The Siblin and the Siren

"You should be," Winter replied. "If a screecher shows, we're dead."

"It's going to happen or not, Winter. Stop being a tsutsul."

"Fuck you, Isidor," Winter retorted, his mouth twitching at the childhood joke, a tsutsul a creature whose face resembled an asshole.

He and Winter had both sat, looking at the letter. Isidor had finally reached and opened it, Winter looking over his shoulder. They unfolded the paper inside. No greeting, no explanation regarding where he'd been for the past eleven years. Just a set of coordinates.

Regardless, those coordinates said Maren was alive. He was alive, and he wanted them to find him. But the crease where the paper touched the bottom of the envelope had gotten wet. The ink was smeared. The final two numbers were illegible. They had no way to determine exactly where Maren had meant to send them.

They had an idea. The coordinates they could read covered roughly a total of five islands and a part of a sixth, the Brecca Islands, and for the next eight years he and Winter had searched each island, coming whenever they could. They hadn't found any sign of Maren.

Except for the last island. They'd never been there.

Nanine.

"How far out are we?" Winter said.

"Not far. The cove is ahead."

Winter came and took the wheel. Isidor blew out some of his tension as they left the black rocks behind. Their luck had held, although neither one of them forgot they'd have to come through the same black rocks to get back to open water.

The sea was choppy here, green with whitecaps, a good wind. Isidor took out the glass, aiming it at the cove.

"Winter."

Isidor came to Winter's side, pointing, taking the wheel.

Winter brought it to the bow, bracing his leg, scanning. He passed it, a dark blur in the glass, and then returned, adjusting.

The Wandering Eye filled the sight. Winter's gut tightened. Maren's ship. She was there, in the cove, anchored, as she must have been since Maren had sent that message nine years ago. This is where Maren had meant to send them.

Winter felt a surge, hope and then doubt, the ship's familiar lines tugging at him, colorful paint, colorful canvas, his whole world when he and Isidor were ten. Maren was here, one way or another. Winter almost couldn't believe it. They'd found him.

By the time they anchored, it was evening, but they didn't want to wait until morning. They went down the ladder to the dinghy, Winter holding a lantern. Isidor rowed them to The Wandering Eye. Winter came off the ladder and stepped onto the deck on which they had spent their youth and that he hadn't walked in twenty years.

They had already tried hailing him, could already tell Maren wasn't here. Winter opened the cabin, the door swollen, sticking. Nobody had been on her for awhile, the deck a filthy mess, sea birds using her to rest. Her innards were cleaned out, dusty, motes hanging in the lamplight.

There were still two beds, one larger where he and Isidor had slept and that Maren had built when he adopted them. Both the beds had been stripped. Winter searched all the drawers, the cabinets and closets. Isidor came in.

"Any sign of his journal?" Isidor asked.

Winter shook his head. There was hardly anything here. They explored the whole ship together with one lantern.

"I'll go through supplies in the morning, see what we'll need to search the island," Winter said.

They boarded The Singsong again, Winter leaning against the rail. The lantern's light was lonely in the surrounding darkness, a beacon that could be seen from land if there were anyone to see it. Winter was looking toward the dim outline of the shore. Isidor came and leaned next to him, both of them listening to the lap of water against the hull. Both of them thinking about Maren.

Isidor suddenly straightened.

"Do you hear something?" Isidor said, sounding wary.

Winter tilted his head. Singing? He straightened as well, realizing, his neck prickling. Then the wind shifted. He strained, listening. Nothing.

"It's gone," Isidor said.

He and Isidor looked around uneasily. Isidor grabbed the lantern as Winter moved away from the rail.

They went into their cabin, shutting the door. Better to be prudent so near the straight. There were legends of sirens boarding a ship from the water, hunting that way. They doused the lantern, laying back, neither of them able to sleep yet, but not talking, either.

Winter looked out the porthole. He felt it in his heart that Maren was gone. He had for awhile. But now he wondered. Coming to Nanine had been the last task before grieving him. Neither of them had actually expected to find him here.

*

Winter picked up a pebble and tossed it irritably off the low cliff into the sea below as he walked. It was their fourth day on Nanine and all the anticipation had faded and disappointment had replaced it. Nanine was just like all the other islands they had searched. They had found no sign of Maren. Maren never would have made it this difficult. He was probably gone from here or dead.

The low cliff they walked found a bottom at the same level as the sea and they began clambering up and down huge rocks on the edges of the shoreline to the west of the cove, having explored all the shore and quite a bit inland east of it. They had started with the reasonable assumption that if Maren settled on an island he would stay near the cove, that being the only way off of it, the only viable landing spot.

But they had found nothing. Island and more island. Trees. Birds. Big green leaves. More trees. Winter hated islands, hated being sticky. If he never saw another island, that would be fine. Insects. Snakes. Heat. Winter had packed things to camp that they carried, their next step to search inland in this direction.

They'd sleep rough tonight in the forest, the day getting late. Isidor remained annoyingly cheerful.

The surf crashed to their left, that endless sound, Sága's fingers playing on everything it found, the sea's rhythms. They climbed up and down the huge rocks that jutted from the shore and out of the sea in towering forms, great sprays of water crashing that he and Isidor avoided, sometimes timing it, the shoals alive with creatures you found wherever the sea met the land. Seasquirts. Mussels, fanworms. Five-finger fish. Barnacles. More rocks, more waves. A woman.

Winter stopped, Isidor walking up beside him. Winter put his arm out quickly, hitting Isidor's chest, pointing. Isidor looked.

There was a woman sitting on the rocks far ahead and higher, on a natural shelf, massive waves breaking at her feet. She was looking out to sea, perched on the overhanging cliff in profile, her legs off the edge, her feet on the rock face under her, her toes pointed down. Her feet were bare. From here all he could see

was that she had red hair, a long fall that obscured her face, wavy.

What was a woman doing on Nanine?

Winter was trying to see her, peering, walking forward, Isidor doing the same. She was very still. It was like she had just appeared out of nowhere. They crossed a patch of sand onto the higher rocks, climbing, getting closer, keeping their balance on the uneven surface.

She suddenly turned her head. She must have spotted them, although she was still too far away to see her face well.

They moved toward her quickly as she got to her feet, pivoting in their direction, the wind coming up and stirring her red hair, lifting it, very long. She was wearing some sort of shapeless dress that came just below her knees. She began backing away. Winter stopped, Isidor doing the same beside him. She went still again. Winter slowly walked forward, the woman staying where she was now, watching them. They

got closer. He could almost see her.

The tide sucked out, withdrawing from the rocks below to their left, rolling and gathering again. A great wave crested the cliff, crashing between where they walked and the woman, obscuring her, a spray of froth and seawater that rose high and then fell to crash onto the rocks, scattering and withdrawing.

She was gone.

"What—?" Isidor said next to him, looking around, and Winter spotted her.

"There," Winter said, pointing, setting off after her, the rocks slowing them.

She seemed to have little difficulty, going lightly. Then she was running ahead through the sand straight for the tree line and the dense forest, huge leaves and undergrowth, her red hair a beacon. She looked back once. He still couldn't make her out. Winter jumped from the rocks to the sand, pounding after her, Isidor behind. She disappeared into the forest.

They followed her straight in, going fast, slapping away leaves, trailing vines. They ran for awhile in that direction, not seeing her. Winter finally slowed, breathing hard.

"Where is she?" Isidor panted behind him.

They'd lost her. Winter turned around in a circle and froze, Isidor seeing and turning as well. She was standing not far, very still again, looking at them.

*

Winter stared, almost not believing what he was looking at. The whole of her struck him first. Beautiful. Her hair was red, a true red, deep and dark and rich. Redheads were unusual, sometimes seen in Alveria, even more rarely in Caska. She had that coloring redheads sometimes did, her skin seeming almost translucent, the blood close to the surface.

Her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink from running, contrast to the red of her hair, freckles across her nose, her lips full, also pink. Her features were delicate, large eyes under sweeping dark red brows.

Winter blinked, peering at her. The irises of her eyes were so strange, not brown, too pale, the color of honey. She was delicate all over, wrists and ankles, her jaw fragile. Winter was still staring at her, Isidor was. She didn't look real.

Then Winter saw the necklace she wore. A small rectangular Tal, sitting vertically on her neck, a Siblin necklace. All Siblin wore one. He did. Isidor did. Winter's gut sank. Maren.

"I'm going to try to grab her," Winter said to Isidor in a low voice.

She wouldn't speak Siblin. He didn't know what language she would speak. Nobody lived here.

Winter stepped carefully toward her, his hand out, a staying motion. He took another. She was still motionless. He stepped again, a branch breaking under his boot. At the small crack, with no warning, she bolted.

Winter cursed and ran after her, Isidor right behind him. He could see her smaller form darting ahead of them, going through things easily they had to clamber over. She'd taken this way deliberately. Their size was slowing them.

He burst out of a particularly dense patch, Isidor right behind him, and they'd lost her again. Winter turned in a quick circle, catching her out of the corner of his eyes on the half-turn, a flash of red hair in sunlight. Almost, but not quite fast enough. Winter sprang after her, catching sight of her. She looked back once and veered sharply ahead of them toward the side of the cliff, beginning to climb nimbly, lighter than they were. But they were faster and stronger and Winter had her in his sight now.

She suddenly disappeared. Gone. Winter slowed, panting, staring. Then he kept running, going to where she had been before she wasn't there anymore. There was a fissure, tall and thin, reminding him, for an uneasy moment, of the openings in the cliffs on the black rocks where the sirens lived. The angle coming up had obscured it. She'd gone underground.

Winter plunged into the fissure, Isidor right behind him, quickly slowing to a walk and running his hand along the wall as they lost all the light, black as night in here, not knowing what they would run into, how deep it was. They couldn't hear her in front of them. Winter's mind chose that moment to offer the memory of the singing they'd heard, thoughts of sirens and nests having him wishing they had a lantern.

But sunlight showed up again not far, not a cave but a tunnel, to his surprise, opening up on the other side. It went straight through this part of the mountain. When he came to the plateau on the other side, below the opening stretched a small sweet valley, sheltered from the worst of the weather and warm with sunshine. Hidden. This was a place you could keep secret.

It was ringed in mountains. Winter didn't see any sign of the woman, but she couldn't be far. He could see a long way from here, above the tree line. He scanned and then spotted it. A dwelling in the trees, the grass roof just visible and not far.

She'd brought them home.

Winter ran down the path, the way easy to follow, making straight for the cabin. Someone obviously used it a great deal, the path worn and clear. They were faster than she was and he knew where she was going, Isidor at his heels.

Maren wouldn't take that necklace off. If it were Maren's mark on the necklace she wore, Maren was dead. She might at least knew where his body was, how he'd died.

They caught up with her before she got there. He signaled Isidor, who stayed on the path. Winter made a wide arc, going fast, getting in front of her and backtracking on the trail, slowing around a corner. He heard her light footsteps on the trail, her quick breathing, directly before she ran right into his arms. He caught her, turning with her momentum, getting behind her and wrapping his arms around her and holding her.

She immediately began struggling wildly to escape him, throwing herself forward, pushing against his arms with her hands, her hair whipping all around her face and his face as she landed a glancing blow with her head, cracking on his cheek.

"Hold still," Winter grunted in Dorsan, rearing his head back, trying not to get hit again. "We're not going to hurt you."

Dorsa was the nearest settlement, the language she would be most likely to speak, although she certainly didn't look Dorsan. She didn't look anything. He'd never seen a woman who looked like her. She didn't seem like she understood what he said at all, struggling as hard, just not able to move as much as he got a better hold of her. She wanted away from him. Winter just intended to keep her until she calmed down, until they could figure out how to talk to her.

Isidor arrived, breathing hard. They all were. The woman's heart was hammering against him. Scared, she was scared. He felt badly to frighten her, but they wouldn't hurt her. Siblin didn't hurt women. She knew what had happened to Maren. He just wanted to ask her questions. Isidor slowed and then stopped, staring at her.

"Winter—," he said.

"Let's get her to the cabin and see what language she speaks. It's not Dorsan," Winter said to him.

"Winter—," Isidor said, his eyes fixed on her, Winter finally noticing his expression.

"What?"

Isidor stepped forward, hesitated, and then reached with both hands gingerly, capturing her head, forcing her to tilt, pulling her hair back and exposing her ear.

Winter looked down at the peaked tip, a delicate blunt point, everything about her coming together in his head in a moment, all the tales and legends. Her strange beauty. The color of her eyes, their shining, blank quality. Her crude dress. Where they found her, on the cliffs staring out to sea. That strange stillness.

She'd been waiting for a ship. She'd been hungry, hunting. If they'd brought The Singsong to Nanine just a few days later, she would have stood on that cliff edge and—.

Winter clapped his hand over her mouth. Isidor jerked his hands off her, his face reflecting disgust.

"She's a fucking siren, Winter."

Siblin and the Siren

Chapter 2

Winter froze, not breathing, his skin crawling. A siren. The broken bodies in the straight flashed through his mind, their bones picked over. He wanted very badly to push it away from himself, didn't want to be touching it, but he didn't dare release his hand from her mouth.

His heart began to pound, remembering all the pictures of their sharp teeth, the palm of his hand itching with anticipation. He tightened his arms anyway, pulling her against himself and upward so her toes left the ground, nothing for it, stretching her neck back.

Isidor's hand settled on his knife, all traces of his good nature gone, his eyes cold.

"Keep it still, brother," Isidor breathed, walking back toward him, drawing his knife.

"I've got her," Winter said, very much so hoping he did, keeping his voice calm. "Get something for a gag. We'll need rope. Check the cabin, see what's there."

"We should just—."

"Not yet," Winter interrupted him, breathing slowly, steady.

Isidor's eyes shifted and narrowed at him. Isidor finally replaced the knife.

"Be careful," Isidor said, leaving at a run toward the cabin.

Winter was left holding it. He felt like he had a poisonous snake by the back of the head. Her breathing was shallow and quick, his face near her hair. Her smell was distracting. He looked down.

He could see Maren's necklace, his mark. A wave of sadness went through him, the grief more dull, tinged with an older acceptance, but now it held all the sting of failed hope.

After twenty years, they'd finally found him, but Maren was dead. Killed by a siren on Nanine. There was no other way she'd have the necklace. They'd never learn where their father's body was now, wouldn't be able to launch him to Sága to be with his brother, Dane. The disappointment was bitter.

He looked down at the necklace again. Evidently it had liked it. Winter felt another wave of revulsion, the back of his neck tingling. Its hair was all over him, sweaty, clinging to him, making his skin crawl again, no way for him to brush it off, a strand sticking on his chest, another on his wrist, even his neck. He didn't want to imagine what else it had done with Maren's body, gruesome visions going through his head.

Isidor was right. They should kill it. But nobody had ever gotten this close to one. They were deadly. He'd certainly never imagined touching one.

Winter realized he was angry. He wasn't ready to kill it yet. This thing had given Maren a terrible death, madness and possibly worse. He doubted it could talk, but he wanted to find out. He became aware of the quiet, birds and the rustling of wind through leaves, the sound of her fast breaths. Winter had lifted the screecher's body, his left arm a bar around its waist and arms above the elbow, his right arm tucked, his hand across its mouth tight, its neck stretched back and its head almost on his shoulder, entirely off its feet.

As more time passed and it didn't bite him, didn't struggle, he began to notice the desperation in its breathing, how hard its heart was going. He relaxed his hold, allowing its head to come forward a little. She didn't seem particularly strong. He eased up a little more, as much as he dared, and she drew a long breath in through her nose. He realized that she—it, really, but that was difficult when she looked like she did, smelled like she did, felt like she did—was having trouble breathing.

They did breathe. He'd been holding it tight. He eased up more, cautiously. She took a longer breath, and another. It still hadn't made any sound under his hand. Waiting, he imagined.

Isidor came back, to his relief. His brother was panting.

"Gag first," Winter said.

He hoped that would be enough, that the siren couldn't sing around it. It couldn't possibly understand, but this still seemed to awaken it. Winter tightened his hold until its struggles were confined, Isidor watching grimly. Winter met his brother's eyes and moved very slowly, saying a prayer to Sága about its teeth, rotating his hand so he could pinch its nose closed as well. It renewed its struggles, unable to breathe. He finally met Isidor's eyes again and uncovered its nose and mouth in one motion.

The siren opened its mouth to draw a great breath of air and Isidor put the gag in. She was pulling for air around the cloth. Isidor walked to stand beside Winter to tie the gag behind her tight, her mouth stretched