The Shattered Vine (18 page)

Jerzy woke covered in cold sweat and reeking of spoiled mustus, the taste of the taint deep in his mouth, so thick that even repeated rinsings with clear, cold water had not been able to clear it.

A Vineart was meant to be focused, centered within his own vineyards. A Vineart stood alone and did not meddle with the world beyond his walls. A Vineart did not take power, but crafted it for others to use. . . .

He was apostate, and there was a fear, deep within him, that the vines would know that, would turn from him as the mustus had; that in trying to save others, he would never become master of his own vines.

The bitter taste of his dreams showed him that fate.

A vision, not his own: a vat, dumped into dark soil, covered with more soil, and set afire.

Jerzy shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

Magic that cannot be tamed must be diluted.

Once, the Guardian had been silent, when Jerzy was still a slave. Now, Jerzy often thought he would enjoy those days returned.

I was not silent. You could not hear.

“I don’t trust this mustus,” Jerzy said, ignoring that last comment. “Not to release it like that.” Pouring the mustus—powerful but unformed—loose back into the soil . . . a more experienced Vineart might have been able to tell him what might happen, but Master Malech was dead, and Jerzy could not, dared not reach out to another. Not without knowing if they were in Agreement with a land-lord, or partnered with the Washers, or a puppet to their unknown enemy . . .

He could trust no one save those within his own House.

They do not have the knowledge you need.

“I know.”

The Guardian was silent after that. The responsibility lay on his own shoulders. The Guardian would support him, share with him whatever it knew, but it was not a Vineart and could not tell him what was right or proper. It was a creature of tradition and what-had-been, not what-would-be.

Tradition. Commands. Words that had shaped the world for two thousand years, since Sin Washer was born of anger and despair . . . words the Collegium had used to keep the world balanced, a three-handled wheel of power. The earlier emotions were joined by a more familiar one: despair. How could you maintain balance when tradition worked against you and commands were broken?

A raptor flew overhead, no longer looking to feed a nest, it might merely have been stretching its wings or looking for an early-morning snack. Jerzy, the memory of the deformed birds that had attacked them still clear in his mind, tracked its progress over the fields until it
dove down and disappeared into the tree line that ran across the upper ridge.

They had not seen nor heard anything from the lurker on the road, although Kaïnam, after a quick sortie, was of the opinion that he yet lingered, watching them. For what purposes, nobody could say, and Jerzy saw no reason to send anyone out looking. If the Washers wanted to find them, well, here they were.

Jerzy had come home for a purpose. The beast-bird, Ao’s injury, all necessary elements to be dealt with, but they were done. The Guardian was correct. Jerzy’s fear and uncertainty, like mustus, needed to be punched down, and crafted into something useful.

He was Vineart. It was time to act as one.

The air was filled with noises now; the slaves waking, the distant voice of the overseer getting them moving, the clatter and crunch of the livestock being fed, up the hill, and the sound of footsteps behind him. He recognized the feel of Mahault’s presence even as her voice reached him.

“They’ve started dishing up breakfast in the hall, if you’re hungry.” Her voice took on a slightly scolding tone. “And even if you’re not.”

He turned then, and shook his head. “Second to Detta as well as Kaïnam?”

He meant it as a tease, but it was truth: since they had returned, every aspect of life in the House now seemed to run through Mahault, no matter who managed it. A true Second, she knew where everyone was at any given time, what they could be called from, and when they were not to be disturbed. And, in his case, when they had not eaten recently. Between Mahault and the Guardian, he had even less space for secrets than he’d been allowed as a slave.

Mahault, as usual, refused to be baited. “If you won’t sleep, you need to eat. And not just tai, either. And Kaïnam wants to see you in the practice square this afternoon, for weapons practice.”

Kaïnam. Sober, dry-humored Heir, denned up in a vintnery far from home and need. It would not have surprised Jerzy if, at any
point, Kaï had left them, gone hunting on his own. Instead, he stayed, using his skills and knowledge to find them allies with the same solid determination he approached everything, one methodical step at a time. Including, it seemed, beating a Vineart and a trader-boy into half-decent fighters.

“I’ll be there,” Jerzy said, because if he didn’t she wouldn’t go away, and if he wasn’t, Kaïnam would come into the study and drag him by the scruff of the neck anyway. Vineart dignity meant little to weapons masters; Mil’ar Cai had taught him that.

“Does he really believe that it’s going to come down to a battle of arms?” Jerzy could hear his master’s voice in his own words, but Mahl simply shrugged.

“We’ve been attacked . . . how many times now? You’ve armed us”—and her hand touched the palm-sized wineskin of firespell that hung on her sword belt, although the scabbard next to it was empty in deference to Detta’s refusal, even now, for weapons to be carried within the House—“so he’s making sure you’re equally prepared.”

Jerzy had no answer to that, with the memory of his nightmares still lingering, the sense of time passing, and pressure building beyond the low stone walls of the vintnery reminding him that, for all that it seemed peaceful at the moment, they could not afford to believe it was so. His yards were healthy, but his—or, more likely, the Guardian’s—protection extended only so far. Reports had come in from the secondary yards of damages along the boundary lines as though something were gnawing, trying to get in, and he had not forgotten the feel of the land as they traveled, the feel of something under a slow, draining attack. A blight, undermining the well-being of the land itself and all who dwelled there . . . the people who were his responsibility as much as any land-lord’s.

The Washers would say it was not so, that Sin Washer’s Command left the care of men to lords and bound Vinearts only to their vines. But Malech had saved these people during the plague, had placed his mark on them . . . and Jerzy could do no less. The fact that there was more that he felt obligation to, over a greater area . . .

He had traveled farther than Malech, as well. Had seen more. Touched more.

Been touched by more. People, places, voices . . . the lands itself. His fingers had dug into dirt that grew vines he was not called to, and he had tended to them, listened to them.

The Lands Vin entire hummed within him. He could no more turn away from it than he could his own vines.

You are Vineart,
the Guardian kept reminding him. But the shimmer of magics within his blood told Jerzy he was more, too. If he would accept it. If he could accept it. The thought was like a circle of fire under his ribs, burning every time he shifted, never allowing him to relax, or find true calm.

The sun was up in full over the hills now. It would be a clear, cool morning, the kind where you could see a fox move across the road a hundred yards away, or an enemy swordsman riding at you from a full league distant. Or a monstrous beast diving out of the pale, winter-blue sky.

But you could not see, even in such clarity, what was happening beyond this valle. For that, you needed eyes elsewhere.

Jerzy turned his back on the vista and followed Mahault inside.

T
HE SCENT OF
twice-brewed tai steaming on the table still made Jerzy’s lip curl, but he gladly accepted a bowl of the meal-and-milk Lil handed him. The wooden spoon was the same one he had used as a slave, the smoothness of the handle familiar in his hand, and he was able to feed his body without gagging while a mug of warmed
vin ordinaire
wiped the last of the night’s dreams away. The sense of urgency driving him remained, however, as though the decision to abandon the spoiled mustus had allowed him to move on to what must be done.

Master Malech would not, perhaps, have approved. His master had been a cautious man, even as he bent Commandments and risked censure to uncover the truth. But the time for caution and care might be past, beyond reclaiming. Jerzy himself could not do what needed to be done. But he was not alone.

“So, what do you think?”

The question jolted Jerzy out of his thoughts, until he realized that Ao had not been asking him, but the others, as he lifted one of his grafted legs onto the bench, pulling up his trou to better display it.

“They look better than your original legs,” Kaïnam said.

“Kaï!”

“No, he’s right. I think I’m taller now, too.” Ao tried to stand up, and rocked unsteadily.

“Careful now,” Lil warned him through the open doorway that led into the kitchen, as though Ao were about to knock over something other than himself. “You’re still no more in control of those things than you are that blighted chair.”

“Give me some time, I’ll—”

“You will break your neck,” Detta said firmly. “Sit down and finish your tai.”

Ao sat, half a breath before he fell over. Jerzy shook his head and nursed his
vin.
He had warned the trader: vines were slow to grow; it might take years, if not decades, before Ao had true feeling in them.

And yet, of them all, Ao—who would have been perfectly within rights to be angry at the world—had been the one to cheer them all up, to encourage them when things went badly, to be forthright in his belief that, if they could only find the key to their enemy, that they would be able to defeat him. Ao was learning to walk again. Jerzy needed to do the same.

The past ten-day had been necessary, healing and preparing, but events moved on in the world outside, and their enemy was assuredly not resting. It was time. Looking sideways at Detta, he saw her usher Lil and her helpers back into the kitchen proper, leaving the four of them alone, as though she knew what he planned.

Perhaps she did. “It’s time.” He spoke quietly, but the others in the dining hall heard him, and stopped what they were doing as though struck by a lash.

“Finally,” Kaï said, sitting back with quiet, if grim, satisfaction.
Mahault, by contrast, leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her face intent and hungry. Ao pushed aside his plate, and cradled his mug of tai between his palms, his expression as blank as though he were observing a trade session, giving nothing away, taking everything in.

The feeling of being the center of attention, of everyone looking to him for leadership, caused only a flicker of panic this time; although Jerzy could still feel doubt thrumming under his skin, it was not them nor their abilities that he doubted. Although he had been occupied with other matters, he knew that they had not been idle. Now, just as he had gone through the cellar to determine what spellwines he had to-hand, he would discover what their cellars contained—and how it could all be used.

“Kaïnam, you updated the map of where attacks occurred.” It wasn’t a question; the other man had asked for the map soon after their earlier discussion, and Jerzy knew how the prince’s mind worked. Kaï liked proof, detail under his hands, a pattern to observe and predict.

“I have. Both the vineyards that have been touched, and all seats of power where the lord is reported acting out of character, or there has been actual unrest. I have also marked the sea and land routes between all those places, looking for a possible connection. There are . . . possibilities, but nothing that seems useful, yet.”

Jerzy nodded, already moving ahead. “Ao, could you add the trade routes to the map, as you remember them?”

“Remember?” Ao sounded insulted, as though Jerzy had asked if he knew his mother’s name. “I had every route memorized by the time I was—”

“Yes or no, Ao.”

He grinned, his teeth white against his still-tanned skin. “Yes. And I’ve already added them to Kaï’s notes.”

Jerzy let out a small laugh. Of course Ao had. They had been waiting on him, but they had not been waiting. “And?”

“The routes he sorted do not match the routes my people take; we tend to prefer the profitable route over the simplest one. There is some
overlap in each instance, but nothing to indicate our enemy might be using a caravan for transport. Some of the other clans might have deviated in recent years but . . .” Ao shook his head. “A trading route, once set, tends to stay set, unless there is massive unrest, or a market disappears entirely.”

“And none of those connects directly with Caul,” Kaï added. The northern island kingdom of Caul was outside the Lands Vin, disdaining the use of spellwines. A sea-going nation, they had sent a fleet against Kaï’s home of Atakus in what had seemed like a purely military move, but when Kaï and Ao went to investigate, they discovered that the Caulic king, too, had whispers in his ear, the influence of their enemy attempting to undermine the men of power there, including the spymaster. As unlikely as it sounded, magic-hating Caul might be their best ally, now.

Jerzy started to pace. “I want to know every single connection between all the known lands—and any unknown ones, as well. Not only where he has been but where he might go next.” Predicting the pattern. Learning it, so that no new move came as a surprise.

They had been playing catchup since the beginning. That needed to end.

Mahl had unpinned her braid, tugging at the plait as she thought. “Would he be following some line of magic . . . ?”

As though the word summoned it, Jerzy again felt the sense of a vast, impossible presence underneath his feet that he had encountered in the village, ancient as the Lands Vin itself, but he refused to acknowledge it. Now was not the time for theory, or distractions. They needed facts.

“If he were merely attacking Vinearts, then he might be. But he’s been reaching into villages as well, and towns where there are no Vinearts. So there must be something else.”