The Shattered Vine
Page 35
Jerzy sighed, allowing his hand to fall back onto the ground, opening his eyes to the pale sky overhead. In this sere land, the magic existed, and did not exist. He could remain here, keep the knowledge to himself, let it die with him, and not risk returning the world to the days of prince-mages again.
Vineart.
The Guardian’s voice, soft as clay. He could ignore it, push it into the soil, re-form it to his desire. He could . . .
Vineart.
Then, again: Jerzy. Jer.
Ao. Mahault. Lil. Their voices, distant but insistent. Calling through the bonds of heart and vine. Their hands on him, his actual flesh, somewhere Else.
Vineart. Not the Guardian, that time, but Kaïnam, his voice cool and distant, demanding an answer. The lord of his own land, once again, reaching through the mirror, bloodied but whole.
They were not clay, not stone, but flesh, aching and sore. He owed them so much; he owed them everything.
Safer to stay here, reject their voices. Safer to protect them from himself.
A Vineart stood alone. A prince-mage cared nothing for others, cultivated only his power.
You are Vineart, a voice said to him, the soft whisper of leaves and the burst of fruit, the tang of blood and tears and the quick flare of pride. And now you must be more.
“Sin Washer?”
Who could say a man who had become a god could not speak past his death. But there was only silence in response, and Jerzy half-convinced himself he had imagined it, all of this a delusion, a phantasm of magic and exhaustion.
Jer.
Ao’s voice.
Jer, come on.
The feel of hands on his other-body, urgent and gentle. The sound of a muffled sob, and a harsh curse, then the taste of healwine splashing into his other-mouth.
It would be safer to stay. Easier to stay.
His friend called to him again, willed him to return. They had sacrificed so much. . . .
He did not want to be a god. He did not want to be a sacrifice.
A slave survived.
Jerzy stared at the sky, tasted the rich magic against his tongue, and sighed, letting himself sink down into the soil, until the Root bound him up, and took him away.
HE CAME TO in his bed, the coverlet heavy against his bare skin. His lungs felt inflamed, his eyes swollen, and his thoughts sharp and painful as glass shards.
You live.
“What do I do now?” he asked the Guardian, his mouth barely moving around the words.
You live.
“But I . . .”
Only you know.
The weight of it was already within him, the truth bitter as spoiled mustus and even as the door cracked open and he heard the sound of Detta’s steps and felt her hand cool on his forehead, he knew.
A Vineart stood alone. Even with friends, companions: the burden was his. Would always be his.
“Welcome home, Vineart,” his House-keeper said, and he opened his eyes, and tried to smile.
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