Weight of Stone
Page 1
WEIGHT OF STONE
Also by Laura Anne Gilman from Gallery Books
Flesh and Fire
Gallery Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Laura Anne Gilman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books hardcover edition October 2010
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Designed by Renata Di Biase
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gilman, Laura Anne.
Weight of stone / Laura Anne Gilman. — 1st Gallery Books hardcover ed.
p. cm.—(The Vineart war ; bk. 2)
1. Vineyards—Fictions. 2. Magic—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.I4545W45 2010
813′54—dc22
2010021180
ISBN 978-1-4391-0145-2
ISBN 978-1-4391-2688-2 (ebook)
For my editor, Jennifer Heddle,
for reasons dating back to 1997 and still counting
Contents
Cover Page
Front Flap
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part 2
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 3
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Back Flap
Back Cover
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The list of people who contributed their knowledge, their wisdom, and their occasionally strained sanity to this project is long. Specific to this book, I need to single out Bill Ricker, Walter Zilonis, Patricia “Pooks” Burroughs, and the entire madhouse crew of the Word Wars chat room, who kept me company at all sorts of odd hours. And, as always, my folks, Janet and Aaron Gilman, who were with me, draft after draft after draft….
WEIGHT OF STONE
The Washers tell us, over and over again, that Sin Washer came to save us from destruction. They speak of the distant Emperor in far-off Ettion, and how he cared not for his subjects, only the wealth and power they might accrue to him. Too, the Washers say that the prince-mages who ruled the Lands Vin in the Emperor’s name in those distant days were cruel and unjust, hoarding the power which the magic of the Vine gave them, and that the people cried out for someone to save them from overwork and despair. I, sitting in my library, surrounded by the documents of a dozen generations of land-lords, might argue otherwise: that the people were protected by the prince-mages, that the magic of the Vine was what kept their lands fertile, their borders safe, their health secured.
The veracity of these stories can never be judged. Truth is overrated; what matters is what people believe.
In the Washers’ stories, the people cried out and the gods, who then were active in the affairs of man, heard those cries, and came down and delivered unto them Zatim, the son of Baphos Harvest King, and Charif, patron of the farmer. And this Zatim, in his anger and pride, took the First Growth, the Vine that bore the fruit of magic, and cast it down, shattering it to the root. The prince-mages could no longer cultivate the magic, and their power waned and faded in a single season.
The Brotherhood of Sin Washer say this was salvation, and praise the name of Zatim Sin Washer.
Those of us who bear the burden of power, who see the long view, know differently.
Far from saving the people, the Breaking of the Vine cast the Lands Vin into such chaos as had never been seen. Without the spellwines to protect them, the people died of cold, of hunger, of diseases that swept across the lands where no such illness had been seen before. The Emperor died, and his successor had no care for lands without the riches of the Vine to harvest. Without that wealth, the far-flung Empire crumbled, and the once-mighty princes could not maintain control, leaving lesser princelings and land-lords warring over who might control this village, that town, while the once-mighty vineyards were abandoned. Culture and prosperity faded, knowledge was lost, and we were left little more than savages.
This was the “salvation” Zatim Sin Washer brought us.
All was not lost, however. Slowly, gradually, those slaves who had maintained the vineyards during that chaos learned the ways of the lesser magics, even as the princelings and land-lords settled their differences with blood and fire, claiming their lands and defending them, slowly rebuilding what was lost. They came to an accommodation, these lords and vine-mages, to save what was left of our wisdom and knowledge; that the Lands Vin might yet survive.
And yet, all that time the Washers roamed among us as though they had saved the people, proclaiming the Commands of Zatim Sin Washer and demanding that all adhere; that the men of power refrain from magic, and the slaves of magic refrain from power, that Sin Washer have no cause to come down and smite us once again.
FIFTEEN HUNDRED YEARS have passed since the Breaking of the Vine, since the Lands Vin were cast down and shattered as well. Fifteen hundred years of reclaiming what was lost, of relearning what was forgotten during the darkest years of chaos. Fifteen hundred years of searching for the wisdom and glory that was denied us. Ever harried by the words of the Brotherhood of Sin Washer, watched and scolded as though we were children, Lords and Vinearts nonetheless made good that which was laid to waste, protected what was given to us to serve.
The land-lords, we lesser inheritors of the prince-mages of old, have come to terms with the restrictions laid upon us. If the magic is less powerful now, and we must buy or barter for it like tradesmen, still it comes to our hands and responds to our decantations. The land itself thrives, our people live and prosper, and the Vin Lands are still known and respected throughout the greater world. It should have been enough.
And yet, among many of the lords, those with access to the histories as I have, and who were not bound as were the Vinearts to a life of soil and seasons, there has always been the hunger, the desire to be more than we are, to reclaim the glory Sin Washer took from us….
I was one such man. I was a fool.
Prologue
THE GROUNDING
Autumn
We are running out of time.”
The other occupant of the room seemed not to hear—or heed—this gloomy prediction, continuing to sip from his cup and read over the journal open on the table
in front of him, every so often moving the leather strip to mark another page.
The speaker turned his back on his companion and leaned against the stone windowsill, looking down on the scene in the plaza spread out below him. The view from the window was unpleasant, but he watched without flinching. It was his responsibility to witness and be seen witnessing the sacrifice, even if he, by tradition, was not allowed down among them.
The families of the chosen watched as well, clutching wreaths of crimson-leafed vines, their sleeves fluttering with dark green ribbands pinned there for the occasion. The crisp air was scented with the smell of woodsmoke and the distant, more acrid stench of a blacksmith working in the outer ring of the Holding, away from the Praepositus’s House, and the center of the city.
The praedicator finished his chant, and the voices of those gathered rose in response to the call to serve, and then fell silent again.
It was almost done, now. The watcher no longer held his breath as the names were called; he watched, dry-eyed and calm-hearted, sorrowing only as much as was required and no more. Six for the autumn harvesting. Six to feed the soil and appease the gods of this harsh land. Six, to protect so many more.
The praedicator raised his hands in a benediction, his voice rising clearly up from the plaza. “The faith of our children sustains us. The love of our parents protects us. The strength of our strength defends us.”
The sacrifice was swift, the Harvester’s blade moving without hesitation, and none struggled or fought—a good sign. His people understood the need for what was done, and few argued against the lottery’s results.
Prisoners or the mortally ill might have been a less wasteful choice, but the results, they had learned over long years, were not as effective. The vines responded to vitality.
The Praepositus turned from the window even as the lifeblood was being collected from the channels carved in the stone, his gaze unfocused as though looking at some inner landscape and not the austerely appointed chamber he stood in.
Six for the Harvest. Six at the Pruning. Another six to feed the Planting. Eighteen lives, each year, to protect the greater population. It was not so high a price, in truth…. There had been so much knowledge lost since the Grounding, in the decades of struggle that followed … were there any way to pay but the blood and sorrow of his people, he would have grabbed it with both hands, but there was not. Without the sacrifices, the vine-mages told them, the magic would have failed, and the Grounding destroyed long ago.
But it would not be forever. If his plan succeeded—and it would, he would not doubt—then he would bring this exile to an end, finally.
He could practically taste that promise, sweet and juicy, to wash away the taste of ashes he had carried since he had learned the truth of why they had come to this place generations before; come, and been abandoned. His people might believe that the Grounding had been an accident, a twist of fate that crashed three ships onto these unwelcoming shores. He knew otherwise.
He knew, and could never forget, or forgive.
“We are running out of time,” he said again, this time looking at his companion as though to demand a response. “The Harvest is upon us, and if we are not ready this time …”
The other man in the chamber laughed, a rusty sound, as though he did not often speak, and even more rarely showed humor. “Ximen, old friend. All is on schedule. In the old lands, their vine-mages turn on each other, the safe-ports close against strangers and allies alike … rumors spread and fear grows. We are ready. There is no need for concern.”
The vine-mage was thrice Ximen’s age, half his weight, and had a core of hatred that burned in him brighter and hotter than the summer sun. And he was no man’s friend, old or otherwise. You challenged him at great risk, and almost certain failure. The Praepositus did not fear the vine-mage, precisely, but normally kept a cautious tongue around him. Today, the weight of reports burdening his desk, the growing sense of time passing and risk increasing, made Ximen incautious.
“And yet, I have concern. We are pouring so much into your scheme, old friend, that there is less to use here.” A real worry: the land beyond the limits of the Grounding were harsh, the beasts vicious, and only spellwines kept them safe—and only this one man before him could craft those wines. He would not risk his people, not even to save them. “You are certain it is working?”
Ximen did not know the details of the vine-mage’s scheme, only the broad strokes. That was not optimal, yet he had no choice but to trust the other, and that knowledge was a knife’s point to the back of his neck, every waking thought and most of his sleeping ones as well.
“Patience a little while longer, Praepositus of Grounding,” the vine-mage said, smiling a little, without real humor.
The Praepositus frowned, not pleased with the answer, and the vine-mage noted that displeasure. Ximen was short but well muscled, with a wrestler’s build and the clean-shaven head of a fighter, and were he to suddenly become enraged, it was not certain magic alone would stop him, not if he acted swiftly. If he would not willingly anger the vine-mage, the vine-mage was also wary of him. It was a delicate dance between them, to push thus, and no more.
“I wish you would tell me exactly why you hesitate, now, when all has been set in motion,” Ximen said, pulling his robe more closely around his frame as though he were cold, although a fire burned warmly in a nearby hearth, and the air was comfortable, even with the open window. “Merely to ease my foolish concerns.”
The vine-mage put down the manuscript he was reading, keeping his place with one finger, and gave Ximen his full attention. “The vines are deep and the roots spread far.”
Every child heard that saying from the teat, mostly to remind them that, no matter how far away they might feel, they were still connected to their distant homeland, far away and silent. From this man’s mouth, it sounded more ominous.
“Yes, so you keep telling me. If they spread so far, why have we not yet—”
“Roots take time to grow,” the mage said, cutting off a discussion they had repeated many times before. “I wish to make sure the moment is right, before I allow them to flower. Patience, Praepositus.”
The now-patronizing tone irritated Ximen, but he tried not to show it. Others might think that the vine-mage was subject to him, but Ximen knew better. Magic made men odd, and this one had drunk deeper than most.
“Still. I do not like this delay, so late in the game. A single discovery, and—”
“There will be no discovery, not until I wish them to know who they face.” The vine-mage’s arrogance was no less frustrating for being well earned. “Did I not deal with the single Vineart who managed to track me back? Have I not dealt thus with every Vineart who might be a threat?”
Ximen nodded once. He had. From an impossible distance, the mage had reached out and plucked the spying eye from that Vineart’s head, then crushed the body into dust, leaving no trace behind to be found. Others, too, unaware and unprepared; it was no great matter for his vine-mage to reach his heavy hand and take them. Silently, swiftly, slaying them where they slept, or tearing them apart as they tried to resist.
But a Vineart who was not unprepared, who was not unaware … would he be as simple to destroy?
Ximen held those doubts deep within his darkest thoughts. Five years. Five years since he had approached the vine-mage, a daring plan in mind, and found him already halfway there. No guard or personal vigilance could stop the vine-mage if he felt that Ximen were suddenly an obstacle rather than an ally. And yet Ximen needed reassurances, even if this need pushed too far and angered the other man.
For the moment, the vine-mage seemed to be amused, rather than annoyed. “We have had confidence in you for these many years, worthy Praepositus. Now, have confidence in us. Magic beast and sudden storm are all very well, but the strongest storm cannot batter a well-built house. We weaken the foundations, sow chaos in their soil, and the house falls with a single blow. Soon we shall sweep in and take our revenge.”
Ximen nodded again, less reluctantly. This, too, they had discussed before. For generations, the people of the Grounding had survived, accepted the abandonment, made the best of the harsh land they had been given. But that ended with his rule. Never again would his family be cast into shadow, his people forgotten like an unpleasant chore. Not even if the gods themselves demanded it. He would not crawl before Sin Washer himself, if it came to that. He would not be denied the power that was rightfully his, for the failure of others seven generations before.
The fact that the vine-mage most likely had another agenda in mind did not bother Ximen, so long as it marched in step with his own. This land taught the necessity of compromise, the virtue of the long view.
The vine-mage pushed a wooden cup across the table toward his prince. “To justice, my old friend. Though it took generations, it will be ours.”
The Praepositus reached out and took the goblet, letting the warm scent of the vina reach his nose. It smelled of ripe berries, and warm spices, and the bitter branch of vengeance too long denied. His people, his family, abandoned for the political aims of a single man, the foolish trust of those who should have known better, who followed the promise to this harsh, unloving land … and were there betrayed to their death.
But they did not die. And they would return and take payment for that betrayal, not just on the blood of the one who had sent them but on all who thrived while they were gone.
He raised his cup in turn. “To justice.”
PART 1
Fugitive
Chapter 1
THE WESTERN SEA
Spring
Jerzy of the House of Malech, Vineart-student and currently accused apostate under the mark of death, heaved his guts over the side of the ship and wished, not for the first time, that a wave would simply sweep him over the side and be done with it.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”