From Whence You Came

by Gilman, Laura Anne

  Hernán opened his eyes and smiled at Bradhai, an unexpectedly unguarded moment of peace.

  “That proves nothing,” the first carter said. “This works, but that is not to say his others do.”

  “If there was any failure of my spellwines,” Bradhai said, “then it was in the decanting of them, not the making or incanting.”

  “Indeed,” Hernán said, still smiling. “Then we need you to test the casks themselves, under maximum stress, to show us wrong.”

  “You brought casks with you?” He had seen none, but they might have left them elsewhere, in a cart, not wishing to bring too many strangers into his Yards.

  “No. You must come with us. We must see it work properly, under proper conditions.”

  o0o

  “Master, what?” Yakup was not questioning, but startled.

  “I must go.”

  “Go?”

  “Are you a halfwit, boy?” Bradhai slapped him sharply across the ear, the usual tap to remind him to learn more quickly, and ask no foolish questions. “I must go and you must stay. At most, I will be gone a week, perhaps not even three days.” It was a day’s ride to the shoreline, and then a day back again. He had argued, but the three men remained firm. Bradhai must prove himself, and his work, with what remained of the casks he had sold them, under the conditions intended for their use. So he would see their ships and their casks, and raise the wind for them, show them they were in error, and then he would come home.

  “Master?”

  This time, Bradhai did not chastise the boy. His uncertainty was understandable: Vinearts did not leave their Yards, and they certainly did not leave a half-trained boy in charge.

  “Pep knows what to do in the yards,” Bradhai said. “The old man has seen more grapes born than you and I placed together, for all that he has not the Sense. Let him be your guide, and continue the work you do here.”

  Yakup had been with him three years in the House, long enough to be trusted with the basic incantations, and the spellwines that needed only turning within their racks as they strengthened.

  “You will do fine.” Bradhai paused in his packing, letting the fine linen shirt rest in his hands, and looked at the boy. “You will do fine.”

  Bradhai was more worried for himself. He knew his spellwines had not failed, but what would it take for the guilds to accept it? Would they hold him responsible, no matter what the cause?

  He finished packing, enough for a week’s travel, and slid the leather strap shut. “Bring this downstairs,” he ordered. Their visitors had taken their leisure on the grassy expanse by the road, their horses brought out for them, waiting for him to be ready. There had been no question of waiting: all four were anxious to be done with it.

  The boy nodded, then picked the rucksack up and carried it away.

  Bradhai looked around his chamber. It was a simple room, with a bed, a braided rag rug on the slate floor, and a chest of drawers that some long-ago tinker had painted with a design of twirling vines, and large, oddly green grapes, as though the unripe fruit had somehow swollen to full size. It had been his masters’ before him, and perhaps his master’s before that, and it still struck him with awe that it was his, now.

  He would go, prove the efficacy of his work, and return. Annoying, but simple enough. And yet….

  Through the window, the shutters open to the warming air, he heard the nicker of horses, and the low voices of men talking, and farther beyond, the shouts of the slavemaster, and the calls of slaves, working below in the yards. And under all that, the constant soft whisper of his vines, telling him that all was well.

  For the first time, Bradhai doubted that reassurance.

  o0o

  The trip down through the valley and to the port-town of Vélezsur had not been unpleasant. Bradhai was no horseman, but he could sit the sturdy bay gelding they had given him well enough, and the saddle was deep and well-worn, the sort best-suited for long, steady journeys. Still, it was a painful pleasure to slide off the horse’s back, his boot soles hitting solid earth, even as his thighs cramped and his backside ached.

  “A warm bath and a warmer drink will set you to rights,” Arias said. Once away from the yards he had relaxed, and become a decent companion. They were in the courtyard of an ostlery, the hard-packed dirt worn under his boots from the countless wagons and hooves – of all sorts of creatures – that had passed through. Torches burned overhead, the crackle and scent of burning pitch, making Bradhai’s nose twitch. To use open flame this close to buildings made him uneasy; could they not have afforded even a single firespell to tame them?

  “He should go to the shipyard straightaway,” Muño grumbled, but looked to Hernán, as Bradhai discovered was usual, for the final word. The Shipsmaster was in charge of this unlikely trio, for certain.

  “It is full dark,” Hernán said, “and we are done-in. I see no point in rousing the ship’s captain and crew when the tests are best done in daylight.”

  The ostilarius came up to them as they dismounted, his leather apron tied at his hip, his shirtsleeves rolled down, and his hair slicked back. He was already bowing and scraping when he saw Hernán. “Shipsmaster, welcome, welcome. We have your usual room, and one for your companions, as well? You’ll be joining us for eve-meal, or a private sup in your rooms? I-” and his quick gaze jumped over the carters, familiarly categorized, and landed on Bradhai. Boots, low and of worn leather. Clothing, dusty and worn. Hair, untrimmed in the older style. Nothing to take second note of, save that his gaze slipped back to Bradhai’s waist, where the double-wrapped belt gave his identity away, even before the silver tastevan swung into place as he turned.

  “Vineart,” the ostilarius said, his tone caught between awe and worry. “You honor my small respite.”

  “He travels with us, Suero.”

  “Ah. Of course. Two rooms for the masters, and another for your companions?”

  “That will do. And we will dine in your private room, if it is available.”

  “I will ensure that it is so, Shipsmaster, Vineart.” Suero paused, and then nodded at the carters, as though barely willing to acknowledge that their company gave them rights above his.

  “Impudent get,” Muño muttered, but it was less in anger than resignation.

  “He is as he is,” Hernán said. “And he has the best meals and the cleanest beds on all the Long Road, as you well know – and as he knows even better. Come, and let it go, old friend. We have greater worries than one innkeeper not giving you proper respect.”

  The private room was a small space. The table was solid, battered wood, laid with four places. A basic spell-light, not the more expensive coldlight, burned in the lamp on the table, and open flames flickered in niches in the wall, adding a warm yellow to the light that was not displeasing.

  “Sit by me,” Hernán said. “We may speak while we eat.”

  As though on cue, the moment Bradhai slipped into the indicated chair two young girls appeared, bearing platters almost as large as they. There was meat, a roast sliced thick and warm from the fire, and bread that was likely fresh that morning, and even a pot of creamy yellow butter. And, to show the innkeeper’s esteem for them, there was also a small saltcellar, if the meat was not done to their liking.

  The four men fell to their food without further comment, the only sound that of chewing and the occasional clatter of heavy mugs as one of the girls refilled them with vin ordinaire, a vina that had not been potent enough for incanting. Bradhai wafted it under his nose, and identified it as a firewine, likely Berengian in origin. He sipped, and nodded. Berengian, and of a good vintage.

  “Bradhai. That’s an odd name,” Arias said, his mouth still stuffed with food, spilling crumbs as he spoke. “You Vinearts come from anywhere, but I’ve traveled near-everywhere and it’s still strange to my ears.”

  Bradhai paused, a chunk of bread dripping with gravy clutched in one hand. “It isn't really a name. It was the only thing I said when the slavers found me.”

&nb
sp; He had not spoken any language the slavers knew, not Iajan or Berengian nor Ettion, the trade-tongue. But the origin of his name did not matter for a slave, and even less for a Vineart. Bradhai they called him, and so Bradhai he was. “What is a name, after all, but what you come to when called?”

  “A Vineart with a philosophical bent? Interesting,” Hernán said. “You have no knowledge of where you came?”

  Bradhai shrugged, still eating. “It was not a thing that mattered.”

  “Slavers,” Muño said, shaking his head. “I do not understand how you countenance such things. Bad enough that you may not take wives….”

  “It was Sin Washer’s will,” Bradhai said. “To maintain the balance.”

  “Thanks to Sin Washer, for his Solace,” the other three men murmured hastily, and tucked back into their meals, no more said about slaves, wines, or names.

  Only Vinearts owned slaves. Only slavers – like traders, insular and close-lipped, with regulations and rules – could take a child from its home, with the parents’ blessing or without, if they felt the stir of the Sense within them. Then he would be piled into a cage with a number of other boys, some of them beaten until bloody, and paraded in front of Vinearts until one of them paid his fee, and took him home, either as labor for his Yards or, if he proved to have the Sense as well as the flicker, to be a student, and some day, if he were lucky, a Vineart.

  Bradhai had never bothered before about the fact that the rest of the Lands Vin did without, or what they might think of him for it.

  The idea left him thoughtful, but, he was worn from the stress of the day, his eyes began to droop before the servers cleared their platters. Aware that the next morning would be stressful as well, he declined an offer to join the others in the courtyard for an evening pipe, instead excusing himself to climb the stairs to the room he’d been told was his. It was scarcely a closet, the bed half as narrow as his own back home, but Bradhai was too tired to care. There was only a single candle in the room, no spell-lights, and with a sigh he touched the waiting flint-clock to wick, until a feeble yellow light danced into being, too tired to summon the blood-magic that would give him clearer magelight. He then stripped off his clothing, fell aching into the surprisingly comfortable bed, and knew nothing more.

  o0o

  A Vineart woke early; it was in his nature to respond to the moods of the soil and seed. A sailor, he discovered, woke even earlier. There was no light in the sky when a fist pounded on his door, and Arias stuck his head in to hissst a wake-up.

  “Tai and soot on the tooble,” he said. “Hoorry or it’ll be gone and you’ll be fair sore.”

  That was what Bradhai thought he’d said, anyway. “Tai” had been the only word that truly registered, but thought of the thick, stinging brew got Bradhai up out of the bed and back into his clothing, making it to the table in time for there to still be some left. “Soot” turned out to be “soup,” a thick porridge of beans and milk that Bradhai stirred dubiously, but as the rest of the men were eating it, decided to try it anyway.

  He preferred his usual morning break of sausage and bread, but it wasn’t bad, and he could see where an ostlery or inn, making a meal for so many, would prefer a single pot any child could stir.

  “Fair weather rising,” Hernán said. “We should make excellent time, once we cast off.”

  “Cast off?” Bradhai looked up from his soup, and frowned, suddenly unsure and quite sure he did not like what that implied.

  “Man, did you think you’d be standing on the shore, waving your hands and swallowing magic? No, no, if you’re to prove it wasn’t your fault, my man must see the winds rise and fill his sails, and no lie.”

  Had there been any way to back out, to make his excuses and ride for home, Bradhai would have done it. But had there been any way, he would not have been there in the first place.

  “You’ve never been shipside before, have you, boy?” One of the other men at the table spoke up, suddenly kind. Bradhai distrusted that on instinct.

  “Vinearts are landsmen,” Hernán said. “Of course he hasn’t. And none of your tricks, matesman. This is an honored guest on the ladysong and you’ll do well to remember that.”

  “Me, sir?” The matesman looked innocently at them all, and then snorted. “Oye, sir. Honored guest and off limits to the boys. I’ll pass the word.”

  And with that, the meal seemed to be ended, as the matesman got up and started shouting to others in the main room, and the carters went off to settle their bill.

  “You’ve nothing to worry about, boy,” Hernán said. “If your spellmaking’s as solid as you say, you’ll give us a demo and then be back on your way, and all accounts settled.”

  No one had called him ‘boy’ since Master Wy had died, but this did not seem the time or place to take offense. Bradhai knew that his spells had not failed. And yet, somehow, unease roiled in his stomach, disrupting his digestion unpleasantly.

  “Go, fetch your things. It’s a quick walk down to the docks from here, and I’m told the ladysong’s eager to go.”

  o0o

  The ladysong was nowhere near as elegant or dainty as her name implied; more the bellow of a cowherd, Bradhai thought on first seeing her heavy lines and wide girth in the grayish dawn light, and feeling how she wallowed in the water. Hernán had introduced him to the captain, a blustery man half Bradhai’s size and twice his age, who seemed to have no name, only “captain,” and then stashed the Vineart in an alcove away from the bustle of dozens of men each doing their job intently, and with a great deal of coarse yelling and swearing.

  Bradhai held onto the bench he’d been put on, and tried to focus not on what was happening around him but the distant dark sea awaiting them, and the promise of the wind, once they were free of the harbor. His Sense twitched. His primary was the growvine, but the aethervines whispered to him just as strongly, else he could not grow them much less incant them into ordered spells, and the faintest tip of that magic lingered out there, in the ocean airs.

  This was why they bought his spells, to fill their sails and drive them forward, to calm the sky’s tempests, and bring them safe home again. His magic – the aether portion of it – was made for this place.

  He focused on that, and the bustle and chaos around him faded, the rolling of the boat became a lull, and it wasn’t until Hernán appeared next to him that Bradhai realized that he had left his alcove, and was standing at the railing, the wallowing of the ship having become a smooth roll, and the ladysong, released from the harbor’s shelter, had become a different, far more elegant beast, riding the open sea like a horse might own the road.

  “Ah. I had a thought you might be a sailor, under all that soil,” Hernán said. “Welcome to the wild seas, Vineart Bradhai.”

  It hadn’t been what he expected. The sea was dangerous, everyone knew that; the only reason to take the sea-road was to harvest the schools of fish that swam in the shallows, or to carry freight or travelers from one shore to another. You did not linger, and you found no delight in it.

  And yet, the deep green-blue of the water, the spumes of white and occasional swirls of deeper black, somehow reminded him of the slopes of his own yards, the freshening breeze and the sun at their back akin to what he felt on a brisk Spring morning as the leaves unfurled, and the magic began to speak. Even the roll of the boat as it moved through the waters, the crackle of sails and wooden posts as they cut against the wind sang to him in a way he had not expected.

  “It’s beautiful,” he admitted.

  “Like a woman with a knife,” Hernán said. “You admire but you stay alert, that’s how a sailor survives.”

  Vinearts had no truck with women, armed or otherwise, save they had a woman to cook for them, and Bradhai could not imagine Cook – kind, but not given much to speech - as beautiful, or dangerous.

  “There are beasts in the depths, the great serpents, and the krekken, and the leviathans… but they are shy of ships this size, and only rarely seen, for all the storie
s crewsmen tell into their ale.” Hernán shook his head. “Even brigands are rare – you encounter them by chance, and show them your heels as soon as you might. No, the danger is in the wind, Vineart. The wind and the waves, and their changeable moods. A squall can drive even the ladysong into the depths, while a dry spell abandons her to drift, helpless and alone, until she and all within die of despair.”

  “Save that they have windspells to protect them. I understand the importance of my work, Shipsmaster.”

  He put as much curtness into his voice as he dared, suddenly reminded of why he was here, against his will.

  Hernán left soon after that, and the crewsmen working around him ignored him, so long as he stayed out of their way. It wasn’t that they were rude; more that they simply had no time to deal with anything that need not be tied down, rolled up, strung out or otherwise adjusted to keep them moving forward. The sun rose into the first third of the sky, and the water changed from deep blue-green to an almost shimmering green, broken with wavelets of foaming white. Occasionally there would be a dark shadow underneath, where fish swarmed, echoing a flock of birds taking wing in the blue of the sky above.

  “Normally, if we’re not trying to make up time, we’d throw a net.” One of the sailors, a weather-bit man with skin the color of the planking, saw him looking down. “They’re fine eating. You do your magics, maybe we can pick some up on the way back in. Show you how sea-farin’ feeds a hungry man.”

  “I’d like that. I think.” There was a creek nearby that gave up silver-finned cotts; they were good eating, but Bradhai suspected the tender, almost sweet flesh would be nothing like what might be caught in the depths of the sea. Vinearts did not keep cattle, and while Cook maintained a garden out back, where she grew their essentials, their table depended on the flock that roosted in the old barn behind the House, eggs and flesh supplemented by meat and the occasional wheel of cheese from local farmers in exchange for a barrel of his vin ordinaire, the wines that did not hold enough magic to be incanted.

  He wondered if the crewsmen would like a barrel of the same, in exchange for the fish, and if it would last long enough to be carted home.