The Siblin and the Siren

Chapter 1

"Whoever in ignorance draws near to them and hears the Sirens' voice...the Sirens beguile him with their clear-toned song...and about them is a great heap of bones of moldering men, and round the bones the skin is shriveling."

-Homer, The Odyssey, Book 12

Winter walked up the gangplank and swung aboard The Singsong. He was in a mood, a wine skin in his hand. Dorsa was a small southern port, not much to look at, but the wine was good. They had eleven barrels in the hold to trade.

Isidor had gone chasing a Dorsa skirt hours ago. The dark-haired, plump women were difficult to lure to a casual encounter, with their strict religion and their stricter mothers. Winter hadn't bothered.

Winter had no doubts his younger brother Isidor—younger by moments, although it mattered to Siblin would persuade one. The two brothers didn't look alike. They were both well made, both good-looking, big, broad shoulders and strong arms, large rough hands.

But Isidor was openly handsome, tall, light brown wavy hair to his shoulders that showed streaks of blonde in the summer months, warm hazel eyes and a flashing smile. Winter was more intense, deep set dark brown eyes and a strong jaw, black hair to his shoulders, his face brooding, serious, little of the ready charm of his brother.

He and his brother shared their cabin as all Siblin brothers did, as they would share it with their anthata, with the woman they would claim together eventually. Winter wandered a little in the straight line between here and there. It was late, the stars clear, early summer. He heard them before he got to the door and opened it anyway, leaning against it, crossing his arms.

The Dorsan was on the bed, on her knees, naked. Her hands were tied together, stretched in front of her, looped to the hook there. There were more hooks in the cabin at various points. He and Isidor had put them in years ago. Her shoulders were down on the mattress, her ass in the air, her legs spread. Isidor had his hands on her hips, kneeling behind her. He was taking her slowly and she was begging behind the gag.

"Ti v'enh avel nu desh," Isidor said in Dorsan, reaching under her.

Don't you come until I say.

She shut her eyes, crying out as he stroked her clit, still fucking her slowly. In any port, Isidor could find them, the ones who liked rough pleasure. He could see it in their eyes, he said, the gentle ones. Winter had said he was full of tsatil, but Isidor did seem to know. Siblin desires were specific.

The little Dorsan began to hitch with pleasure and Isidor withdrew his hand, smacking her ass, her flesh jiggling. Isidor turned and met Winter's eyes, thrusting into her, a knowing look before Winter shut the door, now wandering a little in the straight line from here to there and up the stairs to the forecastle deck of The Singsong, passing the lamp hanging on its hook by the wheel.

Winter was restless, drunk. Aroused. He would find a woman in the next port. He sat down and took off his tarred wool felt top hat, setting it on the deck next to him, leaning forward a little and taking off his traditional Siblin waistcoat jacket, dark blue with gold buttons. He removed his black boots, leaning back, lying down flat, looking at the stars.

Siblin were wanderers, traders, speaking many languages, their ships, brightly painted, roaming the world. Minsk, just north of Dorsa, was the closest they came to a permanent port, their arrangement with the Luterians a thousand years old.

Raising his head briefly to tilt the wine skin, Winter let it pour into his mouth, swallowing. He listened as the little Dorsan voiced her pleasure, a series of high cries. Winter found the familiar patterns in the stars above him. She wouldn't truly satisfy Isidor, their requirements different than other men. They were Siblin.

*

It was still too hot, even at night. Winter stood up and pulled it all off—his white linen shirt, open at the neck, tan linen drawstring pants with wide-turned black cuffs—sitting again, collapsing on his back, blowing. He hated heat, hated summer in the southern waters. He looked at the stars again, his hand resting on his thigh, his other leg crooked.

He and Isidor were both still relatively young, only thirty-seven. But they weren't that young. Like all the Elder Races—Siblin, Veshtan, and Luterians included—they would live about three hundred years. He heard the cabin door open and close, voices, Isidor speaking, the Dorsan's higher tones. They couldn't see Winter from this angle so Winter ignored them. He heard their steps on the gangplank. Isidor was as talented in getting the women he collected to go away after they were done as he was in getting them to come here in the first place. Isidor would see her safe and then return.

Winter's hand shifted, touching his cock. It was getting difficult for him, difficult for Isidor, their pleasure dull, muffled until they found her. They tried to be patient. Winter closed his eyes, the woman faceless, nameless. He stroked his cock lightly, squeezing, hardening in his hand.

Sometimes she was a tall, dark-skinned Southron with full lips in Winter's mind, sometimes a light skinned Caskian woman with a creamy ass for spanking. Winter worked himself, swirling his hand over the head of his cock, large and thick, pumping his fist faster. Maybe she would be a plump little brown Dorsan with straight black hair that brushed her butt, large nipples, and a sweet nature.

Winter's breath released as he opened his eyes and raised his head, looking down at himself, at the head of his cock, engorged, appearing and disappearing in his fist. He closed his eyes again, leaning his head back, imagining being in his anthata's mouth, imagined his hand in her hair, fucking her throat. For Siblin tusks, the pleasure before release was more intense. They learned to draw it out, to take their time.

There was finally a surge, that frustrating moment, so much under it he couldn't reach, his hips thrusting, his cock convulsing, spilling onto his belly. He pulsed a final time, grunting. He felt a sense of dim, faraway pleasure, more relief than anything. Winter stilled, his breathing a little fast, leaving his hand there. Raising the wine, he took a drink, swallowing, and reached for his handkerchief, pulling it out of his coat pocket, cleaning himself.

Isidor appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning against the rail, crossing his arms as Winter had. He smirked. Isidor was in his top hat, linen drawstring pants and shirt open at the top, no collar. He had shed his waistcoat in the heat. Isidor was a little taller, although Winter was bigger. Siblin tended to be large in all sorts of ways, and neither one of them was an exception.

All Siblin were born male, all twins. There were no girls born to their people. Those twins, brothers, would find a woman when they were grown. It didn't matter who she was when they met her. Once he and Isidor took that woman together, once she was their anthata, once their seed mingled in her, she would be Siblin like them. Their pleasure would be awakened and she would be theirs for their lives.

Eventually, that woman would bear them one set of twins, two boys. Their sons.

And so it went.

They could find their anthata at any time, in any port. But it hadn't happened yet. Until he and Isidor found her, they were tusks, the Siblin slang word for a pair of brothers with no anthata. And until they found her, they took women singly in the ports for what muffled pleasure they could get, separate from each other.

"I told you, you won't find a woman in a wine skin," Isidor said.

"I'm not charming like you, brother," Winter answered.

"And now you're on the forecastle deck pleasuring yourself."

"It's not that much different," Winter muttered.

Isidor shrugged easily, walking to take the wine Winter offered and upending it, letting it pour in his mouth.

"Remember that woman in Skale?" Isidore said, swallowing, grinning at him.

"Which one?"

"You know," Isidor said impatiently.

Winter sent him a look, remembering, his mouth quirking lightly, sitting up.

"I don't think I've ever seen you so drunk, Isidor."

"Leline," Isidor said, his fingers coming up, snapping. "Her name was Leline. A great big round ass for smacking. I was convinced she was our anthata. Remember I dragged you out of that dice game?"

"I threw twenty hecs, of course I remember," Winter said wryly.

"And then you couldn't—," Isidor said.

"And you were so drunk you couldn't either," Winter finished for him.

"Remember how disappointed she was?" Isidor said, laughing now, Winter's mouth quirking. "Remember the names she called us?"

Isidor's laughter trailed away. He offered Winter the wine skin.

"She was pretty enough," Winter muttered, taking it. "You know how it is."

It was a natural constraint, but they still found it funny. It kept Siblin brothers from performing the ritual with the wrong woman. If the other brother tried to join, he simply wouldn't be able. You'd be looking at a woman, ready to bed her, and all of the sudden you just didn't want to anymore.

"We'll find her," Isidor said. "You always get morose when you're drunk. Come to bed."

Winter got up, gathering his clothes, swiping for his boots. They went down the stairs and into their cabin, putting things away, Winter tossing the handkerchief in the laundry to wash. The bed was big, taking up a good portion of the room, a Siblin bed designed for three.

Isidor took off his clothes and blew out the lamp as Winter lay down on his back, lacing his hands behind his head. Isidor joined him after a moment, sleeping with him as they had all their lives.

"How was she?" Winter said in the dark.

"Plump and tight," Isidor answered, already sounding sleepy.

*

Winter came out of the cabin in the morning, pulling his shirt on, opening and going down the hatch, clattering down the stairs to the galley. He came up with cavash steaming in his hand, too much sun in the world, his eyes feeling grainy and his head full of batting, the cavash burning his tongue a little but it tasted good.

Generations in Minsk had given Siblin a liking for the Luterian brew. Isidor was already whistling, winding rope, his light brown hair wavy and whipping a little in the gusts, his alert hazel eyes full of energetic good cheer. Winter came and sat on the stairs, his own long straight black hair blowing across his eyes.

"I want to stab you when you are so happy in the mornings," Winter said.

"Yes, I should never smile," Isidor said, smiling at him.

Winter eyed him. He pulled out his stone, his knife, beginning to sharpen it.

"I smile," Winter said, not smiling. "I want to go to the islands again."

Winter pushed the edge of the blade against the stone. Isidor shrugged lightly, coiling the end of the rope.

"We've been all over those islands."

"Not Nanine," Winter said, his hands stilling.

Isidor's smile faded. He suddenly looked as serious as his brother, Isidor's face falling into lines that made him look different, older. Isidor heaved the rope onto the pegs, lacing it down the line, turning his head to peer at Winter.

"Because it's in the mouth of the Brecca Straight," Isidor said. "We've always said it's not worth the risk."

Winter returned to sharpening.

"The coordinates say Maren is on one of those islands," Winter said. "It's the last place to look."

"We don't even know if Maren is alive, Winter," Isidor said, straightening. "We've been looking for him for twenty years."

"He wanted us to find him," Winter said stubbornly. "He sent the message."

"Nine years ago. Why doesn't he just come to us?" Isidor retorted, gesturing.

Winter shrugged. It was an old conversation between them, although he had never proposed braving the Brecca Straight before. Isidor came and passed him, sitting two steps up. Winter turned his head, looking at his brother.

"Don't you want to know?" Winter asked him. "After all this time?"

Isidor studied him and then looked away, his eyes on the horizon, searching it.

"Yeah," Isidor finally said, releasing his breath. "Yeah. Let's go to Nanine."

*

It was eleven days to the Brecca Islands, another three to Nanine. On the third day they would actually enter the mouth of the Brecca Straight, Nanine not far. Isidor was at the helm. Winter was busy ensuring they captured the wind, his mind on the tasks, trying not to think about where they were going. They had both been quiet all day. Tense.

It was afternoon before they began to see the black Brecca rocks jutting out of the sea on their starboard side, going carefully, the shoals treacherous. Winter eyed the rocks uneasily, something he'd seen in illustrations in books, heard in their tales. Land appeared. Caves slowly rose behind the rocks, rows of tall and thin perfect arches opening in the black cliffs. Nobody knew who'd carved them or where the openings led.

And a siren could come out of any one of them at any moment.

Siblin didn't come near the Brecca Straight, not even this far out. He and Isidor would only be going into its mouth a small ways, but that was no guarantee.

Sirens came out of the openings to stand on the black rocks of the Brecca Straight and sing sailors to lust until men sailed their ships straight into the rocks. They sang to men until they despaired with longing and threw themselves into the sea, sang them to madness. It didn't matter how far away you were or what you stuffed into your ears.

Paintings and lithographs showed the sirens taking the form of beautiful women. There was lore throughout the world, art showing sirens who looked like women but were monsters, mostly naked, peaked ears, sharp pointed teeth, mindless pale blank eyes, long hair that drifted in the sea winds,

beautiful and cruel, hunters who ate the flesh of the men they lured whether they were dead yet or not.

Some illustrations showed that too, gruesome images. Sometimes the women were part fish, sometimes part bird, always with their mouths open, singing.

Siblin weaved them into their own tales, terrifying stories he and Isidor had heard since they were boys. Tales of the sirens had used to give Winter nightmares. But regardless of legend and myth, regardless of what common sailors believed, Siblin knew the sirens were real and that their song was deadly. He and Winter would never go near the Brecca Straight under any other circumstances.

*

Winter thought he saw movement in one of the tall arches in the cliff. He got the glass, Isidor at the helm. Winter scoured the nearest rocks off the starboard bow. He didn't see anything on a fast pass, coming back slower.

"Winter," Isidor said low, pointing to the rocks ahead on the same side.

Winter advanced the glass, seeing long boards cracked on the rocks, fresh wreckage, a broken hull rising, smaller items floating strewn in the surf. The ship that was in pieces there had been taken in the last few months, maybe, the colors of the paint on the wood still vivid under a hot sun.

He saw another wreckage, this one older. Through the glass Winter focused on a skeleton flung on a small shore on its back, arched, its mouth gaping open, eye sockets empty and staring. Winter felt a wave of pity and horror, moving on. Shattered crates, their contents spilled, barrels. More dead bodies. So many bodies, although they decayed fast here, mere weeks before they were skeletons wrapped in tattered cloth.

In Siblin, the phrase on the black rocks, meaning a very bad turn of events, referred to the idea of being abandoned here.

More black rocks appeared off the port bow now on the other side of the ship, more wreckage, ragged strips of canvas, a ship's wheel on its side. So many crates. Over two hundred years of wealth shattered on these shoals, every kind of merchandise and bauble imaginable, and there wasn't a thief stupid enough in this world to try for them.

They were in the worst of it, Isidor guiding them through. The silence was stark, only the raucous voices of the sea birds squabbling, nesting among the crags. The dead were silent, their bleached bones peeking out among the rocks.

Winter focused on movement, finding it. A sea dragon, as long as a man's leg, slithered down between two jutting rocks, surging into the shoals, hunting.

Winter walked across the deck to the port side, lifting the glass again, scanning the rocks, the cliffs. Now they were in a long thin channel. If a siren came, there wouldn't be anything they could do about it. They would join the dead men on the black rocks, The Singsong's hull broken, their kegs of Dorsan wine claimed by the sirens as so much had been before. Luck was all they had to see them through, and nobody sane liked to rely on luck.

"Where do they live?" Isidor asked from the wheel in a low voice, his eyes roaming the cliffs.

"Through the arches, I guess," Winter replied as quietly, crossing again, a crawling sensation in his gut, focusing the glass on one of the tall, thin, perfect openings, black shadows just past its entrance.

One illustration that had especially terrified him as a boy had shown a writhing nest of sirens just past the entrance to those same openings, beautiful figures draped over one another, some asleep, others fighting over the entrails of a man not quite dead yet, trying desperately to crawl away, madness on his face. Winter lowered the glass, the black rocks abruptly much farther away, all the detail gone.

*

They hadn't wanted to risk coming here, but they had searched for Maren for years. It was the last place to look. Maren had been the twain who had taken them in, raising them after their parents were killed in a storm when they were seven. It was traditional for a Siblin who had lost his brother to adopt Siblin orphans. Maren's brother Dane had been killed in a port accident. Maren had been everything to them, like a father, all the family they had left.

But twenty years ago, when he and Winter were seventeen, Maren had disappeared. The brothers had been stuck in Dorsa in port on a job. Maren had taken his Siblin ship, the Wandering Eye, out alone. Maren hadn't told them where he was going, but he'd always come back before.

So the brothers had waited, getting a room on land. The days had turned into weeks. They hadn't worried until the weeks had turned into months, and the months had turned into the more solid creeping certainty that something terrible had happened and Maren wasn't coming back. They hadn't even known where to look for him.

By the time five years had passed, both Winter and Isidor had resigned themselves to the idea that Maren was dead. By then, they had gotten their own ship, Siblin-made, The Singsong. Four more years had gone by, both of them busy establishing trade and taking cargo, building relations with different port authorities.

And then one day, eight years ago, the Siblin ship The Mockery had hailed them, slipping beside them into port at Minsk. Leet and Havish, two of the roughest tusks they knew, had boarded. The captains of The Mockery said they had picked up a letter addressed to Isidor and Winter from the Siblin ship The Farshore. The Farshore had picked it up in Dorsa where it had been left for four months before the ship came through to trade. It had taken the letter almost a year to reach them.

"I'm afraid it's been damaged, Winter," Havish had said regretfully, pointing to the water stain on the bottom of the envelope. "It came to us like this."

Winter had looked down at the thick parchment with a sense of shock, recognizing Maren's handwriting.

"You're making me nervous," Isidor said.

Winter snorted, raising the glass again, following the silhouette of the black rocks with the glass, stopping, going back, moving on.