The Shattered Vine (33 page)

There was only one thing he could do that would make any difference at all. The fact that it slid so neatly with his own thoughts might have been cause for concern—was he doing the right thing, or the comfortable thing—but in the end, it was the only option left. Reversing his steps with a casual turn, Neth headed not to his meeting, but the outer fields.

The Collegium was spread out over a flat valley, with cliffs at their back and a river alongside. The air was sweet-smelling, and the ground underfoot muddy, but Neth gave himself permission to enjoy the fresh spring air, putting aside his worries until he reached the end of the path, and the practice field. Brion was there as expected, working with a group of gangly boys who clearly did not know which end to fall on.

“Again,” the Washer said, his thickly muscled arm pushing one of
the boys forward. “And this time, try to remember to duck rather than standing there like a cow.”

“Duck, cow, either way we’re meat,” one of the boys muttered, and Brion cuffed him hard against the back of the head. “You won’t always have a solitaire for hire to protect you,” he rumbled at them. “Nor will a brigand always recognize your robes in time to stop, or even care to. Even Sin Washer went down before knives, you young fool.”

“A lost cause,” Neth said, amused despite his worries. “As they all are . . . at first.”

When he had taken Brion with him to confront Malech and young Jerzy, other Brothers had stepped up to teach the defense classes, but it was understood that Brion was the best. He had the stories to tell, the scars to show, to scare arrogant youths into cautious, prepared men. Neth had no right to take him away again, not so soon. Not when he would be needed.

But there was no one else he could trust. There was no
meme-courien
nearby to hire, it would take too long to summon one, and any bird enspelled to bring a message to House Malech could easily be intercepted in the same fashion. Only Brion, with his pragmatic view of the world, his ties to the outside world as strong, even now, as his oath to the Collegium, his knowledge of what was truly happening and not merely the stories carried back . . . only Brion could be trusted. More to the point, Brion had an excellent chance of actually making it there.

“I need you to take a message for me,” he said when the class was dismissed, and Brion wandered over to see what the other man wanted. “To Vineart Jerzy.”

Brion raised an eyebrow at that, but waited for details before asking questions.

“No one can know where you are going, or why.”

It was a small thing, perhaps a useless thing, in this maddened world. But Neth was an honorable man, and Jerzy deserved to know.

*   *   *

O
NCE, WHAT SEEMED
like years ago, Kaïnam had spent the morning hours considering philosophical tracts or discussing the previous day’s events with his sister, listening to her far-wiser evaluation.

He had never expected to be standing in an open field on a spring morning far from his island home, learning how to use magic to fight a war.

“To the skies, rise. To the winds, flow. Go.”

Kaïnam swallowed the spellwine even as he uttered the final word, and lifted his hands palm up, as though releasing something.

Above him, two gray-feathered doves fluttered away, rising into the sky just as he had commanded them.

“And that’s how you do it,” Jerzy said, watching from his seat on the low stone wall. “No need to maintain a full coop for emergencies: any bird can be spelled to become a messenger if you have the correct decantation. Although I would not advise using a raptor, as they tend to become distracted by the sight of a rabbit.”

“Useful to know,” Kaïnam said dryly, still watching the birds flutter on their way back to the House, where Ao waited. They had gone to the far edges of Jerzy’s yards, the stone buildings a distant blur on the horizon, across endless gnarled vines showing tiny leaflets against the pale-blue sky. In his home, even the winters were not this sere, the blues never so harsh.

Home. His father, dead. His brother, now Principal, taking the stone-carved seat and determining how Atakus might sail. He did not begrudge Nilëas the role. In truth, his second-eldest brother was an excellent choice, both experienced and energetic, and if not prone to deep thoughts, willing to surround himself with those who were.

Much like their father, in fact. A better Principal than he, Kaïnam, could ever have been. The thought stung, but that made it no less true. He still served Atakus. He still could protect it, in his own way.

“Can other creatures be used for messengers?” he asked, as much to distract himself as true curiosity. “A dog, perhaps? Or a horse?” Birds were too obvious, too easy for an archer or a hawker to take down from
the sky. A dog could cover ground without notice, and who would think the horse, rather than the rider, would carry a message?

“Not a dog, no. Like a raptor, it’s too likely to be distracted.” Jerzy frowned, leaning back on the wall, comfortable as though he were lounging on a padded dais, and once again Kaïnam was struck by the thought that, were he to meet this man in another setting, he would still know him for a Vineart, even without the silver spoon that hung on his belt. The half-drowned boy he had pulled from the sea during a storm had died, as surely as the slave he had been before that was dead, and only the Vineart—cold, distant, removed from the world—remained.

That was a good thing, Kaï thought. What they were doing, the lures they were setting, it was no work for the innocent.

“A horse, though, that might work. It’s something to think about.” And Jerzy’s mouth twisted a little, giving him a darker mien. “If we survive, that is.”

Kaïnam had no response to that. He was getting ready to ride out to meet a messenger from the Scholars of Altenne, who had finally responded to Jerzy’s request for a meeting. It was risky; their home marched alongside the Collegium, and it was not certain where their loyalties resided, which was why Kaïnam was going to meet them at a midpoint site rather than allowing them to come onto Jerzy’s lands. But if the scholars were willing to add their knowledge, then the risk was worth it.

“I do not—” he started to say, when he was felled by a sudden, blinding headache.

Ships, crashing through a lightning storm where there was no rain. The sloping shoreline, so familiar it sent a pang through his breast, the tall white towers of the royal seat rising against the deep blue sky . . . men coming ashore, weapons drawn, met by Atakuan warriors, and the clash of steel, all seen from a distance, as though someone else watched, and did nothing. . . .

“We dare not interfere,” a voice told him, a man’s voice, echoing with the cawing of birds, their wings lifting the voice and carrying it to him
. A sensation like spellwine, but harsher, smokier, filled his throat and nose,
gagging him.
“We cannot interfere. We have not the men, we are too far from home. We watch, we warn.”

“Who are you?” he managed, even as the view swung around again, as though the watcher were on a boat that had hewed sharply starboard. Two ships, bearing banners Kaïnam did not recognize, a fluttering standard of black, red and gold.

The Exiles have returned
the voice told him, fading out as though falling asleep, or moving away swiftly, then surged again.
This we tell you: the Exiles now hold Atakus
.

“E
XILES?

“It’s a legend,” Ao said, pouring a cup of
vin ordinaire
from the pitcher Detta had brought them along with a platter of dried meats and greens no one seemed interested in eating. “Just a legend.”

“Tell me.” Kaïnam, his head still aching, was in no mood for a drawn-out story. “Because that legend has just broken through Master Edon’s greatest spell and overrun my home. They now hold access to one of the major ports, essential for all who travel that route, within striking range of the rest of the Vin Lands. If they belong to the enemy, if this is his first overt move, it was a masterful one, and we have no response to it.”

“We have one response,” Jerzy said quietly. He had recovered from the sudden intrusion into their heads faster, and his eyes had a peculiar shine to them that the others could not place. “The message was from Caul, the speaker one of those your contact has set to watch the seas.”

Kaïnam nodded. “That accent, it makes sense. It would match their manners, too. But to send a message that way—Caul seems to have less resistance to using magic, at need, than they have always claimed.”

“That was no magic of the Lands Vin,” Jerzy said grimly. “I could recognize the source of the message, but not the means. Whatever legacy they use, it is not one I know.”

Once he would have said that was impossible. Now, he wondered that he knew anything at all.

“Like the enemy?” Mahault said, her expression worried. They had not heard the shout, those in the House. Only Kaïnam, and Jerzy.

“No,” Jerzy corrected her. “Different even beyond that. Whatever the Caulic king is up to, he has found a source of magic within his own lands that is not of Sin Washer’s breaking. I dislike it, with all else, but it is a worry we have no time for, now.” Caul, for now, was their ally—and one that had just proven both powerful and useful. Later, if there was a later, the source of their magic could be investigated.

“I must go to them.” Kaïnam’s worries coalesced into a sudden, solid determination. “I need to be there.”

“How?” Ao was not unkind, but practical. “Even if you made it safely to the coast, you can’t sail the
Heart
on your own, and by the time we rounded up a crew . . .” Unspoken but understood, that neither Ao nor Mahault could—would—go with him. Atakus was his concern, not theirs, except as part of the greater whole.

“Anyway, even if you were there, what would you do? Kaï, the Exiles . . . they are a legend, like I said. For them to come out of nowhere, like this, and attack Atakus . . . are we sure this unknown speaker, with unknown magic, can be trusted?”

“Tell me the legend,” Jerzy said in a voice that brooked no denial or interruption.

Ao watched Kaïnam until the older man nodded his reluctant agreement, acknowledging the truth of the trader’s words, then he shrugged, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out in front of him, the movement still stiffly awkward.

“Mayhaps two centuries ago, when Iaja was ruled by one lord, before the cities broke away, there were eleven families. Great Families, they were called. And they fought like prince-mages among each other, quarreling with politics and swords rather than magic, each trying to gain the advantage and put their own blood onto the throne.

“One family was smarter, or sneakier, than the others, though, and made an alliance with another family, planning a voyage of exploration
that would win them lands that would set their families apart in fame and fortune and give them a clear, shared claim on the throne. A daughter from one and a son from the other would marry and bind the families together. One, they said, would be more powerful than two.”

“If this had a happy ending, it would not be a legend,” Mahault said.

“Truth. The ships of one family turned back halfway, returning to Iaja claiming a storm separated them from the others. True or not, no one could say. But the ships of that other family were never seen again, and their fortunes back home fell immediately, their eligible daughters married into other, lesser Houses, until even their name disappeared.

“But their banner remained, in the history books and the military rosters. Red, black, and gold.”

Ao finished his story, and there was a pause.

“Ximen is an Iajan name,” Jerzy said finally, thoughtful.

“Yes,” Kaïnam said, his hand resting on his belt where his sword should hang. “Yes, it is.”

J
erzy did not
go to bed the night before, even after the others faded and went off, parsing the notes and books Malech and his master Josia had maintained, adding his own where it seemed useful or relevant. The discovery of Caulic magic, however used to their benefit, had unnerved him more than he had thought at first and driven home how fragile his own plans were. He needed to do more.

His skin was too pale and his eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion, his hand was sore and back muscles tight, and the study looked as though a storm had ripped through it, leaving wineskins and cups as debris, but when Mahault came to find him, midmorning, there was an air of satisfaction around him that she could not miss.

“Something’s happened.” Mahault took a chair, her eyes bright with anticipation.

“I know how to do it. I can find him.” And not wait for him to find them.

“Him? Ximen?” Ao, who had followed Mahault into the study, went to stand next to Jerzy, looking down at the debris-covered worktable. His index finger poked at the debris, and Jerzy slapped the offending hand away sharply. “You tracked him using a feather?”

“A feather and a fang.” Jerzy could hear the curl of pride in his voice, and then decided that he had earned it. “Although it’s not a tracking-spell, truly.” The addition of his own blood into the spellwine had been the connecting thread; a Vineart who did not know the weathervine trick of adding a drop would never have thought to do it. That final step had been easier than Jerzy had expected, the memory of Giordan leading the way, and after several failed experiments, he had finally felt the touch of what he looked for, a few hours after dawn.

He had been staring at his notes, trying to remember how to breathe, since then.

“Magic to magic, using his title and name, and the things that are tied to him, bone and blood, and the description of the flag . . .” Another Vineart, Jerzy could have explained what he did, or at least given them enough detail that they could find it themselves. Someone who had no touch of magic, not even the potential of slaves? It was like trying to describe the deepness of the sky to someone who was blind, or the pattering of rain on soil to a deaf man.