The Shattered Vine

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “You are alone.”

  The voice was soft, coming from somewhere to Jerzy’s left, and he turned around quickly, caught off guard and unprepared.

  “Quite alone.” The speaker was tall, cloaked in a hooded robe that fell past his knees. His feet, Jerzy noticed, looking down, were also bare, the skin wrinkled and twisted as the roots around them.

  Even as he watched, those toes lengthened, digging themselves into the soil, burrowing like grubs. Jerzy jerked back, nauseated.

  “All alone,” the voice repeated, and the softness became mockery. “Strong, yes. Stronger than any other. But I am stronger yet, stronger than you can ever know.”

  “Show yourself,” Jerzy said. “If you are so strong, stop hiding.”

  A sudden gust of wind rose and pushed the hood away.

  Jerzy had not been sure what to expect. The calm, weathered face looking back at him was not it. An angular chin and cheekbones, deep-set dark eyes, and hair fading from a high forehead, rumpled and graying: he could have been anyone, any stranger on the road, any farmer or trader in his unadorned clothing. No belt wrapped around his waist, no tasting spoon or flask rested at his hip. Daring greatly, Jerzy reached out and caught the man’s hand, turning it to look for the Vinemark.

  The entire back of the man’s hand was covered in a wine-colored splotch, darker and pushed in at the middle, jagged around the edges. It looked unhealthy, and Jerzy recoiled, dropping the hand as though it was covered in plague-spot.

  “You called me,” the mage said, lifting his hands palm upward, mocking the act of surrender. “And so here I am. I give you the opportunity of facing me, of offering up your skills against mine. Are you not honored?”

  He knew. Cold sweat flooded Jerzy, making his stomach churn and his gorge rise. He knew that Jerzy, no matter what he had done, what offering he had taken, the slaves dropping without a sound as he pulled their strength from them, could not stand against his long-soaked strength. He was taunting the Vineart, the way a cat might play with a bird before dispatching it.

  “Shall we begin?”

  That was the only warning Jerzy had, before the battle was joined. A curve of the mage’s hand, a muttered phrase, and magic slammed from the ether, the giant cat’s-paw that had attacked him once before, only here the claws no phantom but real, bone-white and sharp, and swiftly coated in red from the cuts it left across Jerzy’s face. He staggered back, stumbling over the roots that had stilled for now, poised as though somehow listening to the sounds of mage-war around them.

  Jerzy retaliated instinctively even as his body moved back, slapping the cat’s-paw with a wave of quiet-magic, but he did not have a spell ready, could not control the quiet-magic here, in this unfamiliar place, distracted by the strangeness, the unechoing silence, and the paw returned for another blow, the air moving with a hint of the taint in its wake.

  The Exile stood still, his face showing only a derisive pity.

  “You should have kept running,” he said. “If you had run, you would not have seen me coming, and I might have been merciful.” He shook his head, making a tsking noise. “I cannot allow challenges, Vineart.”

  The cat’s-paw shimmered, becoming more solid, and swooped down again. Jerzy fell and rolled on the dry soil, his hand catching onto one of the roots in his way. It burned him, an impossible heat that somehow did not hurt but dug into him, touching the legacies gathered within.

  Unblooded. Like the vines of Irfan. Not the First Growth, not quite, not after so many centuries shattered, but untamed, yet untouched by Sin Washer’s curse.

  The Exile laughed, reaching down to grab hold of one of the roots, pulling it until the brown length reached hip high. “Decades I have worked to tame this, to bring it to my service, not serve it. You, wrapped in must-nots and restricted by your own foolishness, you are too weak to manage it, too soft to do what had to be done.”

  All for nothing. He had invited the blow, and been unable to counter it. His plan shattered, and despair filled him instead.

  “Give me what I want, and the end will be gentle,” the mage said. “I can, too, be kind.”

  The word was like the prick of his blade against his skin, and memories flooded Jerzy: the feel of the Overseer’s lash against his neck, readying the killing blow, the touch of magic in his skin as he ended a dying slave’s life for mercy, the taste of the feral vines in his mouth as they crept up around the prisoner’s neck, wringing the life from him as Jerzy’s hatred and fear overflowed his control, the feel of a weapon in his hand and the surge of anger as he protected what was his own. The smell of the taint rising up from his own skin, the stink of his sweat, and the blood of others, leeching into his flesh.

  “No . . .”

  The mage, over him, laughed, misunderstanding the horror in his voice.

  A Vineart stands alone. A Vineart must be rested, yet stressed. Harsh conditions make a more powerful crush. His master’s voice, then others, whispering through the dry air. Control.

  A slave did not know kindness. A Vineart was not gentle.

  Vineart.

  Apostate.

  Jerzy.

  Brother.

  He stood alone, but he was not alone.

  “Give way, and you will feel no more pain.”

  “No,” Jerzy said, his spoken voice a dry growl, the quiet-magic he had summoned earlier coalescing into the stone-shaped spear, this time wreathed in sharp, serrated thorns. Earthspell and growspell, bound together. They were not his legacies, but they responded to his need, and Jerzy knew that, taint or no, the Guardian had not abandoned him.

  The Guardian, here, in this place, was not without, but within.

  Jerzy rose to his feet, smooth and easy, stone in his feet anchoring him to the ground, the bits of vine still caught in his hand warming him.

  The Exile mage took blood, took life, and forced his vines to obey, to grow to his training. His magic was obedient to his will, powerful in its arrogance.

  Jerzy did not command; he served. Like the vine itself, he survived.

  He could not force the moment of Harvest, only wait for it. He would not force his vines to obey, only ask.

  Help me.

  He had not consciously spoken, summoning strength, had not even known what he was asking, but the words flowed from him, through the Guardian, into every alert creature of House Malech.

  And they gave, not blood, but solace. The other side of Sin Washer’s sacrifice. The surviving slaves’ surrender, their instant obedience to his quiet-magic. Detta’s rough affection, as sure and steady as the turn of seasons. Ao’s outrageous confidence. Mahault’s calm reflection. Lil’s unwavering belief, cut with a gentle mockery like clear-running water. Even Brion’s devout belief, tempered by worldly knowledge. All his, in that instant.

  It was not enough. It did not change his magic, did not empower him.

  But it reminded him why he was here.

  The clothing of a slave. The isolated, sere plains . . . He had come here, and brought the Exile with him, lured the other to this place. His own choosing, even if he had not recognized it, at first.

  Here was where it would all end.

  Jerzy stepped toward the Exile, his body falling into a graceful glide that would have done his weapons master proud. Not to take the blow, but to slip under it. Not to strike the target, but bypass it, force it to turn and follow, until it could not strike at him but for harming itself.

  Those earliest lessons from Mil’ar Cai, the warcraft from Kaïnam, the tradecraft from Ao, the sword lessons from Mahault. The scattered legacies of a shattered vine.

  The shattered magic that had formed him.

  Jerzy called the quiet-magic now, his mouth flooding with moisture so suddenly he almost gagged on it, the sour-sharp taste too intense to be mastered. Magic made the man.

  In that instant the cat’s-paw slammed down and Jerzy stepped again into the Exile’s space, forcing him to divert the blow or take a share of it himself, but before he could react Je
rzy was stepping back again, delicate as a cat, his tongue laden with the magic he needed.

  Man made the magic.

  There was no decantation for what he needed, no spellwine ever incanted to do what must be done. Tradition said it could not be done. Every handspan of his being said it should not be done.

  None of this was evil. The unblooded vines, the root itself, the sense of all five legacies swirling within him, their power separate, but working in concert the way he had been told they could not, should not . . . None of it was wrong. Only forbidden.

  Against Sin Washer’s Command.

  Sin Washer, who had broken the prince-mages, destroyed their power, reduced magic to a thing to be bought and sold, used by any who had the coin, controlled and restrained.

  But magic would not be denied expression. Quiet-magic, blood-magic, was proof of that. The magic wanted to be whole; the legacies let him use them, but they used him as well.

  Jerzy’s head ached; there was no time to think, no chance to sit back and contemplate, even as the magic rose within his mouth, he was casting it out against—not the cat’s-paw, but the source of it, his blow the heavy hooves of a draft horse, rearing back and coming down, the thundering noise of bone and flesh, even as the cat’s-paw’s claws caught him across the ribs and sent him sprawling facedown into the dirt.

  What they were doing . . . magic. Not spellwines, not decantations, but pure magic, subject only to his command.

  This. This fullness, this stillness, this exhilaration, was what it had meant to be a prince-mage.

  “You feel it. You know.” The Exile should have been crushed under the blows, but he came back, his shattered face folding and unfolding like leaves, the bones re-forming.

  None of this was real. Everything was real.

  Jerzy got to his feet, reaching this time for fire, binding the smoky warmth into a cage, then filling it with the crisp, hard taste of weather-legacy and letting it leak slightly, just enough . . .

  The way the Exile turned, almost scenting the air, let Jerzy know that the final lure had been taken. Time to Harvest what had been sown.

  “You know what we have been forbidden, all this time. Why? So that fools born to particular Houses should determine our fates and our worth? That a godling, out of anger, should say what we may or may not do?” The mage spat blood onto the dry ground, thick and black. “Sin Washer did not care for us, Vineart. Sin Washer feared us.”

  “You say ‘us,’ ” Jerzy said, panting heavily from the effort of holding the magic contained, pausing, not using it despite the weight of it within him. “You mean . . . ‘you.’ ”

  “Why, yes.” The Exile sounded almost surprised, a mockery of true emotion. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of black blood across his chin. “Why, yes, I do.”

  His bloody hand raised, and Jerzy could sense the taint building now, the swirl of thick sludge that had been sliding throughout the Lands Vin focused inside that upraised hand.

  The roots rising through the ground sang in the wind, blood calling to blood, sacrifice to sacrifice. Brutal, and powerful. None could stand before it, all must give way, or be destroyed.

  Jerzy reached within himself again and touched the memory of the unblooded vines. No less brutal, more so because they did not care, they did not bow to the Vineart’s desire but had to be fought, tamed. Sin Washer had shattered the First Growth, but he had also made it easier to mold, to control. Why?

  Magic makes the man. The man makes the magic. Sin Washer had known all this. Jerzy touched the Root, looking not for power but fullness, and he understood. Magic of the earth, and blood of man. If the balance between the two shifted, if one became too great . . .

  Zatim had seen the danger. He had not been a god, but a mortal. A prince-mage, great with power, so great that the magic had become him.

  But unlike the vine-mage, he had seen the horror of what he had done.

  The First Growth had been shattered, the Root reduced, constrained by Zatim’s blood. But he had not been able to destroy it utterly, not without destroying the magic itself and forever undoing the balance. So it lay hidden in their blood, the quiet-magic . . . until someone looked up and out beyond the walls and saw what could be had for the taking. . . .

  The unblooded vines had been only a hint of what they had lost. Jerzy almost lost his focus at the thought, but the Exile shifted and drew his attention again.

  Balance, not control.

  “I have what you want,” Jerzy said, the growl now barely a whisper, opening the cage of fire a little more. “Are you strong enough to take it?”

  As the Exile’s magic roared into him, Jerzy did not resist, but rather gave way.

  “COME ON!”

  The Washer grabbed Mahault by the shoulder and hauled her forward, the two of them running in the sudden break of the wind, aiming themselves for the great doors of the House. Only one was ajar, the other closed tight for the first time that Mahault could remember, but they managed to make it through and into the relative safety of the entry hall before collapsing on the floor.

  Behind them, someone slammed the remaining door shut, even as the wind picked up again, the noise like a scream, wrapping around the house and battering at its walls.

  “What’s going on?” Ao, his wide eyes showing too much white around the edges, his hand gripping a wooden staff as though he were ready to take on an army of invaders, waiting only for something to actually appear.

  Lil had been the one to shut the door, although there was no way to actually bar it: a Vineart did not worry about such things when constructing his house; there were no bolts or bars to be seen.

  The light through the narrow, colored glass windows changed and moved, as though something were moving outside the House. For all they knew, for all they could tell, something was.

  “Put that thing down,” Brion said to Ao wearily. “You’re more likely to hit one of us than anything useful.”

  Ao glared but lowered the staff until it rested on the ground, using it to support his weight. “What’s going on?” he repeated. His voice shook a little, but none of them could claim better. “I thought Jerzy was going to lure the other mage here?”

  “He did.”

  “But . . .” Ao glanced at the windows. “That?”

  “You’ve not much traffic with magic, have you?”

  “My people . . .” Ao started to say, then shook his head. “Only what I’ve seen Jerzy do. This . . .”

  “We should find him,” Lil said. “If he needs our help again . . .”

  None of them spoke, feeling helpless. They were here because they could not bear to leave, but there was nothing they could do.

  “If he needs us,” Mahault said, “he will find us.” She rested her back against a tapestry-covered wall, welcoming the cold, hard surface as an antidote to what was going on outside. “I hope Kaï’s all right.” They had no way of knowing, not until a message came.

  Chapter 21

  Jerzy stood in the featureless plain. The clouds were low overhead, the soil at his feet bare and brown. The roots were gone, returning into the deep stone where they had lain for two thousand years.

  He could feel them, still.

  He could not feel the Exile.

  It had happened so swiftly, exactly the way Mil’ar Cai had taught him, allowing his enemy into his own space in order to bring him down. But he had done nothing, had not struck, had not raised magic against magic.

  Jerzy had let the mage inside, had opened himself and given way. Like his first test with the mustus, when it had judged the slave and claimed him, he did not fight, did not resist, but gave way, let it sink into every space within him, remake him . . . and in the remaking, take on what was Jerzy , too.

  The mage had tried to take Jerzy, had followed him down to the tangled roots of the world.

  No man could destroy the Root. Not even Zatim.

  The Root had taken its own.

  Jerzy closed his eyes against
the unreal scene, trying not to remember. Still, the taste lingered, layering on his tongue and coating his throat, reminding him of the draught he had swallowed. A Vineart did not hold power, but the power held within him.

  It could have been him. It still could be him.

  Jerzy had not expected to survive. Now, the magic pressed from within his veins, demanding to be used. Jerzy gasped for breath, and felt something sharp under his ribs. He had broken something, somehow, in that last attack.

  He raised a hand, pressing his palm down against the sharpness, and imagined it healed, the pain gone.

  And it was, as simply as that.

  Sin Washer had been no god, but he had not been a man, either. He had been a prince-mage, the greatest of his time, and he had seen what magic and men, unchecked, would become.

  He had shattered the Vine to protect humanity from itself. From himself.

  The Root, awoken, had been the blight Jerzy felt in the land, drawing from all other crops, all living things. The devastation the legends spoke of, the dying, and rebellion. . . .

  And now the Root had come to the surface, had been fed, had been allowed to re-form. In him.

  The thought made the world spin, and his stomach threaten to rebel.

  Vinearts were commanded to abjure power, to restrain themselves within the limits they were given. But now the taste of that power lingered in his mouth. Sin Washer had not intended Vinearts to have the quiet-magic, but the magic had kept its hold on them, through blood and bone, the shattered fragments still part of them. If Jerzy wished, he could call it, could do as the Exile had done, and bind it to him.

  The Command to respect limits, not to interfere with things beyond his lands . . . It did not matter that Jerzy had not meant to bring the legacies together. It did not matter than he had done so only to protect the Lands Vin. How long would he hold to that, if he could reach across oceans and influence men within the safety of their own walls?

  Magic makes the man. Once learned, it could not be unlearned. He would carry this with him, forever.