The Shattered Vine

by Laura Anne Gilman

  Returning to the vintnery, he had not known what to expect. Each touch, each reconnection, reintroducing himself, had been a risk. What if they did not acknowledge him? What if he had been too badly damaged by his time away?

  Not for the first time, Jerzy wished his master had put aside a bottle of the Iajan foreseer wine, to give him a glimpse of what was to come, but Malech had believed in letting things unfold in their own time. “What will, will,” he had said.

  Jerzy had thought he understood, at the time, but even a clouded hint would have been welcome, now.

  The vines themselves had known him, but vines were deep-rooted, tied to the history of this place, taught to wait for a Vineart’s hand. The spellwines stored in the cellar were crafted, ready; they would respond to anyone who knew how to use them. The mustus had refused him, but that was a flaw in their nature, their handling, not his own. It had spoiled from his not being here, not because of what he was becoming.

  And yet, he had been frightened, had hesitated coming into this room, focusing his attention on the things he knew, or suspected, were damaged beyond repair, making sure that Ao would heal, and the yards were clear and healthy, properly prepared for Fallowtime. Excuses, all of it, afraid to face the possibility of even more loss.

  The vina in these tanks had already given way to a Vineart’s touch, had accepted preparation, begun the transformation from raw magic to useful. Delicate, filled with potential. If they did not accept him, if they rejected him . . .

  I’m back, he told the vina waiting in those tanks. I’m home.

  If they had somehow gone bad, the way the crush had, ruined by the lack of a Vineart’s touch . . . if they did not recognize him as House Malech, as Vineart . . .

  His heart paused, mid-beat, until the response came. It wasn’t a voice or a touch or even a smell, but an awareness that filled him, like the feel of the sun on skin, taking you from the cold of night into the warmth of day. The vina was not spoiled, responding to his touch and his authority as it should.

  Mahault forgotten for the moment, the uncertainty and exhaustion of the days preceding faded, and Jerzy moved closer, placing one hand flat against the weathered wooden staves, the finest work of the carter’s guild. The magic within pushed at him, demanding entrance. Instinctively he breathed out, and then in again, letting the aroma fill his lungs, touching the quiet-magic within him.

  Like the living touch of the vineyards, the stone-heavy sense of the Guardian, the vina filled spaces within him that had been left dry by the weeks at sea, unsatisfied by the cool awareness of the unblooded grapes, who cared nothing for the humans moving around them. This was home. This was him.

  “Jer?”

  Reluctantly he moved away, forcing his attention on the needs of the moment, not his own desires. “These are all healwines,” he said to Mahl, indicating the first three tanks. “Probably meant for heal-all and bloodstaunch.” Those were the most basic of their healwines, the ones most in demand in normal times. In normal times, the largest portion of the crush would be reserved for these, he would have been crafting them even now, while Malech worked the more specific incantations requiring more experience, a stronger hand.

  These were not normal times. He moved on to the two last tanks, placing a hand on each one in turn. Their greeting was more subdued; he had not worked these vines, but he knew them, and they knew him.

  “These others, they are firewine.” Master Malech’s secondary legacies, these would have gone to make drylights to be used in fine houses, and on shipboard to reduce the risk of fires. But Jerzy had another use in mind for these vina.

  Firewine. Master Malech had been a healer, had focused most of his life on the healvines. The fact that he grew firevines was simply because the land there best suited them, and there was always a need.

  There might be even more of a need, now. The idea was yet faint, unformed, but the urgency within him grew, even as he stood with his hand against the vat and felt the magic stir. Yes. Action and pause. Push and pull. Heal and destroy. Calm and roil. Incanted spellwines could defend, protect, or cause harm, but they were not destructive, in and of themselves. A healspell might cure, or it might ease the way into death when hope was lost, but its main purpose, its reason for existing, was to heal. The use of spellwines as weapons, crafted for no reason other than to harm, to kill, had ended with the vine-mages themselves.

  He had undone a healspell, used it to defend. What might he be able to do, then, with firewine? What could be done with vin magica that had not yet been incanted to a specific task? It was not forbidden simply because it had not been thought of to be forbidden. Only a Vineart could use an unincanted vina and no Vineart would have cause to craft a weapon . . .

  “Mahault.”

  She came up behind him, and he noted that she was careful to leave a cautious space between herself and the vats: Mahault might be willing to follow the Vineart into his lair, but she did not let herself forget where she was, and what she was surrounded by. She was wiser than Ao, less cautious than Kaïnam, and had one advantage over them both.

  She eyed him curiously. “What?”

  “I need you to trust me.”

  “Phrases like that, my father always said, are the mark of a man who should never be trusted.” But she gave him her hand, anyway. Her skin was warm and firm, and he could almost feel the vitality within it, surging like waves beneath the hull of a boat.

  Was this how the mage felt, when he . . . no. Jerzy refused the thought.

  “Don’t worry. It’s important that you trust me, and don’t worry.” And he sliced open her palm with the fingerlength blade that hung from his belt, a blade meant to be used to cut wax seals, not human flesh. She let out a cry but did not jerk her hand back or protest as he lifted them both to the cask’s rim and pushed her bleeding hand into the open cask of firewine.

  His master had tossed him in, headfirst, and left him to drown or thrive, whatever the mustus decided. But he was not giving her to the raw juice but the vina, fined and aware. She would be fine—he hoped. He kept his hand on hers nonetheless, feeling it quiver as the magic slipped into her veins, familiarizing itself with her.

  And then she let out a little sigh, the tension flowing out of her body, and he pulled her arm out, using his own sleeve to dry her skin.

  The cut had already healed, a narrow purple scab left behind.

  “What did you do?” She was more curious than angry, examining the skin, sniffing at it, as though able to smell the wine inside her.

  “Forged a connection. If it works, I will be able to reach you—protect you—when you leave.”

  That got her attention. “I’m not going—”

  “I need you to go. I need you to go to the outer vineyards, the firevine yards up north, and tell the overseer that we will need them to increase the crops this year by half again. He will argue; you will tell them it must be done.”

  He handed her the sigil that hung around his neck, the coin bearing his master’s mark. His mark, now. “This will convince him.”

  It was not merely the message that needed to be brought. He needed someone observant, who could see things that were missing or odd even without knowing what she saw, and tell him, without hesitation. Mahault could do that, and see it without judgment, fear, or prejudice. That was her skill, to see things as they were, not as she wished them to be, or how they might become. Unhindered by doubt, she would be able to tell him, on her return, if anything had been interfering with the yards themselves, or if his overseers had been infected with the taint.

  Ideally, Jerzy would go himself, but he could not; even if there were not other things that needed his attention here and now, the attack on the road had showed him how dangerously exposed he was, when he left the House proper. If she was Kaï’s second, and Detta’s, she would be his, as well. Ao was observant but could not ride, and while Kaïnam could ride swiftly and defend himself, it was not the sort of errand he could send a princeling on, even one who was willing.
It would raise too many questions about what Jerzy intended, cause others who were watching to assume the worst.

  With luck, his precautions would not be tested. A woman without obvious rank or importance, especially one bearing the Vineart’s mark around her neck as surety, would be accepted, and heeded, and not considered a threat.

  Jerzy hoped.

  FIVE DAY’S RIDE to the southwest of House Malech, two men were standing outside a large, dark red tent pitched between the wide packed-dirt road, and a narrow creek that curved around to skirt a small town built of timber and stone, backed by good grazing lands and a patchwork of crop-bearing fields. It should have looked welcoming . . . but they had not been invited to stay within.

  “The rumor says that a Washer killed them.”

  The taller man, in robes that matched the tent structure, snorted in disbelief. “Impossible.”

  Brion, who wore riding leathers instead of his robes, shook his head. “You know that and I know that, but these people . . . they hear the rumor, and they do not know what to believe. Not after this year past, of unrest and uncertainty. Too many whispers in the wind blaming us for not interceding with the gods somehow, for not stopping the unstoppable. And now, when they see us ride through, when we camp by their homes, they do not come for the speaking and they do not ask for solace.”

  Neth scowled at his brother but could find no comeback. The truth was that there had been few at the morning’s service, in this village of several hundred, where once every soul would have come to hear a Washer speak. Before, Neth would have been offended. Before they had heard of the illnesses in this town, and others, before they had seen the mass graves, a dozen at a time, across the countryside.

  “A single man in the robes of a Washer came through two months before and spoke briefly, and in the days thereafter, nearly two dozen sickened and died.” No rumor reported here, merely dry fact.

  “All?”

  “All, down to the last child.” Brion had ridden out to see the graves himself, on Neth’s orders, and called for solace on the departed souls. “Just as before. I felt the gaze of the families on me as I walked through the village, but none spoke to me.”

  Neth supposed, under the conditions, he should be thankful none of them had attacked him and that this village had allowed them to camp here overnight, rather than asking—demanding—that they move on.

  If this was their enemy’s work, if a Vineart were seeding illness, using a Washer’s robe as disguise, then it was dastardly well done. In towns like this, people moved on to other towns to find spouses, intermarrying among families over generations, out and then back, until it was a braid that could not be unwoven. There would not be a single family in all Corguruth that did not feel this loss. And the rumors would spread, no matter what soothing noises Neth might make. He could not tell them who their enemy was, could not give them a target for their rage and sorrow, and so they would strike out at the nearest target.

  Much, he thought wearily, like the Collegium itself. Correspondence was restricted to what could be coiled around a messenger-bird’s leg, there being no time to send a meme-courier, even if one could find him, and he was feeling his way around orders, trying to do what was right, what maintained Sin Washer’s Commands. Every day, it seemed harder, every day brought him a greater sense of being out of step with his brothers, of being pushed onto a road he did not know, and had not chosen.

  “Have the men sleep in shifts,” he said. “But tell them not to be obvious about it. I don’t want anyone watching to think we are at all worried, or alarmed.” There were only eleven of them, off the boat at long last, thank Sin Washer, and mounted on hire-horses. Neth had wanted to return to the Collegium, to discover firsthand what was happening, but his updated orders—sent by a pigeon spelled at great expense to find him—had been quite clear, for all they were brief: the House of Malech was still his concern. Vineart Jerzy, who had disappeared after setting the very sands on fire and stranding Neth and his men on the beach, who had called up some monstrous serpent to aid in their escape, was to be brought into Agreement with the Collegium, or ensure that the young Vineart would not become a problem.

  Neth had not shared the details of that communication with anyone, not even Brion. Let them believe whatever it comforted them to believe about their mission. An innocent mind gave solace better than one weighted down by the reality of the world.

  “It would require magic to do something of that sort,” Brion said thoughtfully, as though he were working the logistics in his mind. Neth smiled, despite the seriousness of the matter. Knowing Brion, who had come to the Brotherhood only after years as a soldier, he was doing exactly that.

  “What, a cursewine? An illness-spell?” Neth meant it to be sarcastic, but the words came out more curious than not.

  “You don’t believe there is such a thing? All these years, you think the Vinearts have shared every spell they ever crafted with us, open-handed and guile free?” Brion turned his head to spit, explicitly giving his opinion on the likelihood of that.

  Neth had, once. Before he had seen the things he had seen. Before he had learned what his own Collegium was capable of hiding behind the cup.

  “I believe . . .” Neth paused. “I believe we’re not going to find any answers here,” he said finally. “Be ready to move on in the morning.”

  Brion nodded. If he had doubts of his own, they did not show.

  After his second-in-command strode off to make the camp ready, Neth should have gone back to his tent, to deal with the rest of the paperwork that had come with his orders, prepare for the day ahead, and the day after that. Instead, he stood watch over the freshly turned mound until full dusk fell. Only then, his hands cupped and poured for whatever solace he could give those lost souls, did he return to his own tent.

  In four days, if they rode hard, they would be back on the doorstep of House Malech.

  Chapter 8

  The troubling dreams that had plagued Jerzy since he tasted the spoiled mustus should have, he thought, ended once he confronted the vina and set the first stirrings of a plan in motion. In some sense, they had: no longer nightmares, these dreams were slower, softer, filled not with fear or disgust so much as longing, an almost physical ache in his body. His limbs felt heavy, but his groin stirred, blood flushing into his lower regions, sending urgent messages back through his brain.

  Come, the dream whispered every night. Come down, come into, be one and be free.

  The first few nights, he resisted. The sensations were awkward, uncomfortable, and even asleep he knew it was not the Guardian whispering in his thoughts, although the voice sounded similar, as though the dragon’s stone had melted into something softer, more malleable. Like the Guardian, but not. Jerzy distrusted anything that was not known, proven.

  Then one night, after going over new and essentially useless reports with Kaïnam and Ao until nearly dawn, with too much tai and vin ordinaire in his veins, Jerzy was so tired, so frustrated, that when the touch came again, promising comfort, Jerzy relented.

  In his dream, then, something touched him, gnarled and hard as an old root, curling around him, burrowing into his skin, drawing him down. A sense of power overtook him, the sense of flying, of snapping and crackling like flames, the rush of dashing through waves like the sea-skimmers who had followed the wake of the Heart, and the sudden heart-stopping dive of a tarn as it snapped its claws around a rabbit. It was too real to be a dream, too intense, too powerful. All he had to do was give in, the dream whispered, let go, and this would be his.

  Temptation, seduction, and a tinge of unease: something was wrong.

  Jerzy woke, covered with sweat, the ache in his groin unrelieved. He stroked himself, hand wrapped around his organ, knowing already that it would do no good: the flesh might be released, but the hunger remained. Whatever he craved, it was not to be found here.

  He turned in his bed, the oak-hewn structure too large, too soft after years of the sleep house, his narrow bunk as a stud
ent, the swinging hammock of his shipboard exile. The pillow, pummeled into a wedge while he slept, was pushed to the floor, and he lay facedown, forehead resting on crossed arms. His breathing was muffled, but he could feel himself panting, as though he had just run from the ridge to the river, or gone a full workout with Kaï in the practice ring.

  Unlike his room upstairs, there was no window in this chamber, but he could still sense the slow rise of dawn outside, feel the birds chirping and fluttering their wings, the slaves moving, the cookhouse fires beginning to flare. He should get up; there was much to do—plans to make, messages to send, and the daily details of the vintnery pressed on him, even in the quieter winter months. He was Vineart; he had responsibilities.

  Under rational, waking thought, the sense of that seductive, urgent pull faded, and his breathing returned to normal. Jerzy did not pretend, he knew it was still there, deep under the soil; waiting, patiently waiting for someone to slip into its tangled ways and lose themselves. He did not know what it was—some magic his master would have told him about had there been time? A trap laid by their enemy? Some leftover magic, like the unblooded vines, coming to the surface now, spurred by the unrest in the Land? He did not know, and the temptation itched at him to find out. It could be something useful, something that would aid him understanding what he was, what he needed to do, give him the answers he had not learned from Malech and could not find in his master’s books.

  But if it was a trap, he could not afford to set it off.

  Not yet, anyway.

  With a muffled moan, he pushed himself out of bed, letting his feet touch the cool stone floor.

  “Light,” he called, and the room filled with brightness, the sconces set into niches in the wall glowing with a steady light. The air was chill; frost had settled overnight. He would need to check the vines this morning; the slaves had been busy under the overseer’s watchful eye, readying the yards for winter, but even the most conscientious slave could miss something. A Vineart would not.