"... you're going to need to expand on that a little, Bri."

Dor Waverider casts his eyes to the horizon and, seeing no forthcoming obstacles, looks down to where Bri stands leaned on the ladder. It seems his brother has once more been at work on the chainmail shirt, given the scrap of interlinked metal held negligently in one hand.

"You know how the frequency of storms up in the northern isles these last few years have been bothering me? That whole area is supposed to be rainy but calm, with the winds shunted out to the west," Brightshell explains, waving the scrap of chainmail in a completely inexplanatory sort of way.

"And this is the fault of a weather station?" Waverider clarifies. He is not an unintelligent man by any means — in fact, ever since he took his second breath, he has felt his thoughts flow with increasing precision — but his brother has a habit of making 'obvious' connections and then moving past them, unmentioned. It's endearing, when it isn't frustrating.

"Yes, exactly. So once we get to Kivestown, I want to head north and see if we can locate it," he explains. "Or will that cause problems with our route?"

Each of them bring an important component to their trading. Brightshell evaluates and refines goods, predicts trends, and produces artworks. He's happy to leave the logistics to Waverider.

Waverider mentally adjusts their schedule in his head.

"If we don't pick up anything perishable, and you have the commission for Kis Shellscorned finished by the time we hit port, we can send that with Captain Li and not worry about being anywhere in particular for a few months," he eventually declares.

"I told you — I've done all that can be done while the ship is at sea; I'll just need some time in port to finish the stitching on the bodice."

Plans made, Brightshell vanishes back into the depths of the ship as quickly as he came.

He shakes his head fondly.

The Lightskimmer is a good ship, and between the two of them they make excellent time to Kivestown. The weather is clear and fair, so he spends more time composing poetry than he does navigating, but it's still time well-spent.

He whistles a tune as he guides the ship the last few meters to the dock, throwing a line to the waiting dockhand with a smile and a wave.

Kivestown is a cheerful sort of place. Nobody with any knowledge of the maritime trades would call it a large port, but it is still far larger than many settlements on the surrounding islands, and so it attracts the sort of large, diverse crowd that is a rarity in the isles.

Sea-breezes skim over red tiled roofs, rustling laundry on the lines and carrying the bickering of the market around the docks up the hill and into the more affluent part of town.

When the ship is settled and their berth paid for, Waverider pokes his head below-decks to see whether Brightshell is ready—

Only for Brightshell to flare with light as he places needle to thread, drawing together strands of silk and brocade faster than a mortal's eye could follow, leaving only a completed dress of supreme elegance on his tailor's dummy.

He shoves his needle back in its place, binds off his thread, and turns back to Waverider.

"Okay! Ready to go."

"Not with your forehead on fire, you aren't," Waverider replies.

"Did I ...?"

Brightshell glances at the light playing against the (windowless) walls of the workroom.

"Shoot."

"It's no matter — you get things organized and ready to be offloaded, and I'll go and find Dor Pearlgift."

Luckily, it does not take all that long for his glow to die down. So by the time Waverider returns with their merchant contact, Brightshell has gotten their various items of merchandise moved from the travel configuration — balancing weight and minimizing potential damage from water getting in — to neat piles on the deck.

It's not that the two of them are ashamed to be the Chosen of the Unconquered Sun, it's that a secret once spoken cannot be taken back. And Kivestown lies close to the route to the Empire — if anywhere in the western isles were likely to have unexpected immaculate priests, it would be here.

The process of getting everything unloaded and distributed to the wholesalers, message recipients, recipients of commissions, and so on is a well-practiced dance. It's the work of a few hours to get everything unloaded, and then sail out to a mooring in the harbor so they won't take up valuable dock-space.

"It'll be tomorrow at the earliest before I can get some of the goods I want ready for loading," Waverider warns his brother. "I know you're going to want to go north right away, but I think it might be nice to stay in port for a week or so."

"... because there's a poetry contest," Brightshell states. It's not a guess. Just because he leaves most dealing with people to his brother doesn't mean he doesn't have ears.

He holds Waverider's gaze for a long moment before smiling and relaxing back against the rail.

"Yes, yes. The search is not likely to be short, so a week doesn't really matter," he agrees. 

"Might it be worth checking to see if there are any local records that might concern the weather station?" he asks, heading to grab the basket of dinner that he acquired before they undocked.

Brightshell bites his lip, considering.

"I doubt there will be anything worthwhile," he eventually declares. "But it can't hurt to look. I'll ask around. I do need to go through the market and see if there are any particularly good woods, anyway. I'm running low on rosewood."

The two of them share a quiet dinner on the deck, looking out over the coming and going of the fishing boats. Distant snatches of music from the island reach them, even as the sun dips into the sea.

Brightshell has never wondered whether the Unconquered Sun is particularly fond of the western isles given that every day he strives to return there, and sink beyond the western border of the world. But he remembers wondering it, long ago. In bits and pieces, he remembers building pieces of a great empire, that spanned the world like a clock.

And as he watches the waves close over the last of the day's light, he wants to build it again.

It is in the sun's nature to return.

For the next few days, Brightshell haunts the markets in search of good crafting material, and the inns in search of any ancient stories about a manse or demesne to the north. This isn't his first investigation; he flows with the crowds, trusting his instincts for when to linger and listen. He memorizes scraps of gossip and story, and returns to the Lightskimmer at night to piece them together like scraps of cloth in his workroom.

Unfortunately, fate is not with him. By the end of the week, his investigations have turned up not the slightest hint of information about the weather station — which, he realizes, is itself a bit suspicious. People love to gossip about local legends of the glory age.