Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Each night Cliopher dreams of the Moon.

This doesn’t strike him as strange. Cliopher thinks of his Radiancy often, constantly. And what happened during the Moon festival probably haunts everyone who was in Lesuia that day. He can find himself hard and flushed within minutes just remembering the soft silver glow of her hands moving under his Radiancy’s robes, the contrast of their dark and shining skin exchanging a devouring kiss.

Cliopher can go years and years without thinking of sex, or touching himself; yet in the days following that visit he wishes he had more privacy.

But soon enough they’re heading back to Solaara. Cliopher stays out on the deck of the skyship late into the night of the full moon. He always loves looking at Sky Ocean from this vantage, though he knows poor Conju hates the height. He looks up at the silvery light cresting the horizon, hung among her court of stars, and remembers the husky voice of the moon-lady.

Best beloved, she crooned to his Radiancy; but there was anger in her face when he denied her.

Cliopher blinks. His chest hurts. The moon looks bigger than he expected tonight… the lunar festival was on the night of a full moon, so why is it -

“You alright, Sayo Mdang?” one of the sailors asks, and Cliopher turns -

And then he wakes up.

When Cliopher was in university he drank a lot with Bertie.

Not too much – he was always somber and serious in his studies, even during the enthusiastic experimentations of youth. But he had a lot of friends, then, and they most commonly met in little taverns to study or play cards. Ghilly delighted in coaxing Cliopher to practice little fire-tricks during increasing stages of drunkenness – which is not perhaps the safest past-time, but eating coals with alcohol-soaked breath was delightfully flashy. (He gave that up after Tovo caught him once and gave Cliopher a stern lecture about the dangers of setting his mouth on fire.)

There was one occasion when Cliopher only intended to drink a little rum, but someone from the University – decidedly not a friend – slipped a more potent drug into his drink. He doesn’t remember much of that night, but Bertie claims he tried to fistfight a newspaper, got extremely paranoid he would be arrested over it, and decided to hide in Toucan’s dorm-room under the belief he was a wanted fugitive. (Unsurprisingly Fitzroy Angursell’s name came up; apparently Cliopher cried about Aurora too.)

The way he felt the next morning, Cliopher recalls, is comparable to how he wakes now.

Everything hurts. Every muscle, including some he’s never noticed before, ache and twinge when he shifts. Not that Cliopher can move far; he slowly realizes he’s lying under the splintered remains of a wooden box, and covered in broken bags of rice and flour, of all things.

Cliopher looks around blankly.

He finally recognizes the skyship’s storage room. Huge scratches cover the walls; boxes have been torn and savaged, foodstuffs and stores strewn everywhere. The nearest crate might have held some emergency blankets; they look like they’ve been ripped and bitten for nest-linings by some wild creature.

Cliopher can’t imagine what happened, or why he’s here. He can’t remember… Did he hit his head?

What happened to his Radiancy?

This thought spurs Cliopher to move despite the pain. There’s a single door at the end of the room, deep scrapes gauged into the wood. When Cliopher turns the handle it moves, but he can’t open it.

He knocks the door with his aching hand.

He can hear shuffling outside. Someone calls, “Sayo Mdang? Is that you?”

It’s Pikabe. Relief rushes through him. “Yes! Is everyone alright? What happened?”

A pause, long enough to worry him. “Everyone’s alive,” says Pikabe, and while Cliopher worries, adds, “His Radiancy is unharmed.” Oh, good. “We’ll get you out; just wait a minute.”

So Cliopher does, pacing worriedly. He examines the room some more, noting the smashed food, the bite-marks on random items. He’s alarmed to find blood on the floor; it’s only at this moment that he realizes he’s bloody, too.

Amidst all the pain he didn’t even notice, but there’s a big hole torn from his shoulder. Cliopher twists his neck to consider it, baffled. What happened last night? Was it last night? Did he forget days, weeks? Are they even still on the skyship?

They are; the door opens to a wall of spears, and Cliopher blinks, bewildered, at the guards that accompanied his Radiancy to the Vangavaye-ve. “Hello,” says Cliopher, looking around as though he might find out why they’re all staring so warily. Pikabe has a robe for him, so they clearly knew something of his condition. Cliopher carefully approaches and accepts it through the bristling weapons – all pointed his way. “Can you tell me what happened?”

They do.

Cliopher doesn’t like any of it.

Apparently, he froze last night and became entranced with the moon. He wouldn’t turn away; he didn’t respond to people calling his name. They summoned his Radiancy, and even the orders of the Sun-on-Earth didn’t attract his attention.

Then he started to scream. And his body… changed.

“Like every bone was breaking at once,” says Pikabe miserably, looking Cliopher up and down.

He grew teeth, and fur. And he attacked them.

He tried to attack his Radiancy.

“He’s fine,” Pikabe says. “You didn’t touch him – just - “ he hesitates. “Commander Omo got between you.”

Ludvic lies pale and sweating on the bed when Cliopher visits.

All the other guards cluster behind; understandably they don’t want to leave Cliopher alone. He still hasn’t seen his Radiancy yet, sequestered away somewhere with Rhodin and Conju.

(Cliopher attacked his Radiancy; he’s trying hard not to think about it, although the fact he hasn’t been arrested yet is promising.)

He bows in first-degree apology as soon as he sees Ludvic, who musters enough strength to wave him off. He doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but his voice is exasperated. “This isn’t your fault,” Ludvic says, blunt, before Cliopher can speak. “The moon cursed you.”

- Oh.

That does make sense.

“I apologize nonetheless,” Cliopher says, surveying him. “How bad is it?”

“We’re not sure about infections yet – if it heals clean, I’ll be fine,” says Ludvic. He frowns. “You’re bleeding.”

Cliopher blinks. He looks down and indeed finds a spot of blood welling onto his robes. “Oh,” he says. “Yes. I wasn’t sure… I suppose someone stabbed me last night?”

Ludvic sighs, and Pikabe bolts to get the doctor.

Cliopher ignores the protest of the ship’s doctor and struggles to his feet when his Radiancy enters the sickroom. He falls immediately into the deepest obeisance he knows. “My lord, I am sorry,” he says miserably.

His Radiancy makes the gesture to rise; Cliopher does not. First because he hesitates, still needing to show his remorse; then because his legs refuse to cooperate. Pikabe eventually hauls him up.

Rhodin stands in front of his Radiancy, all the other guards still carefully circled around Cliopher. The Lord Magus studies him. “The magic is sleeping,” he announces. “But it is not gone. There is a curse on you, Sayo Mdang, from a divine hand; given the events of last night I think we can make some assumptions about the origin.

The moon, he means. “But why would she curse me?” asks Cliopher, bewildered.

Gleaming golden eyes shift away. “Perhaps she realized something of your importance to our government,” he says at last. By the door Conju purses his lips. “This will certainly cause – complications.”

Cliopher’s heart sinks. His Radiancy just named Cliopher his Lord Chancellor. And now this… “My lord. If I can no longer fulfill this role for you, I hope you will still continue to work toward retirement,” he insists.

“I am certainly not removing you from your position, Cliopher.”

“But if there is a curse - “

“We do not yet know the boundaries of this magic. I will appoint guards around you; we will say there’s been threats of assassination, and that we intend to be cautious. It would not be unusual in your new role.”

“But I attacked you,” Cliopher despairs. He shouldn’t just be removed, he should be executed.

“You have written laws defending people from the consequences that would accompany actions that stem from magical coercion. I assume my Lord Chancellor is not a hypocrite? Very good. I do not anticipate additional excitement on this trip, so the guards will stay with you instead for the time being. Captain Diogen’s crew is already preparing a lock on the outside of your door; I would suggest staying inside when the moon rises. Once we have determined how this curse works, it will be easier to solve.”

“Yes, my lord,” says Cliopher miserably. He bows in apology again, automatic; this time his lord just sighs and walks out.

It might be a one-off, Cliopher tries to convince himself. But the moon is not known as a trickster-god.

She is, of course, the patron of lunatics. Perhaps it suits her purpose to torment him with uncertainty. If so, it’s working.

They return to the Palace, and events in Solaara proceed normally enough. Cliopher’s personal life experiences an upheaval, with his new rooms and household – including a fine suite of rooms with locks on both sides, just in case. And as promised Cliopher’s assigned a constant rotation of guards; but in combination with his new ennoblement no one remarks on that.

Cliopher dislikes having guards; he doesn’t know how his lord stands it (and his, at least, do not follow him into the bathroom). But he doesn’t complain.

Cliopher could have killed his Radiancy. He would suffer any inconvenience to prevent that from happening.

Still, as weeks pass Cliopher starts to feel hopeful. There are no real signs of what happened; and if his eyes seem sharper, his sense of smell better, that's surely in his head.

His Radiancy checks the magic on Cliopher every time they meet; he insists the curse ‘sleeps’ with no sign of waking. Cliopher remains careful not to wander outside the Palace at night – it reminds him unamusingly of the stories of Aurelius Magnus, and the early emperors who feared being stolen by the sun. But Cliopher is not some divine god-emperor – just the victim of a spurned lover.

He finds himself dreaming of the moon-lady again as he works in his private office one night. It’s late, and he keeps the windows shuttered against the cold rain. Thick clouds mask the stars outside, but he can still see the distant glow of the full moon rising. He finds himself suddenly, painfully hard. He takes a deep breath and sets down his pen, wondering if it’s time to retire. He has more work to finish, but he can’t focus on the letter he’s composing; not when he’s distracted remembering the moon-lady nibbling his Radiancy’s ear, the smile on her red lips, and the white skin of her neck under his touch.

And Cliopher wakes up.

His office, of course, is a lost cause.

The desk, made of beautiful solid wood, has been entirely destroyed. Cliopher wakes covered in ink, the taste of quill-feathers in his mouth. The reference books along his shelves have been mostly destroyed; Cliopher’s glad he kept his favorites in the bedroom.

Even the window is splintered, though not broken. With a shudder Cliopher remembers that all windows in the Palace of Stars are enchanted to keep people from jumping out; that was a new innovation after Shallyr’s death. If he’d gotten out under the curse, as a ravening beast…

Cliopher staggers to his feet with a groan. He approaches his door and, as expected, finds it locked. He raps politely.

“Are you well again, Sir?” someone calls. Oginu, it sounds like.

“Yes, yes,” he says wearily. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No, Lord Mdang; we’ve canceled your morning appointments and sent away your secretaries. Domina Audry is ready to examine you once you’re prepared.”

Franzel brings him a new robe, brisk and matter-of-fact; Conju warned him about the possibility when he was hired. The majordomo expresses worry over the scrapes and scratches around Cliopher’s hands and arms, the splinters where he lay on his ruined desk; but he surveys the mess without alarm. “I can handle it,” he says, with a confidence that is both reassuring and alarming. “You just get to the doctor, Sir, let me deal with this mess.”

But Cliopher does not, in fact, go anywhere; the guards are polite but firm about that. Cliopher’s not inclined to argue; he collapses into his bed and manages to fall at once asleep, though he wakes soon enough when the doctor comes to him.

If she’s fazed by these strange circumstances she doesn’t show it. She measures and documents a particular injury on his arm, where he seems to have bitten himself. She plucks a few slivers of the desk from his back and neck. And she wraps some particularly deep cuts, noting, “I think something about this curse protects you from infection; one small mercy.”

Then she asks, “Has anyone told you about Ser Rhodin yet?”

Cliopher frowns. “No – did something happen?”

“Commander Omo bit him – he transformed, too,” the doctor says. “We think it might be transferable through saliva.”

And suddenly Cliopher has something new to worry about.

Chapter Text

“So is this going to happen to me?” asks Rhodin dubiously, watching Ludvic and Cliopher twitch and hum and stare at each other.

His Radiancy doesn’t answer. He paces the floor of his study with agitated strides, ignoring the admittedly odd spectacle of… whatever his Lord Chancellor and Guard Commander are doing.

Truthfully, Cliopher himself doesn’t know what’s happening. Except it’s weirdly satisfying. A little flicker of pride-fondness-triumph flickers in his breast when Ludvic makes an odd chuff. Without further communication the stoic head of the Imperial guard comes over and drapes himself over Cliopher, chin on his head.

Even his Radiancy pauses to stare.

“...and we’re sure this isn’t affecting their minds?” Rhodin checks. Cliopher, leaning contentedly against Ludvic, can only shrug.

People in Solaara don’t hug enough, he decides. It feels nice.

He wants to turn around and bite Ludvic’s neck. Not hard! He valiantly restrains the urge.

Cliopher does notice that Ludvic’s weight doesn’t bother him at all. “I wonder if it affects our bodies,” he reflects, ignoring Rhodin’s suggestion entirely.

“It does,” says Ludvic.

His Radiancy frowns. “What differences have you noticed?”

“Well, I couldn’t do this before,” Ludvic says, and -

Cliopher doesn’t consciously register the sound that comes from his own chest. He whips around, shoving Ludvic – not hard – who immediately ducks back against the wall. The weird, growling-snarl Ludvic was making ceases at once; it takes Cliopher a moment longer to quell the answering rattle from his own chest.

But he does. He huffs. Ludvic relaxes and promptly wraps around him again.

Cliopher turns back to see his Radiancy, Rhodin, Conju, and inner guards watching this with huge eyes. “Well,” says his Radiancy, faint. “I will admit that is compelling evidence.”

Conju thinks he’s heard of something similar.

“It was a legend about beasts that only came out during certain phases of the moon – originally the tale was from Ysthar, I believe? And yesterday was the full moon, my lord.”

“So it was,” his Radiancy contemplates. “The first incident was not… but then, given the source…” he shakes his head. “We must write to the Lord of Ysthar; perhaps he can tell us more. Cliopher?”

Cliopher is no longer his lord’s secretary, but he peels himself away from Ludvic to sit at his old desk. Ludvic does not react, but he fairly exudes disappointment. Rhodin watches them with wary fascination.

Conju looks at Rhodin, and mutters, “If you get cuddly after the next full moon I’m burning your spice cabinet.”

His Radiancy benevolently ignores this byplay and dictates a letter. It is – like most royal correspondences – profuse with flowery language, careful inquiries about the health and well-being of the receiver’s realm, flattering comments about recent events, etc, etc. They both like the Lord of Ysthar; but one still must be careful.

Finally, though, his Radiancy come around to the point. A scholarly inquiry, as he calls it. He describes in vague terms Cliopher’s condition – without ever naming him – and asks whether the other Lord Magus has heard of anything similar.

He also hedges around the possibility that he may have offended the moon… Cliopher halts him. “My lord, may I suggest removing that section?”

“Surely he requires all the relevant information?”

“As much as can be considered safe,” Cliopher agrees. “But if we’re not naming the individuals afflicted… it is best not to imply that the moon-lady cursed you, my lord.”

His Radiancy pauses as they all consider what might happen on Zunidh if the people think the Sun-on-Earth has been cursed. “You may remove that section,” his lord concedes.

Ludvic, Rhodin, and Cliopher take a small trip to the Liaau to investigate their changes. It’s – enlightening, in several ways.

Due to the unknown parameters of the curse – and the very real concern that three senior members of the Imperial Household might be kidnapped by a malevolent goddess – his Radiancy sends along what amounts to a small legion of guards.

On paper it’s a training exercise; in reality, everyone is unhappily prepared to restrain the Commander, Deputy Commander, and the Emperor’s Hands, even if that includes lethal measures. They can’t risk spreading this curse to more people.

No one is happy about the orders, including the one to give them; his Radiancy might as well be made of marble the day of their departure.

But the Liaau -

It’s odd being with Ludvic now. Rhodin, if he’s indeed infected, still doesn’t trigger anything to Cliopher’s oddly-heightened senses. But Ludvic -

Cliopher’s never had magic. Not even the common ability to perceive it, nor little tricks or affinities – nothing at all. He is uncommonly un-magical.

But now he has the barest idea it’s like. Cliopher lacks the words to describe it, but there’s a feeling of intense recognition when he sees Ludvic. It’s like looking at a mirrored glass and catching a glimpse of his own silhouette.

There is also, sometimes, an odd aggression between them.

That’s not the right word. Competition, maybe. A constant sense of challenge, even though Ludvic’s polite and stoic as always – perhaps even a little subdued.

Cliopher has long accepted he’s a desk-bound bureaucratic – the epitome of a bureaucrat, he’s been told many times. This doesn’t bother him; he’s perfectly glad to leave feats of strength and fighting to the Imperial Guards. But while they tramp through the mountains he finds himself eyeing Ludvic, weighing, comparing.

He doesn’t say anything. Ludvic’s acting normal, so it might be in his head.

Rhodin takes charge after they set up camp. “Alright,” he announces. “We need to determine exactly what’s happened to you. I made a list of tests.”

Cliopher’s envious. Why didn’t he think to make a list? He draws out his writing-kit.

“...and you are not allowed to take notes, Lord Mdang. You’re half of what we’re testing. We can take records too, I promise.”

Cliopher eyes the guards distrustfully. His friends are very good at their jobs, sure. But he’s seen the scraps of paper that pass as Rhodin’s reports.

“Pikabe will take notes,” Rhodin amends.

Hmmph. Well, Pikabe is verbose in his writing, but at least he’ll be thorough. Cliopher reluctantly hands over a pen.

“Thank you. Now! Let’s start with physical tests. Cliopher, we don’t have a baseline for you, so we’ll start with Ludvic.”

The following hour is rather fascinating for Cliopher, who rarely gets a chance to watch the guards drill. It turns out some of the guards are carrying equipment for exercise – Cliopher is stunned to see several have hiked up the mountain carrying weights – and he watches Ludvic maneuver through a number of endurance tests.

“Well you’re definitely stronger,” Rhodin notes, watching as Ludvic lifts a disturbing stack of metal weights with ease. “What a weird curse – isn’t this meant to be a punishment?”

Cliopher’s been considering that, too. “It probably transfers to the, ah, other form,” Cliopher offers. “And since there’s no control, we’re more dangerous that way. So it serves as a curse on others, not just ourselves.”

“Good point.” Rhodin tilts his head back to frown at the sky – still sunny; they’ve all agreed to be well under cover before nightfall, just in case. “We’re lucky Ludvic was surrounded by guards when he shifted. We got him locked in an office pretty fast. Imagine if he’d been on guard-duty for Himself…”

Cliopher does not want to imagine that.

They have Ludvic run, stretch, and run through a gamut of other physical tasks – they’re all a little bewildered to find he’s become much more flexible. It’s a bit eerie watching the huge man bend and twist in unlikely ways. “You haven’t tried anything like that since the skyship, Lord Mdang?” Pikabe asks.

“No?” Although his dancing has gotten easier… he thought it was just the extra practice, or perhaps that he’s benefited from the care of his new servants. “I should really make a Protocol for this sort of thing,” he says aloud.

“For being cursed with bestial transformations by a goddess?” Rhodin asks. “You can’t actually predict everything.”

Why not? They have a protocol for shark-infested rainfalls, and one for fae incursions. Given the historical precedent for divine interference against the Emperor of Astandalas, it just makes sense.

For the last test a few guards offer to spar against Ludvic – who dispatches them with an ease that even surprises the Commander. At one point he practically throws Pikabe across the clearing.

Cliopher presses his lips together, straightening under the scrutiny of the guards. “I hope you don’t expect me to do that.”

Unlike Ludvic, Cliopher has no physical statistics on file. They go through some basic requests to check his flexibility (definitely changed) and Rhodin dubiously asks whether he knows how long he can run, or how much weight he can lift, and so forth.

Cliopher intrigues them by offering, “I know how long I can dance,” which is how he ends up practicing Aōteketētana for ten hours straight in the Liaau, over rows carved in the earth.

Ludvic tells him straight-faced at the end that the first few hours were very nice. “Very kind,” says Cliopher, dry; the dance is only meant to last one hour.

The guards have settled into preparing the camp while waiting for him to finish; Pikabe’s demolishing everyone at cards by the fire. Rhodin hands him a plate of food as Cliopher collapses. “Has your appetite changed?” he prompts, watching Cliopher eat.

“I just danced for ten hours,” says Cliopher, a little affronted. Which he should not be able to do.

“Conju said he’s eating more,” offers Ludvic. Pikabe makes a note; Cliopher tries not to look as disgruntled as he feels.

It helps considerably when Ludvic half-collapses against him. Rhodin considers the pair. “I don’t mind the idea of increased strength,” the guard decides. “Even if I’m out of commission once a month,” which assumes the full-moon theory is correct. “But is the cuddling a necessary part of this? I’m not complaining, I just want to make plans. Maybe buy flowers.”

“Flowers?” asks Cliopher, trying to act like a person, and not a human-sized cat. It’s difficult; Ludvic is huge and warm and great at hugs.

Rhodin says, “Don’t worry about it.”

The next day as they hike Cliopher notices Ludvic’s eyes. They’re normally the same as before, but sometimes – when a branch cracks, a bird rustles out of the tree, or they hear animals chittering from the trees – he will turn his head. His eyes turn gold. They are not, Cliopher think, unlike his Radiancy’s; just for a second the unassuming guard seems to have the gaze of a mage.

Then the moment passes; Ludvic looks normal again. It unsettles Cliopher. Surely someone would have noticed if that’s been happening to him?

“Oh, yeah, all the time,” says Pikabe when he asks. “Except yours go silver. It seemed rude to mention it. And most people in the Palace avoid eye-contact with nobles, anyway.”

...do they??

“You really are bad at etiquette,” Rhodin sympathizes.

The hike doesn’t really reveal much more that day – except once, when Ludvic starts twitching a bit and promptly bolts into a copse of trees, flushing out a startled pair of geese. He trails back looking faintly baffled at himself while Pikabe struggles not to laugh.

“So I think there are some mental changes,” Rhodin concludes.

But they don’t seem like serious or insurmountable changes. Both Cliopher and Ludvic must utilize extreme self-control in every aspect of their lives. It should be fine, Cliopher thinks. They’ll learn to adjust.

They return to Solaara in time for the next full moon – which is when Cliopher learns that a section of the old dungeons is still being maintained.

“We’re far enough down no one will hear any screams or howls,” Rhodin says, turning a key on a shiny silver door. The hinges do not squeak as he waves Cliopher inside.

“...But we don’t hold prisoners here anymore, do we?” Cliopher asks.

“Oh, not really,” says Rhodin, not meeting his eyes. Before Cliopher can voice further questions he adds, “Knock on the door in the morning; you should still be able to hear the bells.” And he closes the door.

The cell is also suspiciously clean. Granted, these three cells have been carefully prepared and inspected beforehand in preparation of the full moon, but Cliopher makes a mental-note to review the Palace records on recent arrests. It’s mostly bare except a small bed in the corner, sparsely comfortable. Franzel would be horrified; considering the likelihood it will be torn to shreds by morning, Cliopher approves of the bare blanket and single pillow.

But it’s frustrating waiting for something to happen. Cliopher paces the cell awhile. He knows guards stand outside, in calling distance. His Radiancy isn’t near – no one wants the Lord Magus standing around magically-cursed, violent animals – but he said he’ll be monitoring them from the Tower, in trance, to see what the transformation looks like from a magical angle.

Cliopher wishes he understood more about magic. He doesn’t understand many things about this situation – including how his Radiancy met the moon-lady, to begin with – and he certainly can’t grasp how this curse works. He knows there were some places on Alinor where people gained animalistic traits after the Fall. But it still seems like an astonishingly strong curse – the sort of thing you read about in fairy-tales, but would be impractical in reality. But if he’s ignorant about the magic of men, Cliopher understands even less about gods. He must have faith his Radiancy will find a solution.

He’s glad the moon-lady didn’t curse the emperor. It probably didn’t fit her purpose. She wants to get revenge, but if she loves him – or lusts for him – she might not want him hurt or cursed.

Best-beloved, she called him. Cliopher closes his eyes. He feels warm just remembering that night – the eclipse in the sky, the husky purr of her voice. She stepped straight from the fire like she was walking out of a story. To think that his Radiancy refused her -

Cliopher wakes up.

The bed is, indeed, destroyed. And Cliopher is not surprised to learn that Rhodin transformed this month, too.

The Deputy Commander takes one look at Cliopher in the Medical Wing, ducks his head, and mutters “Oh, I get it now,” before promptly coming over to curl half in his lap.

Domina Audry wears an expression of long-suffering as she works around this obstacle.

The guards accept their increased strength with something like indifference. Cliopher, being unlikely to get into fisticuffs and more likely to find himself annoyed by accidentally breaking quills or sneezing over strong scents, is mildly annoyed.

He mourns for the wasted time, too. He gets little enough sleep without wasting an entire night each month.

His Radiancy summons all the afflicted once he receives a reply from the Lord of Ysthar.

“He’s familiar with this curse, but his answer is not terribly useful – he mostly described ways to hunt you all,” his Radiancy says wryly. “There are various theories about the origins of similar examples, although he confirms there is an acknowledged influence by the moon. Divine punishment is a common attribute in the stories he cited, which fits; also an intense tendency toward cannibalism. Interestingly he describes afflicted individuals, whom he calls ‘werewolves,’ as being non-human. There are some magical circumstances where that might be relevant – especially for you, Cliopher, when you serve as my Hands – so we will need to investigate later.”

Cliopher tries to wrap his head around being classified as something other than human, refuses the idea, and moves on. “But is there a cure, my lord? A counter-curse?”

“I will investigate; apparently you are vulnerable to silver, which is interesting given its magical relationship to the moon… one story insists that those who go nine years without tasting human flesh would be reverted at the end. That would preclude you and Ludvic, Cliopher.” Cliopher grimaces. “There is a rumor you may be cured by being stabbed in the head… we will not be testing that… and, let us see; the most promising is the suggestion to kill the originator of the curse.” His Radiancy studies the letter. “That is doable, at least.”

“...My lord. The curse originates from the moon.”

“Yes.”

“Are you suggesting we kill the moon, my lord?”

“Oh, no,” says his Radiancy. Cliopher sighs with relief. “That would be hasty at this juncture. I will investigate other possibilities first, and possibly experiment with silver. But if necessary, it’s an option to consider. We cannot risk this affliction spreading; and it could be spread quickly, if anyone else were infected.”

There’s something strange in his lord’s tone; Cliopher involuntarily thinks of Woodlark. He glances at a blank-faced Ludvic, and at Rhodin listening with intent thoughtfulness.

The wisest thing to do, the practical thing, would be to execute all three of them. It would neatly solve the issue; it would guarantee this curse cannot spread. If they were able to bite, say, four or five people each – who might also bite half a dozen others -

It would not take long at all, Cliopher thinks, for Zunidh to face a plague of dangerous beasts under the full moons.

“But we can’t kill the moon,” he says, weak.

To which his Radiancy replies, “We will see.”

It becomes normal.

They all go about their jobs, and if perfumes or strong soaps trigger migraines, well, Cliopher can also see much better in the dark now. It’s not a big deal. They trudge down to the cells once a month, and no one is any wiser. His Radiancy continues to study the foreign magic.

Four months later, Rhodin manages to dig through his cell while transformed. He bites two guards and severely scratches a third before they manage to lock him in a different cell.

His Radiancy studies the wounded guards in the Medical Wing the next day. Then he summons Cliopher, and instructs him to write a proposal.

“We will try to treat with the moon-lady first,” the Sun-on-Earth declares. “If that fails, then we will kill her.”

Chapter Text

The Ouranatha are disturbingly gleeful about the prospect of god-slaying.

They don’t actually care about his Radiancy’s motivations; in fact, he doesn’t explain anything about the curse on Cliopher, Ludvic, and Rhodin. None of them want to tempt the priest-wizards into using them as sacrifices, or declaring them the Moon’s servants, or something.

The Sun-on-Earth simply announces that the Moon affronted him, and will face vengeance; apparently this is appropriately mythical and grandiose for the Lord Wizards. Cliopher’s never seen them approve of his Radiancy like this, although his own pointed questions – along the lines of,excuse me, what happens to all the oceans if the moon disappears – go ignored.

“His Radiancy says it will be fine,” says Rhodin, unperturbed. But it’s not like there’s precedent for this!

Cliopher is left to stir in these worries alone; his lord increasingly disappears with the Ouranatha for consultations and plans. He continues his work as Lord Chancellor, since it seems the Lord Emperor is more concerned with deicide than matters of state. A few days pass in this fashion until he’s summoned to a meeting.

“Okay,” says Rhodin as the ‘werewolves’ wait impatiently in the Imperial Apartments. This includes Pikabe and Ato, who haven’t transformed yet. His Radiancy hasn’t arrived. “This is what I don’t understand; why is Cliopher so terrifying suddenly?”

Cliopher looks up at him in astonishment. Conju, distributing tea, stops to regard Rhodin dubiously. He looks him up and down, then the huge and immovable Commander of the Imperial Guard on Cliopher’s left. Then he assesses Pikabe and Ato – smaller than Ludvic, but still sturdy men. Their bare chests glisten with oil that highlights well-defined muscles. “You’ll need to elaborate,” says the Groom of the Chamber, disdainful.

“He has an aura,” Rhodin announces. Cliopher wonders if he means a magical aura, but Conju heaves a sigh in a way that suggests otherwise. “Very big. Intimidating.”

“He does,” Ludvic admits. Cliopher turns to him, surprised. “Like nothing can stop you. And it’s very… magnetic.”

Pikabe leans over, and offers, “That’s the commander’s polite way of saying we all want to sit in your lap and lick your throat.”

Conju snorts rudely; Cliopher gapes. “Excuse me?” he demands, voice high. But Rhodin and Ludvic don’t contradict him. “What are you talking about?”

Pikabe leans further and rubs his head on Cliopher’s arm, who automatically pats him. Cliopher regards his own hand with betrayal. “See? Like that.”

Conju sniffs. “Our lord did refuse the moon-lady’s advance. It must be a sex curse.”

“We turn into ravening beasts and try to murder people on full moons,” says Cliopher.

“Sexy,” Rhodin agrees.

Cliopher really, truly does not understand the way other people regard sex.

Fortunately his Radiancy arrives to interrupt any further discussions on Cliopher’s new ‘aura.’ “We have decided on a date,” he announces, sweeping in. They all rise to make obeisance. “We will summon her on the new-moon, when the lady usually rests within her own country. She is weakest on that day; hopefully it will give us an advantage.”

That’s the first sensible thing Cliopher’s heard in awhile. “I will have the proposal ready, my lord. But if negotiation fails, what are our chances?”

“A difficult question. The Ouranatha will bolster me from a distance; we will set up wards ahead of time.” His Radiancy contemplates this; he shrugs. “I have fought gods before. We will be prepared.”

...when has his Radiancy fought gods? But Ludvic doesn’t seem concerned by this knowledge, so Cliopher doesn’t ask. He clears his throat. “And. And the matter of her domain, my lord? That is – do we understand what effects this will have on, ah, the moon in its celestial form?”

“We do not need to concern ourselves with that; there will be another aspect of her,” his Radiancy dismisses.

Cliopher opens his mouth, then closes it. He does not know enough about gods to dispute the idea.

Still. “I cannot be entirely without consequence, my lord.”

“Of course there is a consequence; you will be free.”

“Theoretically.” Cliopher hesitates. “Another solution did occur to me, my lord.”

“Oh?”

By now Cliopher’s thoroughly scoured the letter from the Lord of Ysthar. “The wording Lord Raphael’s advice specifically mentioned that someone might be cured by killing the wolf that bit them – not merely the ‘originator’ of the curse. I am unsure if it would apply to everyone down the – line of the curse, at it were – but if that is the solution - “

His Radiancy halts his pacing to twist on heel. Pikabe leans over and raises his eyebrows at Cliopher as their lord stalks forward. “We are not killing you,” says his Radiancy flatly.

“It would be of far less consequence than killing the moon, my lord.”

“I entirely disagree; the moon is expendable. You are not.”

Cliopher opens and closes his mouth again. How does one respond to that?

“Pikabe,” his Radiancy adds, “You will guard Sayo Mdang when this discussion ends. Commander Omo, see he is under guard until the new moon.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Now Cliopher’s just bewildered. “A guard for what?”

His Radiancy tilts back his head, briefly closing his eyes. Maybe sensing the magic…? He seems to be making that motion a lot lately. “Do not concern yourself. Now, let us focus on practical plans, Kip.”

They move on to logistics. Later that day – as Cliopher works under the unnerving stares of his new guard – Conju comes to scold him.

“Congratulations,” he hisses. “Now there is no question the moon will die; his Radiancy is never going to risk that you’ll do something stupid!”

They decide to gather in the throne room for the ritual.

This location was a matter of great debate. The Ouranatha initially proposed staging it in the Liaau, well away from any people. Then someone suggested one of the great rooftops of the Palace.

But ultimately his Radiancy ruled it should happen indoors. “She will be weaker without the sight of Herself,” he said. Cliopher remembers the moon vanishing from the sky on Lesuia, and doesn’t really understand how that works. But his Radiancy insists, “She will answer the call. We must take as much power from her as we can.”

So the guards ring the room from all angles. They stand rigidly at attention, but keep their spears pointed at the sky rather than the room’s center – they’re supposedly starting with negotiations. Even though no one, aside from Cliopher, seems to have any real hope of success on that front.

The Ouranatha ring the ritual-area itself, with his Radiancy at one end of the circle. Cliopher stands opposite him. He has no magic himself, but the taste of copper and salt fills his mouth as the chanting begins. He feels feathers flicking over his throat and hands, and something like the silver glint of moonlight. As the Hands of the Emperor Cliopher has long been consecrated as his lord’s magical medium, and even though he lacks any magical-sense himself, Cliopher still buzzes with the energy funneling through him.

A formless winds batters back and forth through the room, spurred by something invisible. Cliopher braces himself as the priests chant louder. Two of them wave smokey lanterns overhead, burning something. His Radiancy does not chant with them. His eyes are closed, and he tips back his head, lips moving soundlessly.

The chanting pauses, and his Radiancy asks in a soft voice, “Will you come?”

And she does.

The moon-lady steps into the circle as though through a door. Overhead the sky darkens further. The moon is expendable, his lord promised. But is she, really?

“Beloved,” the moon-lady croons. The Ouranatha step back, and the guards forward; she isn’t looking at them. She takes a step toward his Radiancy, one pale hand outstretched. “You have changed your mind?”

“I am not so capricious. My choice was made. But you left a curse upon my party.”

“Only upon one man, beloved; what happened from there is not my doing.”

His Radiancy presses his lips together. “Why did you curse him?”

“So you can see he is a mongrel,” the moon-lady says. “A beast, lower than you by far. He is unfit for you. I will make you a god; I will make you immortal, and we can love together in my own country. You do not need the love of a dog for its master; you need a queen.”

His Radiancy opens his mouth, then closes it, clearly biting back some reply. He says after a moment, “I will give you one chance. Remove the curse now.”

“And what will you offer for that trade, beloved?”

To which the Sun-on-Earth tells her, “I will spare your life.”

That is not the negotiation tactic they agreed to use. She pauses.

The moon-lady has been turned away from Cliopher; finally she looks over her shoulder at him. Her teeth glint in an unamused smile. “Love makes lunatics of us all, does it not? You think you can kill me? I have not yet raised you to godhood, my beloved. And there is still more I can do to him. Perhaps I could turn him to a beast every night, instead. I could chain him with silver at the center of my court, and let my subjects beat or caress him as they may. I can make him forget everything, forget you, and become a loyal pet by my side… Do not presume to threaten me.”

“That,” says his Radiancy, “is the wrong answer.”

Cliopher’s bones rattle when his Radiancy lifts a hand. The moon-lady spreads her arms as though to embrace them. She glows – so does his Radiancy – Cliopher has to turn away, lest he be blinded by the light of them. The competing light of the sun and moon.

But something’s wrong.

The silvery-white light is stronger than the scarlet-gold glow of his Radiancy. Whatever they’re doing, whatever magic is at work here – Cliopher senses it isn’t enough.

The guards lunge for the moon-lady, but stumble and veer away without touching her. One of the priests raises his hand, screams, and promptly bursts into flame.

Cliopher stares into the light.

The sunlight is both painful and welcoming, familiar. But the moonlight pulls at something new inside him. There is no moon hanging in the sky to trigger his transformation; but there is a moon here, now. And she is going to hurt his lord.

His Radiancy is faltering. His light flickers – all the lights flicker, all across the Palace of Stars.

Cliopher jumps into the circle.

He is fur and teeth and claws, except for once he is still himself, too. He sees the moon-lady turn as he breaches the circle. Her eyes widen, and then she laughs.

“Attack him!” she cries. But Cliopher does not. Instead he leaps, and drops all his weight onto her shoulders before he rips out the goddess’ throat.

Ludvic holds Cliopher upright as he shudders over a bucket. The moon tastes horrendous on his tongue, with a texture like gravel and ozone and space. Her blood was oily; it clings to his mouth.

I just killed someone, he thinks, dazed. If the moon can count as ‘someone.’

“The threat is gone, my lord?” asks Ludvic, as though they didn’t leave the moon-lady’s strangely shriveled body to melt into dust.

“Yes. Yes,” says his Radiancy, staring at Cliopher like everyone else. “How do you feel, Sayo Mdang?”

Cliopher answers by choking over the bucket again.

His Radiancy dismisses the high-priests against their protests, summoning Domina Audry, who’s been on standby just in case. She comes in and stops a few feet from Cliopher. She asks the lord magus, “Is he safe to touch?”

Cliopher doesn’t know what that means.

“I believe so – and Commander Omo has not been harmed,” his Radiancy says.

The doctor asks Cliopher to extend his arm so she can take his pulse. He does so – and finds himself staring at his own hands, then his forearm, when she tugs back the sleeve.

His skin is still dark, but there’s an odd glow to it now. Cliopher looks down and realizes there’s no shadow beneath him.

“My lord,” he says, faint. Ludvic abruptly drags him to a chair. Cliopher clutches the arms while he reels.

He falls silent through the doctor’s examination, but she soon pronounces him healthy. “Just a bit shocked, I think,” she says. “And I am sure you know more of the magical effects than me, Glorious One.”

His Radiancy dismisses her. He steps in front of Cliopher, eyes distant in the way that indicates he’s using magic.

“My lord,” Cliopher tries again. “What has happened?”

His Radiancy takes a moment to answer. “It seems that in lieu of a closer receptacle for her powers, some of the moon’s… energy… transferred to her killer. That is, you.”

Cliopher processes that. “You mean her magic?”

His Radiancy’s eyes rove again. “In part.”

Cliopher looks at his lord. He turns to Ludvic, grave and silent. Rhodin, plainly excited. Conju, frozen and blank-faced by the door with a scattering of guards. “Are you suggesting,” Cliopher starts. Stops. It is too absurd to say. He asks instead, “Will there be any notable effects I should know about?”

“Oh, no. It shouldn’t – well, you will glow. But there won’t be any other effects.” A beat. “As long as you don’t… ever… die.”

“My lord.”

“Well, perhaps some small effects… it is hard to tell.”

“My lord, you know I will die eventually?”

His Radiancy clasps his hands together. Golden eyes assess Cliopher.

The Sun-on-Earth hums uncertainly.

“My lord - “

Though they’re disappointed his Radiancy didn’t perform the kill, the priests take it as a grand sign that a divinely-touched being now serves the Sun-on-Earth.

The Ouranatha hopefully propose that his Serene Holiness kill the Sun next; his Radiancy declines.

They still transform into wolves at the full moon.

Except Cliopher is aware of it. It’s a cleaner clarity than what he felt facing the moon-lady; not very different from his usual mind, though there’s an odd sense of energy in him. Cliopher looks around the little dungeon-cell, murkily aware of the other werewolves nearby. He can smell them; he can sense them.

There is not much to do in these cells. So after a moment he tips back his head and sings.

The other wolves join him, one by one. Distantly he recognizes the nervous clatter of spears. But the guards in the halls are friends, too; he sings louder.

He hears someone murmur, “The Glorious One will be upset.”

Cliopher stops singing. After a moment the other howls die away, too.

His Radiancy does not need to be upset. He’s fine. But, yes, they expected him to stay human. So if he can just -

Cliopher thinks about being human-shaped again. Thinks about the feel of his legs when he walks, his hands when he writes, the pull of speech from his throat. He focuses on that last one especially, humming to himself.

His skin peels away, shifts, twists. Cliopher can’t really follow what happens. But suddenly he’s standing as himself, naked in the cold cell. He blinks. Cliopher finds the blanket on the corner-cot.

After sufficiently composing himself he raps on the cell door. “Excuse me,” he calls, trying not to alarm anyone.

It doesn’t work.

“You know,” Rhodin says, “If we can control this, it could be beneficial for the guard if - “

“You are not making a guard full of werewolves,” says Conju flatly.

He sitting across from all three of them in his lounge, mildly exasperated. He bears the same long-suffering look whenever he notices the ‘werewolves’ being particularly clingy.

Last week Ato wandered up in halls and randomly bit Cliopher’s ear before moving on. The guards enjoy having a secret physical advantage, but they might need to make an announcement soon, if only for the sake of Cliopher’s reputation.

“It would be convenient,” Rhodin argues. “Imagine someone breaking into His chambers and getting attacked by wolves.”

“If you’ve let someone get that far, I’ll take it as proof the fur is clouding your brain. Do you expect to fail that badly at your job? No? Then stop being ridiculous. Anyway, we aren’t even sure how this curse works. If you bite someone else they might still have the uncontrolled version.”

“He has a point,” Ludvic agrees.

But Cliopher must bite back an objection.

Because he knows, in a way he can’t define, that Conju’s wrong. They can add people. And it won’t be the same curse as before – not unless, perhaps, Cliopher wants it to be a curse.

The thought appears, lingers. He tucks it away.

His Radiancy said, as long as you don’t die. The moon somehow rises and falls in the sky every night. So Cliopher isn’t going to think about the silvery glow to his skin, or the distant pull of the ocean’s tides.

As long as you don’t die.

It’s fine. It’s all fine.

And, on the bright side, it’s a lot easier to deal with the Princes these days. He curls against Ludvic’s side and listens to Rhodin and Conju bicker about uniform modifications that might stop the werewolves from tearing apart their clothes in sudden transformations. Ludvic sets his chin on Cliopher’s head.

Ludvic says, “Remember that threatening feeling? It’s stronger, now.”

“I imagine so,” Cliopher agrees.

But he thinks of his Radiancy in the towers above, a flicker of flame. Cliopher can feel him now, just as he senses the tides and his island, and the sliver of the moon hanging in the sky. And Cliopher knows he can help keep his Radiancy safe.

He can accept the rest of it, Cliopher decides, for that gift alone.