The Shattered Vine

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “Harming the vines . . . it is counter to everything we have ever been. And the Vinearts are not the only thread in this knot.”

  “The men of power are as they have ever been, Neth. Suspicious, proud, cautious, and protective. Something has pulled them tight . . . that something is a Vineart. Whatever began this, began with magic. Only by bringing them all to heel can we return the balance to where it needs be.

  “I do not choose this lightly. You, of all the others, you have seen firsthand the danger we face.”

  “Yes.” Danger without, and within, although he did not say that. If Ranklin did not know of the schism, of his own Brothers, men he had taught now twisting that training for their own benefit, it might be possible for the old man to never have to find out. And if he did . . . then he had not spoken of it to Neth for a reason, and Neth would honor that.

  Blind faith was not the way of the Brotherhood, but obedience honored Sin Washer’s sacrifice.

  They ranged themselves around the cask, sitting innocently on the low table, its aged wood a sharp contrast to the polished surface of the table. A tiny, pale gold spider crawled down one side, taking careful steps, no doubt shocked to find itself outside the cool, quiet environs of the Cellar.

  “If this is to be done, it needs be done now.” Omar turned to fetch a cup from the sideboard display, his hand reaching first for an ornate one made of glass, the colored bits sparkling like an artisan’s toy, but then his hand moved to the left slightly and instead he picked up a simple hammered copper cup. When the others looked at him, he made a face, as though uncomfortable with his own actions. “This thing we do, it is not pretty. Pretty things should not be used for it.”

  Ranklin laughed, a soft exhalation of air that was not amused, but approving. “Even so, young Omar, even so. Come, let us do this.”

  “Let me,” Neth said, stepping forward to take the cup.

  “You did not agree with my decision,” his old teacher said, surprised. “And now you volunteer to perform the decantation?”

  “As Omar said, this is not pretty. Let it be done by one who knows firsthand the damage it will do.” The other two had never visited a vintnery, had never spoken with Vinearts, conversed with them, or preached, or offered solace to their slaves. Neth knew what he was about to do and took the weight of that knowledge to heart.

  If he was to be guilty, let his hands be bloody, as well.

  The cup touched his hands, and his fingers curled around it, even as Isaac picked up the glass bulb that would draw the liquid from the bunghole at the top.

  The stopper was newer than the cask, proof that it had been maintained over the years, and when removed the scent of the wine drifted into the room, musty and sharp, like the prick of thorns on the tongue. The bulb filled with liquid, a paler orange-red than he had expected, almost the color of rust on a hinge, or the faded cheeks of one of the portraits in the Main Hall.

  Then it was being transferred to his glass, and Neth had to steady his hand or else let them see how it shook. With this decantation, he would bring a blight that would wither every grape on the vine, shake the confidence of every Vineart. . . .

  “Ranklin! Stop this!”

  The shout did make his hand shake, then, but thankfully Isaac had stopped pouring.

  “You interrupt, in my private quarters?”

  Three men stood in the doorway: Brother Weyland, a heavyset man from the lands north of Caul, and two others. Neth recognized them, although he did not know their names. They were looking at Ranklin, but their gazes flickered back and forth the way men do when they are expecting trouble—or out to cause some.

  “This can wait.”

  “No, it cannot. I cannot agree with this.”

  That was surprising. If Weyland was a member of the schism, then he should—

  “You think to act in half measures, as though that will solve this. The Vinearts must be brought to heel, not merely checked.”

  Ranklin remained seated, calmly observing the intruders. “Your wishes were too extreme. Our responsibility is to hold the Lands Vin together, not split them apart.”

  Something inside Neth hurt, hearing confirmation that his old teacher had indeed known of the schism and not stopped it.

  The three men came into the room, their postures promising trouble, even as their words remained civilized. “This is our only chance to shatter the Second Growth, once and for all. To finish the job Sin Washer started.”

  “Apostasy,” the aide whispered, astonished, horrified. “You blaspheme Zatim’s Blood.”

  “I am defending it,” Weyland roared, his long, white-blond mustache practically bristling with anger. “Vinearts were meant to be servants, not . . . not equals. The magic must be controlled. And not by lordlings or princes!” He stepped forward, clearly not thinking how his actions would be interpreted within the close confines of the chambers, with seven bodies already tensed.

  Omar swung first, but Weyland blocked and countered, and then it became a melee, Ranklin falling backward, his voice, once so robust, barely able to make itself heard above the fight. Even as Neth watched, the old man stiffened, as though spasming, then fell limp.

  Neth felt his breath catch, but he had no time to go to the old man’s aid, even if there was anything he could have done. He sideswiped a wild swing and had barely enough time to note that none of his fellow combatants had taken lessons with Brion, when he found himself next to the cask.

  The old, aged cask. Set high up on a table that was polished with care every morning. . . .

  The oldest legends said that even after his death Zatim Sin Washer spoke with the first of the Washers, those whose hands had been washed in his actual blood. Neth had always thought that a fable, until the voice whispered inside his own ear. Harsh, almost foreign sounding, sharp like the crack of lightning, dense as the roll of thunder, and impossible to ignore or deny.

  Stop it. End this. Protect my brothers, heir to my blood.

  His hands lifted, touched, pushed, Neth watching them as though they belonged to someone else. The cask shifted, rolled, fell, shattered. The ancient slats of wood splintered, the noise enough to break through the violence and cause them all to turn, and stare. The floor, now coated with the brick-brown wine, slicked enough that those who tried to turn, to rescue even a drop of the precious liquid, slipped and fell, hitting the floor hard enough that they lay still; if still alive, unable to move.

  Neth stood, and watched, and did not hear the voice again.

  Chapter 16

  Jerzy had not slept at all in nearly three days, since the meme-courier had departed. Part of him knew that he could not continue that way, that sooner rather than later the healwine and the tai would force his body into collapse—or kill him—but even if he had been able to sleep without nightmares, there was no time for it.

  “Master Malech gave me a mirror that would allow him to reach me, when I was in Aleppan. It was broken—when the serving boy tried to kill me, it was broken in the fight. I thought he had done it on purpose, to keep me from reaching my master . . . if he was in thrall to the mage, he might have been drawn by the scent of magic, not even knowing what it was.”

  He was talking too much, too fast. They already knew what they needed to know. Jerzy stopped, pushed his shoulders back, took a deep breath, not looking at the other three in the room.

  “It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that there is a spell that works through mirrors. This,” and Jerzy indicated the mirror propped up against the wall, “has always been in Master Malech’s study, propped up at an angle that reflected nothing. Not until the spell was decanted.”

  Mahault stepped forward, looking into the mirror. It was as wide across as Jerzy could reach, and almost as tall as he was—when he had first seen it, his entire length had fit easily within the silvered depths—framed by delicate gold and silver wires worked into lifelike vines. As Jerzy had said, nothing—not even her form, directly in front of it—reflected in the dull silvered s
urface.

  “This . . . can be spoken through?”

  “Yes.” Jerzy hoped so, anyway. He had never used the small hand mirror Malech had given him, so he wasn’t sure exactly how it worked. The boy he had been would not dared have asked Malech for specifics or details, but trusted that his master would tell him whatever he needed to know.

  “And he would have . . . eventually,” Jerzy said softly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just . . . there is a notation in one of Master Malech’s cellar books that I think is the right decantation.” The problem was, the notation had not specified which legacy to use. It would not be a healing spell, Jerzy was quite certain of that, and Malech had not used weatherspells overmuch, so that was unlikely . . . that left fire, earth, and aether.

  Earth seemed an odd choice, considering the mirror was not made of living things. He would put that aside for the moment. That left fire and aether.

  “Aether is rare, and expensive. I would say that pointed to fire . . . except that Master Malech did not use this spell easily, so it would not have been of his making.”

  “So, aether,” Ao said, confident as a master.

  “That would be my thought.”

  “And you cast this decantation and it . . . does what?”

  Jerzy ran a hand over his face, noting with surprise that his chin was scratchy. He did not have to shave more than a few times a week, but he must have forgotten. A quick look into a smaller mirror, faceup on the table in front of him, confirmed the suspicion. His chin was indeed covered with dark red stubble.

  The mirror also revealed the fact that his eyes were blue-shadowed, and his cheeks hollow from stress and lack of sleep, and Jerzy thought that perhaps there was a reason that, for all its wealth, House Malech did not contain many mirrors.

  “I’m not sure exactly what it does,” Jerzy said slowly, reluctantly. “This mirror’s old, older than Malech—he inherited it from his master, along with the yards. I think it . . . the decantation should form a connection between the large mirror and the ones I made for you.” Mahault, Ao, and Kaïnam each stepped forward at that, and picked up one of the smaller mirrors: actually, three shards broken from a larger piece and the edges smoothed with a firespell so that they would not cut their owners.

  “And then we speak into it, and you see us? Hear us?” Ao looked absolutely fascinated, while Kaïnam appeared slightly queasy.

  “Yes.”

  “Amazing. If only they weren’t so fragile—we would lose more on a caravan than we could recoup in sales, I suspect. Although . . .”

  “Ao. This is not a tradesgood.”

  “Everything someone wants can be a tradesgood, Jer,” Ao said in return, but his tone was light enough to be teasing. “All right, we can wait for another day to discuss it. Do whatever it is you’re going to do.”

  “Bring me your mirror,” Jerzy said, reaching for the aeatherwine flask. “Lean it against the wall, like that,” and he indicated the wall opposite the mirror, so that the surfaces could reflect into each other.

  Ao did so and then stepped back, while Jerzy poured the spellwine into his tasting spoon and lifted it to his tongue.

  Aetherwine seemed to change its personality every time he tasted it. Here, it was smooth and sweet, almost overripe the way late summer fruit became when it hung too long on the tree. Jerzy let it soak into the surface of his tongue, breathing in the aroma until it filled his awareness and he could feel the odd tickling tingle of the spellwine beginning to rise.

  Turning, he touched the larger mirror with his hand, letting the Guardian guide him as he imagined the mirror behind him, asking the larger mirror to recognize it, identify it, own it.

  “Reflect and return,” he told the larger mirror, waiting until the surface shimmered slightly in acknowledgment, and then turned to the smaller one. “Return and reflect.” It took longer, the smaller sheet seeming to resist the order, until it, too, shimmered and fogged over. Jerzy felt a click inside him, as though the two surfaces had been pieced together, and swallowed the spellwine, his “go” barely audible even to himself.

  “Sometimes you command,” he could hear Malech telling him, a long-ago lecture. “And sometimes you coax. Knowing the difference can make all of the difference.”

  “Did it work?” Ao waited, staring at the smaller mirror with fascination.

  “There’s ever only one way to know,” Jerzy said. He tried to hide his uncertainty, stepping back to allow Ao to reclaim the smaller mirror.

  “So, what do I do?”

  “Place your hand on the mirror, and repeat the decantation. Words, hear. Words return.”

  Ao repeated the spell, his voice steady, and the surface of his mirror cleared, reflecting first his own round face, scrunched up in concentration, and then fogged over again. When it recleared, it showed not Ao’s face, but the lower half of Jerzy’s body, where he stood in front of the larger mirror.

  The larger mirror, on the other hand, now showed Ao’s face.

  “That . . . is the most incredible thing I have ever seen.”

  There was an odd lapse: Jerzy could hear Ao’s voice behind him, while he watched the mirror-figure’s mouth move, and then a second later, he heard the words again from the mirror’s surface.

  “Incredible,” Ao said again, before Mahault stepped forward, her face bright with anticipation. “And now mine!”

  Jerzy, still puzzling over the lapse between seeing and hearing, shook his head and turned around, directing her to put her shard where Ao’s had been.

  “I need you to stand between the two mirrors.”

  “What?” That made Mahault look slightly alarmed. “You didn’t ask Ao to do that.”

  “Ao is already connected to the House.” He didn’t look at Ao’s vine-grafted legs, but the implication was clear. “This . . . I need to . . . introduce you to the mirror.”

  This wasn’t part of Master Malech’s incantation: the understanding what needed to be done must come from the dragon: it knew more than even it was aware, absorbing it all those years of watching Malech work from its perch above the door. He would not trust the earlier vina-connection here. Not for this.

  “All right.” She stood in the middle, slightly closer to her own mirror, and waited, her hands at her hips and anticipation in every bone of her body.

  This time, before Jerzy decanted the spell, he called up his own quiet-magic and, one hand pressed to the flat of the main mirror, extended the other toward Mahault. “Touch my hand. Palm to palm.”

  Her hand was cool and slightly sweaty, and when he invited the mirror to acknowledge her, something sparked between their palms, making her gasp, although she did not pull away.

  “It’s done?”

  Jerzy nodded. “I think so.” He dropped his hand and asked the mirror to find Mahault. The surface shimmered again, then showed Mahault . . . but from an odd angle, as though the mirror were placed by the doorway, not against the wall.

  Mahault let out an exclamation of surprise and awe, as though she had never seen magic decanted before. “Ao’s right. That spell is . . .”

  “Is limited to those who are connected to the main mirror,” Jerzy reminded her. “And it requires quiet-magic to operate.”

  “Oh.”

  “And, no,” he said, before Ao could even open his mouth, “I hear what you’re thinking and no, I don’t know how to make the main mirror, and even if I did I would not try and change the spell so that anyone could decant it. There is a reason Vinearts are held to their vineyards, remember? And part of it is so that magic like this doesn’t get into the larger world.”

  Ao started to protest, and Jerzy overrode him ruthlessly. “Don’t you understand? This is a prince-mage spell. If anyone knew I had it, could use it, they would assume that I was the one behind the attacks!”

  The truth of that silenced even Ao.

  AS HE HAD a season before, Jerzy once again found himself standing at the edges of the House, watching his friends
ride away. Kaïnam had departed that morning, to connect with the Caulic ships heading for Atakus. Now Mahault, too, was leaving, although merely heading northwest, following up on her plan to meet with the solitaires under Agreement with Lord Ranulf.

  “You think that this will work?”

  Mahault finished checking the saddle band, pressing her elbow into the horse’s belly until it exhaled and allowed her to tighten the buckle, and turned to face the Vineart.

  “I don’t know. Keren said he would welcome another fighter, and not ask closely about my training. Once I’m there, I should be able to make some noise.”

  Jerzy had already set the cat among pigeons with the Washers; now it was Mahault’s turn. Her plan had been simple: if Kaïnam was right, and their enemy was finally attacking by sea, then they needed to distract his attention, make him less able to protect the ships against Caul’s attack.

  A band of solitaires riding the Berengian coastline, calming fears and training villagers to properly defend their land, might attract more attention, and require the enemy to put more of his energy into that, allowing Jerzy more time to prepare.

  “If Ranulf lets you redirect his hires . . .”

  “If I choose my words properly,” she said with a smile, “he won’t have a choice. Keren and the others will present it to him as a finished Agreement.”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with Ao.”

  “Most likely,” she agreed comfortably. “Jer . . .”

  “It’s all right.” And it was. Unlike Mahault, Jerzy hadn’t seen Kaïnam’s leaving as any kind of betrayal, and he understood why she was riding off now. The fact that there was a hollow feeling in his chest had nothing at all to do with that, nor the fact that he had not been sleeping at all, recently. Every time he closed his eyes, the Root pushed at him, seeking entrance he dared not give. But the worry that chewed at him now was directed outward, not in. They would handle the physical world, the politics and power. Magic was his responsibility. His alone.