Steel Sirens Read online

  Her smile is wicked. “They had a very bad night.”

  Emeree wheels her horse at some prompt in the landscape I can’t detect. “The good thing about a city like this,” she calls back, “is that even after fifty or sixty years, none of it will really have changed.”

  I nod, though she can’t see me. One of the most comforting parts of the forest, for me, has always been its immutability. How, no matter what changes in the outside world, the Fortingall stays the same.

  We follow no trail, but our direction never wavers. Emeree’s black dapple dances over roots and detritus. It’s speckled haunch bunches as it jumps the fallen bole of a tree eaten by grub rot.

  “These horses are better than I gave credit,” she calls back, admiration in her voice.

  “They’ve lived their entire lives in the forest. They’re peaceful but hardly nags.” I wonder if Gillam is still alive to care about his animals. “You should keep Falnir, if you like him.”

  Her glance sets my heart racing. “Handsome and generous. I think I’ll keep you.”

  The confidence in her voice is so sure, as if it never occurs to her that I’ll have a problem with this. I don’t. For a moment I imagine travelling the world with her at my side. Wonders, sights I’ve never seen. Nights with her in my bed, her soft body over mine.

  My heart races faster at the daydream. For the first time in years, I want something beyond my solitude.

  Without warning, Emeree reins in. We’re in a tiny clearing, no more than ten feet across. Autumn hasn’t hit as hard this far north, and for the most part, the weaving tapestry of leaves around us consists of shades of green. A huge stump occupies the center, old enough to show signs of rot, but new enough to stand proud and unbroken by time. Its deep roots trail into the dirt like long tentacles, spreading across the entire clearing.

  I’ve spent my entire life in the forest, and I don’t see anything strange about this place. “You know, the last time we stopped in a forest clearing, we ended up naked and covered in blood. But if you insist…”

  Emeree leaps from Falnir and saunters over to me, eyes hooded. Her fingers rake up my leg, the inside of my thigh, vibrations of pleasure against my leathers. She dares higher, and her nails run along the bulge of my cock. Then she laughs and spins away. “Oh, don’t think it hadn’t occurred to me. But next time, I want a bed.”

  “What happened to ‘When the next opportunity presents itself?”

  “Minster Lowe presented itself and it has beds.”

  I groan, following her to the stump. She bends, examining it, and I can’t resist running a hand down her back, can’t stop myself from giving her bottom a little smack.

  Her face rests somewhere between pleasure and murder. “Oh, you’ll pay for that later.”

  “Living the life I have, stalking prey through the forest, you learn patience. I can wait,” I say, not sure if I actually could.

  “Hey, I spent fifty years cursed, stuck in my blade,” she says, running her hands along pitted wood, feeling for something I can’t detect. “Sometimes weeks would go by before you’d visit. Weeks when I’d dream of your voice, the sound of your footfalls on the boards above.” She glances to me, a little smile on her lips. “When you’d touch yourself, I imagined you moaning my name.”

  I turn scarlet. “You heard that?”

  “Ewan, I felt it.”

  My heart climbs my throat, and it takes me a moment to respond. “I hope we find a bed, soon.”

  Her laugh is merry. “Oh, yes.”

  As her hands move around the surface of the stump, still searching, I ponder her words. “What did you mean when you said you felt it?”

  “When I’m in the blade, I can’t see with my eyes, hear with my ears. I can still hear, though, can still sense the world around me. Like an impression, or a –” She makes an exasperated noise. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Like a spider, feeling vibrations along its web?”

  “A lot like that, yes. But, also not at all.” She shrugs.

  “Helpful,” I laugh. “I’ll have to remember that, next time you’re inside.”

  Her hands slip, the tiniest involuntary jerk, at my words. “Hey, that’s privileged information. Keep it to yourself.”

  “Ha! Blackmail material. You’re mine, now.”

  Her eyes raise above the stump, shadowed, dancing with mischief. “I already was.”

  Really hope we find that bed, soon.

  Emeree feels along the stump’s pitted surface, worrying her lip with little teeth.

  “What are you looking for?” I still can’t see anything odd about the stump, no strange marking or blemishes.

  “Just…One….Aha!” She crows, triumphant, as something deep inside the wood clicks. A seam appears, horizontal, encircling the entire surface of the stump. “Here, help me lift.”

  I move next to her, and we slip fingers into a tiny divot obviously meant for the purpose. Heaving, we lift the top of the stump free. It pivots, and when it slams to the ground across from us, I see a tiny hinge at the only spot the top is still connected to the base. “Amazing. How did I miss it?”

  “Magic,” she says. The inside of the stump is hollowed, filled with leather bundles. “We had stashes like this everywhere, just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “One of these little hidey holes is the only thing that saved us when Amantir, the Mad God, decided to massacre his people.” She grunts, derisive. “He wasn’t actually a god, was just a really fucking powerful aeromancer, but his fleeing people didn’t see the difference. When we got there, most of the farmland was burned, the cities gone. We moved from stash to stash, avoiding or fighting his elementals, until Siri finished it with an axe to his forehead.” She makes an exaggerated tossing motion to demonstrate. “Gods damn, that was a nice throw.”

  Incredible. For a moment, it’s like sitting around the hearth with my father, when I was young, listening to tales of the Sirens. Their exploits, the monsters slain, kingdoms saved. Legends, passed down through generations, revenant and unbelievable.

  But this is a real Siren, telling me a real story, that she witnessed.

  It’s hard to wrap my mind around. “Ah…Hmm. That sounds great.”

  Delicate brows furrow. “Sorry. I keep forgetting how isolated you all were.”

  “I never knew how much until now.” Storytellers and travelers would visit us, and some would tell incredible tales of gods and mages, kings and wars, but by the time the tales reached us, they felt so embellished that we believed less than half of it.

  I’m starting to think they were far closer to the truth than I’d ever realized.

  “First things first.” She rummages around, then pulls free a bag that clinks audibly as she hefts it. She stands, weighing it, eyes narrowed. “Damn, less here than I thought. One of the others must have raided this cache before…” She trails off.

  “Hey. We’ll get them back.”

  A smile. “I know. Yes. Anyway.” She ducks back into the stump, slipping and almost falling inside. Her laughter echoes up as she rummages. “Should be more we can use, down here. When the sirens were a power in the world, we had connections everywhere, never wanted for comfort when we demanded it. Dukes and earls vied for our favor, for the honor of hosting us when we’d pass through. Kings and emperors lavished us with gifts.” She unwraps the package, then pouts as she pulls free what looks like a rotten green flag.

  “Damn it. I loved this dress. Gift from the Duke of the Northern Marches.” She pulls something else free, small clothes similarly ravaged by time. “And these were from his wife.”

  I cock an eyebrow.

  Emeree shrugs as if I should know the story. “They both pursued me for an entire winter.”

  “What was the deciding victory?”

  “Her tongue,” she sighs, throwing down the rags.

  I laugh, shake my head. To have lived hundreds of years, to experience all that, it beggars my mind. “I feel like so green
.”

  Her eyes are on me, argent and glittering in the sun. “I know it’s odd for me to keep saying things like this, but I would take you over any of them, a thousand times. The world is filled with malice, avarice. Goodness is there, too, but it’s dulled by the oily sheen of industry, of greed.” She tosses down the old clothes with a look of disgust. “You’re more honest than any of them.”

  I shrug off the compliment. “Won’t do me much good in Braemar.”

  Emeree looks sad a moment, and for the first time since I’ve met her, the playful joy in her expression falls away. “No. If I could avoid taking you there, I would.”

  “Hey, it’ll be okay. I’ve got you, right?

  “Right,” she says, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

  We pick through the rest, together. Mostly everything is ruined by time. Apparently, the ensorcelled stump only kept the contents hidden, not preserved. A few things are salvageable, though. Emeree pulls free a few jars of food that look as good, to me, as they must have when they were packed. She hands me a silver knife, less than the length of my hand, with a filigreed blade and a dark stone that rests in the hilt. “Magic?” I ask, hopeful.

  “Nope, just valuable. But that can be a different kind of magic, where we’re going. Also, you can stab people with it.”

  “Right. Stabbing. Got it.”

  A high shriek pierces the air from high above us. I smile, arm thrust out reflexively, and in a rush of wind and wings, Talos appears like magic, dropping to my forearm lightly. “Hey, boy,” I say. “Where have you been?”

  He preens, cleaning long grey feathers, eyeing me sideways as if to say Wouldn’t you like to know?

  Emeree claps her hands together. “Ooh! I have something for you!” She disappears back into the stump, and for a moment she’s nothing but legs and backside before she crows in triumph.

  “Thora loved these, made us keep them in every cache,” she says, emerging with a jar of...something. She makes a disgusted face as she holds it aloft.

  Inside the wax capped jar are fish as long as my hand, preserved in liquid. Silver and red, their scales glitter in the sun, and their little eyes peer outward lifelessly. “How old are these?”

  Emeree shudders. “Probably a century. But when a mage is doing the preserving…” She holds the jar at arm’s length, pulling free the wax cap.

  The stench is immediate, almost overwhelming. Acrid, fishy, and almost like rot. I pinch my nose. “Gods, that’s foul.”

  Emeree’s eyes water. “Right? Believe it or not, in the eastern marches, this is a delicacy.”

  Talos agrees, apparently. He hops to Emeree’s wrist without a backward glance, head turning this way and that as he examines the contents. With a predatory squawk, he darts forward, pulling forth a limp prize.

  Watching him wolf it down is the second most unpleasant thing that’s happened in the last few minutes. “Good boy,” Emeree says, giving me a cheeky grin.

  “Traitor,” I accuse.

  Talos keeps eating.

  When he’s done, Emeree drops the jar and Talos hops onto her shoulder and makes contented little noises. He nestles into her hair.

  “Enjoy your new bird,” I say. “He’s fiercely loyal, until a pretty face with food shows up.”

  “Hey, don’t blame me because I know how to win a man’s loyalty,” she winks, biting her lip.

  She’s got me there.

  I reach forward, finger soft against Talos’ soft feathers. “Listen, boy. You see that big city over there? Yes, you did. We’re going in there. You need to make yourself scarce until we come out. Find us, after.”

  He cocks his head, chirping. I’m never sure if he understands me, but that’s never stopped me from talking to him, especially on long, cold nights in the Fortingall. After a moment, he lifts off, winging away with decidedly less grace than when he landed. “Glutton,” I laugh.

  Emeree eyes him speculatively, but says nothing.

  There’s nothing else in the cache worth saving. Emeree straightens, rolling her shoulders after her last dive. “All right. Let’s get into town before dark.” We stuff the discarded, rotten clothing and other bundles back into the stump and close it up. She reaches into the stump, finds the catch she used to open it, and with another muffled click, the seam disappears as if didn’t exist.

  I hold out my hand to help her mount, knowing full well she doesn’t need it. She ducks her eyes and takes it, anyway, fingers warm against mine, and leaps into her saddle.

  I start to mount up. For a moment she curls my fingers in hers.

  Glaer prances, eager rather than nervous for a change. “Ready?”

  “Ready” she says. “And so is Siri.”

  10

  We reach Minster Lowe at a golden hour, ushered by pale stone walls gilded by the sun.

  Or, I should say we approach it this way. We’re not reaching anything; the highway is clotted onto grassy shoulders with ragged bodies, rickety hand carts, and emaciated beasts. It’s a poor mirror image of the affluent business I glimpsed within Minster Lowe from the cliff top. We cut into the wide roadway, slipping into the heavy flow of carts and travelers.

  “Shhh, girl,” Emeree coos, rubbing Falnir ’s neck. Her horse snuffles with irritation at the pace, wants to trot.

  I split an apple from my pack and toss her half. “Here. Goes a long way toward buying their loyalty.”

  “I’ve had horses and men,” she chuckles, feeding her greedy mount. “I know how to reward both.”

  I cough out of respect for a portly, wide-eyed merchant boiling red at Emeree’s innuendo.

  She laughs off his embarrassment. “Before we were changed, I had a beautiful thoroughbred. Acalia. Black as midnight, spirited as a water nymph and so loyal. She loved wild berries.” Emeree’s smile fades. “She’s almost my only clear memory. I was able to keep her after the Blessing.”

  I narrow my eyes at the merchant, who goes on staring at her, but he doesn’t notice. “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “Last I saw of her was when they caught me.”

  I want to tell her that I’m sure Acalia was all right, that whoever found her took care of her, but the words sound hollow, even in my head. That if she lived for hundreds of years along with Emeree after the Blessing, she might still be out there. Somewhere.

  But those are just empty words. Instead, I reach across the short span between us and squeeze her hand where it rests on the pommel.

  I feel shame, that I’ve never considered all she’s lost. The last days have been one world-shattering revelation after another, and it’s been hard to keep up, but that’s no excuse. Emeree’s memories of her life before she was a Siren may be mostly lost, but she would have made friends after that.

  I wonder if any of them are still alive.

  “What is this mess?” she says a little too eagerly, trying to change the subject.

  I turn to a barefoot woman in a brown homespun dress. Her face has a softness that speaks of lost corpulence. Her eye sockets are deep and hollow, lips peeling. She clutches a frayed length of burlap like a purse. Emeree leans to her. “Is this a trade caravan?”

  The woman’s bright blue eyes sheen with probably the last bit of moisture in her parched body. Her single laugh erupts like a ragged cough. “Trade. Oh aye. Trade’s got us here all right.”

  The crowd jostles around us. Shouts rise from ahead, angry and violent. Through the thicket of bodies and horses, I see two figures pushing. I can’t hear their words over the shouts and jeers of the crowd, but their faces are close, expressions filled with hate as they spray spittle at each other.

  The woman behind us cheers in a language I can’t understand, then switches languages and shouts them on until her voice breaks. “Slavers takin’, burnin’. Salted our crops and slaughtered our beasts. For nothin’! Not even to eat.”

  Slavers.

  I stare at her. My eyes move over the tightening line of refugees in both directions. A
ll these people…

  Suddenly I’m not alone in my fear and loss, and it feels horrible.

  “Arundel’s our lord and master. Where was he, eh?” Her voice rises as shrill as such a dry, hollow sound can. “Where was Arundel, I ask ya!”

  She clutches the burlap, raising it high for the crowd. One flap falls aside. A small, pallid leg dangles from the folds.

  A murmur ignites along the road, sharp with outrage. Bodies swell on the sound, pressing ever closer to the motte, the walls.

  “No guards,” Emeree whispers, skimming the towers.

  “Seems strange for a city.” Even Braemar had guards. “And with this sort of unrest…where are the Duke’s men?”

  “Just mercs,” she says, nodding toward a pair of hams clad in studded leather. They’re two of at least a dozen men clutching pole arms, barricading the gatehouse.

  The fat merchant sidles up, an opportunity to be superior outdoing his haughtiness. He fondles an embossed button on his scarlet waistcoat. “Never like this when Old Arundel was duke,” he says, not bothering to hide his eavesdropping. “Iver,” he clucks sadly. “He kept his word to the vassals. To his allies.”

  Emeree nods. “His grandfather would have been Onric the Pious.”

  “Well.” The merchant sniffs, prickly at being outdone. “Nothing pious here now, not even with the Church’s efforts. Sodding glad I live in the Quays.”

  “All since Iver’s death?” she asks.

  He sidles closer, stinking the air with beef fat and garlic. “Rumor is old Iver was poisoned, but no one can prove it. Happened about the same time the magus arrived.”

  I look for any straining ears or curious stares. “Brave saying that out loud.”

  The merchant shrugs. “If there were laws left here, I’d mind my tongue. But as you can see…” He waves a hand over the refugees and chuckles.

  “Magus,” I ask, trading a glance with Emeree.

  “Oh, aye,” the merchant says,” they’s everywhere, these days. No one knows where they came from, just that the world’s filthy with ‘em. Minor spellslingers patrol the bigger cities with the guard, but even in a backwater like Minster Lowe, there’s a heavy one step behind the Duke.”