Stormchanger

Chapter I

By the gods, how Klio wished she controlled the weather.
Rain fell from the sky, long ago soaking her hair, which clung to her head in brown clumps. Her roughspun cloak fared no better, being soaked, water seeping into the tunic beneath. The tree looming above offered her little protection from the elements, as its leaves hadn’t yet grown in. Still, it was better than nothing. At least, that’s what she tried convincing herself when taking shelter. The idea didn’t sound as persuasive now.
Ever since Klio was a girl, her parents told her stories of the legendary Stormchangers, men and women blessed by the gods with the power to influence the natural forces around them. Were it thunderstorms, rain showers, avalanches, the Stormchangers wielded them with ease and saved the world. Just like every other child, she hoped and prayed to be among the select few who received their astonishing powers. She could have forced away the clouds and remained dry. As with many childhood dreams, the reality of life trampled them like goat hooves trouncing over grass.
She rubbed her goose-prickled arms and sighed. What does it matter? Being a Stormchanger wouldn’t snatch her husband and son from (the Diakai colloquialism for the Underworld). Nor would it return the silver, slaves, and furniture the creditors had seized to cover her late husband’s debts. Nor would it have restored her former life as the matron of a well-respected mercantile household. At least she would have been able to move the clouds above her and not completely soak.
Klio gazed out at her rugged surroundings. She had set up camp about one hundred paces away from the dirt pathway linking two villages. She would have preferred to rest beneath the canopy of nearby olive trees, as their tightly-packed leaves didn’t drop come winter. The local farmers didn’t appreciate a squatter like her. So, there was nothing she could do but remain cold and wet.
As she shifted, her few remaining (name for common silver currency) clinked in the purse tied to her belt. She wouldn’t survive much longer on the meager sum. Kilo considered the unpleasant outcomes of running out of money. Many turned to thievery in desperate times such as these. All she needed to do was sustain herself long enough to reach Lymesta and the safety of her parents’ abode. She currently had no desire, however, to risk losing a hand during the journey there.
Women and lithe young men often became whores to avoid starvation. Klio shuddered at the thought. She had never thought to stain her honor by selling her body. What would Eunalis have thought about her then, were he still alive? What about Father and Mother? No self-respecting Diakai couple deserved to endure the shame of having a whore for a daughter. Still, if the hunger became bad enough, it remained an option for her. They didn’t need to know what she did to survive, and they didn’t need to know.
The rain fell harder. More cool water streamed through the gaps in the tree’s canopy, covering both her and the satchel resting against the trunk. Its gray cloth darkened from the wet. She hardly possessed anything of value to get wet in any case. A spare set of dry clothes would have been nice, but those could easily be dried once the storm passed. Her last strips of dried mutton were gone, as was her final chunk of stale barley bread. Klio considered harvesting the vetch that grew on tall stalks along the road. She needed to eat them without the bitterness removed, as she didn’t have a pot to boil them.
Teronis, king of the gods, threw a lightning bolt into a distant field. It flashed and then was gone. A few moments later, the accompanying crack of thunder boomed across the valley.
Klio shivered and wrapped her cloak tighter around her. She cursed the fever that claimed her husband and son, the men who confiscated her husband’s assets and forced her onto the streets, the peasants in their hovels who denied her proper lodgings, the thief who escaped with half her coins three nights ago. She cursed the fucking gods above, who cursed her to all this misfortune. Why had They seen it appropriate to punish her of all people? She had played the role of obedient wife and loving mother, always made the necessary sacrifices, and was as devout as a woman in her position could have been. So why had the gods not provided her a reprieve? They worried about the whole world and the heavens, so why bother punishing her? Why? Klio gritted her chattering teeth and lurched to her feet, nearly tripping on the hem of her cloak. She shot an angry look at the sky. Mortals confronting the gods always ended poorly for the mortals in the stories, but she was long past caring.
“Why,” she shrieked. “Why do you treat me so, oh Teronis? Because I spoke Your name in vain? Is that it? Tell me!” Another bout of thunder was the only reply.
“What have I done to offend You?” she demanded. “Am I (mythological figure 1), who (committed something particularly egregious). Or (mythological figure 2) (doing something equally horrendous)?”
Her tone resembled both a prayer and desperate plea. Warm tears slipped down her face, as if she needed to be any more wet than she already was. The only response she merited from the god was the downpour’s continued pattering. Klio raised her arms in deference, glaring into the shifting gray clouds.
“What must I do, oh Lord of the Sky, to regain your favor and that of your divine family? Please, I humbly beg You, grant me a sign. As soon as I am able, I’ll sacrifice a goat, a pig, lambs, even a bull, in Your name. But please, give me a sign of Your providence. Please, He who plucked the world from darkness, He who blessed man with the gift of farming, He who delivers the rain.”
More rain. Another pale lighting bolt. The boom of thunder.
“Answer me!”
She broke down, her body trembling with each sob. “P-please. Please. Tell me. Tell me!”
Klio screamed so loud, she was certain the next village over could hear. She hoped to scream loud enough to get the gods’ attention on the summit of Mount Dyotara in Their magnificent golden halls. Loud enough, so they would be forced to listen. She focused on nothing but the sky and her ceaseless screaming, only stopping to gulp in air. The rest of the world didn’t matter. A strange, tingling feeling washed over her. It felt like there was only the grayness above and her reaching out to it. Close to screaming her throat raw, she dropped her aching arms to her sides. Two clouds parted directly above her. Light from Holmero’s golden chariot streamed through the small gap, illuminating the area around her. Quickly, she shielded her wide eyes with her forearm. Her jaw dropped. The phenomenon lasted a fleeting moment before the clouds closed again. The gloominess returned, as did the rain.
Dumfounded, Klio stared down at her trembling hands.
“Gods above,” she rasped.
Finally, something good happening. 
If there was ever a sign of divine favor, there could have been nothing more auspicious. She was a Stormchanger, who manipulated the natural world according to their wills. They who shaped the events of history countless times. Her. Kliomenta of Lymesta, she... She shook her head.
Nothing in this situation made sense to her. Why me? Although she didn’t deserve the god’s ire, she had done nothing to earn Their blessings either. Who was she, a widowed merchant’s daughter, to possess such great power? Klio grunted softly. Perhaps the gods had put her through suffering as a test, only to reward her with Stormchanging? That didn’t make sense to her. What great deed had she performed? Plenty of women cared for their children, oversaw households, and warmed their husbands’ beds. What made her special?
She sat back down on the damp earth, chin resting in her palms. What if she just imagined the clouds moving? Lunatics and charlatans often claimed the powers of Stormchanging, only to be later proven liars. Was she truly a Stormchanger? Klio knew of only one way to learn the truth.
Stormchangers hailing from Diakai and the numerous colonies scattered throughout the Insular Sea traveled to Mount Dyotara to the (Name of the Stormchangers’ residence and temple complex). There, potential Stormchangers proved themselves as possessing the Stormpower and joined the illustrious order. Every child from the rocky isle of (location name 1) to the (location name 2)-on-the-(river name) knew that.
“So,” she murmured, “it’s settled.”
Klio’s family had resided in Lymesta for generations, she had no doubt they would still be there whenever she desired to return. She resolved to visit Mount Dyotara, meet the fabled Stormchangers and join their ranks.

Chapter II

Klio found Ertansos reclining beneath an olive tree next to the road back to Barthemi. His back rested against the gnarled bark, arms crossed over his chest. As she approached, he peered up at her with bloodshot eyes.
“Back already?” he croaked.
Klio nodded. “I see you’ve been drinking again.”
“Who are you, my mother?” Ertansos shrugged. “I was a bit…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Excessive last night.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s just say I spent too much silver at the tavern ‘bout a hundred paces back the way you came and forgot to dilute my wine.” He chuckled.
His eyes widened, like he lost something. He fumbled at his belt, placed his hand on a small leather pouch, and breathed a side of relief.
“Thank the gods,” he murmured, “I didn’t forget my purse.”
Klio rolled her eyes, but forced herself to not reply with some snide remark. It was proper for a lady to bite her tongue and not speak against her menfolk. No matter how tempting it was.
“Alright,” Ertansos said, lurching to his feet. With a drawn-out groan, he stretched his arms over his head. Glancing down at his dirty, wine-stained tunic, he tried to brush the dirt away. Klio couldn’t say the effort helped, rather smudging longer brown streaks onto the cream-colored cloth.
“Let’s be on our way.” Ertansos cocked his head. “Did you find the silver?”
“Yes,” Klio replied as they stepped onto the stone road. “But I had a problem.”
Ertansos raised his brow as he walked up beside her. “Your purse looks empty, so I assumed you lost it. How?”
Klio sighed, something she did a lot of these days. “A thief snuck into my camp during the night and made off with most of it. I tried to pursue him, but he was too fast and I fell.” She indicated her scraped knees, slivers of dark brown scab chipping away, revealing the fresh pink flesh beneath.
“Shame.” He frowned. “All those vultures after Eunalis’ assets would have never found it. How much did he owe again?” “Two talents and four thousand (silvers).”
“That was it. You’ll always have my condolences, dear Klio. Your husband and I-”
A monstrous sum, especially considering her husband had paid the employees working in his shop four (silvers) for a day’s work. Even (slave name), her favorite slave and constant companion before the creditors claimed her as well, cost nearly eight hundred. Klio didn’t like to imagine what happened to her. Perhaps a kindly master had purchased her and found a respectable position for her as his wife’s handmaiden. More likely than that, a man acquired her to labor in the kitchens by day and slake his lust by night. Klio shivered at the thought. (Slave name) was far too skilled in the art of grooming to be wasted on mundane domestic duties.
“-we were children.”
Klio shook her head, confused. “What did you say?”
“Your husband and I-”
“No, no. Before that. Apologies, I often find myself lost in thought.” She pressed teeth into her bottom lip. She shouldn’t have interrupted, it wasn’t respectful.
“I only said that you always have my condolences, Klio, and that your husband and I have been close since we were children. Eunalis was my most cherished friend, and the world is poorer without him and Tinox. So many children are needlessly taken from us, but that doesn’t make the loss hurt any less.”
Klio blinked away warm tears, which dripped down her olive cheeks. “Gratitude, Ertansos.” She sniveled out the words. Then, she stopped and gripped the man’s forearm. He halted and faced her, his expression concerned. A woman recently widowed wasn’t supposed to touch a man from outside the family. The blushing woman of ten-and-four on the eve of her wedding would have been horrified. She didn’t know whether she cared any longer, having defied social conventions multiple times during the past several weeks. Why would she stop now?
“Of course, Klio. It’s the least I can do to honor him.” Ertansos grinned. “Were I not burdened with my current wife, I would have gladly married you in his stead.”
Klio sniffed. Ertansos certainly possessed enough coins to provide a suitable dowry, something her father would have approved of her wedding. A bit plain-looking, yes, and prone to excessive drinking - both during symposiums and in private. Still, he was gracious and supportive. Much like Eunalis, she thought with fleeting happiness. The pair resumed walking.
“I think better you than Melis.”
Ertansos chortled. “That sorry excuse for a man, prone to violence? Gods, I would hope so. He was always a piece of shit, even as a boy. Maybe he was jealous of the fellowship your departed husband and I shared. Like (Castor and Pollux). I can’t stand fucking Melis.” He paused. “Pardon my curses, Klio, but Teronis’ cock, that man enrages me.”
“Not to worry, Ertansos. If you really worried about the words you spoke around me, you would have shown more restraint already.”
“True.” He grunted. “And he drinks too much, the fool.”
Getting more comfortable around the man, she decided to let something slip. “This is coming from you.”
The wine merchant chuckled. “I drink a lot, I admit, but Melis drinks more than I do. I’m shocked he’s able to get out of the bed come dawn, leave alone manage a wine shop.”
“Eunalis had always said a merchant should never dip into his own supply.” His name stung, but she had said anyway. Why? “Good advice, something he’s told me more than once. But what kind of merchant would I be if I didn’t sample the vintages I sold? I need to be certain about the quality of my product.”
Klio giggled. That surprised her. She couldn’t remember the last time she laughed, or even came close. It must have been before (the fever) claimed her family. There was no need, even desire, to do so. She had tried to suppress the happy memories before their deaths. Why, she figured, remind herself of the times before they were snatched from her arms forever? It would only serve to weigh her down, like chains around her ankles.
Ertansos offered a fatherly warmth, a temporary shield against the gloom lingering over her. She felt at ease, safe, even. It was tragic he could not marry her, she would have made him a faithful wife. Too bad Melis has recently lost his wife recently as well. The law stated he needed to provide for his dead brother’s wife if she had no heir. Her spirits were higher than they had even been, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Before long, dark clouds would envelop her once again.
They passed olive grove after olive grove during their return. The ancient trees grew in orderly rows, their branches painstakingly trimmed straight. Klio preferred the gnarled appearance they obtained by allowing them to grow naturally, the way they were in the rustic villages and the estates of wealthy landowners. Some trunks were no wider than her waist, others were wide enough for two men to reach around and not have their fingers touch. Feather-shaped leaves stuck out in every direction, glistening like fresh parchment.
Numerous vineyards dotted Barthemi’s environs, their foliage not yet returned and months away from yielding grapes. They passed sprawling brown fields, most bursting with young wheat and barley, some left fallow by their owners.
Grain, grapes, and olives. The lifeblood of Diakai life. How poetic of you.
Not long after the sun reached its peak in the bright sky, Klio and Ertansos reached Barthemi’s walls. Built from stone the color of pale goat’s milk, it rose many times the height of a man. Guardtowers dotted the wall at regular intervals. Crop fields lined the area just beneath, while the orchards stopped about one hundred paces from the wall. She never understood why, they could have fit so many more fruit and olive trees in the open land. How many more (silvers) could the city have made in profit? No idea. What did she know about olive cultivation? Or procuring the oil they produced, that was Eunalis’s job-
Klio’s gloominess returned. Eunalis. Her considerate, dead, husband. Repeating his name felt no better than an icy dagger plunging into her heart. She had considered telling Ertansos to not repeat it, but he wouldn’t understand why. He was not privy to the darkness in her heart. She was certain the flat look returned, it usually did in times like these.
“Let me do the talking,” Ertansos whispered as they approached the gate.
Klio grunted to acknowledge she understood.
Two men flanked the ebony gate, standing beneath the towers looming above them. The strapping young men around Klio’s age wore shining helmets and linen breastplates over tunics ending just above their olive knees. They went barefoot, like any other soldiers she had even seen. They were well-armed, long spears rested against their shoulders, swords hanging from their belts, large round shields leaning on the wall behind them. The slightly older-looking one with a full beard showed them his palm.
“That’s close enough,” he said in a gruff voice. He pointed at Ertansos. “What’s your name and business?”
“My name is (fake name), born of the city,” Ertansos replied with hesitation.
“What (deme) are you from?” the guard demanded. He pointed at Klio. “And who is this?”
“(Deme name), from the tribe of (tribe name). And the girl is my brother’s daughter, Klio of the same (deme name) and (tribe name). ” The wine merchant gave them a courteous grin. “Is there anything else you want to ask me?”
The full-bearded guard scratched his chin. “Why did she accompany you? Doesn’t she have a hearth and husband to attend to?”
“Her husband has just passed on. I offered to escort her to his grave so she could sacrifice to his spirit.”
The bearded guard grunted nonchalantly. “That explains why she looks to be in a sour mood.” He peered up at the  battlements, cupping hands around his mouth.
“The man is a citizen,” he shouted, “we’re letting them inside.”
“Go ahead,” a deep voice called back. “The gates will be open shortly.”
The men rested their spears against the wall at a sharp angle next to their shields. They waited in silence. Then, Klio heard grunting men open one heavy pair of doors and then another. The imposing doors taller than three men groaned on their hinges, two men each needed to hold them ajar. Fullbeard and Patchbeard stepped aside onto the rocky earth edging the road. Fullbeard gestured with a thick hand toward the city. “Welcome home, (fake name) of (tribe name) from (deme name).”
“Gratitude, brave warriors of Barthemi.”
The wine merchant entered the city, Klio trailing close behind. As hours in the day had already passed, throngs of people crowded the filthy streets. Their collective voices had been substantial outside the walls, but now flooded Klio’s ears. Even after spending most of her life in cities, it took a few pregnant moments to adjust to the chaos. After weeks spent in the crisp air of the countryside, the awful stench almost made her gag. It was the smell of thousands of men, women, children, animals, and their waste, wafting over her like an unmovable cloud. Like the darkness lingering inside. She pinched her nostrils shut. “Swallow breaths,” she reminded herself. “Shallow breaths.”
“Ah,” Ertansos said as they walked down a narrow street crowded with temporary market stalls - overflow from the (agora). He breathed deep, his sniffing audible. “The smell of piss, shit, and grilled fish. Spices and unwashed bodies. How I’ve missed it.”
“Really?” Her response had a nasal quality to it.
“Those are the smells of civilization, here to remind us that we’re alive.”
No more than ten paces ahead of them, a stream of dark urine flew from above and splashed onto the ground. Droplets flew in every direction, spraying Klio’s exposed toes. She gasped, flicking her feet.
“Civilization, eh? Great.” Klio frowned at Ertansos.
“It does have its flaws.” He dismissed her words with a shrug. “Have you ever seen a city not covered in shit and mud and drowning in piss? Where were you from again? I doubt it was much cleaner.”
“Lymesta.” Klio pulled the fingers away from her face, took a revolting wiff, and decided against it.
Ertansos clicked his tongue. “That was it. Never visited, but I’ve heard about the stunning temples and fountains made from colored marble. Still, you want to tell me that place smelled of roses?”
“Oh no, it stank like Barthemi or any other city I’ve been to.” Not nearly as bad as this, but Klio hadn’t been there since she was ten-and-four. Things could have changed since then.
“Exactly. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it soon enough.” He glanced sidelong at Klio, puzzled. “But what will you do now? You can’t remain in Barthemi, not with Melis looking for you.”
“I don’t know, go back to Lymesta and my family, I guess. Wait for my father to marry me off again.”
Hopefully the lie sounded convincing. It didn’t to Klio, even if she were in a better state of mind. Luckily for her, it did, judging by Ertansos’ understanding nod.
“Alright. That would be the best place for you. I can’t bring you into my household, not with my jealous wife. Melis wouldn’t tolerate such offense if he knew about it either. He would call it a stain on your honor and an offense to his pride, fragile thing that is.” He snorted. “You know how you’re getting back to Lymesta?”
“Not really beyond it being located on an island and I’ll need to find a ship.”
Ertansos furrowed his weathered brow. “Not likely. With the Satri invasion, most of the port has been filled with the city’s triremes. (Name of Barthemi’s ruling archon)’s been taxing incoming and outgoing shipments one-and-a-half times more than before to outfit his new fleet. Can’t say I blame him, but it cuts into my profits and leaves me less to spend on wine. Gods pray the ships will be ready before the barbarians get here.
Anyway, the rest of the available docking space has been reserved for ships carrying essential goods. Been harder to procure fine vintages, to make room for soldier’s wine. There might be a ship or two traveling to Lymesta with a shipment of oil and last year’s grain, but that’s all you’ll find. Still, it’s better than nothing.”
They turned a corner onto one of Barthemi’s wide boulevards. To their left, tiered two-story homes lined the cobbled street, each sequestered from the others by modest stone walls. The limestone cliff on which the acropolis rested rose to their right, casting an enormous shadow over them. Teams of well-tanned slaves bore the shrouded litters used by aristocratic women, their mistresses shrouded by curtains dyed with bright reds, oranges, and greens. Most of the people in the energetic throngs bore the olive skin, dark hair, and brown eyes common in Diakas, but Klio spotted a few barbarians. There was a Venian from the islands in the Insular Sea to the north, his sunburned pate shaved bald and covered with a floppy straw hat. He laughed and conversed with three other men, Diakai, by their beards and their long tunics. A black-skinned man from the distant south clad in flame-colored cloth strode past with dignified purpose. Klio admired the man’s clothes, probably made from silk, for an instant too long, nearly colliding with another man.
He dodged just in time, a man from the frozen north, fair-haired and with skin pale as ewe’s milk. The barbarian glared at her and bared a set of brown and yellow teeth. Klio shivered, even though the day was warm. Ertansos, who had noticed the confrontation, turned and faced the barbarian. A tense staredown ensued, but the pale man relented and stomped off without a word.
“You alright?” Ertansos asked as they continued on.
Klio nodded. “I am. Why even let those savages into the city?”
Ertansos shrugged. “It’s good for business. Gold is gold, no matter where it comes from.”
“What could people like him possibly have to offer us?”
“Wood, for building ships. There are few good forests left in Diakai with trees large enough to build them, and the Venians claim most of the lumber in the Insular Sea.”
“Right.”
“I could help you find a captain willing to accommodate you. Sailors are a superstitious lot if there ever was one, but maybe one will let you aboard their ship.”
“No. I think I can find one myself.”
Ertansos made a concerned frown. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable allowing you to wander the port alone. What if Melis found you? It wouldn’t do right by Ertansos to leave his widow unattended.”
“I meant what I said.” Surprised at the passion in her shout, she covered her mouth from shame. She stopped next to the cliffside, her cheeks growing warm.
Ertansos looked at her, eyes wide. “Where did the fire come from? You know I only mean well.”
Klio slowly removed the hand from her face and sighed. “I know. I love Eunalis, you know I do. But, I’m finally free for a little while, until my father finds me another husband. I can do this. Please, just let me.”
Ertansos pondered her words for a short while, glancing at his sandals and stroking his chin. All the while, the uncaring people passed by, going about their routines. Klio regarded him patiently. She needed to get to Mount Dyotara, but couldn’t tell Ertansos that. What if he didn’t believe her, or gods forbid, didn’t allow her to go out of fear for her safety? It would be risky, she didn’t doubt that. Regardless, he wouldn’t believe she was a Stormchanger. She was just some woman from an insignificant colony, a widow of a low-status merchant. What business did she have mingling with the likes of great heroes?
Ertansos pressed two fingers into the bridge of her nose. “At least let me escort you to the port and give you a few (silvers) for the journey.”
“Gratitude, Ertansos.” Klio couldn’t help but smile. It seemed almost unnatural given how she felt, but she figured it was a good way to express her appreciation for the man.
He clasped her shoulder. “Of course, dear Klio. I’m always willing to help anyone who was important to Eunalis. Just remember, if you are unable to find anyone willing to take you on, come to me at once.”
Klio nodded. “Let’s go.”

Chapter III

The port of Barthemi made her look as insignificant as the rats scampering around the garbage piled high in seldom-used alleys. On the occasions her husband permitted her, Klio accompanied him during his business, marvelling at the twin marble piers jutting out into the wine dark sea.
She began her search past the military wharf, where the crowds had dwindled. As Ertansos had said, triremes occupied more than three quarters of the available space, their sails furled and oars missing.
The last quarter teemed with activity. Trade galleys and wide-bellied cargo ships from all over the Insular Sea were moored to wooden stakes driven into the sea bed. The moist air smelled of sweat, fish, and salt, and was filled with shouts. Sailors swaggered to and from their ships. Slaves dripping with sweat loaded and unloaded tall clay amphoras. Fishmongers gawked at potential customers from beneath linen awning, stalls laden with that morning’s catch.
Klio was clueless as to where to start. Did she wait respectfully until someone approached, as she was thought and inclined to do? Or did she walk up to one of these scruffy men and hope for the best? Would they stop her and ask what she was doing here without a male companion? She was still considering her options when a tall and light-haired man stopped in front of her, a concerned stare fixed on his face.
“Are you lost (ma’am)?” the stranger asked in (insert name) dialect. “Can I do anything for you?”
She paused for a moment, unsure what to say. Her guts felt heavy like stones.
The man raised his dark brows. “Is there something wrong?”
“N-no. Apologies. I’m just looking for a ship captain.”
“Then you’re talking with the right man. My name’s Argox, son of (Argox’s father), born of the city, at your service.”
“Klio, daughter of (Klio’s father), of Holmeron.”
Argox grinned, showing the pleasant dimples on his cheeks. “A pleasure, Klio of Holmeron.”
He stared at her intently for a long moment with pale green eyes, before looking around. “I need to ask, what brings a young woman like yourself to the docks alone? Is there a man nearby? Your husband, maybe?”
“Well, that’s the thing.” Klio made a mournful look, frowning and lowering her gaze. “My husband has gone to the afterlife, not long ago in fact. I’m from Holmeron, you see, and I’m not sure how to get back.” The last few words poured from her lips between ragged sobs. She was sure it was genuine rather than acting, but she had to admit she toned up the grief. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Argox gave a wide stare and rushed to comfort her. “I’m so sorry for your loss. May your husband’s journey to (the Diakai colloquialism for the Underworld) be swift and peaceful.”
Klio sniffed. “Gratitude. C-can you take me to Holmeron?”
“Perhaps, but my crew wouldn’t like a woman aboard. It’s bad luck to bring someone pretty as you, the (sea nymphs) get jealous and sink the ship.”
“What if I paid you?”
Argox furrowed his brow. “How much are we talking?”
“(insert number here) (silvers).” Klio shook her purse, now jingling with the coin Ertansos had given her.
“Bringing a woman on my ship costs double that. I don’t want to risk it for anything less.”
Klio frowned. That was more than she had. Gods, she thought ruefully before stopping herself. Maybe now would not be the best time to anger him.
“I can’t afford that,” Klio said in a sheepish tone.
“Then I can’t help you. (God name) grant you fortune.”
Argox turned and walked toward the gangplank of the closest ship.
“Wait!”
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Klio. “What do you want?”
“Please take me with you. I need to reach Mount Dyotara.”
“Don’t have the coin? Not my problem.”
“Please, I think I’m a Stormchanger. I-”
Argox’s gale of high-pitched laughter cut her off. He then turned and laughed directly into her face. Klio’s cheeks warmed and her frown deepened.
“A Stormchanger?” Argox managed between lingering chuckles, wiping a tear from one charcoal eye. “If you’re a Stormchanger, my father was Teronis. Don’t waste my time, girl.”
His back faced her once again, as if she never existed. He swaggered back toward his ship, choking down the remnants of laughter. Klio stood there, incredulous. How dare he? Anger turned from embarrassment then into shame. What did she expect? Stormchangers were incredibly rare and false ones were sometimes exposed. Did she honestly expect the ship captain to believe that she, of all people, counted among them? How stupid I am sometimes. She sighed, hissing the air out. The men around her went about their business, be it hauling vases, drinking mugs of wine, or the vulgar conversations of men. A few casted worried looks in her direction. Most ignored her. Perhaps it was best to be invisible to the world. That’s how women like Klio were.
Half an hour passed before Klio gathered the courage to ask another man for assistance. She approached a salt-stained sailor after another, muttering the same request. The most common response Klio received was a blank stare before the man walked away or told her to get lost. Others dismissed her like she was a gnat buzzing over her supper. A few told her to leave them alone, but they didn’t phrase in those terms. “Bitch” seemed to be a favorite word among sailors.
One man, broad-shouldered and with thick arms covered in dark hair, asked for (insert number here) (silvers) - an unreasonable amount. Klio replied she didn’t have the coin.
“Then get the fuck out of here,” he snarled from his pig face.
Another captain Klio found, a bald-headed man with a heavy jaw, sneered in his western dialect he would never risk the fury of the (sea nymphs) by allowing a woman onto his precious ship. Klio sulked away. She then crossed paths with a salacious-looking man with greasy black hair falling past his shoulders and a beard to match. He offered passage to Holermon, but on the condition she laid with him every night.
“I’m no night lady,” Klio spat, her skin prickling with rage and face darkening.
Klio stormed off, fists clenched and lips puckered. She wanted nothing more than to scream at the men, at the heavens, so was frustrated. But what would that accomplish, the tiny voice of reason inside her said. Those men weren’t going to help you anyway, what do you think yelling would have done? During times like these, Klio saw her womanhood as a burden. How could she not when she wasn’t taken seriously?
Men, it seemed, could express themselves any way they saw fit. Confrontation, fighting, shouting. Gods, they encouraged their menfolk to unleash penned-up emotions. Men were allowed to be angry. Women, on the other side of the coin? They were obliged to smile and look beautiful, to cater to their husbands, fathers, and brothers, to take their abuse as a marble pillar would. Angry women were harpies, poorly-suited for marriage and motherhood. Life was unfair, but of course it was.
There was no isolated section of the pier to offer respite from the bustle of the port. Klio sat hunched over, leg crossed and chin resting in her palms. She gazed down at the glistening sat water. The surface rippled from the breeze blowing inland. During one of her less unhappy days, Klio would have appreciated the simple beauty. Right now, more important things were at stake. A journey at sea, although having the risk of drowning, was a great deal faster than the same distance on land. That was assuming the vessel’s crew didn’t get too excited and tried to force themselves on her. Men with equally foul intentions could also be found on the roads leading north, and she would be less likely to find a traveling companion. At least in the countryside, it was possible to escape pursuers. She couldn’t do that on the sea unless she wanted to jump overboard.
Klio breathed another deep sigh. Why is this so hard? Why are the gods doing this to me? Can’t I find a single person willing to help? Why can’t I do this?
Klio heard a soothing voice. She didn’t discern the words, but they ended her descent into despair.
“Are you unwell?” the voice asked.
Klio turned. Behind her stood a woman in a plain tunic and sandals that looked more suited for a man. Her skin was olive like a Diakai, but her hair style wasn’t. The way she carried herself wasn’t either. She stood straight as a spear, not what Klio expected from a rugged sailor. The woman cocked her head, bent over, and rested a hand on Klio’ shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Klio stammered, shifting herself around.
“You don’t look fine,” the woman replied. She spoke Diakai in Klio’s (insert Diakai ethnicity name here) dialect with a slight Venian accent. That’s it. Venian. It explains her clothes.
“What’s going on? Do you need help?”
“Not unless you work on a ship.”
“Just so happens that I do.” The woman readjusted her straight brown hair, which fell just past her shoulders. “My name’s Cilla of the Papius, captain of the Martalus’ Mistress.”
“Well met, Cilla.” Klio managed a polite smile, difficult as it was. “What brings you for Barthemi?”
“Trade. I work for (insert name of a powerful Venian college of families here), transporting glassware and cloth from Venia to Diakai and back.”
“I imagine business isn’t as good as usual.”
Cilla smirked. “No. War’s bad for business, it turns out. This city’s been buying less glass than in past springs. Anyway, what brings you to the docks?”
She asked, so it’s worth trying, Klio thought. “I’m seeking passage to Holmeron.”
“Holermon, you say? The City of the Sum, at the foot of your most sacred mountain? What business do you have there?” “I have family there and wish to return after losing my husband and son.”
Cilla’s expression went flat. “My apologies and condolences for your losses May their spirits find peace in the afterlife.”
By now, she had lost all patience with false words of sympathy. There was comfort in Cilla’s word, something more genuine. It was if she cared more than not at all.
“Gratitude,” Klio replied meekly.
A long pause followed.
“My crew and I are sailing for Holmeron within the hour. You’re more than welcome to join us.” “How much for passage?”
“(Insert number here) (silvers).”
Klio nodded. “Done.”
Cilla grinned. “Perfect. Now, let’s find you some suitable lodgings.”

Chapter IV

“Here you are,” Parcus - the ship’s cook - said in passable Diakai. He handed Klio a wooden bowl filled (insert the food here).
Klio accepted the evening’s supper. “Gratitude.”
The Venian grunted and nodded curtly. He cracked a yellow and brown grin. He was a young man, no older than fifteen or sixteen. Dark stubble on his scalp shone dimly in the fading light. Men his age often kept the scraggly hair on their chin, thinking it proved them to be more mature than they were. Parcus was no exception.
The crew, more than twenty in all, took their meal on the deck. They sat in rough circles, spooning food into their eager mouths, laughing and joking between bites. One out of three of the crew were women. Klio expected that, the Martalus’ Mistress being a Venian ship. Still, she had no desire to mingle with them. It didn’t seem right sitting in their groups when not knowing them well. She didn’t have an appetite for conversation either. Or much for her food, now that she thought about it. Klio sat away from everyone else, resting her back against the side rail and stretching her legs over the worn boards. She picked at the porridge with her spoon and plotted her next move. 
Once in Holmeron, she needed to purchase more supplies and then leave the city. If navigating Barthemi’s gates had taught her anything, she needed to find someone willing to pass as a male kinsman. This time, Ertansos would not be there to help. What if she lacked the (silvers) to pay for both what she needed and an escort? With the number of lowlifes in the world, they would expect a different payment from a young woman travelling alone.
“You mind if I sit with you?” Cilla asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Klio peered up and indicated to her to sit. Cilla plopped down to her right, bowl in hand. She crossed her legs and devoured a heaping spoonful of porridge.
“Lovely day, wasn’t it?”
That was true. Holmero’s golden chariot dipped below the horizon, bathing the sky in scarlet, orange, purple, and pale yellow. The sea glimmered blood red. Klio loved gazing at the vivid twilight from her window.
Klio shrugged.
“I hope the voyage has been decent enough so far.”
Decent enough, as far as Klio was concerned. The straw mattress she slept on proved more comfortable than huddling on rough ground. She still tossed and turned at night, the ship’s continuous swaying denying her much-needed rest. It was still a far cry from the supple bed she and Eunalis shared. At least she ate better than while she languished on the street or in the countryside. There was plenty of wine to drink and porridge and salty hard cheese to eat. She wretched it back up more often than not. Klio had experienced sea sickness on the voyage from Lymesta to Barthemi before the marriage. It was as bad as the nausea she endured while with child, only that didn’t fade when she stepped off the ship in Barthemi.
Cilla cocked her head. “Not too talkative, are you?”
“Not much these days?”
“Why not?”
“There’s not much to talk about, I guess.”
Cilla shrugged. “Meh, there’s not much to discuss about the seas themselves. It all gets boring after a while. That’s why we tell stories every night. Do you know any good ones?”
Klio glanced at her. “A few.”
Cilla’s warm had copped her shoulder. “I want to say that I understand how you feel, but grief feels different for each person.” Klio sniffed, gazing in the captain’s sky-colored eyes. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” A hint of sorrow crossed her face. “I lost my husband a few years back.”
“I'm sorry. So sorry.”
Cilla sighed, long and deep. “Gratitude. His name was Rubus.”
Why is she sharing this with me?
“What happened to him?” Why did I ask that?
Cilla bowed her head, then looked back at Klio. “He struck his toe on a vase while examining his wares. Rubus sold wine, you see. The wound was deep enough to draw blood, so we contacted a doctor, who bandaged his toe. He left us with a set of confusing instructions, as doctors do. We put Rubus’ injury out of thoughts. It was a fatal mistake.
Four days later, the toe began to fester. We had the doctor examine it again. He gave us another treatment, and went on his way. We had hoped that would work. Apply this stinky ointment, sacrifice this and that god.”
Cilla sighed, deep and long. Klio felt the tears coming as the captain continued her story.
“Rubus then developed a fever. Not long after that, he couldn’t get out of bed. The doctor came back. ‘Fluidism can’t heal blood sickness,’ he explained to me, ‘so there’s nothing I can do.’ My beloved husband left for the Isles of the Dead two days later, half-mad and barely able to breathe.” Her eyes glistened. “Not a day passes without me thinking about him.” She wiped away tears with a finger. “Rubus may be gone from the world of the living, but he will always be with me. I wish I had more to offer his spirit other than barley porridge, cheap wine, and hard cheese.” She gave a sorrowful smile. “When he dock, I’m going to burn a piece of juicy pork in his memory.”
‘Does the loss become easier to bear?”
Cilla shook her head. “The loss of a husband is a heavy weight to bear. The pain never fully goes away, but it becomes easier to deal with. You’ll find, I’m afraid, that nothing ever fills the void left in your soul. Not remarrying, not the birth of a new child. Nothing.”
“Nothing.” Klio couldn’t help but echo the words.
“Yes.” Cilla sniffed. “Do you have any children?”
That was a rather poor subject change. Klio was tired of answering the question. It was almost too painful to talk about poor Tinox. What do I even say?
“A boy of five, currently under my parents’ care.”
Cilla grinned. “Lovely. What’s his name?”
Klio tried with all her might not to squirm and flick her eyes to the side, like she did whenever she lied. “Amyris.” Her father’s name. Telling the truth was too much emotional labor, even if it was also uncomfortable to lie.
“That’s a wonderful name.”
“He’s named after his grandfather.” Truth or lie, it makes sense.
“That’s also common where I come from. So many sons are named after their fathers, daughters after mothers, children in honor of esteemed ancestors. That’s how you get four men named Lusius under one roof.” Cilla rolled her eyes.
“That must be confusing.”
Cilla chortled. “It is. That’s why we each receive a nickname upon reaching adulthood.”
“I heard about that. How does it work?”
“When a Venian turns fifteen, the entire household celebrates. The child sacrifices their toys and childhood robes at the altar of household gods. At the end, the family gives them a nickname and the child is accepted as a fully-fledged member of society.” There were times Klio had wished she was born in Venia, entitled social rights and political power equal to the men. She could command armies, lead ships across the seas, and not be sold like a lamb at the market when married. It was hopeless to dream too long. She had Eunalis’ household to care for and children and slaves to look after. It was like wishing she was Perino or Teronis Himself. Most dreams ended in disappointment and bitterness.
“What’s your nickname?”
“(Insert nickname here). It means (insert meaning of the nickname here).”
“That’s beautiful. How’d you get that?”
“Gratitude. It was by (insert the origin of Cilla’s nickname here).”
“Are all Venian’s nicknames so flattering?”
Cilla made a toothy smile. “No. My brother was called (the Hairy One) because of how hairy his arms were.” “Hairy? Have you seen Diakai men?” Her tone was squeaky and her execution poor, but Eunalis hadn’t married her for her sense of humor.
To Klio’s surprise, the joke roused a chuckle from Cilla. “That I have, and you’re right. I’d pluck it out too if I were them.”
“Speaking of hair, why do Venians shave their heads?”
“To honor Martalus, god of the sea and king of the gods.”
Klio furrowed her brow. “Why would they do that?”
“(Brief explanation of why Martalus shaved his head in a myth).”
“Weird.”
“I know, but that’s why every Venian man honors him by following His example.”
“What do they do with all the hair?”
“Burn it or throw it into the sea.” Cilla made a tossing gesture.
“Everyone?”
Cilla nodded. “Everyone.”
“We don’t do anything like that in Diakai.”
“If there’s anything I’ve learned from my time at sea, it’s that every people group has their own customs that are strange to anyone else.”
“Narokes is our sea god. He’s not bald, but I imagine sailors revere him like you and your crew do Martalus.”
“Either one of them could throw the ship to the bottom of a sea at a whim.”
“How do you appease your god?”
Cilla pointed at the opposite end of the deck. “Take a look.”
Klio peered over at two men standing before the rails. They held full cloth sacks. The taller one on the right had a clucking chicken slung under his armpit. After a short prayer, the pair flung the sacks overboard, which clunked into the water beneath. The tall sailor drew a knife from his belt and placed on the chicken on the deck, fingers wrapped around its neck. The shorter man set a shallow bowl beneath the struggling fowl. After a short prayer, the tall sailor slit the chicken’s throat with a swift cut. Even in the dearth of light, the blood could be seen draining from the gash. The dark liquid filled the bowl almost to the brim. The shorter man then poured the blood into the sea.
“Why waste a perfectly good hen?” Klio asked, her surprise thinly veiled.
“It had stopped laying,” Cilla replied. “Besides, you want our journey to be safe and uneventful, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll also have chicken tomorrow.” Cilla licked her lips. “A rare treat on the seas.”
“How long until we reach Holmeron do you think?”
Cilla pursed her lips. “We’ve been on the waves for (insert number here) days. It takes about (insert another number here) days to reach Holmeron from Barthemi. That leaves (insert a third amount of time here).”
Klio groaned.
“What’s wrong? We’ll be there before you know it.”
“It’s not that. I don’t do well on ships.”
“You’re not alone. How many times have you been on a ship, Klio?”
“Once, when I traveled to Barthemi to wed my husband. But that was eight years ago.”
“A long time spent on land won’t help your return to the sea.” She placed her hand on Klio’s shoulder. “You’ll get through this, just like everything else the gods have laid before you.”
Klio sat in silence, then slowly nodded. “If you say so.”
“I do.”