The Shattered Vine (36 page)

Ranklin had taught most of the current brothers when they were gangly children, and was not fooled by Neth’s acquiescence; yet he had included Neth in the group, anyway.

They were come to find a spellwine that would put an end to the chaos rising outside, bring the world back into order again.

The air was much cooler, below ground, away from the sun’s reach, and the space echoed with deliberate silence, broken now by their presence.

“Brothers.” The Spellkeeper was surprisingly young, lean and dark haired, rising from his desk with a grace that Neth was not sure he could have mirrored. His voice was rusty from disuse, but his pleasure on seeing them was real. “This is an unexpected but welcome pleasure. How may I assist you today?”

“We have need to look through your records,” Ranklin said. “For a very specific spellwine.”

“Of course. I will need the Vineart’s name, and legacy.”

“We do not know.”

That stopped the Spellkeeper mid-movement, even as he was reaching to open the great volume on his desk.

“Ah. That . . . is considerably more difficult,” he said regretfully, but with what Neth thought was a touch of anticipation in his voice. “What information do you have? Region? Legacy? Century?”

“It would be in the earlier archives,” Omar offered. His ebony skin seemed a trifle ashen, although it could as easily have been the lighting as nerves.

The Spellkeeper had a definite gleam in his eye now, even in the dim spell-lights that illuminated the antechamber. “Indeed? An Ancient wine.”

He had probably never done more than walk past those archives; there was no call for so-named Ancient wines, in this world.

“The Magewine,” Isaac said. “The
ercenbalt
Magewine.”

“Ah.” The Spellkeeper let his hand rest on the tooled leather cover of the volume and breathed the still air in, out, and then in again. “Ah,” he said again.

Not only ancient, but legendary. Vineart unknown. Legacy unknown. Only the name remained, less a proper name than a description, given
by the scholars of Altenne long after the fact. Ercenbalt. Roughly translated, it meant “the courage of last hope.” What it truly meant was “when all else fails.”

T
HE CASK, WHEN
located, was ancient as expected, but still solidly built, the wooden slats covered by layers of earthspells that protected against rot or decay. The sigil burned into the wood was one that Neth did not recognize, nor, according to the Spellkeeper, was it one listed in the journal of that century.

“We took in so many back then,” he said almost wistfully. “Those were the grand times, full of excitement and magic.”

Neth looked sideways at the Spellkeeper, as the others moved on ahead, the cask carefully loaded onto a wheeled cart. Clearly, he did not get aboveground much or listen to gossip at all. “Be careful what you desire,” he said dryly. “Else you might be cast into the middle of it, and find it not so much to your liking.”

“The decantation,” Omar asked impatiently.

The Spellkeeper went to the wall of his alcove, drawing out another journal, this one far older, the leather heavier worn than the current edition. “The writing is faded, and the language slightly archaic.”

“I thought that was part of your training,” Isaac said. Unlike Omar and Neth himself, he seemed almost too eager to do this. His voice was thin from the stress, but to the Spellkeeper it must have sounded like disdain. His body curved in on itself, shoulders rounding, elbows turned in as though to cuddle the journal, or protect it.

Ranklin stepped in, his age and status stopping the argument cold. “Brother, your training is not in doubt, merely our own nerves. What is the decantation, please?”

“Root, bind. Leaf, curl. Magic, still. Go.” He recited the words, and then shuddered. “It has the sound of an earthspell, but not the feel of it.”

Spellkeepers were chosen not for their memory or their patience, but for their sensitivity to the power within the wines; without it, it would
be impossible to find anyone willing to spend their days down here, but Neth had always suspected that it made them slightly odd.

“You need not worry,” Ranklin said, his hand patting the younger man’s shoulder gently, the paper-dry skin nearly translucent against the dark red of his robe, before turning to lead the way back up the stairs, having achieved what he came for.

“It has been over a century since that cask was last broached,” the Spellkeeper said, frowning, still looking down at the journal page. “There is no guarantee that it will have remained intact. Be very careful with your testing.”

“Of course.” Neth was professionally reassuring, his entire demeanor tuned to giving solace, and the Spellkeeper, despite knowing all that, bought into it.

Men, even Washers, did not want to burden themselves with worries.

T
HEY RECEIVED THE
occasional odd looks from students and teachers as they moved through the formal gardens, but no one was foolish or foolhardy enough to stop and ask questions. Neth could only imagine that his expression was at least as grim as that of his companions.

Ranklin’s quarters had a door to the outside and a workroom that was their destination. His aide was there, looking anxious. Clearly he did not trust anyone other than himself with the old man. Neth had a moment’s uncharitable, suspicious thought: was the younger, untried Brother a member of the schism? Was he worried not for the old man’s well-being, but his own plots?

No. Ranklin was on the right side of things, for all that Neth disagreed with this decision. If his aide felt differently, he would have been wise to keep it to himself, and it was too late now.

“The Last Hope,” Ranklin said. “Such a terrible name for such a terrible spellwine. Too much focus on how we are remembered, and not enough on what we are doing now.”

“Are you saying we as a culture are pretentious, Brother?” Omar
raised his nearly invisible eyebrows and waited for a response, clearly expecting a lecture such as they would have received as students.

“It would not be the worst thing I have said of our founders,” he replied, but the laughter was faint, worried. It reassured Neth, that the mood was uneasy rather than jubilant. If they who were set on this thing were unsure . . .

“Place the cask there,” Ranklin directed, taking a seat on the padded divan and resting his hands on his knees. He was old and fragile, but his eyes were still bright, and the mind was as sharp as it had ever been.

“Do you truly believe that this spellwine is . . . is the answer?”

Ranklin considered the question, as Neth had known he would, had expected no less of the old man, who had taught them all at one time or another. “The answer? No. But I do believe that it is
an
answer. Perhaps the only one we have.”

“Harming the vines . . . it is counter to everything we have ever been. And the Vinearts are not the only thread in this knot.”

“The men of power are as they have ever been, Neth. Suspicious, proud, cautious, and protective. Something has pulled them tight . . . that something is a Vineart. Whatever began this, began with magic. Only by bringing them all to heel can we return the balance to where it needs be.

“I do not choose this lightly. You, of all the others, you have seen firsthand the danger we face.”

“Yes.” Danger without, and within, although he did not say that. If Ranklin did not know of the schism, of his own Brothers, men he had taught now twisting that training for their own benefit, it might be possible for the old man to never have to find out. And if he did . . . then he had not spoken of it to Neth for a reason, and Neth would honor that.

Blind faith was not the way of the Brotherhood, but obedience honored Sin Washer’s sacrifice.

They ranged themselves around the cask, sitting innocently on the low table, its aged wood a sharp contrast to the polished surface of the table. A tiny, pale gold spider crawled down one side, taking careful
steps, no doubt shocked to find itself outside the cool, quiet environs of the Cellar.

“If this is to be done, it needs be done now.” Omar turned to fetch a cup from the sideboard display, his hand reaching first for an ornate one made of glass, the colored bits sparkling like an artisan’s toy, but then his hand moved to the left slightly and instead he picked up a simple hammered copper cup. When the others looked at him, he made a face, as though uncomfortable with his own actions. “This thing we do, it is not pretty. Pretty things should not be used for it.”

Ranklin laughed, a soft exhalation of air that was not amused, but approving. “Even so, young Omar, even so. Come, let us do this.”

“Let me,” Neth said, stepping forward to take the cup.

“You did not agree with my decision,” his old teacher said, surprised. “And now you volunteer to perform the decantation?”

“As Omar said, this is not pretty. Let it be done by one who knows firsthand the damage it will do.” The other two had never visited a vintnery, had never spoken with Vinearts, conversed with them, or preached, or offered solace to their slaves. Neth knew what he was about to do and took the weight of that knowledge to heart.

If he was to be guilty, let his hands be bloody, as well.

The cup touched his hands, and his fingers curled around it, even as Isaac picked up the glass bulb that would draw the liquid from the bunghole at the top.

The stopper was newer than the cask, proof that it had been maintained over the years, and when removed the scent of the wine drifted into the room, musty and sharp, like the prick of thorns on the tongue. The bulb filled with liquid, a paler orange-red than he had expected, almost the color of rust on a hinge, or the faded cheeks of one of the portraits in the Main Hall.

Then it was being transferred to his glass, and Neth had to steady his hand or else let them see how it shook. With this decantation, he would bring a blight that would wither every grape on the vine, shake the confidence of every Vineart. . . .

“Ranklin! Stop this!”

The shout did make his hand shake, then, but thankfully Isaac had stopped pouring.

“You interrupt, in my private quarters?”

Three men stood in the doorway: Brother Weyland, a heavyset man from the lands north of Caul, and two others. Neth recognized them, although he did not know their names. They were looking at Ranklin, but their gazes flickered back and forth the way men do when they are expecting trouble—or out to cause some.

“This can wait.”

“No, it cannot. I cannot agree with this.”

That was surprising. If Weyland was a member of the schism, then he should—

“You think to act in half measures, as though that will solve this. The Vinearts must be brought to heel, not merely checked.”

Ranklin remained seated, calmly observing the intruders. “Your wishes were too extreme. Our responsibility is to hold the Lands Vin together, not split them apart.”

Something inside Neth hurt, hearing confirmation that his old teacher had indeed known of the schism and not stopped it.

The three men came into the room, their postures promising trouble, even as their words remained civilized. “This is our only chance to shatter the Second Growth, once and for all. To finish the job Sin Washer started.”

“Apostasy,” the aide whispered, astonished, horrified. “You blaspheme Zatim’s Blood.”

“I am
defending
it,” Weyland roared, his long, white-blond mustache practically bristling with anger. “Vinearts were meant to be servants, not . . . not equals. The magic must be controlled. And not by lordlings or princes!” He stepped forward, clearly not thinking how his actions would be interpreted within the close confines of the chambers, with seven bodies already tensed.

Omar swung first, but Weyland blocked and countered, and then
it became a melee, Ranklin falling backward, his voice, once so robust, barely able to make itself heard above the fight. Even as Neth watched, the old man stiffened, as though spasming, then fell limp.

Neth felt his breath catch, but he had no time to go to the old man’s aid, even if there was anything he could have done. He sideswiped a wild swing and had barely enough time to note that none of his fellow combatants had taken lessons with Brion, when he found himself next to the cask.

The old, aged cask. Set high up on a table that was polished with care every morning. . . .

The oldest legends said that even after his death Zatim Sin Washer spoke with the first of the Washers, those whose hands had been washed in his actual blood. Neth had always thought that a fable, until the voice whispered inside his own ear. Harsh, almost foreign sounding, sharp like the crack of lightning, dense as the roll of thunder, and impossible to ignore or deny.

Stop it. End this. Protect my brothers, heir to my blood.

His hands lifted, touched, pushed, Neth watching them as though they belonged to someone else. The cask shifted, rolled, fell, shattered. The ancient slats of wood splintered, the noise enough to break through the violence and cause them all to turn, and stare. The floor, now coated with the brick-brown wine, slicked enough that those who tried to turn, to rescue even a drop of the precious liquid, slipped and fell, hitting the floor hard enough that they lay still; if still alive, unable to move.

Neth stood, and watched, and did not hear the voice again.

J
erzy had not
slept at all in nearly three days, since the
meme-courier
had departed. Part of him knew that he could not continue that way, that sooner rather than later the healwine and the tai would force his body into collapse—or kill him—but even if he had been able to sleep without nightmares, there was no time for it.

“Master Malech gave me a mirror that would allow him to reach me, when I was in Aleppan. It was broken—when the serving boy tried to kill me, it was broken in the fight. I thought he had done it on purpose, to keep me from reaching my master . . . if he was in thrall to the mage, he might have been drawn by the scent of magic, not even knowing what it was.”