The Shattered Vine

by Laura Anne Gilman

Only to save the day. Only to defeat Ximen. Only to keep the peace. . . . No. It would not end there.

  Those thoughts were not his, cool-hard and unspoken. The Guardian was inside him, leaning against him until his heart itself felt stilled to stone. The seductive pull of his dreams returned, winding tendrils around that rock, whispering of magic just beyond his reach, magic that could do all that he needed, and Jerzy did not know what to believe.

  They had been going nearly nonstop since dawn and it was near midnight now: it was no wonder his head was spinning.

  “They have no right to release him,” Kaïnam said, cutting to the heart of the matter. “If they set aside the Commandments, they are as apostate as any. They would lose whatever authority they claim, and all the wealth in the world would not appease them for that. No matter what they need, they will not release him, and they will not be led by him.”

  Ao tilted his head, looking as though he wanted to argue the point.

  “It’s not a trading session, Ao,” Mahault said.

  “Of course it is,” he said, surprised. “They want Jerzy, and want to know what he wants in order to agree. That’s as basic a lesson in trading as it gets.”

  Jerzy felt his head tighten and ache, as though something were pushing and twisting it. They didn’t understand. All of them, treating it as though it were a question of favors and alliances, weapons and strikes. They used magic, but they did not sense it, did not feel how it flowed . . . had no idea of the things that bound them all together, balance for balance. Sin Washer was a legend to them, a myth. Magic was a tool, a weapon. They did not understand, the way Jerzy was beginning to, how very much more it might be. How much more connected to the world it was.

  A vine might be shattered . . . but the roots remained.

  “The Guardian warned me,” Jerzy said. “It saw worse to come, if the Commandments were broken.” Specifically, the dragon had warned him against revealing how Vinearts were not bound by incantations the way others were, how they could adapt and expand the magic, using their own nature, the quiet-magic, in their blood.

  It all came back to that. The quiet-magic.

  His companions did not know how much he had gained working with Giordan, from interacting with the unblooded grapes. His experiences on the ship, using a legacy he had not been trained in. Invoking the figurehead into something near-living. Twining legacies to stop Kaïnam from attacking him on the training ground. All these things, small, important . . . and, when he paused to consider them, unnerving.

  What worried him most, however, what turned his sweat cold and his bowels to water, was what they did not know of the tendrils of power he could feel spreading underfoot, across every part of the Lands Vin, how they haunted his dreams, haunted him. They did not know, could not understand, even if he tried to explain to them, how it all seemed to be changing his quiet-magic into something else, something not entirely under his control.

  Slave to Vineart, stressed like the vines he tended, crushed and crafted like mustus, used like spellwine. Magic makes the man. But when the man is reshaped from what he was meant to be—what then does he then make of the magic?

  The Guardian’s weight pushed against him again, making it harder to breathe much less think. The dragon was there to advise, not enforce, but it disapproved, strongly, of where Jerzy’s thoughts were going. He rubbed at his forehead, trying to make the ache in his head disappear. Part of him was desperate to share his fears, but the hard weight of the Guardian stopped him, even as the words clawed into his throat.

  You are Vineart.

  It was a reminder, and a warning. Others might use magic, but only a Vineart could shape and control it. Only a Vineart understood the risks, the responsibilities. A Vineart stood between power and magic, protecting one from the other. People did not matter, feelings and friendship and even suffering did not matter, only the balance. A Vineart served.

  The thought struck him as though he had taken one of Kaïnam’s flat blows to his chest. There was no reward. There was no equitable trade. There simply was obedience, to prevent the annihilation the prince-mages had once threatened. That was why he recoiled from the offer the Washers had made, why the thought of joining with them, even to protect the Lands Vin, even to protect himself, made his mouth turn sour. The Washers should have understood this: it was their legacy, to maintain the balance. To protect the Vinearts—even from themselves.

  So what would happen, after he rejected this offer, when Neth arrived?

  The Guardian had no helpful—or unhelpful—advice there.

  “Blast and rot!” Ao’s exclamation shook him from his worried thoughts. “Jer, in all this, I forgot! A message arrived, just before the Washer. From Atakus.”

  Kaïnam moved faster than they had ever seen him, on his feet and in Ao’s face, his hand outstretched. “Give it to me.”

  “Yes, all right, hold on,” Ao said, digging into his belt pouch. “I shoved it in here when red riding boy came up. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing we’d want to discuss, just then.” He found the message and handed it over with a careful relief, as though feeding a wild cat with his fingers, unsure how many digits he would draw back.

  Kaïnam slit open the seal and unrolled the message, a long, narrow sheet of paper covered with a careful hand. He turned away from the others, reading intently.

  “What?” Ao started to ask, then hushed as Mahault looked at him fiercely, warning him off. She and Ao had received word from their families already. Kaïnam had not. “Kaï?” she asked, more gently.

  “My father is dead.” The princeling’s voice was wooden, his body stiff and awkward, at odds with his usual sailor’s grace. “My brother Nilëas now is Principal of Atakus.”

  Jerzy felt himself retreat a step, although he did not move. A slave did not have family, a Vineart belonged only to his vines, so although he could hear the pain in Kaïnam’s voice, he did not know what it meant, or how to respond to it.

  Ao lifted his hand, resting it on Kaïnam’s arm, and the other man did not shake it off, still staring down at the missive. “Your brother . . . is that . . . a good thing?” For Atakus, for them . . . the question remained open for however Kaï wished to hear it.

  Kaïnam put his hand up to his forehead, fingertips touching his brow, covering his face briefly as though to hide from the world, then he reached back and pulled at the leather thong holding his hair back, letting it fall down into his face in a gesture of mourning. Despite that, his voice remained steady as he continued speaking.

  “Nilëas informs me that the barrier remains intact . . . but whatever resources I need to bring our sister’s killer to justice are mine, and the moment I am convinced that the danger is gone, he will order Edon to remove the protective spell and restore Atakus’s name among the Lands Vin.”

  What Kaïnam had wanted, hoped for. All it took was an old man’s death.

  They were frozen, four figures, uncertain of what to do, how to respond. Ao moved forward, his hand lifting to rest against Kaï’s back, but for once, even he was silent.

  “Master Edon will do this?” Mahault’s practical nature overcame the sorrow of the moment. Kaïnam flinched, but nodded. “He has agreed,” and his voice was confident enough that it put their doubts to rest.

  There was another silence after that, as each of them considered what this would mean.

  “My folk, and the sailors of Atakus . . . the information they could gather . . . And patrols! No ship would pass undetected through that.” Ao was clearly tallying up the game counters, thinking in terms of attack and counterattack. Suddenly, they did not need the Washers. Ships and coin, driven by the undoubted anger of Atakus at being used, unblemished by madness and counseled by Kaïnam.

  “With Jerzy to lend his magic in defense, maybe bring other Vinearts as well, if we can convince them, we could strike a blow that would draw Ximen’s attention, make him aware that we are not to be plucked like overripe fruit.” Mahault latched onto Ao’s thought, her voice sharp
and strong, determination so fierce Jerzy could taste it like the spice of a firewine. “And then follow through, sail into his own harbor and defeat him on his own lands.”

  “Stop him and his folk from ever trying this again,” Kaïnam agreed, his usually measured thinking washed under by fresh grief and the renewed desire for revenge.

  Vineart, you must be careful.

  The Guardian was a creature of pattern, of tradition; its stone moved, and spoke, but it did not live, while it displayed new abilities at need, it did not grow, or change. Jerzy clung to it with one hand, but his thoughts ranged beyond. They were thinking like soldiers. Fighters. But they faced a mage, not swords or cudgels.

  The Commandments prohibited the blending of magic and leadership of men. Never again were there to be prince-mages, never again such a danger to the world, unchecked. And yet, was not Ximen a greater threat than even that? Sin Washer had been a demigod, but the gods themselves were not infallible, and they took no care with humanity, now. He could not challenge the Washers, he would not upset the balance, but neither could he sit back and allow another to do damage.

  Jerzy’s quiet-magic surged within him, uncalled. There was too much building inside him, the trickle only recently discovered grown suddenly into a rushing stream, pushing at the banks of his control.

  And under it all, the gentle, insidious pushing of his dreams, tendrils wrapping around his legs, pulling him down into a seething vat of power.

  Magic was power. Power was meant to be used. The temptation to pull the magic from his flesh was like an actual thirst, and he shuddered, even as the magic urged him to use it.

  Vineart.

  “I know, Guardian,” he said out loud. “I know.”

  The desire tempted, sorely tempted, with a flush throughout his body he now understood was akin to the lust a man might feel for sex. But a Vineart was nothing more than a slave. And slaves learned control.

  That thought spawned another, and the pieces shifted and grew in his mind, the vague plan of luring the mage within reach suddenly clear in his mind. It could work. But not the way the others were traveling. . . .

  “If we are to do this, it must be subtle, as our enemy is not. Roots underneath him, reaching up to the surface, to catch and tangle him unawares.”

  Like the roots that trembled in his nightmares. Were they meant to suggest not a threat to him, but a threat he might become?

  “Kaïnam. The man you spoke with in Caul, who disliked the way his king was thinking.”

  “The Spymaster?”

  “Yes. Contact him. Offer him the chance to be known as the man who reopened the port of Atakus. But first, he must help us. . . .”

  As he played out his thought, an evil grin grew on Ao’s face, and even Mahault looked intrigued. Kaïnam’s body eased slightly, and when the Vineart was finished, turned and made a formal bow to Jerzy, a war-lord acknowledging his leader.

  Vinearts might be slaves. But a wise slave used whatever it had, to survive.

  THE HOPE OF RAIN was a scouting vessel, not the pride of the Caulic Navy by any shot, but she was a strong ship, fast and agile, and accustomed to odd orders. She carried no troops, only a scaled-down crew who could, at need, fight, a captain with ties to the High King’s sister, and a small, white-haired man who was not as old as he looked, not as harmless. His name was Aron, and he reported directly to the Spymaster of Caul.

  And in their hold, they carried three passengers who took no food, only water, and slept restlessly, one awake while the other two dreamed. Witches, the men called them, and spat on the ground at the very thought. Bad luck to carry magic, for all that no harm had ever come to the Hope while the three women traveled below.

  “The fish have gone elsewhere,” the Captain said, his weather-beaten face worried. “No spinners, no birds, either. Bad sign. Something’s lurking. Another damned sea-beast, I’ll wager.”

  “Anything that big will follow the fish,” Aron said, barely paying attention to the conversation. The Captain had been grumbling since they entered Atakuan waters that morning, obeying orders carried direct from the lord spymaster via the three corbies below.

  Aron distrusted magic on principle; he was old-fashioned enough to spit when Vinearts were mentioned, but his master commanded he use the witches, and so he obeyed. The Captain preferred to trust in the stout timber and trained crew rather than any amber liquid soaked into that timber and women’s nonsense-chanting, and so he simply ignored it, as much as he could. But even he, with his royal connections, knew who gave the true commands.

  “And what of above-surface?”

  “Crew reported one flag, a few hects to the eastward, just before dawn.”

  Aron nodded, and noted that down. “Colors?”

  The Captain hawked and spit onto the weathered planks of the deck. “Black.”

  Pirates were on the rise since last winter, but that was none of their concern; these were not Caulic waters, and since the destruction of the fleet sent to find Atakus, few Caulic-backed vessels came this way to be disturbed by brigands. Let the local islands deal with these intruders, if they wished.

  The Hope did not want to be here, not so near where their kin had disappeared, but Aron’s orders, and the Captain’s responsibility, were to follow any ships coming from outland, and note what they did, where they went, and if they interacted with any others on the seas.

  Aron did not know why they had been set to this duty, and he did not wonder at it; he merely did as ordered, and trusted his master to make sense of his reports.

  “Should we follow?”

  Eastward was back toward the Vin Lands, back toward land. Odds were that the pirates, having also failed to locate the hidden port of Atakus, were now looking to raid the outlying islands to make some profit. They would not lead the Hope of Rain to anything useful.

  Aron looked out over the endless waves, his eyes squinting closed against the reflection of the sunlight. On the other hand, if the pirates were truly desperate, they would not hesitate to attack another ship were they to encounter it, and might even go after one deliberately. The Hope of Rain would not tempt them, but any ship carrying an unknown banner could be carrying untold wealth in its hold. What surer way to find a school of fish than to follow a fish eater?

  “Old man?”

  Aron did not take affront at the sailor’s words, or his tone: he was, in fact, an old man, and had seen and heard far more offensive things in his time.

  “No,” he said finally, dropping his gaze from the glittering waves and back to the relatively soothing maps on his hand. “We are here now to watch over Invisible Atakus, and so we shall.”

  Chapter 11

  The morning after the Washer’s appearance, Jerzy began writing the details of the unfolding plan into the leather-bound journal he had found among his master’s belongings, the pages empty, as though waiting for him to begin. His lettering was not smooth, but Detta had taught him well enough to be legible, and he was determined to mark down as much as he could remember of what had occurred. Some day, however this ended, he might need to refer back . . . or someone else might need to know what happened.

  He was the master of a House holding a conspiracy to undermine the Commands, laid down by a demigod, meant to safeguard the Lands Vin, for the good of the Lands Vin. Even if they succeeded, and survived, it would take some explaining to, well, explain.

  The thought, in his exhaustion-thick mind, made him laugh, a short, harsh bark. If the Washers did not burn the vintnery, and everything in it, before they were done. If Ximen did not defeat them, destroy all traces of what had been, and take the Lands for his own, some prince-mage of old come again.

  Jerzy put down the pen, blotting his work carefully, and stretched his arms over his head, feeling muscles crackle. His eyes felt gritty, his face remained flushed no matter how much cold water he splashed on it, and somehow the facts seemed both muddy and clear in his mind. Only magic could defeat magic. Yet, magic could not be used—not in the
quiet-magic form, the way it was most powerful—as a reliable, consistent weapon. Why not? Jerzy did not know—he was no scholar of Altenne, and he had no access to them, now, to ask.

  “Rot, I don’t even know if they still are.” There had been no communication from that part of the Lands, despite birds sent to postings there. For all Jerzy knew, anything beyond the mountains, Altenne, and Corguruth, had fallen into chaos.

  There was a pitcher of twice-brewed tai at his elbow, and he poured another mug and gulped it down, not even noticing the taste.

  Somehow, Ximen was using blood to intensify and corrupt his magic, sending tendrils into unsuspecting lands, worms into unsuspecting ears, destroying even Vinearts who should have been protected. But how could they have known? So long in the balance, how could they have expected one of their own would war on them?

  Jerzy knew him now, guarded against him. Was ready to turn the war back onto him, to balance the Lands again. Magic to magic.

  Ximen would come. He could not refuse, not if he wanted—needed—the lure Jerzy held out, the hint of weathervines and unblooded grapes to graft onto his own twisted magic, the one piece he still lacked to become as the prince-mages of old.

  And when he took the lure, when Ximen came looking for Jerzy directly, what then?

  Magic to magic. Vinearts were not as the mages of legend. Quiet-magic, the innate strength of a Vineart, could not be used to attack, to initiate a strike. That had been the lesson of the fight session, Jerzy suspected. To defend, to repel, to injure, yes. The firespell, used offensively, to warn slaves off from where they should not be. A healspell, turned backward to cause weakness in an attacker. Defensive moves . . . no. Passive moves.

  There was something in all that, the solution to everything, waiting for him, tied somehow to the awareness in his dreams. But unlike magic, the answer did not rise up when called, and unlike fighting, it did not come with practice. It merely lurked just out of reach, until Jerzy’s head ached from the effort of coaxing it closer. Or that might have been the lack of sleep; even as a slave, Jerzy had gotten a full night of sleep. Now, he was fortunate if he managed half that, and no amount of tai could compensate for long.