The Shattered Vine (15 page)

His cellar.

“My cellar.”

Yours.

The Guardian had followed him down the steps, its wings moving slowly although it had no actual need, the magic that animated it giving it the ability to fly as well. The dragon went over Jerzy’s shoulder into the workroom a flicker ahead of the Vineart, and settled into the hollowed-out niche over the doorway where it spent most of its days.

Jerzy reached up, an old habit, and touched the tip of the stone tail that flicked down as he passed through the doorway.

The room within was dusty; it was clear that no one had come down here since Master Malech died. Here, within the thick stone walls, away from anything and everything that might distract, Jerzy expected to feel the greatest sense of loss. Instead, he found a hint of comfort. But the true test was yet to come.

The vines had reached out, their leaves brushing against his skin, their roots murmuring to him of welcome, yes, but also of need. Of things undone or missed, of the longing to slip into their Fallowtime slumber and recover from the stress of the harvest.

Let others think that the Vines served the Vineart; the truth was more complicated than that. Unblooded grapes like those in Irfan had no need of a Vineart, but these had been trained to the line, crafted over generations to obey incantation, and demanded his obedience, in exchange.

Magic makes the Vineart.

Mahault, and Ao and Kaïnam, thought he would know what to do. The vines expected him to be Vineart. Detta expected him to protect the House. He, Jerzy, didn’t think he was strong enough to sit in Master Malech’s chair, much less
be
him.

But the spellwines . . . He could not pretend to them, could not bluff or dodge or put up a strong face. They would see him as he was.

There was no mustus this year; the harvested juice had been placed in the tanks but there had been no one to punch it down, no one to follow its progress, to determine the moment when the skins would be separated from the juice, to ensure that the magic was strong enough to warrant keeping, to be refined and crafted into
vina
. He was afraid to look to his right, where the vatting chamber waited. He would have to look, soon. But not right now.

Instead, he turned to his left, facing the cellar proper: the Vineart’s treasure of spellwines; wines he had helped craft, spellwines he had helped harvest as a slave, spellwines that recognized him now. They did not welcome him the same way the vines did, with the constant whisper of demands and needs, but in a quieter way, the way the Guardian pressed against him from within, the magic in it recognizing the magic inside him.

Home,
the Guardian said, and finally Jerzy nodded. This, here, was home.

He turned again, standing in front of Malech’s desk, the battered wooden table where he had sat so many times on his stool and listened or responded to questions, had taken cuffs to the ear when he was particularly stupid, or received the rare but precious praise when he said something that pleased his master.

“He is gone.”

The spellwines did not recognize his grief any more than the vines had. The Vineart was not gone.

“I am apostate,” he said out loud, letting the word settle on his skin. “Everything we have been taught, everything we have learned, to protect
ourselves, to protect the Lands Vin. I have betrayed.” To survive, yes. But . . . if in surviving, he destroyed everything, what had he been surviving for?

The spellwines did not recognize his concerns, either. There was no apostate, there was no hesitation, there was no doubt. They saw the slave and marked him, brought the magic forward, and were in turn brought forward by the magic within him. The magic was not . . . it was not something he used, something he did. It was something he
was.

Magic makes the man. The man makes the magic. There was no difference between Vineart and vine.

Jerzy shuddered, feeling, for the first time, the danger that surrounded him, not from any outside threat, but himself. What he was.

A slave. Once chosen,
always
a slave. A Vineart was driven by the needs of the vineyard. Jerzy had abandoned the yards to follow another need, had left a Harvest to falter and fail. And now he had returned, not to take up the duties and responsibilities tradition demanded of him, but to . . .

To survive. If—
a sense of something vile, an abomination, a blight worse than rot
—comes here . . . if it changes the Lands Vin to suit itself, to serve it . . .

The Guardian’s voice faded.

“I have a choice.” Even as a slave, he had a choice: to live or die. To follow the instinct that had made Malech choose him that day in the markets, to embrace the spark that had made the slavers buy him from his parents, to lead his companions in an impossible battle against an invisible, unknown foe.

Choice, but no assurances. Even if he chose what seemed the inevitable, unavoidable option . . . it might not be enough.

And in the end . . . what will he have become?

“You make us greater,” Ao had said.

“You’ll figure it out,” Mahault believed.

Kaïnam stood at his right shoulder, offered his sword and his strength not in service, but shared command. Shared responsibility.

You are Vineart . . .

Jerzy nodded, hearing more than what the Guardian was saying. But the Guardian, made of stone and magic, did not understand. It could not change, could not grow beyond how it was shaped. Jerzy alone was Vineart, and Vinearts stood alone.

But he
wasn’t
alone. They were together, all four of them. No, six. Lil and Detta, too. It was an odd feeling, a fearful feeling, but one that gave him hope, all the same.

And, with that hope, the courage to do the next thing that needed to be done.

“I
HATE LOOKING
at them.”

“Then don’t.”

Jerzy tried to keep his voice calm, to counter Ao’s obvious apprehension, but even he could hear the curtness in his own tone. “Would it help if you closed your eyes?”

Ao let his shoulders relax and dropped back onto the padded frame. “Not really, no. I’d just wonder what you were doing.”

Jerzy barely heard Ao’s last comment, already focusing on what came next. There was no place within the House set up for this sort of thing; Master Malech had crafted spellwines but rarely used them here. The last time Jerzy had to do any healing within the Household, it had been an accident on the road outside, when a cart had broken and injured several slaves.

He had been younger then, with less understanding of the wines, and himself. He could do better now.

But then, the injuries had been raw, amenable to being worked. Ao’s stumps, cauterized by Jerzy’s own magic mid-thigh, had since scabbed over, the flesh forming a barrier he was going to have to undo in order to work.

He needed Ao to feel whole, complete. Hopefully this would work.

“This might hurt,” he said, even as he reached for the tasting spoon.

“Might?”

Ao’s low scream of agony was answer to both of them, as the healspell invaded the scabbing, softening it, and opening the wounds to the cool morning air.

“I’m sorry,” Jerzy whispered, trying not to let the knowledge of his friend’s pain interfere with his concentration, waiting while the hard white tissue resolved back to pink and red. Normally the patient would be the one working with the spellwine, his own awareness directing the healing, but this was different, and the material . . . Jerzy thought it better he perform the decantation, and Ao had agreed.

A second spellwine was poured into the silver cup of the spoon, and the spoon was lifted to Jerzy’s mouth.

Opening the hard-dried scab had been the simple part.

“Ready?”

Beside him, Detta nodded. He could have asked any of the others to help; there was little of the Vineart’s art that they had not seen, by now, but he would not ask them to inflict pain on Ao, even indirectly. The trader needed to be awake and alert: there would be no avoiding the unpleasantness for anyone involved. Jerzy had suggested that the others spend the day elsewhere, perhaps go with Lil to bargain with local farmers. But they had refused, quietly, and were even now waiting somewhere else in the House.

He hoped they could not hear Ao’s cries, as much for Ao’s comfort as their own.

The decantation for what he needed was in one of Master Malech’s books, but there had been no notes written in the margin, and so he did not know if his master had in fact ever used this spell or merely noted it for some future use that never came.

Decantations were for show, Jerzy reminded himself, his own hands sweating slightly despite the cool temperatures. The incantation was the important thing; if the spellwine was properly crafted, a Vineart could do anything. . . .

The taste of the spellwine was rounded and cool, bringing the faint flavor of spring fruits and sweet smoke. “Wood and flesh, find.”

He nodded, and Detta lifted the wooden limb, carved by the groundkeeper Per the night before, out of vinestock that had been old when Malech was born. There was magic in its grain that would echo that of the spellwine.

If this worked, Ao would be forever bound to the vintnery. He had not told Ao that.

Detta placed one limb against the sore and bloody flesh, pressing firmly, wincing as she did so when Ao cried out again in agony. The taste of the spellwine in Jerzy’s mouth changed, turning sharper, with the faintest hint of spice against the back of his throat.

Jerzy placed his own hands over the line where the two bits met, feeling the wet hot trickle of blood against his skin. “Wood and flesh, bind.”

His quiet-magic surged, trying to join the spell, and he forced it back. There was too much mixed there, too many legacies lurking, to trust it with something this delicate. He swallowed the sip of spellwine, and felt it burn down his throat.

“Go.”

Ao’s next scream echoed within the room, and Jerzy flinched, even as he pressed more firmly, willing the magic to seal the connection, the living wood to take root within bone.

“W
ELL?”
M
AHAULT HAD
been lurking, pouncing the moment Jerzy emerged from the workroom. Detta remained behind to watch over Ao, who had mercifully passed out during the second spellcasting.

Jerzy was exhausted, covered with sweat, and his mouth tasted as though he’d been drinking spoiled mustus, not one of their most expensive, finely crafted healwines. He wanted to bathe, and to sleep, and not be interrogated.

“He’s asleep.”

“Did it work? Is he . . . did they . . .” She stepped back, suddenly aware that she was crowding him in her impatience, and schooled her body to a more composed pose.

“My apologies, Vineart.”

Jerzy exhaled, too tired to care if she gave him the respect due his position or not. She was worried, he understood that.

“Get Kaï,” he said, rubbing one forearm across his eyes, wishing they felt less gritty. “I only want to talk about this once.” He left her, heading for the bathing room.

Once it had seemed an odd, unnerving place, the idea of submerging his entire body in steaming water foreign to a slave who washed only when needed, in a cold-water stream. Now, as he shucked his clothing, wincing as he saw the blood streaking the sleeves of his shirt, Jerzy could only bless the servants who had thought to prepare the bath, buckets of water already drawn and waiting, a clean towel and clothing folded on the wooden bench beside the tub. A hand on the surface of the water and a small pull of quiet-magic was enough to heat the water, and Jerzy almost smiled, remembering the first time he had tried that, and set the water itself on fire.

Master Malech had merely, calmly, told him to put it out, and gone on with the lesson.

As Jerzy sank into the tub, letting the water cleanse the sweat away and ease his knotted muscles, he reached out to touch the cool awareness of the Guardian.

All is well,
the dragon assured him. In that connection there was more than a sense of quiet on the land—all was well within, too. Ao was sleeping, healing. He had done what he needed to.

And there, hidden by the bath, supported by his Guardian, Jerzy let go of the worry and fear and sorrow he had been holding, being strong for Ao; his own saltier tears mixing with the bathwater, his body shuddering as he cried.

T
HE SUN HAD
finally set, but the air was still heavy and warm. The vine-mage sat on his haunches, staring at the stone wall of his workroom, and let his gaze rest on the bloodstains splattered there. Some were old, the colors faded to a muddy brown, while others remained a thick, sticky wine-red, the remnants of a slave chosen that morning. In a child’s
tale, the stains against the cold stones would have told him something, spoken to him of what he needed . . . but the wall was silent.

“I feel you. I know you are there. Where are you?”

Rage simmered in his words, but the blood did not speak. Dried blood, dead blood, was of no use to him. If he still had his poppet, he could have pulled answers from it . . . but the clay figure had decayed rapidly with the death of its human anchor, the Irfanese merchant, and been dumped in the gully with the rest of the debris. The merchant’s failure meant the vine-mage would have to find another connection to the old world, and that would take time. Each poppet had to be constructed of blood and flesh, and then the lure cast out, to tie a willing fish to the line. The merchant had been the last of his viable poppets: another cost to cast at the heels of this upstart who would challenge and wreck his plans.

“Where are you,” he asked again, but with less venom in his voice, knowing that nothing listened.

A week since he had asked that whoreson Ximen for more men—and been given none, forcing him to rely on his own supplies. It had not been enough, the single poppet he created too weak to lure anything. There were a few slaves in his yard who had enough of the sense about them that their blood might be enough, but the vine-mage was not yet so desperate to use them. He might yet need them alive, and one, some day, might be his successor.