The Shattered Vine (25 page)

“I assure you—” the Washer began, as though to protest the accusations.

“Be still,” Kaïnam said sharply, falling into his role with ease.

“We have not been unaware of you,” Jerzy continued, “nor have we left ourselves unprotected. Did you truly believe that you could walk a Vineart’s lands, and not be discovered, and watched in turn?”

Jerzy turned then, his left hand raised. A pool of blue flames flickered, cupped in his palm. It was drylight, the same illumination that lit keeps and Houses throughout the Vin Lands, nothing to take the breath away, save for how tendrils of it moved up along Jerzy’s bare arm, as though following the lines of his veins, as much a part of him as blood or flesh. And the fact that he had not touched a spellwine to create it.

“Did you truly believe that I would trust any man who wore the robes of Sin Washer, ever again?”

“We do not expect your trust,” Edmun said softly, forcing his gaze from that flickering flame to look the Vineart directly in the face. “Not immediately. But you need to know that not all the Collegium agreed with the steps that were taken . . . before. Not all were behind the actions carried out. And there are . . . no small number who believe that the stance the Collegium has taken, officially, is . . . not wise.”

Whatever they might have expected, or feared, the Washer’s words did not match.

“Dissention within the Collegium?” Kaïnam asked, slightly incredulous.

“A difference of opinion on the best policy to implement,” the Washer said, picking through his words like a man treading on sharp stones.

“A fine distinction,” Mahault said. “And have those with this different opinion raised their voices to the Collegium elders?”

Edmun grimaced. “They . . . have not. We are few in number, still, and need . . . support, before we make our move. Those who met you at the dock were chosen because they had . . . shared views. We had thought that sending Oren, someone you knew already, would be better.”

“Not particularly.” Jerzy’s voice was dry as dust.

“No. We see that, now.”

“Oh-ha,” Ao said, rubbing his hands together like a player’s villain, unable to stay quiet, as Kaï had predicted. “Jer, they come to you for help in o’erthrowing their elders!”

Jerzy closed his hand around the flames, and they extinguished, silently and instantly.

“Is this true?” he asked, and only his gaze gave anything away, a fierce spark seemingly leaping from his hand into his eyes. “You would use me, use magic against Sin Washer’s Heirs? Against the will of the Collegium itself?”

“No.” The rebuttal was immediate, and the Washer stood as though
to throw himself at an attacker, although to attack a Vineart in his own home would be suicide.

“No,” he said again, visibly forcing his body to ease. “Not to overthrow. To . . . work around. To prevent the disaster that we, at least, can see coming. The disaster you know is on its way. We wish to protect the Collegium, to protect that which has served the Lands Vin well and faithfully for nearly two thousand years.”

Edmun paused, his words chosen more carefully now, aware that he had not convinced any of them. “Washer Neth is on his way here, bearing his own orders—orders that we believe to be wrong, that will harm the Lands Vin, not save them. Of a certainty, they would bode ill for you, Vineart.”

If not meant as a threat, it nonetheless had the edge of one.

“You have shown yourself to understand the enemy, to be aware of the threat. And so we would ask you to join us. To defeat the enemy that threatens us all.”

Jerzy turned then, one hand resting lightly on his double-wrapped belt, his face still and cold as the Guardian’s stone.

“You have delivered your message, Sahr Washer. Now I ask you to leave.”

“Vineart . . .” The Washer swallowed, then nodded once. “Of course. You need time to consider your position. I will await your response. But I advise you, Vineart, not to take too much time, as Neth will likely arrive within days, and at that point . . .”

He let the words trail off and gave an eloquent shrug.

“Kaï, please accompany our visitor back to his horse.”

The prince nodded, waiting until the Washer had gathered himself, and led him back out through the kitchen.

“Jer—” Mahault started to say, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“No. Just . . . no.”

Jerzy was almost blinded by rage. Now, the Washers would come to him, ask his help?
His
help? After they had destroyed Giordan with their refusal to see what was happening, after they had allowed so many
to die, to be destroyed? And then to threaten him with Neth’s arrival, as though that was the worst fate they could offer . . . He paced back and forth, one end of the courtyard to the other, his anger increasing with every step. How dare they?

They had no idea what was coming. No idea what had already happened. More, they did not want to know, merely to sidestep it, make it all fade away. Did the others at the Collegium understand the magnitude of what they faced? Or did they see it all as mere game playing and politics? Was he, even now, being played? That thought cooled his temper, if not his anger. If he lost control of his emotions, he would be at their mercy. He needed to stay cool.

The news that Neth was coming this way did not surprise Jerzy; the older Washer would have known he would return to the vintnery. It also did not surprise him that Neth would be bringing orders, most likely, to take Jerzy into custody. That, Jerzy would not allow to happen. He had things to do here, not play whatever game the Collegium concerned itself with. Especially if the roots of their enemy were already set within that soil.

Roots. The thought stirred something again, a subtle worry. No, the roots were fine, the yards were ready-banked for the winter. There were no disturbances, there.

“What benefit would they gain?” Ao rubbed his palm against one knee as though it were true flesh, thinking out loud.

“They are afraid they are losing control,” Kaïnam, having returned already, answered with confidence. “Any man with power seeks to hold power. Washers are Sin Washer’s Heirs, not Sin Washer himself. The power they have comes from his name, their control over Vinearts rests upon the strict obedience to Command. Two thousand years of having the final say . . . stripped away by rebellion, if Jerzy is not contained. If they have a whisperer among them, that is assuredly what he says.”

“Then why shouldn’t we use that? We can manipulate them a fair sight better than they can us. Have Jerzy pretend to come inside, join them, and then use their contacts—”

Jerzy couldn’t bear to listen any longer. Leaving them to their discussion, he went out the far doorway, through the small square hallway that led to his master’s quarters—his quarters, now—and out into the yard. He did not stop to think, letting his anger and frustration carry him down the path, across the road, over the grass and into the neatly tended rows of vines where a handful of slaves were resetting the smudge-pots against the risk of frost.

The soil was cool, the vines bare, their rough-twisted texture harsh against his hands, and he gripped them as though he could pull a solution out of them by sheer force.

“What use are the Commandments, if they can be broken at will?” His voice sounded harsh as the vines, as though he had been screaming for hours, and he had no idea who he was asking—the silent gods had long since abandoned the world of men, and he could not bring himself to blame them. “If all there is, is power, then why should we not take it? If power is all that will save us, should we not save ourselves?”

He stopped, his jaw snapping shut, and there was silence; even the wind seemed to drop into silence, and the few slaves working nearby cowered, as though terrified that they had somehow caused his anger.

A flash of memory:
seeing the Master in the yard, his every step the sound of doom, trying so hard not to be noticed, not to draw attention to himself, knowing that not being noticed was how a slave survived . . .

No matter how Jerzy tried to think of another way, it always came back to this. Sin Washer had given them each a role to play. Ao was taught to maneuver, to be quick and clever. Mahault learned to be strong and brave and true. Kaïnam was trained to be thoughtful and cautious, to inspire loyalty, and reward it in turn.

A slave learned to survive.

A Vineart was commanded to provide.

And there, the heart of the injustice of Sin Washer’s Command, the subtle but iron-fisted punishment meted out to all who worked the vines. From slave to master, a Vineart did not get anything from this world. A Vineart
served.

The thought rumbled inside him. He sacrificed, and served. Why should he not earn something, in turn? Why had Sin Washer cast them so far down, that even the most intimate aspect of themselves, the quiet-magic, needed to be hidden, denied? After all that Vinearts gave, how was that—he shied away from the word “fair,” and finally wondered, as Ao might, how was that equitable trading?

Jerzy walked blindly for hours, taking rows at random, from the near edge to the furthest, stopping to stare up at the sky or listen to the night birds, and the rustle of small things hunting and being hunted in the underbrush. Slowly his thoughts cooled, and his body calmed, but he did not return to the House until the moon had risen full into the sky and the chill in the air drove him inside.

There would be frost by morning; he could feel the roots readying themselves for it.

The others were waiting for him in his study, as he had expected; the single steady light over his desk added to by the flickering tongues of two thick candles they had brought with them, still not knowing how to work the quiet-magic lights Malech had installed. Jerzy cast an uneasy eye over the open flame: he had nothing against fire, but not near so much wine, or so many important papers—and extinguished it with a cupping of magic even as the other lights came to life. The magelights filled the room more evenly, with less flickering, and yet the room seemed oddly dark.

It was not the light in the room but the shadows inside him that made it so.

Jerzy was not fanciful by any means, but he could almost sense the same shadows filling the Lands, coating the winter sun and casting everything into uncertainty.

And he did not know if he fought the shadows . . . or was part of it.

There was a tray with a pitcher of tai and several mugs on the side table. Jerzy might have wished for
vina
but acknowledged that he might need the stimulant more. Mahault and Ao already had mugs in hand, she curled with her legs underneath her on the old wooden stool Jerzy
had used as a student, he with his chair against the wall. Kaïnam had taken the only other chair in the room, a battered structure that usually held a clutter of wineskins and manuscripts Malech had forgotten to put away. They had been talking about something in low tones, but the conversation faded when he came in.

“What are you going to do?” Mahault asked, even as Ao interrupted.

“You can’t trust them.”

Jerzy looked to Kaïnam, who was holding one of the discarded wineskins in his hand, turning it absently as though he had forgotten he had picked it up. “They might be telling the truth . . . the Collegium is made up of many men, and just as many opinions.” The prince shrugged, setting the skin aside. “If there are those who believe that it is time to stand and fight . . . isn’t that what you wanted? To drive a wedge between the factions of the Collegium, force them to confront their whisperers, and take action?”

“No. Or, yes. But Ao is right, we cannot trust them. Fortunately, that trust is not required, only a willingness to do what needs be done. If that is what we need to do.”

“And what needs to be done?” Kaï asked.

Jerzy still had not told them his plan, mainly because he did not know it well enough to verbalize, yet. He thought he knew what was right, but . . . it was not merely this place, this moment he feared. Whatever he did, it would change everything. Everywhere. And he had not anticipated the Washers taking an active role, not in such a way.

“They have trained fighters,” Mahault said, calculating, when Jerzy did not answer right away. “Not many, but enough. And wealth, enough to buy the contract of every solitaire, and freebanded fighting men. They could field an army, if you convinced them it was needed.”

Jerzy started to sit in the chair behind the desk, then changed his mind at the last moment and remained standing. It had been what he wanted, the chance to strike back, to place a blow against Ximen that would stop him cold, keep the Lands Vin free of his manipulations. But now, the Washer’s words in his memory, and the sensation of a
world tangled in knotted roots, tangled and tied together . . . he was less certain.

“No. The Collegium may struggle within itself as much as it pleases. To bring Vinearts into that struggle, to put magic on one side or another, even if it were to lead, to do what we are agreed must be done . . . It would not end there, and it would not end well.”

He had asked the Guardian once before: if Vinearts fought back, revealed their secret, the quiet-magic they had not shared, shown the true measure of their strength . . . what would happen then?

You would be powerful . . . and hunted,
the dragon had said.
Feared . . . and abused. The structure would break and chaos would rule.

The world was in balance. Two thousand years, on Sin Washer’s back.

“The balance needs must be maintained.”

“What?” Ao was staring at him as though he had suddenly started speaking an ancient dialect of Ettonian.

Jerzy made a helpless, frustrated gesture with his hands, then let them fall loosely to his sides. They didn’t understand. They had never been slaves, forced to stand aside and accept what was done to them, without recourse, without argument. They did not understand how delicate a wedge the world rested on, how close they were to tumbling into the violent abyss the dragon had warned of. He barely understood it himself.

“If I stand with those who would break the Collegium, however well they word it, if I raise magic against Sin Washer’s Heirs, what have I become?”