THE SHIP BOBS along with the gentle swells in a river that is as languid as the afternoon air. No one has the heart for speed and I’m certain it is only Perseus’s nautical instinct that keeps his hand at the helm to guide the Argoa steadily along the Col.
Jason sulks in a corner at the rear of the ship unwilling to face the men. It seems he takes the loss of Hylas as a personal affront, as an indication of his inability to lead, and my attempts to stir him from his sorrow have proven as futile as trying to pour honey that has crystallized. I can find nothing to say, no distraction, no topic to stir my cousin from his melancholy. For a time, I left him to his mood, but now I’ve had enough. If he is to lead, if he is to have any respect from this crew he must put his emotions behind him and take charge. I step over the pile of rope he hides behind as he stares blankly into the water.
“Perseus would be more than willing to assume his role as master over all of us if you find yourself unable to do so,” I say, standing over him. “There are matters that need addressed and if you can’t push your low spirits aside to make a decision, others on this ship are keen to prove themselves.”
“You would take power from me even here?” Jason asks, his voice angry but with little force behind it as if willing to give in and hand over his slim rule of the crew. He glares at me and it doesn’t take an astute man to recognize the hurt fury in the look.
“Where is this coming from?”
“As if you don’t know my father has chosen you as his heir.”
I experience a rare moment of speechlessness and fill the silent gap by leaning against the railing next to my cousin. Other than missing Penelope, I am happy in my life. I enjoy commanding the Illamosian vigiles and I enjoy the freedom I have to serve in other poli when I’m needed. But I am no politician. I want nothing to do with leading Illamos Valley. Why would Aeson want me as his heir? My cousin certainly needs to learn how to be a stronger leader, but he is kind and understanding and well-liked. With experience and good counsel he will become a stable and gentle ruler of the Valley.
“I’ve no interest in parking my butt on either the throne of Illamos Valley or of any other polis, and I don’t want command of this hunk of wood we’re on. Do you believe me?” His fidgeting hands and shifting eyes tell me that, although uncertain, he wants to trust me. There is time to talk of this later; right now I need him to command the ship. “Perseus says we must rest at Doliones Island. He’s right, but at this moment you need to make the call, not just allow him to take over these decisions.”
“It’s madness to stop there,” he says. “Everyone knows of the Dols’ ferocity. Besides, we seem to be cursed whenever we stop. It would be best to sail on.”
“I’d hardly say the men will remember Lemnos as a curse. Look, we need to stop somewhere. We’re almost to the Graveyard, but Perseus says this is not the time of day to attempt it. We have to hit the bar before dawn when the tide is gentlest – although gentle in this case is a relative term. We could also do with a rest before we face the crossing. And yes, Hylas was a tragedy, but it had nothing to do with stopping.”
“Did it not?” Jason snaps. It had been he who found Hylas’s mangled body. My throat still clenches as I recall my cousin’s choke of grief when he called the men to hunt down the beast that had murdered the youngest of our crew. Despite losing half the day, no tracks, no trail of blood, no sign of the creature could be found. More than one man offered a prayer to the gods and clutched at his vigile charm when Theseus declared the beast had seemingly disappeared. And although I’m sure we all thought it, no one mentioned that the number of our crew had dropped from a very lucky twelve to eleven, a most unlucky number in Osteria even if you aren’t a superstitious fool.
“No, it did not. We all grieve for Hylas, but we must continue. Perseus says Doliones Island isn’t far but that we must reach it in what daylight we have left. The Dol are defense minded, but if they see us sail in and call out our good intentions we will be welcomed.” Jason says nothing and kicks petulantly at a coil of rope at his feet. “We could all use some good cheer and new company,” I add
“Fine, but we sleep aboard ship and no one goes wandering or carousing.”
I clap Jason on the shoulder. “See, when you stop acting like a pus-infected sheep teat, you do make a good leader.”
~ ~ ~
The sun still dangles above the horizon when the ship nears the harbor of Doliones Island. As Perseus is about to guide the ship into port, the low sun glints off the heads of more than a hundred arrows pointed in our direction.
“We turn around now,” Jason urges Perseus. I’m proud of my cousin for the quick call, the same call I would have made, but Perseus stubbornly holds his course.
“I know what I’m doing. Do you not know the common protocol of a district so close to your own polis? We need to say the greeting.” Not waiting for Jason, Perseus raises both hands and shouts, “We seek shelter and nothing more.”
The rest of the crew, seeing Perseus’s action, follow his lead and raise their hands. Jason’s shoulders slump. He has failed in this test. I curse Perseus for not telling my cousin of the greeting before we neared the island. It’s an arrogant ploy to maintain control and not what my cousin needs right now. Jason, shaking his head as if chastising himself, is the last to raise his hands. The arrow heads slowly lower as Perseus guides the ship into the dock where no other ship is moored.
I take in what I can of the landscape. The beach is small, little wider than the Argoa is long. Lining the beach and making a thick wall that I cannot see beyond are stands of firs, hemlocks and pines with a smattering of maples and dogwoods whose leaf tips are only just starting to show the fiery red that will replace the summertime green. As I look more closely, I can detect narrow footpaths through the woods to the beach. Guards familiar with the woods and its path would have many places from which to launch an attack. My neck hairs tingle at the thought and at the curious rumors I’ve heard about the Dol. My hand drifts to the grape cluster charm dangling from the leather cord around my neck.
According to legend, the people of Doliones Island are descended from the wolves that once filled this land. When provoked, their wolf side cannot be held back. I write the rumors off as simple stories, as a way to keep enemies on their toes, but the truth is that no attack on the island has ever been successful. Whether this can be credited to some lupine power or just well-trained men who know how to fight on their home territory, I do not know, but the Dols’ reputation has never been questioned. In some ways, such as the way they drive fear into men, they are like the Areans, but unlike the people of Aryana, the Dol do not invade, do not threaten and do not raid. They seem content with the world they have created on this island at the edge of the Astoria polis.
By the time the ship is moored and settled, a group of curious onlookers have gathered. They all have the classic Dol features: tall with angular cheekbones, hooded eyes that are either deep black or warm brown, straight black hair with a brilliant sheen, and skin the color of cherry wood. Doliones is a district of the Astoria polis, but the people remain culturally and physically separate from most other Osterians – something that certainly adds to the mysterious rumors of the island’s inhabitants. The Dols’ tales do not revolve around the gods or the histories of the people who settled Osteria after the Disaster. Instead, they tell stories of their people from far back before the Disaster, tales of traveling from a land far to the east, beyond even the Western Sea. The Dol pay honor to the Osterian gods but more to the natural aspects of the gods, not the Twelve themselves. In Astoria, polis of Poseidon, they honor not the great god, second only to Zeus, but his rivers, his oceans, and his horses.
A vigile wearing a breastplate embossed with a man bearing the head of a wolf, and a helmet from which cascades a horsehair plume approaches the ship. Flanking him are several men in unadorned helmets who brandish spears with tips that glint in the evening sun. Although I try to tell myself it is distant thunder, I swear from their throats I detect deep, warning rumblings like those of dogs ready to protect their territory with tooth and claw.