Between Worlds: the Collected Ile-Rien and Cineth Stories (14 page)

Ilias reached for his hand, gripping his wrist as
Ranior pulled him up onto the horse.

“I don’t understand,” Ilias said, looking at the house
one last time.

Ranior let his breath out, shaking his head. “To tell
you the truth, I’m not sure I do either. But... If they take you back, they
have to admit what happened. They have to admit that they let it happen.”

Ilias didn’t understand that, didn’t want to
understand it. “Can’t they just pretend it didn’t happen?” he said, feeling
small and stupid again.

“No, they can’t do that.” Ranior lifted the reins,
turning the horse back toward the road. “Come on, or we’ll miss dinner.”

It was still a long time before Ilias called Andrien
home.

Ilias, Giliead, and their older sister Irissa walked
down the waterfront of Cineth’s harbor. It was a busy place, with men hauling
casks of water and big dusty red amphorae of olive oil and wine, and traders
hawking their wares. The sun was bright and the breeze cool, and Ilias was
enjoying the day, despite the fact that Giliead was trying very hard to start a
fight with Irissa.

“When are you going to buy a husband?” Giliead asked
her, apparently determined to be as obnoxious as possible. “After this harvest,
you could have anybody in town.”

Irissa snorted derisively. “I don’t want anybody in
town.”

Ilias had heard her say this before, and was just as
glad to hear it again. He said, “You should wait to marry somebody for love,
like Karima did.” Karima was Giliead and Irissa’s mother. She was younger than
their father Ranior, and had been wealthy enough to take her pick of husbands,
but it was obvious she had chosen with her heart.

Giliead kicked at a piling, determined not to be
deterred from the argument. “Irissa never talks to anybody, how will she know
if she’s in love or not?”

Ilias gave him a sour look, but he knew why Giliead
was in such a bad mood. They had just heard in the market plaza that Menander,
the Chosen Vessel for the Uplands, had left on a hunt, heading up into the
eastern hills to follow a rumor of a curseling seen near one of the isolated
villages. Again, Giliead had been left behind.

Giliead was the Chosen Vessel for Cineth, gifted at
birth by the god that watched over the city; the gift gave him the ability to
smell curses and see the traces they left in air, earth, and water. But he was
nearly seventeen seasons old now, and he had never yet been on a wizard hunt. Menander,
much older and far more experienced than Giliead, should have been letting him
help protect both Cineth’s territory and the Uplands. The god of each area
guarded its territory as well as it could, but wizards and their curselings
were adept at slipping through the boundaries to do as much damage as possible,
and it was the Vessels who had to stop them. But so far, all Menander’s
teaching had been theoretical. Now that Giliead was older, it was beginning to
chafe.

“I’d rather buy a galley than a husband,” Irissa said,
eyeing the row of ships. Most of those docked along here were fishermen or
merchants with one or two sails, the canvas every shade of purple, red, blue,
and other lucky colors, with the stylized eyes painted on their bows so the
ships could find their way home. “Maybe we could try trading with the Chaens.”

Ilias grinned at her. “You just want an excuse to
travel.” He hadn’t been around the farm during the past winter season much
himself; he had been working at hauling cargo, staying overnight in the city
with Andrien relatives. This season he had made enough extra money to buy
copper earrings for himself and a second set as a gift for Giliead, and a matching
armlet for Irissa.

“What’s wrong with wanting to travel?” Irissa waved
toward the ships. “Mother and father can take care of our land. There’s plenty
of time before I have to worry about it.”

Ilias knew that Irissa didn’t have many real friends
except for them, and the people of Andrien village. There weren’t any single
men her own age she had much to do with. Thinking of some of the spectacular
mistakes he had seen other women their age make in the husband-choosing area,
he said, “Waiting to pick the right person is better.”

Irissa evidently appreciated the support. “That’s
right.” She flung her arms in the air in frustration. “I should just marry
Ilias. Save us all a lot of trouble.”

Over the past season or so, Ilias had been privately
thinking that that would be a wonderful idea, but the fact that Irissa had
brought it up, even as a joke, struck him so much that he couldn’t reply. He
had lived at Andrien House with them for more than ten seasons, but he wasn’t
Giliead and Irissa’s brother by blood. It was apparent from their looks; Ilias
was inland Syprian, short, stocky, and blond, and Giliead and Irissa were both
olive-skinned, with straight chestnut hair. Giliead was a couple of seasons the
younger but he was already taller than both Ilias and Irissa, broad-shouldered
and strong.

Unimpressed, Giliead said, “It would be cheaper. And
after that thing with the trader’s daughter, mother will be lucky to get more
than three chickens and a diseased goat for him-- Ow!”

He made a retaliatory grab for Ilias, who had punched
him in the back. To forestall further violence, Irissa slung an arm around
Ilias’ neck, throwing her weight on him to make him stagger out of reach.

Instead of pursuing them both, Giliead turned away and
shaded his eyes to look out over the harbor. Ilias followed his gaze, trying to
see what was so interesting. There was only one ship coming in, a merchant with
black and white square designs painted on the hull and a single red sail. A
dark-clothed man holding the tiller shouted orders as others scrambled to take
in sails. “Hisian,” Giliead said, as if he wasn’t aware he had spoken aloud.

Ilias had spotted the bare prow too. Hisian ships
never had eyes, so they were just dead soulless wood, like a raft or a dinghy. It
was stupid to put to sea on a ship like that, especially for the long distance
down the coast from the nearest Hisian port. Still leaning comfortably on
Irissa, he said, “Let’s watch the Portmaster search her.”

Irissa nodded, but added, “I bet they didn’t bring any
women. They aren’t that stupid anymore.”

Hisians treated their women like slaves or worse, so
Syprians rescued them whenever possible. There were several women who had been
Hisian living in Cineth now, known by their skin, which was the color of
bleached parchment, and the tribal scarring on cheeks and forehead. The woman
who ran one of the smaller provisioners on the harbor front had been a Hisian
once.

They started down toward the stone piers, where the
ship was being awkwardly brought into dock. Someone else must have shared
Giliead’s suspicious interest in the newcomer; Ilias saw a patrol galley appear
at the mouth of the harbor, the three rows of oars working as it followed the
Hisian in.

They reached the slip as the ship was still tying off.
Giliead and Irissa’s father Ranior was there, waiting with the Portmaster
Hadria, an older woman with gray woven through her dark hair. The men who would
search the ship for her stood around by the pilings, speculating on what they
would find.

When Hadria went to talk to a cargo factor, Giliead
asked Ranior, “Will the Hisians agree to the search?”

Ranior nodded. “Hadria said they seem to be
reasonable.” He glanced at Giliead, his smile turning concerned. Ranior was
tall and olive-skinned like Giliead, his red-brown hair almost all gray now,
though he still wore it long like a younger man. “Why? What’s wrong?”

His eyes still on the ship, Giliead shook his head,
his face a little bewildered. “I don’t know. It just gives me a strange
feeling.”

Ilias tried to see what Giliead saw. “You mean a
strange feeling like it’s a trick to get into the harbor, or a strange feeling
like something...else?” He found himself not wanting to say “cursed” aloud.

“I don’t know,” Giliead said again, sounding annoyed
now. “It’s not a curse, not on the ship. That I’d be able to see. Or I should
be able to see it.” He shrugged, almost angrily. “I can’t tell if this is a
real feeling or I’m just imagining it.”

“Maybe Gil should go aboard.” Irissa looked at Ranior
hopefully. Ilias was fairly sure that meant that Irissa thought she should go
aboard and that Giliead would be a good excuse, but he couldn’t blame her; he
wanted to see the foreign ship too.

But Ranior’s expression was serious. “I’ll talk to
Hadria.” He added, still watching Giliead, “Don’t say what you’re looking for,
don’t even imply it, not with a look, not with a word. Not unless you’re
certain.”

Giliead hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his
face, then he nodded. “I understand.”

Hadria agreed to let them go aboard with the
searchers, probably thinking Ranior wanted to see the ship for himself. But
once Ilias stood with Irissa on the deck, he admitted to some disappointment. The
ship was just an ordinary merchant, her shallow hull stuffed with bales of fur,
some millstones, and other goods. There was no cabin on the deck for shelter,
just a section of tarp to rig up as protection from the sun. The small crew
were mostly young boys, and the dark-clothed shipmaster was a lean old man, his
tribal scars so puckered from age and weather they were nearly impossible to
read. He stood beside the mast, weary and resigned, and the young crew mostly
huddled nervously near the water casks. They all wore dark colors, as Hisians
usually did, and had already stripped to the waist to prove they weren’t trying
to conceal any female captives. They looked like what they said they were; a
family of merchant Hisians coming along the coast to trade for wine and olive
oil.

His expression of mild interest fixed, Giliead
wandered around the deck as the Portmaster’s assistants climbed through the
cargo. The Hisians barely noticed him, and were more occupied with trying
desperately not to look at Irissa. They treated their own women like dirt and
then killed each other for looking at them; they seemed slow to get the idea
that with Syprians, it was all right to look, just not to be rude about it.

The youngest, scrawniest boy snuck a glance at Irissa,
then accidentally made eye contact with Ilias. He twitched and hunkered down
closer to the deck in terror. Ilias was highly conscious of the need to keep
from betraying the fact that Giliead was looking for curses, and in trying to
keep his face blank, he felt he probably looked far more forbidding than he
meant to. He tried to relax, telling Irissa in a low voice, “Doesn’t look like
anything’s wrong.”

“No,” she agreed reluctantly. “Gil needs to go with
Menander, to get some real experience.” Frustrated, she added, “Sometimes it
doesn’t seem as if Menander remembers that Gil is a Chosen Vessel at all.”

Ilias knew reading the Journals and listening to
Menander’s stories was all well and good, but Giliead needed to work with a
real Vessel, to see a hunt for himself, and to help with it. Yet now he found
himself wanting to argue with Irissa that Menander was right, that putting it
off was best. “Some Vessels just travel alone.”

Irissa pointed out bluntly, “Yes. Usually the ones who
die quickly.”

Ilias didn’t have an answer for that. The Journals had
shown it over and over again, that Chosen Vessels who hunted alone tended to
come to their ends far more quickly than those who didn’t. Though it was risky
either way, and usually the companions died faster than the Vessels. Ilias had
meant to be Giliead’s companion as long as he could remember, but with Menander
putting off Giliead’s training, it had been easy to pretend it was never going
to happen, that their lives would be normal.

He looked away, even more uncomfortable now. Something
in Ranior’s face when he had told Giliead not to even hint that the ship might
be cursed had made Ilias uneasy. That Giliead might be wrong and innocent
people die, or be given curse marks and ostracized.

Chosen Vessels were supposed to prevent that, it was
the whole point of having them. Hisians didn’t have Vessels, and accused each
other of being wizards constantly, and killed each other like animals.

In the Poets’ stories, it all seemed so simple. Except
Ilias already knew nothing was simple.

“Harbormaster, I hope there’s no trouble,” someone
said, and Ilias looked up to see a man he had taken as part of the crew
addressing Hadria. “I’ve been on the ship since Ancyra, and these are good
people.” He was young, with a tangle of dark hair cut at the shoulders. Under
the coating of sweat and grime, he wasn’t as pale as the other Hisians, but he
was dressed like them with a black wrap around his waist. Ilias squinted at
him, trying to decide if he was Syprian or not. It was hard to tell, but his
Syrnaic had an inland accent and he had spoken to Hadria first. The Hisian
shipmaster had kept trying to talk to Ranior, who had just eyed him silently
until the man forced himself to speak to Hadria.

“Are you a trader?” Hadria asked him.

He smiled, answering the question she hadn’t asked. “My
name is Delphian, from Syrneth. I’m a poet.”

* * *

The arrival of a new poet was an event, especially one
from Syrneth, which was the largest city-state in the Syrnai and the home of
the matriarch who ruled over the loose confederation of cities. Halian, who was
currently lawgiver with his wife Erinni, had invited Delphian to perform the
next night. Ranior was a friend of Halian’s and so the Andrien family got an
invitation to the lawgiver’s house to watch.

Despite Giliead’s position, and Ranior’s former status
as lawgiver, the Andriens didn’t usually see much of the more prominent
families in the city. Ilias knew them by sight, the way most people in Cineth
knew each other by sight, but Karima had always preferred the company of people
from Andrien village, or her friends and relations from nearby farms. Ranior
had a large acquaintance from all through Cineth’s society, but most were as
eccentric as he was. When Giliead had been Chosen by the god, it had isolated
the Andrien family to some extent; people were afraid of wizards and curses,
and some of that fear carried over to those who fought wizards and curses.