If one, it supported his orders, and his actions. If the other . . .
If the other, then his vows meant nothing, his life meant nothing, and he was as apostate as any, he and the others of the Collegium who had agreed to cast that name on another. For his own sanity, his ability to function, Neth had to assume that the figurehead had been an illusion, some aetherspell designed to put doubt and fear into their hearts.
When his party had ridden into The Berengia, they had been met by four other riders, including Brother Oren, who had reported that Vineart Jerzy had indeed returned to his master’s House, and looked to be staying there, doing nothing out of the ordinary, nothing untoward. Further, Oren reported that he had spoken with the Vineart, and received a pledge that he would take no further action that would distress the Collegium.
Brion, at his left, had snorted at that. It was Brion’s opinion that Jerzy could not help but distress anyone with common sense, and his companions even more so.
The desire to speak with Jerzy, to query him as to what had happened in Irfan, how he had set the fire that blazed so fiercely that it turned an entire sandy shoreline into an impassable glassy surface, to discover what drove him there, and then drove him back, warred with the orders, carried by Oren, to return to the Collegium.
Jerzy, it seemed, was no longer the Collegium’s greatest concern.
And that, Neth admitted, striding down the corridor to the chamber where he had been summoned to gather, was perhaps the greatest cause of his discomfort. Something was wrong. Something he was not part of, was not included in. He could feel it in the very air of the Collegium.
“You doubt me?” A man’s voice that caught at the edge of Neth’s awareness, enough to make him turn his head to catch the response.
“He’s a slippery one, even for a Vineart.”
It was Oren’s voice that caused Neth to check his pace, and slip against the wall, barely breathing. The voices had come from one of the rooms off the main way, a classroom, or office.
“He swore it on his master’s ring.” Brother Edmun, Neth identified the first voice. Mid-years, moderate of voice but fierce of temper. What business did he have with Oren?
“Brother Neth spoke truly, there is no malice in Vineart Jerzy’s heart, only sorrow at his master’s death. He has begun gathering allies, continuing the work his master started.” Edmun paused. “I believe that he does in fact have knowledge of the source of our difficulties, and is planning a strike.
“And so, if we leave him be, he will do the difficult task of taking down the one who causes unrest.”
“And if we leave him to it, and follow on his heels”—Oren’s voice practically trembled in excitement, the anticipation of a student seeking to impress his teacher—“then we will be able to claim the glory of saving the Lands Vin for ourselves. Those within the Collegium who stand against us will have no choice but to silence their objections, and we will be able to guide the Collegium into its better destiny. And then we will deal with these Vinearts, who do not know their place within the greater balance.”
Neth rested the back of his head against the tapestry and considered the pain that had started between his brows as dispassionately as possible, as befitted an Heir of Sin Washer. All the hesitations, the uncertainty, the arguments over apostasy and the direction the Collegium should or indeed might take . . .
Had he been so innocent, to not realize a schism had grown? That one of his own students was on the other side? Perhaps so.
He had hoped for better from Oren, had hoped he would be clear-eyed enough to see the long view. But then, he supposed the boy thought the same of him. And the idea that they should allow the Vineart to sully his hands, cross lines that they, Washers, were meant to maintain, and then come in after the fact and act as though they were somehow still clean-handed, despite having watched and done nothing to prevent it.
Worse, if Neth knew his brothers, and he did, it was unlikely that this was merely observed. The things he had seen, heard, for the past few years unfolded like a leaf in spring, and Neth was rocked by the understanding that so little had been left to chance.
No, his brothers had not caused this; they had not instigated the attacks, nor sent the serpents, not attacked the villages or vineyards. But they had taken full advantage of the confusion.
Jerzy had accused Brother Darian of complicity in the accusation of Vineart Giordan and himself of apostasy. Not directly, no; the boy had been too cautious, the way all slaves were, too careful, the way Vinearts became. No wonder it was so easy to suspect them, the way they protected themselves, protected their beloved yards . . . And was that not Sin Washer’s Command? Were they not merely what they had been commanded to become? As soon to blame the bird for flying, or the fish for swimming. They were the balance, whatever others might claim. Vineart and Men of Power . . . Washers were merely the fulcrum, essential to the balance, but useless without the counterweights.
And he had been part of it, misdirected by forces within the Collegium. He had suspected they were there, the inevitable currents that moved any gathering of men, but had assumed he worked with the most powerful current. And now, it seemed, that he did not.
The other two continued their discussion, but Neth had heard enough, and moved on, forcing his body to move casually, normally, as he walked past the doorway and did not so much as glance sideways to indicate any interest at all in who else might be in that room.
A hundred thoughts worked their way through his brain, trying to see a way to stop or circumvent the plan he had heard unfolding, but without a better sense of who the players were, or how deep it went—Brother Ranklin? Was it possible? No, he would not, could not believe that—there was only so much Neth could do. He could not simply begin questioning every Brother in the Collegium halls, keeping a checklist of who said what. It would take too long, for one, and his brothers, clearly, were perfectly willing to lie.
There was only one thing he could do that would make any difference at all. The fact that it slid so neatly with his own thoughts might have been cause for concern—was he doing the right thing, or the comfortable thing—but in the end, it was the only option left. Reversing his steps with a casual turn, Neth headed not to his meeting, but the outer fields.
The Collegium was spread out over a flat valley, with cliffs at their back and a river alongside. The air was sweet-smelling, and the ground underfoot muddy, but Neth gave himself permission to enjoy the fresh spring air, putting aside his worries until he reached the end of the path, and the practice field. Brion was there as expected, working with a group of gangly boys who clearly did not know which end to fall on.
“Again,” the Washer said, his thickly muscled arm pushing one of the boys forward. “And this time, try to remember to duck rather than standing there like a cow.”
“Duck, cow, either way we’re meat,” one of the boys muttered, and Brion cuffed him hard against the back of the head. “You won’t always have a solitaire for hire to protect you,” he rumbled at them. “Nor will a brigand always recognize your robes in time to stop, or even care to. Even Sin Washer went down before knives, you young fool.”
“A lost cause,” Neth said, amused despite his worries. “As they all are . . . at first.”
When he had taken Brion with him to confront Malech and young Jerzy, other Brothers had stepped up to teach the defense classes, but it was understood that Brion was the best. He had the stories to tell, the scars to show, to scare arrogant youths into cautious, prepared men. Neth had no right to take him away again, not so soon. Not when he would be needed.
But there was no one else he could trust. There was no meme-courien nearby to hire, it would take too long to summon one, and any bird enspelled to bring a message to House Malech could easily be intercepted in the same fashion. Only Brion, with his pragmatic view of the world, his ties to the outside world as strong, even now, as his oath to the Collegium, his knowledge of what was truly happening and not merely the stories carried back
. . . only Brion could be trusted. More to the point, Brion had an excellent chance of actually making it there.
“I need you to take a message for me,” he said when the class was dismissed, and Brion wandered over to see what the other man wanted. “To Vineart Jerzy.”
Brion raised an eyebrow at that, but waited for details before asking questions.
“No one can know where you are going, or why.”
It was a small thing, perhaps a useless thing, in this maddened world. But Neth was an honorable man, and Jerzy deserved to know.
* * *
ONCE, WHAT SEEMED like years ago, Kaïnam had spent the morning hours considering philosophical tracts or discussing the previous day’s events with his sister, listening to her far-wiser evaluation.
He had never expected to be standing in an open field on a spring morning far from his island home, learning how to use magic to fight a war.
“To the skies, rise. To the winds, flow. Go.”
Kaïnam swallowed the spellwine even as he uttered the final word, and lifted his hands palm up, as though releasing something.
Above him, two gray-feathered doves fluttered away, rising into the sky just as he had commanded them.
“And that’s how you do it,” Jerzy said, watching from his seat on the low stone wall. “No need to maintain a full coop for emergencies: any bird can be spelled to become a messenger if you have the correct decantation. Although I would not advise using a raptor, as they tend to become distracted by the sight of a rabbit.”
“Useful to know,” Kaïnam said dryly, still watching the birds flutter on their way back to the House, where Ao waited. They had gone to the far edges of Jerzy’s yards, the stone buildings a distant blur on the horizon, across endless gnarled vines showing tiny leaflets against the pale-blue sky. In his home, even the winters were not this sere, the blues never so harsh.
Home. His father, dead. His brother, now Principal, taking the stone-carved seat and determining how Atakus might sail. He did not begrudge Nilëas the role. In truth, his second-eldest brother was an excellent choice, both experienced and energetic, and if not prone to deep thoughts, willing to surround himself with those who were.
Much like their father, in fact. A better Principal than he, Kaïnam, could ever have been. The thought stung, but that made it no less true. He still served Atakus. He still could protect it, in his own way.
“Can other creatures be used for messengers?” he asked, as much to distract himself as true curiosity. “A dog, perhaps? Or a horse?” Birds were too obvious, too easy for an archer or a hawker to take down from the sky. A dog could cover ground without notice, and who would think the horse, rather than the rider, would carry a message?
“Not a dog, no. Like a raptor, it’s too likely to be distracted.” Jerzy frowned, leaning back on the wall, comfortable as though he were lounging on a padded dais, and once again Kaïnam was struck by the thought that, were he to meet this man in another setting, he would still know him for a Vineart, even without the silver spoon that hung on his belt. The half-drowned boy he had pulled from the sea during a storm had died, as surely as the slave he had been before that was dead, and only the Vineart—cold, distant, removed from the world—remained.
That was a good thing, Kaï thought. What they were doing, the lures they were setting, it was no work for the innocent.
“A horse, though, that might work. It’s something to think about.” And Jerzy’s mouth twisted a little, giving him a darker mien. “If we survive, that is.”
Kaïnam had no response to that. He was getting ready to ride out to meet a messenger from the Scholars of Altenne, who had finally responded to Jerzy’s request for a meeting. It was risky; their home marched alongside the Collegium, and it was not certain where their loyalties resided, which was why Kaïnam was going to meet them at a midpoint site rather than allowing them to come onto Jerzy’s lands. But if the scholars were willing to add their knowledge, then the risk was worth it.
“I do not—” he started to say, when he was felled by a sudden, blinding headache.
Ships, crashing through a lightning storm where there was no rain. The sloping shoreline, so familiar it sent a pang through his breast, the tall white towers of the royal seat rising against the deep blue sky . . . men coming ashore, weapons drawn, met by Atakuan warriors, and the clash of steel, all seen from a distance, as though someone else watched, and did nothing. . . .
“We dare not interfere,” a voice told him, a man’s voice, echoing with the cawing of birds, their wings lifting the voice and carrying it to him. A sensation like spellwine, but harsher, smokier, filled his throat and nose, gagging him. “We cannot interfere. We have not the men, we are too far from home. We watch, we warn.”
“Who are you?” he managed, even as the view swung around again, as though the watcher were on a boat that had hewed sharply starboard. Two ships, bearing banners Kaïnam did not recognize, a fluttering standard of black, red and gold.
The Exiles have returned the voice told him, fading out as though falling asleep, or moving away swiftly, then surged again. This we tell you: the Exiles now hold Atakus.
“EXILES?
“It’s a legend,” Ao said, pouring a cup of vin ordinaire from the pitcher Detta had brought them along with a platter of dried meats and greens no one seemed interested in eating. “Just a legend.”
“Tell me.” Kaïnam, his head still aching, was in no mood for a drawn-out story. “Because that legend has just broken through Master Edon’s greatest spell and overrun my home. They now hold access to one of the major ports, essential for all who travel that route, within striking range of the rest of the Vin Lands. If they belong to the enemy, if this is his first overt move, it was a masterful one, and we have no response to it.”
“We have one response,” Jerzy said quietly. He had recovered from the sudden intrusion into their heads faster, and his eyes had a peculiar shine to them that the others could not place. “The message was from Caul, the speaker one of those your contact has set to watch the seas.”
Kaïnam nodded. “That accent, it makes sense. It would match their manners, too. But to send a message that way—Caul seems to have less resistance to using magic, at need, than they have always claimed.”
“That was no magic of the Lands Vin,” Jerzy said grimly. “I could recognize the source of the message, but not the means. Whatever legacy they use, it is not one I know.”
Once he would have said that was impossible. Now, he wondered that he knew anything at all.
“Like the enemy?” Mahault said, her expression worried. They had not heard the shout, those in the House. Only Kaïnam, and Jerzy.
“No,” Jerzy corrected her. “Different even beyond that. Whatever the Caulic king is up to, he has found a source of magic within his own lands that is not of Sin Washer’s breaking. I dislike it, with all else, but it is a worry we have no time for, now.” Caul, for now, was their ally—and one that had just proven both powerful and useful. Later, if there was a later, the source of their magic could be investigated.
“I must go to them.” Kaïnam’s worries coalesced into a sudden, solid determination. “I need to be there.”
“How?” Ao was not unkind, but practical. “Even if you made it safely to the coast, you can’t sail the Heart on your own, and by the time we rounded up a crew . . .” Unspoken but understood, that neither Ao nor Mahault could—would—go with him. Atakus was his concern, not theirs, except as part of the greater whole.
“Anyway, even if you were there, what would you do? Kaï, the Exiles . . . they are a legend, like I said. For them to come out of nowhere, like this, and attack Atakus . . . are we sure this unknown speaker, with unknown magic, can be trusted?”
“Tell me the legend,” Jerzy said in a voice that brooked no denial or interruption.
Ao watched Kaïnam until the older man nodded his reluctant agreement, acknowledging the truth of the trader’s words, then he shrugged, leaning back in his chai
r and stretching his legs out in front of him, the movement still stiffly awkward.
“Mayhaps two centuries ago, when Iaja was ruled by one lord, before the cities broke away, there were eleven families. Great Families, they were called. And they fought like prince-mages among each other, quarreling with politics and swords rather than magic, each trying to gain the advantage and put their own blood onto the throne.
“One family was smarter, or sneakier, than the others, though, and made an alliance with another family, planning a voyage of exploration that would win them lands that would set their families apart in fame and fortune and give them a clear, shared claim on the throne. A daughter from one and a son from the other would marry and bind the families together. One, they said, would be more powerful than two.”
“If this had a happy ending, it would not be a legend,” Mahault said.
“Truth. The ships of one family turned back halfway, returning to Iaja claiming a storm separated them from the others. True or not, no one could say. But the ships of that other family were never seen again, and their fortunes back home fell immediately, their eligible daughters married into other, lesser Houses, until even their name disappeared.
“But their banner remained, in the history books and the military rosters. Red, black, and gold.”
Ao finished his story, and there was a pause.
“Ximen is an Iajan name,” Jerzy said finally, thoughtful.
“Yes,” Kaïnam said, his hand resting on his belt where his sword should hang. “Yes, it is.”
Chapter 15
Jerzy did not go to bed the night before, even after the others faded and went off, parsing the notes and books Malech and his master Josia had maintained, adding his own where it seemed useful or relevant. The discovery of Caulic magic, however used to their benefit, had unnerved him more than he had thought at first and driven home how fragile his own plans were. He needed to do more.
His skin was too pale and his eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion, his hand was sore and back muscles tight, and the study looked as though a storm had ripped through it, leaving wineskins and cups as debris, but when Mahault came to find him, midmorning, there was an air of satisfaction around him that she could not miss.
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