp and wet, cleansing fabric and hair of the awful smell, lifting it up and wringing it away. I stifle a couple of leftover sneezes into my hand, pinching my nostrils closed. “Heh-GGKKT! Hep-KXNT!” noticing quickly that the deck is more busy, several sailors I have not yet met bustling to and fro, hauling lines, checking knots. But yet no sign of our Captain. Pock has come down from his crow's nest, shambling near me and heading to another door which I assume leads to the crew's quarters, very near the foul portal to the floating barn. That whole side of the ship must reek: I shudder for him.

As he passes me by, I extend one arm. "Pardon me,” I sniffle, my nose running freely but thankfully not clogged. “But where is our Captain?"

He recoils, as if my touch might contaminate him, and I sigh with exasperation; I thought I'd left that reaction behind. "In 'is cabin… AH-CHOO!" he mumbles, giving a sneeze himself and wiping one filthy hand across his runny, pimply nose, sniffling loudly. "Sick."

The healer in me comes on full alert. "Sick? Sick how?" Not that Pock is fully healthy, but other than a runny sniffly nose he seems to be all right, and wanting nothing to do with me. I have no issue with that.

Pock shrugs, not-too-subtly sidling away from me.

"Is anyone with him?" I press, wishing to inquire after symptoms, thinking where my herb kit has gotten to...

Another shrug, and I not-too-subtly curse him as I stalk across the planks towards my cabin. The Captain had not seemed ill when we supped together, and anything that would come on so quickly and be serious enough to keep him from his duties would surely necessitate a healer. No one stops me as I traverse the deck, though I feel all eyes following as I go, their heavy stares only fueling my anger. Forsyr knows I am a Priestess of the Temple, knows more about us than it seems I know myself. Why not call for me? Why not ask for healing?

Men. Infuriating.

I punch open my door, snatching up my satchel from where it lies still on the floor after the storm. Anger and I are intimate: having danced our courtship for years. I turn to it, take comfort from it, depend on it like I have been able to depend on no other. I dump the satchel on the cot, finding the leather roll I seek and tucking it into my cincher. Throwing the blanket over the rest, hiding it from any prying eyes, I turn and march down the hall. I raise my fist to knock on Forsyr's door, but change my mind and simply barge inside. I am almost surprised it is unlocked, but not terribly surprised to find no one else in the room. Even though I have not been here long, I never see the Captain fraternizing with the other sailors. Perhaps, like me, he is isolated; alone.

Ban - or what I assume is Ban - is a huddle of blankets in the middle of the double bed. I am tempted to stalk over and give him a piece of my mind, but decide against it when I see the blankets shaking and shivering. My training takes over, transforming my demeanor from fire to water, and I approach the bed slowly. I whisper, "Captain?" There is no response, and I wonder if he heard me. Sitting gingerly on the edge, I reach out and lay a hand on the trembling fabric. "Ban?" I try again, a little louder.

He starts, giving a sharp cry and rolling away, encountering the wall before stopping and yanking the covers away from his face. What I see is nothing unusual: I have tended the sick since I was ten years old. His skin is pale, eyes bruised and bloodshot. When he sees me, he stares for a moment, then his eyes slide closed and he sinks down to the mattress with a groan.

"My lord?" I ask. "How do you fare?"

He coughs before answering, a dry, rattling sound. "What are you doing here?" he mumbles, not lifting his head, voice deeper and thick with illness.

"I heard someone was ill," I reply, inwardly bristling at his ungrateful tone while outwardly scooting further onto the mattress to gain easier reach. My hands pull him gently but firmly, rolling him onto his back and setting the blankets to rights. He gulps in two deep breaths and gives three mighty sneezes, "EhhKKCHHOO! ahh... haahTTCHOO!... heahHEAASCCHHUH!" into cupped hands. He sniffles pathetically and looks at me with puppy dog eyes. Men are such babies when they’re sick.

I was always the calmest, the happiest, working in the infirmary. There, the villagers who came to us for help didn't care that I was different, didn't avoid my gaze or shudder when I came close. Feeling the familiar peace come over me, I push his tangled hair back from his face, feeling to see if he is feverish. The touch sends tingles up my arm and down my spine, but I try to ignore it. He watches me, still shivering, turning away to muffle a cough behind his closed lips. His skin is hot, but not dangerously so. The cough does not sound wet - yet - though I can infer from the wince he gives that his throat is sore. It looks like a chill, just at the border of turning into something more serious. Warmth, rest, and Hilla's red pepper soup would have him on his feet in two days. The problem is I am fairly certain no ship would carry red peppers. I do have some elder flower, meadowsweet, and slippery elm - standard part of a healer's kit. Of course willow bark, but that would only prove useful if his fever spiked significantly. Hilla always said a fever was a body's way of doing for itself, and no use in interfering unless it got too high too fast.

I stand, pulling my leather roll out and taking it to the table. He struggles up onto shaky elbows, looking like a strong wind would knock him down. The weakness and the cough are probably what drove him to his bed, and lucky for him they did. If he were up on deck in this state, trying to work through in typically idiotic manly fashion, he'd collapse by tomrrow, and be dead in a few days. He must be smarter than I gave him credit for. "I gave orders for Nut to take care of you," he rasps, voice nearly gone and giving a few more coughs. "Did he not bring your dinner?"

"It's not quite time for dinner," I reply. Nut? "Please, lie back and rest. I am going to find your cook, see if I can get two buckets of clean water: one hot and one cold. Maybe convince him to kill one of those chickens in the hold for soup." I glance at him, a look of challenge. "So what are my chances? Do you think that is too much to ask from a ship three days at sea?"

He swallows painfully, closing his eyes and giving another ragged sigh. Lowering himself gingerly back to the bed, he grunts and pants, giving another sneeze into his fist. "HUUHHKKSCCCHH!! Ugh. Syd should be able to handle that. Water he can do. Food, though..." he chuckles, ending in a short coughing jag.

"How do I get to the mess?"

"Galley," he corrects.

"Galley, I amend. He whispers directions, one arm thrown over his eyes, seeming to fade fast.

I slip out, crossing the deck and entering a new door, finding a rickety ladder that takes me down until I find the double swinging portal that leads to 'Syd's' domain. Inside, a strange concoction of smells - mostly old raw fish - and a barrel chested man with a ratty red-and-grey beard and food-stained shirt. I waste no time, riding high on the wave of self-importance that every healer wears like a cloak. I bark orders for water and soup, not pausing to allow the astonished look to drop from his hairy face before taking over the room, snatching a battered pot down from the wall and scooping the water out of a nearby barrel, giving it a sniff. It smells like rain water, and so I lower it onto the iron stove, grabbing a grubby towel so I can safely open the stove door. There is a small pile of wood by the stove, and I throw in a few chunks and poke it with another to stoke it to roaring life. Cookie, all this time, hasn't said a word. When I glance over my shoulder he's pressed against the wall, watching me with wide eyes. I roll mine with an irritated huff.

"Get a chicken," I growl, turning and flinging a chunk of wood in his direction. "Now!" He vanishes. If I can't escape this... persona... fine. I'll milk it for all it's worth. Stoking the fire higher, I'm pleased when small bubbles begin to form in the pot, and after several more minutes it is steaming nicely. On the stove near it are two pots of fish stew, which I assume to be our dinner. Plating it up, I eat it with my fingers as I wait for the water to boil. It is warm and filling, the fish falling apart in my fingers. When finished, I dig around the grimy cabinets until I find a large soup pot and fill it up with water, too, feeding the fire more wood and stoking it up as I take the small pot off, using the rag to protect my hand There's a battered metal jug that the hot water goes in, and somehow I manage to get it up the ladder without scalding myself. I keep my eyes straight ahead as I cross the deck again, hearing how all conversation goes quiet as I pass. Whatever.

Back in Forsyr's quarters, I fish several herbs from my leather kit and steep them in the hot water, grateful that he's got a few tin cups on a shelf: I'd forgotten to grab any. My patient is, well, anything but. He's restless, coughing, making barely audible groans as he tosses and turns. This tells me he's achy, at that state of sickness where no position is comfortable. I steep peppermint, yarrow, elder flower, lemon balm, and slippery elm together into a tea, its distinctive fragrance wafting up from the cup. Hilla favored coneflower and hyssop, which I may try later if this doesn't bring him sufficient ease, but I have found it successful for general chills. I leave the cup on the table to cool slightly while I boldly fling open his wardrobe, looking for a nightshirt and perhaps an extra blanket; I am relieved to find both. Crossing back to the bed, I sit down and pull back the covers, reaching for the laces of his shirt.

"Hey!" he protests, batting my hands away and reaching for the blankets.

"I know you're cold," I patiently reply. "But a change of shirt will feel good, trust me, and afterwards you'll get more blankets and a cup of hot tea for your trouble. Now hands off."

He blinks curiously, but allows me to unlace his shirt and help him sit up while he pulls it over his head. He's lean and toned, brown from the wind and the sun, which I don't mind looking at in the least. Crossing his arms, he shivers more violently, and I quickly thrust the new shirt over his head and tuck the blankets around him, forcing those stirrings of appreciation back down. Right now, he's not a man: he's a patient. I prop pillows up against the wall, and he scoots back to lean on them, still watching me with a bewildered expression. That expression turns into unfocused discomfort, his nostrils flaring and lips parting into slack submission. He raises one crooked finger and presses it to the tip of his nose. It doesn't work.

“"Hiiihh-HEHKKSSHOO!... hahh...GGSSCHH!... HUHGGSSCHH!... Heaheah IITKSSCHOO!"” he finishes with a ragged sigh and a congested shhungk. I pass him a clean handkerchief from my sleeve and he blows his nose gratefully.

I place the steaming cup in his hands, "Careful, it's hot," and bring a chair up to sit beside him. Blowing carefully on the hot liquid, he cautiously takes a small sip, eyes closing as the warmth spreads down his chest when he swallows. He takes another sip. After this, his eyes open to regard me.

"I don't understand," he whispers. "Yesterday I was positive you hated me."

I can see how he would think that: I do keep fleeing from his presence in a most sudden and inexplicable manner. I doubt he's had much experience with women reacting to him in that way.

"I don't hate you."

He takes another sip, body slumping a little as the slippery elm begins to ease his sore throat and the peppermint begins to open his chest. He heaves a contented sigh. "I guess not."

I purse my lips. After a few moments of silence, I utter, "I thought selkie spawn wouldn't be able to get sick."

He glares at me over the rim of his cup. "Obviously you were wrong."

"Hm," I reply.

We sit in silence for another few minutes, until his cup is dry and his eyelids heavy.

"Why didn't you send for me?"

He looks up sharply. "What?"

"Why didn't you send for me?" I repeat. "When you began to feel sick. I am a healer, you know. Nearly all Priestesses are." I know the irritation shows, but now that he's been diagnosed, dosed, and dealt with, life can return to normal.

"Oh, I..." his brow furrows. "I didn't know that."

"Hhn!" I can't help it, stalking to the pitcher and refilling his cup. "You, mister I-know-the-origin-of-your-Temple? Right." Yet his expression convinces me: he truly didn't know. Guilt at my arrogant display of temper makes me even more irritable.

He downs the tea refill in a shot and grimaces, holding out the empty cup as he and the sun both sink lower. I move to take it, but all of a sudden he desperately grips my hand. "I've told you all I know," he whispers, capturing my gaze with his own - his eyes dark and smoldering, pale cheeks flushed. "I've never had dealings with Priestesses before. All I know is what my mother told me, and what I inferred from it. I thought all Priestesses looked like you, that they sit around all day breathing vapors and mumbling chants. I didn't know they were mouthy bitches who run hot one minute and cold the next and are more beautiful than a summer moon reflecting on a silver sea."

Uh oh.

"You're delirious," I pull at my hand but his grip tightens, tugging me insistently until my hips leave the chair and sink down onto the edge of the mattress.

"I'm not," he replies, face close, eyes bright. "You felt before," he takes my hand and lays it against his forehead. "See?"

"So you're not delirious," I amend, yanking my hand away, but his arm is about my waist. "You're an idiot. Let go."

"You can't tell me you don't feel that," he whispers, lips so close to my neck I can feel the moist heat of his breath. "When you touch me. It's like fire crackling through my bones. I've never felt anything like it before." His lips land on my neck and, goddess help me, I nearly moan out loud. No one has kissed my neck before.

Thankfully, his illness stops the both of us. His breath flutters, shoulders bouncing once, twice, before he turns his head away and sneezes violently, “"Heah... heaheaheah... IISHOO!..." He fumbles for the handkerchief, catching the next "uhhCHOO!..." He blows his nose, but rolls his eyes as another helpless, tingly, irritated feeling crawls through his sinuses. "AaahhSHOO!! OHhhh,” he sighs, as if it felt sooo gooood to sneeze that out... "Hiih-IISHOO! Ah." Blowing again, he resigns himself to the idea that his sneezes aren't going to stop anytime soon, as his nostrils continue to flare and his shoulders continue to bounce with his shuddering breaths. "EEIIISHOO!... HAAASHOO! Hah... EHPTCHOO! Heh, HEHPCHOO!... EeeehhhhIIISHOO! Hah... ahh... AAASHOOO!" He is completely distracted and I can disentangle myself from his embrace. When our skin parts company, he groans, dropping his head to his hands as if he hasn't the strength to hold it up.

"That's enough," I command, healer returning in full. "Save your strength. You're not seriously ill, but attempting anything foolish could easily change that. Besides," I look at my hands, suddenly feeling inadequate and shy. Not emotions I am well acquainted with. I try to cover them with brusqueness. "I don't know what you feel. And, whether you believe me or not, I don't think I feel the same thing. I admit I don't feel nothing, but I don't feel fire, or uncontrollable urges, or anything like that." I do look at him then, and he seems wilted, sapped. "Look, you're sick. You're not yourself. When this passes..."

"No," he croaks, turning his head in his hands so he can look at me, one dark strand of hair falling across his eye. "You don't understand..." he stops, swallowing, a look of almost anguish settling over his features.

"What? What don't I understand?"

He stays silent, slowly sinking down and turning away, curling around his pillow. Fine. If he wants to be that way, he can just wallow in it. It's a little childish of him, I think, to be so put out over not getting any. But the healer in me won't abandon him until he's well. I draw the blankets back up to his shoulders, smoothing them out. My hand hovers over him, nearly going to smooth his hair away from his face, a tender gesture I cannot explain. But I don't. If my touch is so charged, I'll be more careful where I bestow it.

"Cooki-" Oops. "Syd is making you some soup. I'll bring it when it's ready," I murmur, squeezing his safely blanket-clad shoulder and exiting the room. I stop just outside and lean against the wall, closing my eyes.

Why is it always so damned complicated? Why can't I just take a placid horse to a normal inn, get on a normal boat, and make a trip to the city like any other normal villager? It's all I've ever wanted: to be just like everyone else. I sigh.

May as well go check on Cookie.

I know when I walk in that the soup won't be ready for several more hours. The galley has feathers strewn all over the place, chicken feet sticking out of the boiling soup pot. Cookie doesn't speak, but does nod when I ask him if he'll bring it to the Captain when it's done. Maybe he's mute. I even ask, "You will? Definitely?" and he nods again.

Good. Progress.

I go up on deck, heading straight for the railing and leaning onto it, feeling the soft breeze ruffle through my hair. The wind has calmed considerably and the stars are out, peppering the sky with brilliant light, the moon netted by the sails so I stand in shadow. No clouds remain, having blown off to drench some other hapless locale, and the night is luminous and deep. It's so dark I can't see the horizon, where sky should end and water begin. The reflection of the stars on the still water makes it seem as if the ship is hovering, gliding through the heavens with the world out of sight. I breathe, long and savoring. This view is magnificent, and it makes me wonder if I could live the rest of my life aboard a ship. To have this be my whole world, water on all sides, only a day or two in port at the most, on a journey that never ends? Maybe. Even here, though, where most would consider us isolated to the extreme, there are too many eyes for me. I feel them now, boring into my back. I block them out and simply enjoy the night: it's easy when you've been doing it as long as I have. Something splashes out in the water, and I peer into the darkness to see if it's a dolphin, but I don't even see ripples. Maybe it was a mermaid. Maybe it was Ban's father.

[starpollen]

Last part. So let 'er rip!

Part 6

I sigh and cross the deck again, careful to keep in the shadow of the sails. Once in the shelter of the corridor I contemplate staying in my cabin, but to be honest I'm kind of sick of that particular collection of walls. So I head back to the Captain's side. He's still curled facing away from me, so I turn the chair where I can still see the water out his expansive window. The soft sound of waves lapping against the hull as we cut through it, his rasping breathing as he dozes, and the calm stillness all serve to lull me into complacency, and so I don't notice as the moonlight creeps across the floorboards.

Suddenly, it covers my legs, and I feel that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach...

X X X X

Stumbling down a dank corridor, musty smell filling my lungs. Pain rakes its fiery claws across my back, and I fall to my knees with a thick cry. My hands curl into fists against the cold stone floor, hair dark against my white-knuckled grip. The dark hair continues up my arms, and something deep inside me is shocked to see it. A man's hands?...

Then I am taken over again with the instinct to run, to hide. The burning on my back is pure agony, and I stagger to my feet and weave down the dark passage, seeking any kind of relief. I don't know why I must run, but I am convinced that something behind me is bent on claiming my life.

I pause near a section of wall, listening, and can hear voices from the other side shouting, desperately calling my name. I can't let them find me - they'll lock me up again. I can see their faces: cold black eyes, masks covering their mouths, smoke roiling behind their heads. I hurry on, my limbs beginning to shake with fear, the throbbing in my blood pounding harder. They are responsible for my pain - they put something inside me, something that is slowly killing me.

My nose twinges, and I stifle the sneeze in my fist, “Nh’kkht!” This is followed by a harder, “hh’NKkt!” and a less contained, “ . . . hh’kNXKscht!”

Sweat pours from my skin, running into my eyes. I wipe it away, turning a corner and nearly falling over the pack of provisions I had stowed here for emergencies. Snatching up the clothes I pull them on with shaking hands, pushing more sweat away and noticing that my throat is so parched it's difficult to work up enough spit to swallow. I barely fasten the cloak around my shoulders, gasping and falling against the wall as the fabric comes in contact with the torture that is my back. Pain washes over me with such sickening intensity that I turn to the side and vomit, barely managing to miss the pack sitting on the ground at my feet. It does nothing for my throat, which now burns as though glass had come up with the rest of my stomach. I finish with a groan, freezing when I hear a faint noise behind me, heart falling to my stomach. My fingers fumble for the pack, feet scraping for purchase on the now slippery stones...

X X X X

I don't know how long I sit there, assailed by the vision, but it must be hours, for when Cookie traipses in with a lantern and a bowl of soup I jump, startling me back to the present. It's definitely the wee hours of the morning: I know that smell intimately. He puts lantern and bowl down on the table and looks me over with a wary eye, seeming not to notice how pale I must be, clammy with sweat, eyes squinting. I felt the first sensations dimly, through a haze of sleep. Pulling myself to consciousness, I sit up groggily, bringing one hand up to scrub viciously at my nose. But it doesn't abate. Instead, the urge grows until I can only cup my hands in front of my face, and wait. "Hah hah hah-AAASHOOO!! AA-IIISSHOO!… IIISHOOO!… Hehhehh... EEHSHOO."

Thankfully he ignores my display. "How is he?"

I blink; he spoke to me. "A chill," I respond, keeping my voice low, pushing the visions from my mind. I rise and stretch my stiff and aching limbs. Sleeping in chairs is not advisable. Leaning over the bed to check that the man in question is still asleep, I continue. "He'll sleep it off and be up and about by tomorrow."

He nods, thumping to the door. Swinging it open, he stops with one hand on its frame and turns, glancing over his shoulder. "There's more on the stove, if he wants it, and I'll keep water boiling." Then he's gone. I smile a little - rough sailors are cute when they go all soft about their captains.

Speaking of which, Ban stirs, coughing a little. I cross to the table for the soup, bringing it back and sitting on the edge of the bed as he rolls over, rubbing the grit from his eyes.

"Sit up," I command softly. "You need to eat something."

He complies, too groggy to argue, and I take the opportunity to assess him in the dim light. Light fingers briefly to his brow find his skin cool. His eyes look better, clearer, skin is back to pink instead of white, and he's no longer shivering. I go to hand him the bowl, pausing for a moment when he gasps, “"Ahh... hahh... haahHHSHOOO! EEEHTTCHOO!" When he finishes I give it to him and he sips at it, lips to the rim. I guess Cookie knew this is how the Captain takes his soup: he brought no spoon. The tea has gone cold, so after I pour it into the tin cup I open the lantern and hold it over the flame. Forsyr looks at me curiously over the edge of the bowl, but says nothing. When I feel the handle start to get hot, I pull it out and test the liquid with my fingertip. It's not steaming by any means, just on the warm side of tepid, which will have to do.

He's finished the soup, so I exchange the bowl for the cup, gripping the rim of it so he can take it by the handle. "Don't touch the bottom, it'll still be hot from the flame," I caution. He tips his head in thanks and drinks it down in two slugs. I sit down on the chair again, nervous about getting too close to him. "How are you feeling, Captain?"

Apparently he doesn't miss the stiffness in my voice, because he lowers the cup to his lap and stares at it, frowning. "Better, thank you." His voice sounds stronger: the hoarseness nearly gone and simply a thinness remaining that betrays his brief ailment. The sky is beginning to lighten slightly, the black night fading to a deep purple, though dawn is at least another hour away. Day four at sea, hopefully halfway to Caermellor, and all I've got for my trouble is an amorous, ill Captain and the knowledge that sleeping through the day is the only way to keep the visions from descending.

He clears his throat, sniffling, "If you'll excuse me, I'll get dressed now. I need to see to the..."

"Oh no," I put my hand out and lay it on his chest, stopping him as he attempts to rise. "You'll stay in bed until tomorrow morning, at least. If your fever does not come back you can consider yourself well enough to return to duty. But even then you must take care not to tax your strength. Chills can recur, often stronger the second time around." I straighten the blankets for want of something to do, avoiding his piercing gaze. "You were lucky it was so mild as this: you would not wish it to get worse, with us still days from port." He tries to rise again, but is still too weak and I hold him down easily. Collapsing back to the mattress, he gives another couple of coughs, fists tight and jaw tense.

"And what am I to do here?" he growls, clearly not going to accept this quietly. "I've got responsibilities--"

"You'll rest," I interrupt, all iron and ice. "Sleep as much as you can, drink soup and tea. And in the morning we'll talk."

Another stare-down. A few days ago, it was a horse. This time, someone just as stubborn. And once again, I win. Sort of.

He relaxes but continues to follow me with his eyes as I take his cup back to the table. "And you'll stay with me."

I stiffen at this. Truthfully, I am attracted to the man. What woman wouldn't be? He's got a handsome face, fine build, is confident, charming... and oh, incidentally half non-human. So I can't be sure that what I feel isn't the product of his lineage; that makes me wary. Turning, I regard him lying in bed, hair tousled, cheeks slightly flushed from his fading temper, nightshirt open to reveal his smooth, muscled chest. His eyes are magnetic, pulling my gaze, and something stirs in my loins. I try to imagine going back to my cabin, lying on my cot, knowing he is lying just down the hall... and of its own accord my mind pictures the both of us lying in his bed, those magnificent hands pressing against my body...

I drag my eyes away from him: it's too dangerous to stay. Yet I don't think I can stay away. "Yes," I whisper. "Provided," I roll up my healer's kit, knotting the leather ties. "You behave yourself."

He gives a barked laugh that ends in a sneeze, "Eeehh... GGSSHHOOU!!!” and I look over to make sure he's all right. "You take all the fun out of being sick," he replies, swiping the handkerchief at his chapped nose, that natural disarming smile illuminating his face. I return it with a half smile of my own, and my heart flutters when his expression softens into something approaching the loving look I saw him give the sea my first night on board. A high compliment indeed. And confusing.

I saunter back to the bed, body thrilling in that half-anxious, half-euphoric state that comes with foreplay. With at least three, possibly four more days of the voyage ahead of me, I worry about what may be developing between us. At times he seems more interested in the physical pursuit, but his reaction last night to my refusal and that look just now both communicate something entirely different. As I lower myself gracefully into the chair I regard him with cool calculation.

"Captain," I voice, leaning forward and resting my arms on my crossed legs. "What are you trying to do?" What can I say, I've always been blunt. "What are your intentions?"

"Intentions?" he whispers distractedly, mischief twinkling in his dark eyes.

"For me," I continue, looking past his flirtatious eye and conveying my gravity. "If all you're after is a quick tumble, I'm not interested. And if you're looking for a missus to clean this dump up after you I'm not interested in that, either."

He looks a little taken aback. Good. Let him work to find his footing for a while.

"I... it's not..." he tries. I don't lessen the intensity of my gaze; he is discomfitted, torn, alternating between looking up my body and gazing deep into my eyes. "I don't... um..." After a few moments of this it becomes apparent that he is not going to produce anything substantial or coherent. Ah well.

Sometimes the puddle only goes so deep.

"Tell you what," I amend with a sigh, leaning back in the chair and resting my feet on the frame of his bed. "You work on that and get back to me. In the meantime, tell me about Caermellor." He looks indescribably relieved.

"Caermellor," he breathes, raking his fingers through his hair. "Largest city on the continent and home of the palace and the king. Our destination."

"Yes, thank you," I respond, sarcastically. "I am aware of that. What I would like to know are the things I don't know. How large is the largest city? What does the palace look like? Have you ever seen the king? I've only heard of him in bits and snatches: I know he is ageing but not old, his subjects are loyal but not loving, and his son is young and untried. I know there is more to know. Tell me what I wouldn't have heard, secluded in an enclave far to the south."

He is silent for a moment, thoughtful. "I may as well start at the beginning... We live in the reign of King Thymoetis I," he begins, linking his hands behind his head and gazing up at the ceiling. "He took the throne when he was just fifteen, after his father was killed putting down a rebel uprising. He married Sylla, a landed woman of noble birth, when he was nineteen and she twenty-seven," he sniffles a thick, wet gurgle before continuing. "She had been widowed, but bore no children with her late husband. She gave Thymoetis two children, both ghuh-girlsSSNIISSHOO! EeeeAAASHHHOOOO!.... huh... SSHHHOOOOO! ‘Scuse be,” he sniffles, blowing the congestion from his nose before speaking again. “Sylla died of an illness before her thirty-fifth birthday. The eldest is Princess Margyta, now twenty seven. She's married to Lord Crystof of Bens who owns the largest fleet of ships on the sea. Second is Princess Elyna, twenty. She's to be married at midwinter to Lord Kymin of Munjyn, who possesses the largest army, next to Thymoetis'. King Thymoetis took another wife when he was twenty-eight, a young girl who only lived long enough to give him a son before dying in childbirth in their first year of marriage: Prince Nyklos, just turned thirteen. He's in line for the throne, pampered and protected within an inch of his life. There are rumors that Thymoetis gave birth to a bastard son before he married Sylla, but no such son has ever surfaced."

He coughs lightly, and I go to pour a cup of cold tea. He drinks it down and motions for more. I refill the cup and he sips this one more slowly.

"People who study governments say Thymoetis' strengths are that he knows how to read people and has the prescience to act on what he discerns. He's arranged powerful marriages for his daughters and surrounded himself with advisors he can manipulate. The good news is that he has done some great things for the people: he cut down on imports and increased exports so he could afford to cut taxes. When the crops began to fail he created jobs in the city for displaced farmers and their families. Bad news is with the crops down and farmers moving to the city, pretty soon he'll have to increase imports in order to feed everyone, which means taxes will rise. He's approaching fifty, so the clock is ticking for him to train his young son to deal with the problems he's going to leave behind. And it may just be me, but I don't have a lot of confidence in the boy. As far as I know he's never even been out of the palace."

"I know how he feels," I mutter, feeling a stab of pity for Prince Niklos, kept away from society, someday to face being thrust into the world untried, unprepared...

"So," Ban shifts to his side, clearing his throat and propping his head in his hand. "I have told you about the king. Your turn now. Tehh… hehh… AAggh...SSHHOOO!” he shakes his head like a dog, rubbing his nose with a crooked finger. “Pardon, milady. Tell me more about you."

"Me?"

He smiles, real and beguiling. "Yes. Story for story. Your turn."

I can't help but give a small half-grin. "But you didn't tell me about yourself. You told me about the king," I simper. Dawn has arrived, the sun peeking over the edge of the water. I reach up to take down my braid, massaging my hair back to life. It flows halfway down my back, thick and crimped.

"True," he allows. "But I told you about my parentage."

Damn. He's got me there. "All right," I stand, crossing to the window and looking out at the sunrise. It's breathtaking: a golden goddess rising in a glorious liquid birth. "I'll tell you about my first day at the Temple."

I tell him the story of how I was nearly kicked out the first day, having glimpsed Elder Mother's hulking form and screamed, running down the hallway and hiding in one of the laundry hampers in a closet for hours until one of the young Novices found me. The soap they used in the laundry happened to be yet one more thing I was allergic to, and after stifling sneezes for the longest time I finally had been able to take no more and begun to let them rip like cannon fire. Needless to say she found me almost immediately. She had dragged me to the Atrium and plunked me down before the Thrones, my eyes blind with allergic tears and nose firing off sneeze after ferocious sneeze: Elder Mother had sneered down at me, proclaiming before the whole assembly how I had soiled my dress while hiding.

"That was my first Elder Mother," I finish, crossing back to sit in the chair. The sun has risen fully, and my head feels a little fuzzy. I dozed a few hours in the chair last night, which doesn't count as real sleep. Yesterday I didn't sleep well after my emotional outburst, and my body is feeling the deprivation.. Soon it will be time for me to go back to my cabin.

"How many Elder Mothers have you had?"

"Three," I reply. "That first Elder Mother died of the cough when I turned eight, just over a year after I had come to the Temple. Most of the Priestesses tittered that if she hadn't smoked so much she might have lived many years more. My second Elder Mother endured nearly ten years, and she is the one I remember most. She was very influential, taking several of us girls under her wing and teaching us how to hone our craft, channel our skill. She was more of a mother than any I've ever known."

"What happened to her?" he asks softly.

"She died about seven years ago."

"I'm sorry," he mumurs in tones of velvet compassion. I glance at him and his expression matches his tone, open and honest. It makes him look younger somehow, more accessible.

"It's all right," I brush off his concern, touching as it is. "I didn't really like her. I didn't really like anything about the Temple."

He is silent for a moment. "Well, for someone who 'didn't really like anything about the Temple,' you sure never let me forget you're a Priestess."

I blink at him: it's true. I long to be other than what I am, and yet I wear it like an armor, wield it like a sword.

He gasps, and I look back in time to see him gear up for a massive sneezing fit. "Hehhh... ehhh... EEHH-IISHOO!... HEHHISSHOO! HEHHSHOO!... I'b soohh... EEEHSHOO! Huhhh... UUHSSHOO! ...sorry!" He rubs at his nose frantically with his fist, then pinches it shut, trying to squelch the tickles. "MMMPPPSHOO! HEHHHMMMP!" He winces as if that just makes his sinuses ache. And still, he keeps sneezing. "HEHHISHHO!" He pulls out the crumpled handkerchief, blowing his nose fiercely as tears slide down his cheeks. "AASHHOO!... HAH-SHOO!" Finally, he is able to stop. "Gods," he croaks. "That hurt."

Seeing him yawn I take advantage of the opportunity, mumbling, "Rest now. I'll come back to check on you this evening." I get to the door before turning around. "Don't," I pin him with a hard stare. "Don't even think about going on deck. Stay in bed. Sleep. Drink this rest of the tea. Syd said he'd bring you more soup if you want it, and I'll make sure he comes in around noon to find out."

"You're not going to come yourself?" he asks, barely covering another yawn with the back of his hand.

I don't even try to soften the "No," I toss over my shoulder, sweeping out of his cabin.

I cross the deck, squinting at the early morning sunlight and then widening my eyes at the darkness of the hold as I descend into Syd's realm. I tell him to check on his captain at midday, then head back to the other side of the ship, glancing at the door to Forsyr's cabin before slipping gratefully into mine.

I bolt the door, not expecting him to follow but wanting to make sure I get privacy as I push my satchel off the cot and curl up, sighing with relief as my aching limbs relax into its soft embrace. But sleep eludes me. I think about my past, my future. I contemplate my current situation. I toss and turn for a long while, searching for peace of mind.

I hear Syd walk by at midday, going to and from Ban's cabin with his meal, and blow out an exasperated breath. I sit up and putter around my cabin: rebraid my hair, reorganize my satchel, straighten my blankets. Finding the king's purse, I count out the remaining coins, pleased to see that there is enough left over after paying my passage to buy some new clothes in Caermellor. My tunic is worn and stained from the journey, and I am not about to appear before the king wearing it. Surely there will be a tailor in the city who can make me its like in more luxurious fabric. Thinking about it, I long for the wind to blow its fullest, to speed us to our destination so I can take a bath. My skin feels tight and slimy, heightening my irritability.

I am too tired to sleep, exhaustion making my joints ache.

The sun sinks, and I unbolt my door and venture on deck for my allotted hour of freedom. I am aware that I could go on deck anytime, but sunrise and sunset seem to be the most enjoyable. I relish the air, the beauty, the lack of activity on deck. Perhaps the crew is having dinner now, as only three or four are about when I take my spot at the railing. At dawn, I imagine that some crewmen are collapsing into their bunks, others just stumbling up to begin their day. Cookie emerges from the hold, exhaustion evident in his features, bearing two bowls in his hands. I am sure the weariness on my own face bears a similar stamp, my eyes burning and gritty with lack of sleep. He sees me and stops short, shaking his head as if to clear it and blinking before crossing to stand beside me.

"How is he doing?" I ask.

"Seems to be on the mend," he replies. "Wanted to get up and come out to check on things, but I tol' 'im t' wait until you seen 'im."

I am taken aback. "Thank you." He nods in acknowledgement. I look at the bowls, seeing both contain fish heads and what I assume is fish broth. "I'll take these," slowly lifting them from his thick hands. "Go sleep. I anticipate he'll be back on his feet tomorrow. Back to business as usual."

He nods and turns away, shuffling away with a mighty yawn. It's contagious, and I echo the sentiment as the bowls and I make our weary trek to the sickroom.

As I enter, he is seated at the desk, wrapped in blankets and pouring over papers. He raises his head and smiles in greeting, pushing the papers aside and leaning back in the chair, clearing his throat. "Good evening milady," he quips, gripping the arms of the chair and tossing his hair back from his eyes. He looks much improved; if I didn’t know better I would never have guessed he has been ill. "Are we to share another meal together?" I step to him, reaching to set one of the bowls down in front of him, and watch as his expression turns slowly from joy to concern. "Ryvaen?" He stands, the blanket falling to the floor unregarded. He takes the bowls from my hand and sets them on the table without looking, his hands gently pushing the hair back from my face and looking into my shadowed eyes. "You're exhausted. Here," he guides me gently to his vacated chair. "Surely you haven't been tending to another who is ill?" I shake my head 'no' as he picks up the blanket, kneeling next to me and tucking it around my legs. I am sure I would be stopping him, except that everything seems to be going in slow motion, my brain tracking his movements one step behind his making them. Sitting down seems to shut down the last vestige of awareness I possess, and my eyes begin to slide closed of their own accord. I wrench them open: he's asking me something.

"Hm?"

"I said, when was the last time you slept? Syd said he hadn't seen you on deck today, so I just assumed you were..."

"Mm... day before yesterday?..." I whisper, thinking back and not sure of the answer myself. Before the storm, I think, maybe.

In a move too sudden and swift for me to anticipate, he scoops me up from the chair - blankets and all - striding over and depositing me gently in his own bed, which I notice has received a fresh change of linens since my last visit. My inner reserves gather and I rise up, giving an indignant cry of, "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" shoving his hands off and moving to stand. A wave of dizziness stops me, and despite my mental protest my body betrays me, freezing and holding my breath as the room spins.

"Please," he murmurs, tenderly caressing my face with calloused palms, the warm nature of his touch mirrored in his dark eyes. "Rest. I swear on my royal commission as captain that I will be a complete gentleman, and have nothing but concern for your health at heart." I try to focus my blurry vision at him and fail miserbly, sinking down into the mattress with a soft sigh. The visions always take a lot out of me, and the added stress of tending to the sick - even as mild a chore as Ban's illness had been - must have taken more out of me than I had originally thought. Perhaps this is the first state of the madness that comes from not being able to give the visions over to the Orb. I shudder and try to turn my mind to other thoughts.

The captain is currently engaged in spreading the blankets over me and fetching the soup from the table. I blink and yawn, scooting back to sit up and taking it from his hands. Sipping the hot liquid from the rim, I close my eyes so I don't have to look into the hollow ones of the fish head in the bowl. Forsyr wasn't kidding when he said Syd could do water - apart from a slightly fishy aroma, that's exactly what the soup tastes like. But hopefully it contains enough nutritients to keep body and soul together, at least for now. I don't finish it, feeling a lethargy all through my being that no waifish soup can banish, and pass the bowl back. Ban has settled on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently for me to finish and regarding me with a curiously closed countenance. I turn away and lower my body once more to the soft bed as my aching eyes close. I feel him sit there, still for a moment, then he reaches out a hand to smooth a few errant strands of hair back from my face. That hand hovers hesitantly over my neck before moving off to rest on my hip, his long body leaning over me, lips placing a soft, chaste kiss to my temple. I pretend not to notice, slipping closer to the oblivion of sleep and welcoming its blissful embrace. He lingers tentatively, seeming almost to speak, then abruptly stands and stalks away.

The last thing I hear is the click of the door shutting behind him before I am lost to the darkness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Well, that's all of it so far. I come to this forum for entertainment, companionship, and community. I've always found great people here who are so supportive of everyone else... and I hope that continues.

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts. Thanks ya'll!

Edited November 14, 2007 by starpollen

[Lady K]

Thanks for posting those new sections! I am enjoying this fic very much. I adore fantasy and mythology, and so this is right up my alley. This story is so engrossing, the backstories and legends so rich and mysterious...and the fantastic sneezing doesn't hurt either! Do you have any plans to write more? It would be a shame to never learn what becomes of these characters.

[daystar428]

Mmmmmm I always always always loooooove your fics. The way you make them sneeze is just sooo desperate *sigh* Plus, I really loved how interesting this story was so far I'm soo glad you shared it with us!!!!

[ellwren]

This story's really very good, and your characters are very accessible. I hope for the opportunity to read more.

[starpollen]

Kewl! Thanx, ya'll. I'll see about posting more, though prolly not 'till Christmas or so. I'm embroiled in a lovely horror called the Graduate Portfolio which is likely to suck all the joy and muse and life right out of me.

I'm glad you like it, though, and hope to pleasure you more in the future!

[relative]

i love it! its so intriguing. im excited for more!

[And Beat Him When He Sneezes]

Very good. I like erotic stories with really well-developed plots in their own rights that are not mere vehicles to deliver more sneezes.

[Lady Tori]

A wonderful story. I love the way you "illustrate" sneezing fits. Always have. Thank you for sharing this with us!

[Daphine]

I don't know what else to say but WOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Care]

I really do love this story, it's so sad you haven't written more since so long !

[starpollen]

Wow - I had totally forgotten about this story! I can't believe you found it. Glad you liked it!