“And Sar Anton, of course,” he added with a touch of malice well hidden from his voice. Sar Anton and Washer Darian had been the ones to accuse him, using him as a way to get at Vineart Giordan. It could have been as simple as internal politics—Anton fearing Giordan’s influence with the maiar, but then why would Washer Darian be part of it—unless it was, as they half feared, part of some greater plan of the Washer Collegium. And that made no sense at all. But he had no hesitation giving Sar Anton to these men.
“Sar Anton.”
The Washer’s voice made it clear he had not expected that.
Jerzy nodded, trying to shape his features into what Ao had once called his “innocent dolt” expression. “Oh, yes. Sar Anton spoke quite often with me. He came with Vineart Giordan to meet me, when I landed. And he was most curious as to what I was doing there—he and Washer Darian.”
“You are accusing us?” the Washer behind him burst out, and Jerzy jolted forward at the noise; he had nearly forgotten the younger man was there. “You dare to—”
“Oren.” The older Washer’s voice grew hard and cold, as it had not been during the questioning, and the man behind the desk lifted his head as though watching players perform for his amusement.
“He accused no one of anything,” the eldest Washer went on. “Merely answering a question I put to him. Taking offense at an honest answer is not the mark of a clear mind, and none are above suspicion. Be still.”
Jerzy tried to force his heart to a calmer beat, and the Washer turned his attention back to him. “You say Sar Anton took an unusual interest in you?”
“I do not know what would be unusual,” Jerzy answered. “Only that I noted it at the time.”
The Washer at the table let out what sounded like an amused grunt, and his inquisitor went on to the next question. The matter of Washer Darian’s intent was left untouched … but not, Jerzy suspected, forgotten.
WHEN THE WASHER finally released Jerzy from his questions, the light outside the tent had taken on the pale purple light of dusk, and the slaves were being served their evening meal at the long tables beside the sleep-house kitchen. The sight made his stomach rumble, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since dawn, and suddenly he was starving.
He walked back to the House, stretching his arms overhead and feeling his spine crack pleasurably. Washer Neth, as he had finally learned the older man was named, had been calm-voiced and polite, and rarely asked the same question twice, but he had been thorough; Jerzy felt as though he had been put through one of weapons master Cai’s more intense lessons while Master Malech asked him detailed questions about how to temper a new cask. All Jerzy wanted now was to eat something that required as little effort as possible to chew, not think about anything at all, and then sleep for an entire night. And possibly half the next day as well.
When he walked up to the House, however, Detta was there, inspecting the dark red flowers blooming on runners against the far wall. She took one look at him, sniffed the air, and then shook her graying head in mock dismay. “Bathing room for you, my boy, before you go in among civilized folk. And then Master Malech wants to see you.”
“Food, before I die,” he begged, not having to fake the pathetic expression on his face.
Detta wasn’t impressed. “You’ll never be dying from not eating, you. I’ll have Roan fetch you something and bring it to the study. Now go, hurry!”
In truth, he did not need all that much encouragement. The first time Jerzy had seen a washtub, he had to be ordered in, and the water had been near-black when he emerged. Now he slipped into the water with a blissful sigh.
Despite the seductively warm steam coming from the tub, he could not forget Detta’s urgency—or the thought of food. Once the water cooled, Jerzy made quick use of the soap and brush, and then took a rough towel from the pile on the shelf and dried himself off. He made use of the chamber pot, then reclaimed his clothing from the bench where he had dropped them, dressed, and did his best to untangle and smooth back his hair, finally tucking it behind his ears in disgust. He would either need to cut it short, or begin wearing it in a queue the way his master did.
He stared into the mirror that hung on the wall, remembering the first time he had seen himself in it: shorter, scrawnier, with hunched-over shoulders and a look in his eyes better suited to a rabbit than a Vineart.
The person who looked back at him was taller, and not only because he stood upright now, the way Cai had beaten into him. His hair was a darker red, his skin weathered from the wind and sea, and the look he gave himself was steady, considering.
He did not feel all that different from the slave called Fox-fur. And yet … he did not feel the same at all, as though that self had been a lifetime past, not a simple cycle of seasons.
It made no sense, and Jerzy didn’t let himself linger on it, aware that Malech still waited for him—and would be growing impatient, by now. While he no longer feared his master would toss him back into the yard, he had no desire to be cuffed across the ears again, either.
He left the bathing room and headed across the open courtyard to Master Malech’s quarters, but the moment he entered the courtyard, Jerzy stopped, his rush forgotten. Mahault sat on the low wooden bench under the single tree growing off to the side, her head tilted back to admire the blossoms. Jerzy had taken lessons from Mil’ar Cai in this courtyard, crossed it hundreds of times to reach his master’s study, had helped Roan and Lil fetch water from the well set in the center of the courtyard, and never, in all that time, had he noticed that the tree had tiny white flowers hidden among the dark green leaves.
“It’s lovely here,” Mahl said when he came to stand next to her, without so much as a hello to greet him. “I understand why you love it so much. But … I’m not staying.”
Even when she had announced her intent to travel home with him, he had known that she would not stay. He had not expected her to change her mind overnight, however.
“But—”
“I had thought, maybe, there would be a place for me here. That I could …” She let out a small laugh. “The moment I walked through the door last night I knew … this House is complete within itself. I have no reason to be here.”
Jerzy had no response to that. In truth, he could not imagine her here, either. Everything in the House turned to the need of the vines, and she could not feel them, not even as Detta and Lil did, from years of service.
Unlike Kaïnam and Ao, whose thoughts were still a mystery, Jerzy thought that he understood Mahault. It was not profit or power that drove her, but the desire to do.
He sat down next to Mahl on the bench and stared up at the cloudless sky. He had missed an entire season, between the city streets and the featureless tides. When he left, the ground was only slowly waking up from its winter rest. Now it was time for the vines to flower; the slaves were working the yards, making sure that the plants were free of pests or blights, the roots healthy, the leaves unfurling properly. The urge to get his fingers into the soil, to hear the hum of the vines as they grew, was a physical pain.
Master Malech wanted to see him. Once he answered his master’s questions, he would be allowed to return to the vines, where he belonged.
But Mahault needed him, too. She had followed him, hoping to find a place to fill her ambitions, and he had an obligation to her. And he did not like seeing her look so sad.
“Have you talked with Detta? Maybe she—”
“After breakfast, yes. She did.”
Of course. Detta handled all of Master Malech’s interactions with the outside world, including the incoming flow of orders and the flow of spellwines. She would have a solution.
“She has a friend who has a sister,” Mahl said, plucking at the fabric of her gown, a plain gray castoff of Lil’s. “The sister’s a solitaire, just retired, living a ways east of here, near the border. Detta thinks that the sister would be willing to foster me. I’m too old for it, but I’d be able to learn from her, and …”
And
perhaps the woman would be willing to sponsor her to the solitaires. Jerzy understood. The recommendation of a former soldier would overcome everything else in Mahl’s past, even her disowning. He felt a guilty relief that nothing more was required of him. But if she had what she wanted, why was Mahault not happier?
“So much has changed, Jer,” she said. “I know that this was what I wanted, but now … I don’t know anymore. What if I’m not supposed to be a solitaire? What if …”
What if I fail hung unspoken between them.
“If it’s meant to be … it happens,” Jerzy said slowly, thinking his words through before he spoke them, trying to feel for the right thing to say. “We find the place we’re meant to be, the master we’re meant to follow.”
Mahault laughed a little, but not happily. “When magic’s involved, maybe. It doesn’t always work that well for the rest of us.”
He had no answer to that.
“The Washers said they’ll be leaving soon,” he said instead. “You can travel with them, if Detta hears from her friend in time. Or ride with one of the wagons when they take a shipment east.” Going alone was not an option; Mahault was fierce, but not a solitaire yet, and a woman alone without the protection of their sigil-marked leathers and sword? She would be easy prey for anyone. Detta would not allow it.
She made a face, either at having to travel with the Washers, or the speed of leaving, but did not argue with him. There was no point in delaying; it would change nothing. As suddenly as Ao and Mahl had entered his life, they would be gone.
Boy.
The Guardian’s cool voice in his head made him sigh. “I have to go—Master Malech wishes to see me.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, finally ending with, “I will see you at dinner?”
With her nod, he took his leave.
HIS MASTER WAS waiting in the study, clad in a dirt-stained trou and vest, his wooden-soled, dirt-covered shoes left by the door for cleaning. Even grubby, Master Vineart Malech was still an imposing sight—tall and thin, as though a strong storm might break him in two. His long hair was even grayer than Jerzy remembered, and the cool, dark blue eyes set in his narrow face seemed even more deeply hooded. But the gray-brown beard, trimmed to a point, and the long, elegant hands that moved as he spoke, the single ring glittering in the spell-light, remained the same; and his face, rather than being the stone-hard features of yesterday, was softer now, more welcoming.
“Your answers have done what my words could not,” Malech said as Jerzy came in through the door, his hand reaching up to touch the tip of the Guardian’s tail where it hung down. It was not there at first, and Jerzy frowned, then the cool stone flicked down into his palm, as though greeting him.
“Yes. They believe I am innocent.” It was a relief, the weight that had been between his shoulders, waiting for an arrow or sword or heavy hand to hit him there, suddenly gone.
His master snorted, a rude sound at odds with his normal dignity, and gestured for him to take the stool that was drawn up in front of the Vineart’s desk. “Innocent? I don’t think they believe any of us are innocent, boy.”
Jerzy sat, frowning at how uncomfortable the familiar seat had become, even as he considered his master’s words.
“You’ve grown again.” Malech had noted his fidgeting. “I have Per making you a taller stool, to better suit those legs of yours. Meanwhile, no, I do not believe the Washers are convinced that the claims against you were false; they simply cannot prove that they were true. To continue with punishment, in this climate, with all that is occurring, no matter the cause … would be dangerous. We are all agreed upon that. So for now, you are left unmolested, free to continue your work.”
“Too late a reversal for Giordan,” Jerzy said. Washer Neth had confirmed his fears: the Vineart had been killed the very day of the trial, and his vines forfeit. The flagon he had carried with him might be the last he ever saw of Giordan’s spellwork. That thought left a leaden pain in his chest.
“He played in politics,” Malech replied, his voice hard. “We are commanded to abjure power that none might claim that very thing, that we have abused our magic to control others, or interfere with the greater play of lords.
“Giordan thought his Agreement with the maiar was harmless, and in another lifetime doubtless it might have been. But we can none of us chose the time we must live in. And in this life, we have a task set before us that none other have faced. Your information, the news from Atakus, from Mur-Magrib, it all ties together, somehow. We must determine the connection.”
He looked at his student, his hooded eyes cool but patient, waiting for a response.
“Mahault is leaving.” It seemed important to say it.
“Yes. Detta informed me she spoke to the girl. Good. We have work to be done, and the sooner all these disturbances are gone, the better.”
His master was correct. And yet, another weight joined the first in Jerzy’s chest. Giordan, Ao, and now Mahault …
The feeling he’d had in the courtyard returned. Even on the ship, when he had been alone for the first time in his life, he had known they would return. They had become … expected. Now his companions had scattered, following their own lives … and despite Ao’s breezy assurances, it was likely that he would never see them again.
Jerzy felt his throat convulse in a tight swallow, and he forced the weight away. He was not alone. He was home, among his own vines, studying with Master Malech. That was all he had wanted. That was enough.
THE GROUNDING
Fallowtime
THE ABANDONED LAND was well named; it was a harsh place, and men had to fight for dominion every day, every season. Some of those battles were visible, and some … less so. The vine-mage watched as three slaves worked to clean the floor, getting the blood out from the edges of the mosaic before it could dry and crust. His shoulders and knees ached in distant sympathy: he had done the same, once. Years ago, in this same hall, as his own master did what was needed to ensure that the wild vines were tamed, made obedient to man’s needs, to ensure their survival. The ritual Harvests were done in the public eye, to remind the people of the cost of their safety, and to honor the sacrifice their loved ones made. But more was needed, to achieve their goals. More blood than the people—or Praepositus Ximen—would be able to accept.
It had always been that way, from the moment the first shattered, abandoned sailor had set foot on this soil. Sacrifice, in order to survive. From the very first days, when the settlement was nothing but a cluster of shacks build from driftwood and salvaged timbers, when Washer Patrus had discovered the wild vines growing, untended and unshaped, and searched for those among the survivors who might be able to harness the magic within …
From that very first year, there had always been more demanded than could be borne—and so some of it was always done out of sight, and so out of mind. That was how mortals survived: forcing the strongest to bear the burdens, carry the weight of responsibility.
The Harvest was a matter of ceremony and public occasion, a reminder of those responsibilities, without the force of true sacrifice. What happened within the vineyard was pragmatic, practical, taking every drop of blood, rather than the ceremonial tipping-bowl’s worth collected from the chosen ones. While the Harvested Ones were cleansed and returned to their families with honor, these bodies, unnamed and unmourned, would be tipped into a ditch behind the vineyard. None ever went there save slaves and wild dogs, and they all knew—and would never tell.
Leaving the slaves to their cleaning, he left the hall and went out into the sunlit day. The air was dry and dusty, and he breathed it in with relief; inside the hall the smell of blood became overpowering, and the single door at either end was not enough to let the breeze flow through and clean it out, save during the winter storms.
He had no fondness for blood, no pleasure at the letting of it, despite what Ximen and his ilk thought. But neither did he flinch from it; it was the path to power, and he had been born and bred to follow no other way.
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A wild dog pup nosed at his heel, and he shoved it away, striding away from the low, long wooden hall, and toward the yard. Unlike the descriptions he had read of vineyards in the old world, his vines were no tidy, tended things. Each cluster was a thick tangle of vines, strong and well fed, and the fruit they gave reflected that in a fierce burst of power that made him shiver simply thinking of it.
The Harvest was nearly done; the last of the dark red fruit was being stripped even as he watched. Storms could come up quickly off the coast, or down from the mountains; the slaves did not sleep until the last grape was taken and the mustus was in its wooden tanks.
The vine-mage watched the wind move the leaves softly, their colors already starting to shade from deep green to paler reds and browns. Sheer luck that this unknown land, so far beyond the Vin borders, grew vines at all, much less usable ones. When Washer Patrus had chosen potential vine-mages from the survivors of the wreckage and set them to working the soil, hoping against all sanity for a viable harvest, the newly made slaves had added a splash of their own blood to the soil in a superstitious ritual to appease the gods of this land. Over the generations, the tradition had continued—only for reasons far from what those ignorant, fearful wretches could have foreseen. As Sin Washer’s blood changed the First Growth, so did vine-mage blood somehow change Patrus’s wild vine, shifting it into domestication.
As a slave he had seen two slaves killed in a fight. It being planting time, their bodies had merely been plowed into the soil. He alone had noted that the vines there grew stronger that season, their fruit holding more potential than before.
Thinking to test his observation, he had first let his own blood drip directly into the winter-sleeping roots of a selected cluster, then killed a fellow slave and drained him for another. The change in the fruit the next season from the latter cluster had been startling, and consistent.
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