Weight of Stone

by Laura Anne Gilman

  Jerzy halted his thought there.

  The magespell had not been able to identify the legacy of that spellwine. That had been what had started all of this: the thought that there was an unknown spellwine, an unknown vine being used against them.

  Jerzy felt like having Kaïnam beat him with his own cudgel for being an idiot, for not remembering that earlier, when he realized that they might possibly be dealing with a wild vine. Possible. Yes. Even probable. A wild vine could go left-handed, could have started left-handed…. Then his sense that the taint was around them, not within Esoba himself, need also be doubted.

  “What should I do, Master?” he asked in a whisper, but the only answer he received was the blank looks of his companions. He could not predict what these vines might do, not without testing them himself.

  The surest way to be sure would be to determine if the spellvines growing in the yard outside matched the one that animated the sea beast. But how? Without Magewine, and if this Vineart could hide the true nature of his legacy, then what could Jerzy—half taught and without the proper tools himself—possibly learn?

  But the vines had whispered to him. He had thought that they were too dormant to speak louder, but perhaps he had simply listened the wrong way.

  Jerzy placed his own cup down carefully on the nearest table, and stared down into the ruby depths, trying to not look for anything, but simply let the vina speak to him.

  “Jer?” Ao asked, worried.

  “Hush,” he said absently. “I have to think this through.”

  This was different from what he had done—whatever it was that he had done—to protect the Vine’s Heart. That had been relatively simple, a combination of preexisting spells: dangerous, but not difficult, in a crafting sense. This was purely quiet-magic, drawing on the Vineart’s Senses to act as a sort of Magewine. Could he draw this out, without knowing the proper decantation? Or was he too young, still too green? Was it even possible? And if he managed it—would it call the taint directly to him? Or was the fact that it was already here protection of a sort? Too many questions and no answers at all.

  No. No doubts.

  He took a risk, letting out the barest tendril of thought. Guardian?

  Silence. Not even the familiar brush of cool weight. Either the Guardian was dealing with something back in The Berengia, or the wards on this House kept them from contacting each other.

  He did not dare reach for more, not until he knew for certain if Esoba was their enemy.

  There was still a hesitation inside him to do anything involving the quiet-magic in front of others. But this involved them, too; he could not go elsewhere, or tell them to leave. They had the right to know if magic was being worked on them without their knowledge, especially if it was meant to harm.

  “I think …” An idea stirred inside him, heavy and cool. Not the Guardian, not directly, but the feel of it Jerzy carried within him now. He was Vineart Jerzy of House Malech, and he knew more than he thought he knew.

  “Are you—”

  “Shh. Let him work.”

  Their voices faded away, still audible but not important as Jerzy sorted through the depths of the Guardian’s knowledge, made three times more difficult because he did not know what he was looking for, and the Guardian did not know what it knew. Stone held; it did not understand. That was a Vineart’s responsibility.

  “I think I can do this,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “It should be possible….”

  Should. A tricky word. Spells were specific, binding. Simple, but only on the surface. An incantation told the magic in the wine what to do. It held the magic to form, kept it structured and contained, usable by non-Vinearts. A vin magica that had not been incanted was wild, unpredictable, uncontrollable by any save a Vineart, and not to be opened lightly. A vin ordinaire was made from mustus that had not properly ripened into its magic, and could not hold an incantation, or respond properly to the decantation. Different ends, but drawn from the same fruit. That was basic vinecraft. The difference was not in the vina, but what the Vineart did.

  He gathered spittle in his mouth, while he thought of what he wanted to do.

  Basic. Simple. Go back to the source. He was the magic. He was the Magewine.

  Jerzy stuck the tip of his forefinger into his mouth, then tapped the wetted finger against the surface of the vina. Confidence.

  “What are you?”

  Silence. No, a faint tingle, the distant sound of a pop, the sound a fish might make rising to the surface. A sensation within the tingle, deep along the spine of the wine itself, the light echo of fruit and spice … and nothing more. He had been right: the wine was merely ordinaire….

  No. There was more within it. And … around it?

  He moved his finger so that it was not touching the wine, but rather the edge of the goblet itself.

  “And you?” he asked the wood, drawing on the faint memory of the earthspell he had consumed earlier, to protect the Heart. Wood to wood, calling an answer out of it.

  And he had his answer.

  “The goblets were enspelled, to make the vin magica into vin ordinaire.” He should have realized: Master Malech had offered him such an enspelled goblet on his very first day as his student; it was a test, to see if he could identify magica from ordinaire, after seeing them poured from the same source.

  Destroying precious vin magica was wasteful; more than that, it went against the natural order, and required great skill, something not to be done lightly, and certainly not merely to create ordinaire for guests to drink. But once stripped, there should have been no magic within it to influence them.

  “So it was harmless?”

  “There is no way to tell.” The spellwine could have been anything, once. It could have come from anywhere, any Vineart, any vatting. The knowledge came forward again: the change within the goblets pushed the magic out, dispersing it back into the elements and scattering it. “The magic was stripped out by the spell, but there were still traces of it left.” Just enough to affect them, when they drank deeply, unaware. No other explanation sufficed.

  “You think that’s why we were so angry with each other, so suddenly? It made us angry?” Mahault glared at the wine, as though it could feel her wrath.

  “Spellwines can’t do that,” Jerzy said again. “Magic can’t make you think something you don’t think, or feel something you don’t feel. This just encourages what is already there or possible.” Faded, hidden …

  “Like you tried to do to me, back in that tavern,” Jerzy said to Ao, willing him to understand. “To see what I might say when I was off guard.”

  “So … we all thought the things we said. Even if we didn’t mean to say them.” Ao looked thoughtful, while Mahl’s eyes went wide at the implications.

  “That … is a very dangerous spell, Jerzy,” Kaïnam said. “My father—any man of power—would pay dearly to have that in his cellar.”

  “All spells are dangerous,” Jerzy retorted, irritated, even though he knew that it was likely the spell that made him feel that way. Kaïnam had not said anything more or less than the truth. Magic and Land-power had been Commanded apart for just such a reason. “If this is Lethá, or a root-legacy, then it’s incredibly rare. If it’s not … it’s something new entirely.”

  They had no idea how much more dangerous that could be: a new, undetermined vine … no feral legacy, but truly unknown …

  “But is it what we’re looking for?” Kaïnam brought them back to the matter at hand. “Is this the place, the man we have been looking for, spelling us to think he is not?”

  “It doesn’t feel right.” Jerzy stood up, fighting the urge to hit something, as though that would make him feel better. “And I don’t believe that the vines could have hidden that taint from me, not entirely. But the fact that he tricked us, tried to enspell us—that makes me trust him not at all.”

  Ao, who had argued for Esoba originally, started to say something in his defense, then seemed to realize that th
ere was nothing he could say. They had all been fooled.

  Jerzy stared at the far wall, thinking. Had Esoba been the one to enspell the goblets? Or was the taint borne by another individual, one they had not yet encountered? The complexity swirled around him like the scent of fresh mustus, thick and undisciplined, disorienting.

  He needed to test the vines. They would not lie to him. “I need you three to distract Esoba, keep him occupied.” Decision made, he went to where his pack rested against the wall and knelt down to untie the top flap.

  “Why?” Mahault leaned forward, intent. “What are you going to be doing?”

  Jerzy found what he was looking for: a small leather winesack, worn, with a familiar sigil embossed on the front. It wasn’t Magewine, but heal-all. Basic, ordinary … but when used by a Vineart, it could focus concentration and make him think more quickly—at least for a short time.

  “I can’t tell anything from this wine,” he said. “His cellar might be better, but we don’t know where it is, and I can’t imagine he would let me walk in, unescorted, if at all.” A Vineart’s cellar would be warded twice as well as his study. “So I need to ask the vines directly.”

  “Ask?” Kaïnam jumped on the word like a hawk on a mouse.

  Jerzy hadn’t meant to say that. Still, no matter. The Washers would have purple fits, and Master Malech would—might have scowled, but Jerzy did not see the terrible harm. He had already taught these three more than they should ever have known; what was one more thing?

  It was likely they would all die before they ever got home, anyway.

  It was the first time Jerzy had ever let himself think that, not as a fear or worry, but as a likelihood. A fact. He wondered, briefly, if the others let themselves think of it, and if they did, if they would ever admit it.

  “How are we supposed to distract him?” Mahl said, jumping to the other part of what Jerzy had said. “And for how long?”

  “Think of something,” Jerzy said, fitting the flask to his belt, next to the tasting spoon. “And for as long as it takes. I can’t risk his finding me out there.”

  If the vines were different, and Vineart Esoba was not the one they were seeking, then there was only the insult to his hospitality to worry about. If the vines were the same, if the tainted magic came from them …

  The vine was the source of the magic, and spellwines were the tool. But it was the Vineart who incanted. The fault, and the responsibility, would be within Esoba, not the vines.

  Jerzy needed to know which their host was—innocent or villain—before he could decide what to do.

  Behind him, the other three had started to argue over possible ways to distract Esoba, should he summon them before Jerzy returned.

  “We could say he’s sleeping,” Ao suggested.

  “Sleeping through dinner? That would be rude.”

  “Vinearts aren’t social,” Kaïnam pointed out.

  “Esoba seems to be,” Ao retorted. “Is that a point in his favor, or does it make him evil?”

  Leaving them to argue schemes, Jerzy slid out into the hallway, and walked not back the way they had been brought, but away from the main hall, hoping that there would be a back or side exit he could use. There was no courtyard; the low building ran narrow and long, rather than square, with their rooms toward the front and the Vineart’s study, where Esoba had brought them, toward the back. If he could find the kitchen … kitchens always had an extra exit. All he needed was for the Vineart—and any slaves who might think to stop him—to be distracted long enough….

  Luck was with him: the day was fine enough that someone had left a door propped open, and the scent of cool, fresh air cut through the scent of candle wax and wood, leading him directly to it. Not the kitchen, but the herbary; a female servant was there, hanging up tied bunches of flowers to dry, while a child sat on the floor, naked, and played happily with colored stones, pouring the polished bits from one chubby hand to the other. It was simple enough for him to walk past them both; the servant looked up, but while her expression was first startled, and then puzzled, she clearly saw no reason to stop her master’s guest from taking a breath of air.

  The door led into a small yard, where three small brown goats were tethered, contentedly chewing. Jerzy avoided around them and walked around the corner of the building to where the vineyard lay, spread out before him.

  He paused, just luxuriating in the feel of the open air, the cool rays of the sun sinking over the horizon, the awareness of the vines spreading deep into the ground, and out into the world. He might have missed their Harvest, but the plants themselves were still awake, still aware, if barely.

  Thinking about Harvest, Jerzy was struck again by the change in temperatures. On the sea, with the wind blowing steadily, it had been less noticeable, but the air was definitely crisper, cooler than it should have been. Ao tried to explain it to them, how the seasons shifted the farther one traveled, but Jerzy couldn’t quite work his way around the idea.

  Aware that he did not have much time, Jerzy went to the gate latch and let himself inside the yard proper. As before, there was only the faint sense of welcome, but he did not sense any of the taint, either, not even when he jumped over the low stone wall—something Esoba had not invited him to do, before—and knelt down, close enough to touch the leaves.

  The unease he felt had little to do with being caught. His being here was wrong. Every inch of him understood that, trying to force his body into turning around and leaving. This wasn’t like going into Giordan’s yard—Giordan had invited him in, had given him permission, had introduced him to the vines, and allowed him access. Whatever Washer Darian and Sar Anton might claim, he had done nothing truly wrong, there.

  Here …

  If he did this, he would have crossed that line. Never mind that Vineart Esoba had tampered with them somehow, never mind that he had masked his spell in order to manipulate them. If Jerzy did this, he would have gone beyond all claims of innocence. If the Washers found out, his yards would be salted for certain, Malech’s name tarred forever.

  His throat felt sore, as though he’d swallowed too much seawater, and his shoulders ached from keeping himself standing there, and not fleeing back into the House.

  “I need to do this,” he said, as much to the vines as himself, to the memory of his master, to anything that might be listening.

  This close, he noted that those leaves were smaller than what he was used to, and veined with a dark orange color, rather than the red he was used to after Harvest. There were, as expected, not many grapes left; the ones that had not been picked had overripened and fallen to the dirt, where they were eaten by animals drawn to their rich aroma and sweet taste. He went down on his knees, looking at the underside of the leaves, hoping to find at least one cluster that had been overlooked by both slaves and animals. It took him a while, his knees aching and the backs of his hands scratched from surprisingly rough vines, but finally his fingers closed on a small cluster, a handful of grapes. Moving carefully, he detached it from the vine, whispering an apology, and drew it back into the sunlight.

  At first, he thought that these grapes had simply not ripened at all; they were still small, and a pale, almost translucent green, only lightly touched with red streaks. But the juice within stretched the skins near to bursting, and when he touched them, questing, the sense of magic contained was almost enough to knock him over. Oh, there was magic here, slippery and seductive, and not any legacy he knew, personally. It felt … unfamiliar, in a way that he could not explain, and he pushed deeper, trying to get some understanding of it.

  The vines, although they should have been resting, in these days after the Harvest, shivered, as though sensing a Vineart, and under his gentle, questing touch, gave up their secret.

  And for the second time that day, Jerzy understood.

  “You’re unblooded,” he said, his voice barely above a reverent whisper.

  “BROTHER NETH.” WASHER Brion acknowledged the man coming up behind him on the
forecastle without turning around; as usual the man knew who was within reach without any seeming effort.

  “That is their ship?” They had been chasing the damned thing for months—if it was not their quarry, Neth was tempted to sink it, just for spite.

  “The Vine’s Heart, yes.” Neth noted the scant smile on his second’s face, but said nothing. Brion had come late to the Brotherhood, and he had his own way of looking at things, but his dedication was undoubted, and his skills were invaluable.

  “They are aboard?” Neth took the spyglass from Brion and lifted it to study the tidy little ship, sliding on the waves like a restless filly tethered in a field of bluish green.

  “It does not appear so,” Brion said. “We will lower a longboat and approach. Do you wish to accompany?”

  “I do not, as you well know.” Neth would willingly ride the length and breadth of the Lands Vin, but he did not travel well on seaback; it was only his desire to end this hunt as swiftly as possible that had gotten him onto this sow of a ship in the first place. The idea of putting his person into the tiny longboat was not to be thought of, for fear of upsetting his digestion even further, with unpleasant results.

  His second nodded, and shouted an order to the sailors who were fussing at the side of the ship. When they did not move fast enough to his satisfaction, he strode forward, clearly intending to light a fire under them. Brion had come from a family of soldiers, and it often showed. He had given up on his robes the first day at sea, and instead wore a vest of dark red over a rough cloth trou similar to those of the sailors, tied at the ankle and waist with cord, but otherwise loose and—Neth admitted—comfortable-looking.

  “Rot you, ready on the … what?”

  The brother’s voice changed, and his head lifted at a shout from one of the sailors clinging to the rigging. That sailor shouted again, and pointed to where the Vine’s Heart was turning slightly on the wave and wind. The bow came around to face them, almost as though she had heard them coming, and Neth almost dropped the spyglass in shock, only the expense of the thing keeping his fingers tight and preventing the piece from crashing to the deck.