The Shattered Vine

by Laura Anne Gilman

  Jerzy was far stronger than he would admit. Possibly all Vineart were. If so, it would explain Master Edon, back on Atakus, insisting he could protect the island from danger, how he had managed to wreath the entire island in magic so that it could not be found by outsiders. Hidden strengths, magelike powers, kept for two thousand years of unbroken secrecy.

  In another life, when he was only his father’s son, that secrecy would have worried him, greatly. Now . . . he worried only that his friend’s limits had been reached, and they were not yet safely at the vintnery.

  And even when they arrived . . . it would not be safe. The sense of urgency drew tighter, the skin between his shoulder blades twitching as though someone danced the tip of a blade along it. Jerzy was so focused on returning home, he was not thinking beyond that, but Master Vineart Malech had been killed within the walls of his own House. They could not assume it would be any sort of refuge or safe harbor. They could not assume there would be any refuge whatsoever, until their enemy was found, and defeated, or they were all dead.

  Kaïnam had been born to a family of power, but he had been a younger son, and as such had watched and advised, not led. Then his sister had been murdered, and his father pushed to madness, agreeing to Edon’s foolhardy defense that had only made things worse, causing others to fear that Atakus was the source of the evil, the cause of this misery—drawing enemies who before would not have dared attack the region’s sole safe-harbor. . . .

  Kaïnam had abandoned his family, his honor, his future, to find their enemy and set things right again. He had given up everything; he would not allow anything to happen to the one man he thought could accomplish that goal.

  Not that Jerzy was showing any weakness now. The Vineart had recovered quickly, what little color touched his skin returning, although his breathing was still too slow and labored. Jerzy had insisted that they be on their way almost immediately, refusing all hospitality with the excuse that Ao would be waiting for them. Kaïnam thought it had more to do with getting away from the site of his collapse.

  If so, it was a matter of pride and magic, and not for Kaïnam to inquire about. Once they were back to the wagon, the volunteer guard sent back to his home, Jerzy seemed to have put the entire matter behind him, his mood lightening as they moved further inland, the land rising into low, rolling hills.

  Kaïnam noted that the others had picked up his mood: Mahault rode up alongside the wagon, on the other side from Kaïnam, and tucked a sprig of tiny yellow flowers into Ao’s straight black hair. The trader, rather than scowling, secured it better behind his ear and preened, making Mahl and Jerzy laugh. Despite his unease, Kaïnam smiled as well. They had been somber for too long, and would be so again—for now, this moment, laughter was good.

  Distracted by his own thoughts, the sound of someone coming up behind them on the road was subtle enough that at first Kaïnam dismissed it as unimportant; they were not hoofbeats, not the heavier-shod tramp of Berengian soldiers, or the wagon creak of a caravan, merely one person, on foot.

  One person, and one beast, coming fast.

  “Greetings again,” a voice called, just as the others took notice of the noise.

  A stranger, but not unknown. He started to turn his horse to face the solitaire, then waited until Mahault turned and rode up beside him, letting her address the other woman. Solitaires were hardly man-haters; they chose the life of the road over one of Householding, but that was a legal matter, not a personal one. Still, she had nearly acknowledged Mahl as a peer, and so Mahl should be the one to respond.

  Life in his father’s court had taught him that a show of respect could solve more problems than a fleet of ships at your back. . . . Although he would have been happy with the fleet as well.

  “If I may join you on your way?” The woman’s tone was diffident, but her body language said she had no expectation of being refused.

  “If your way and ours travel together,” Mahault replied, and Kaïnam picked up both the rhythm of ritual in the words and the slight hesitation as Mahl spoke them, as though she was not certain of the phrasing—or how they might be received. The solitaire nodded once, and made a subtle gesture with her hand, down at her thigh. The hound, Codi, released from whatever bonds held it, loped on ahead.

  A sentry. Or a hunter, to flush out anyone—or any thing—waiting ahead. For the first time, Kaïnam wondered at the hound’s intelligence. Solitaires bred them selectively and kept the pups for themselves; he had never encountered one before, save at a distance. They looked ordinary enough . . . but then, so did Jerzy. Appearances deceived.

  The Vineart had pulled himself out of his slump-seated position when the solitaire rode up and was listening intently as the two women spoke.

  “I was on my way to Lord Ranulf’s encampment when I paused in the village,” the solitaire was saying. “He has taken on a full dozen of my sisters to supplement his forces and to use as messengers along the borders of his lands. Now that the illness has passed and there is no risk to my leaving, I plan to join them.”

  Mahault looked to Jerzy. The Vineart nodded. “He trains his fighters at Roget’s Stamp, just north and east of here. If that is where you travel, then our road is yours, at least for a while.”

  “THERE IS FEAR in the ground.” The solitaire’s name was Keren, and if she noted that she was kept away from the wagon, with its casks and boxes, it did not seem to bother her. She hailed from the Northlands, further north even than Caul, and claimed to have traveled all over the Lands Vin in her years on the road. Mahault was tempted to brag in return that she had gone even farther south than Keren could imagine, but something held her tongue. No, not something; the knowledge that they were all being watched, that the wrong word or move might draw disaster down on them before they could reach shelter. Keren might not be a threat—but she might meet up with someone, later, who was.

  “Fear, how?” Ao joined in the conversation, his natural curiosity closing in on that word like a hound to hare. “How can dirt be afraid?”

  Mahault shook her head in exasperation. “Keren, may I formally introduce you to Ao, Trader of the Eastern Wind Clan, endless asker of questions, and my third travel companion.”

  The two of them exchanged formal bows, as best they could as the wagon continued to rattle along. “Forgive me for not standing, as is proper,” he said. “I am a trifle indisposed.” Ao’s voice was wryly amused, but gave no further information, and Keren took it in stride, literally. The solitaire had likely seen enough in her travels to assume what was and wasn’t hidden under the rough brown cloth.

  “It is my honor to share the road, Trader Ao. And no, I do not mean . . .” She hesitated, clearly sorting through her own cautions. “There are some things of which I may not speak.” Oaths of loyalty ended with the end of a contract-hire, but a solitaire who spoke too much was one who would not be hired again. “This I can and will say: beware any who ask your help.”

  “You mean, like the villagers?” That made no sense: Keren had been there; she had helped them as well. “You think that Jerzy should have left them to suffer?”

  Keren glanced at Jerzy, who met her look evenly, until she turned away. “I think that what he did was the act of a good man, a caring man, a Vineart. These are his people, yes? His yard is within these hills? Then he was within his rights to act as he did. But these days are not as old, and there are those who would see that, even that, as provocation. As overstepping what is allowed, what is proper behavior.”

  “To heal?” Ao’s voice ended in a squeak, the way it sometimes did when he was particularly outraged.

  “He did more than ease their pain,” Keren said. “He gave them solace.”

  The thought was absurd, and yet the look on the woman’s face when she woke and realized it did not hurt to move . . . the moan of relief as a man sat up in bed for, Justus said, the first time in a week . . . those things came back to Mahault, and her forehead creased as she looked at the events the way Keren had seen them.


  “Solace is the purview of the Washers. Jerzy would never . . .” Mahault’s voice trailed off, reigning in her horse to keep pace with the wagon and the walker. “A Washer came, and left, and people fell ill. Jerzy came, and they became healthy again.”

  The solitaire did not speak, then: “Yes. It could look . . . bad, if one were inclined to look that way. There is fear in the land,” she said again. “Anything that might feed that fear . . . is dangerous.”

  “And doing nothing is not equally dangerous?” Jerzy’s voice, coming from the front of the wagon, sounded not angry or argumentative, but tired. As though he had already thought this through and come to no useful conclusions.

  Mahault suspected that was exactly what he had done. Jerzy thought almost as much as Kaï, and twice as much as Ao.

  The solitaire simply shrugged. She had clearly said what she meant to say, and the conversation moved on to less worrisome topics, Jerzy quietly driving the wagon, while Kaïnam rode on ahead, his gaze alert to every farmer in his field, every animal loping through the brush. In that manner, the day passed easily into dusk, and they came to where the road branched, one—their route—becoming a softer, grass-edged track, while the main road continued on toward the northeast, and Roget’s Stamp.

  After bidding Jerzy and the others farewell, Keren drew Mahault aside a few paces.

  “You carry a blade with confidence, and ride far from your birthplace,” she said to Mahault. “The lord here, Ranulf, needs more troops than he can gather. Another woman, with some skill and courage . . . he would not enquire as to where she received that training, or who her sponsor was. And once in . . .” She lifted one shoulder, as though to imply that no one else would be moved to ask such a question, either. “I have seen enough, and so has Codi, to judge you worthy of the sigil, if that’s your desire.”

  Mahault felt a fierce rush of excitement. It was her desire, and had been since she was old enough to understand the extent of her own dreams. Traveling with Jerzy, the freedom she had discovered, merely confirmed that, however things turned, she would never be able to go back to what she had been, to the life her father had wanted for her. That tide, as Kaïnam would say, had gone out and would not return.

  The others had paused to allow the two to make their farewells, but she did not pretend they could not hear, did not pretend not to see Ao’s quick, worried glance her way, or the way Kaïnam sat more firmly into his saddle, as though preoccupied with the calmly grazing beast, or the way Jer let the reins of the wagon rest loosely as he studied the wide open sky, watching the gentle curve of a raptor overhead hunting for a rabbit in the fields stretching below.

  Mahault had been given the chance to train as a solitaire once before, and abandoned it when something stronger than a dream had summoned her away, the whisper of the guardian’s voice, telling her that she was needed. Her friends thought she had made a sacrifice; she knew they expected she would take this second chance, grab it with both hands.

  She wanted to. She desperately wanted to.

  But that tide, too, had gone out; that road would not be ridden. The solitaires could give her a future, a way to make her way in the world for the rest of her life, without uncertainty or fear. She would have a four-legged, faithful companion at all times, never be alone, never be subject to any restrictions save the ones she accepted of her own will, never bound to a situation she could not accept.

  A dream. What she wanted, held against what she needed. . . . In the end, even if her father had disowned her, even if her heart called her one direction, she was still a maiar’s daughter, born and trained to a responsibility beyond herself. The independence that she had craved, the freedom . . . she knew it now for an illusion. The moment she understood what was at stake, to consider what might happen if Jerzy were to fail, her loyalties had been struck.

  “Thank you,” she said to Keren, and meant it. “That . . . means much to me. But I will ride with Vineart Jerzy.”

  Chapter 3

  THE GROUNDING

  Spring

  One month each season, Ximen made a point of visiting with the men who stood watch over the Grounding, the Seven Fortifications who protected the holdings and fields their great-grandsires carved from this harsh landscape, and made their own. Three Fortifications were on the Wall to the west, two stationed to the north, one south, and the seabound patrol, historically and uselessly set to watch for aid that never came across the waters.

  Traditionally, the visit was to ensure that the men kept up their guard, and to hear any mutters or complaints the men felt could not be brought to their commanders. The truth, he had discovered early on, was that each visit ensured that he, their Praepositus, did not become so entrenched within the walls of the Grounding that he forgot the world outside.

  Or, Ximen thought grimly, stretching his legs as he walked and feeling a pleasant burn in his muscles as they climbed the stone steps to the top of the wall, that he did not go mad, bound up with the paperwork and petty arguments required of leadership.

  “The Sixth Fortification, my lord.”

  Ximen nodded, acknowledging the troop leader’s presentation. The Six walked the wall against the inner lands, the hills to the northwest, where harsh winter storms came down without warning, and loper-cats, who could kill a man with one swipe of their paws, prowled the night. It was one of the oldest Fortifications, and one of the proudest, the grandsons of men who served there vying for that assignment when they came of age. Aware of that pride-of-service, Ximen had taken extra time with his appearance this morning, adjusting the spotted loper’s-skin belt that looped over his hips so that the jeweled knife hanging there caught the sunlight just so. The blade hadn’t taken a true edge in over a generation, but it had been worn by the first Lord of the Grounding and thus did not require drawing, merely displaying, a link to the men who had gone before him. The belt itself had been made from a beast that tried to come over the wall and had been killed by a man of the Sixth in Ximen’s grandfather’s day. Every man standing to attention knew the story of how that man had died to save his lord’s life from its poisoned claws.

  Ximen would show them no less honor, now.

  “Boys,” the voice next to him muttered. “Weak-chinned boys hiding behind their little knives.”

  “Be respectful, or be silent,” Ximen said, barely moving his mouth as he spoke, to hide the rebuke from their audience. He did not know why the vine-mage had chosen to travel with him; he had not summoned the man, had not told him of his plans, merely walked out in the morning to find him there, leg slung over a wild-eyed beast who shied away when a stable girl came to take the reins and would not settle until the mage was off its back and paces away.

  The older man scowled, but fell silent. His cloak was raised to protect his skin from the sunlight, and the hood pulled forward to shade his aged face. If it weren’t for the belt double-wrapped at his waist, the long-handled spoon dangling at his hip, he would look like a flesh-eating shade out of legend, hiding from the natural light, intent on doing harm to the living.

  Ximen shut down the thought that such legends often came from truth, and focused on the men waiting for him. They were strong and brave, their features sharp and intent, their skins weathered from exposure to the elements, eighty-four scions of the strongest blood of the Grounding. Most had the broad cheekbones and bronzed coloring of the native families, but occasionally a narrow-boned face, pale-colored hair, or startlingly blue eyes like Ximen’s own appeared, a throwback to one of the original Grounded.

  “Next week is the Day of Grounding,” he told them, letting his voice carry on the rising breeze, willing it to travel over the assembled ranks, down the line and beyond, out into the danger-filled hills and whatever might be listening there. “The day that commemorates how our forefathers came to this land, full of hope, only to be dashed against the shores by betrayal and greed.”

  Others might hear and believe only the softer version of history; how their forefathers explored under the flag of
the old world, and, on arriving here, cast away that flag and struck out on their own. These men, though, who gave up their lives for the safety of others; they knew some of the truth.

  Some. Not all. That alone was the Praepositus’s burden to carry.

  “But they did not let that betrayal break them,” Ximen went on, warming to his speech. “They did not let that greed overwhelm them, or make them bitter. No! They landed on their knees but rose to their feet, and claimed this land they had been promised by the lords of the old lands. Here they built their homes, here they tended the soil, and made it into a home.”

  A home? A prison, more like. Bounded by the too-wide seas on one end and the hills at their back, where even these men went only in patrols of ten or more, heavily armed, and counted themselves fortunate if they were not attacked by things howling out of the night. . . .

  As he, Praepositus, was bounded and hounded by the man at his side. Ximen kept a shudder of revulsion from ripping his skin as the vine-mage stepped a pace too close. The man was bathed and groomed as befitted his station, no different from any other day in all the years Ximen had been forced to deal with the mage, and yet there was something rotted in his smell today that made Ximen feel much as the gelding had; the need to throw the man from his back and race away.

  Like the gelding, he could do no such thing. They were bound together, he and the vine-mage, for good or ill, to achieve their goals.

  The thought made him ill, but now was far too late to reconsider the wisdom of that alliance; events were in motion and the men were waiting, hanging on his words as they carried through the air, down the lines. “Next week we will venerate those men who had such courage. And you will be with us on that shoreline in spirit and in courage, if not in flesh. We carry your sacrifice as we carry theirs, and we will honor you in the flames, even as we honor them.”