Weight of Stone

by Laura Anne Gilman

  The grains of sand blew as though a gentle wind picked them up, swirling around the mage-lights, then dropping to the surface of the map, still moving in a circular motion, first one way and then another.

  Jerzy’s eyes were closed, his hand steady over the map, his lips moving silently, barely visible as the night grew darker, the mage-lights not enough to illuminate him. Slowly, the sands blew away, whisking off the map and returning to the ground, leaving only a thin trail on the map itself, leading from the shoreline they rested on to …

  Jerzy opened his eyes as he felt the magic fade, and looked down.

  The sand led not to Iaja or Riopa, but a place off the map, to the western margins beyond Irfan…. To where a sigil for sea monsters and mer-witches was inked in the bright yellow colors of warning and danger.

  The Forsaken Sea, where not even Iajan sea charts knew what lurked—or what lay beyond.

  “Well,” Ao said into the quiet uncertainty, “the Washers certainly won’t think to look there.”

  “We need the ship, first.” Kaïnam stood, stretching his body into a long lean line, and looked out over the now-dark waters to where the Washers’ ship floated at harbor. Lights came from the deck, and the shadowy figures of sailors and guards could be seen moving against the brightness. “They’ll see us if we use the boat, and it’s too far to swim. Jerzy, can you move us, the way you were moved back to your House?”

  “No. I … No. That magic … it is tied to the House. It will not work here.”

  “Then we’ll do it the hard way,” Kaïnam said, then checked his movement. “With your permission, Vineart.”

  There was no mockery in his voice, and Jerzy, feeling oddly lightheaded, inclined his head with equal solemnity. “As you will, land-lord.” Vineart and land-lord, in formal partnership. What was one more Command bent, after all this?

  “Ao, Mahl, load our things, be ready to go. Quickly.”

  “What—” Ao rethought his protest, rolled up his map, careful to avoid the mage-lights, and followed Mahault back to their campsite.

  “I would have you send them fire, Vineart. Fire that burns.”

  Jerzy swallowed, feeling the bitter finish of the spellwine in his throat. “I will not burn the ship out from under them,” he said. “The sailors have done us no wrong, and the survivors would blacken our name—the same blackening you seek to erase on your own people’s name.”

  “Not to burn them,” Kaïnam said. “Burn us. Our camp. Let it go up in flames, and bring their attention here—while we go there. Can you do that?”

  It was less a question than a demand. Jerzy turned to consider the shoreline. It would be easy to set the underbrush aflame, but it was dry, leaf and branch alike, and a spellfire set on it would roar out of control unless he was careful—and if they were paddling for safety, he would not be able to keep that control. And if it escaped, it would threaten the village.

  A memory rose: one of the children he had healed, face glowing with vigor where before it had been ashen with illness. A child who lived in that village, where the people had been nothing but curious and kind. He would not endanger them, not even to save himself. Not if there was another option.

  “The sand.” Jerzy was speaking to himself now. “It will be slow to catch, but it will burn.” He thought it would, anyway. Master Malech had claimed that a well-incanted firewine could burn anything, even stone.

  “That will get their attention,” Kaïnam said. “How long will it take you to be ready?”

  Jerzy turned to face him, calculating what spellwine he had left. “Now.”

  THEY WORKED in silence, moving slowly so as not to raise suspicion in the eyes undoubtedly watching them from the Washers’ vessel.

  “This had better work,” Mahl said, casting an uncertain glance back at where their bedrolls lay, spread out on the sand, clearly visible, stuffed as though bodies lay within.

  “Shh.” Ao hissed.

  “There’s no way they can hear us,” Mahl said, her tone impatient, but she said it quietly, her left hand resting on her sheathed sword as she climbed over the wale of the boat and found her seat among their packs and supplies. Her muscles were tensed, and she kept glancing over her shoulder to where the ships waited, then whipping her head around to stare stonily at nothing.

  “Ready, Vineart?” Kaï asked.

  Jerzy nodded. “Push off. I’ll catch up.”

  The moment they left the shore, Jerzy forgot about the others. There was only the faintly glimmering sands in front of him, the spellwine in his hand, and his determination to do this.

  Despite his easy words to Kaïnam, this was no sure thing. Sand would melt before it took flame. Even a firespell would have difficulty—unless it was decanted just right.

  No blending of spells. No borrowing from another Vineart’s work. This was purely House of Malech.

  “I am Jerzy, Vineart of House Malech.” He spoken in a whisper, letting the night air catch his words and carry them forward. “I nurtured these vines. I gathered their fruit. I crushed their flesh, and bound them with their skins, until the magic bound by Zatim Sin Washer answered to my command.”

  He could feel, like a whisper of leaves against his skin, the spellwine in his hand, the small amount of his master’s own work becoming aware of him. Recognizing his touch, the sense of his quiet-magic. So far from the first time he had felt the touch of mustus, from the first time he had understood what he was, what he could become … the sensation still humbled him.

  Aware there was little time, he lifted the wineskin and poured a dose into the silver cup of his tasting spoon, letting the air touch the surface, and the magic grow. When he sensed that it was ready, he put the spoon to his mouth, taking a shallow sip and letting it rest on the bowl of his tongue.

  “Flame to sand. Burn it clean and high. Go.”

  Quiet-magic met spellwine, the first pressing against the latter, compressing it into a dense, thick mass, then drove the magic hard against the packed sand at Jerzy’s feet.

  There was a hesitation, as though the wind held its breath, and for that breath Jerzy thought he had failed.

  Then the sand hissed, water turning to steam, and a bright white sheet of flame threw itself up in front of him.

  The sands were burning.

  “Jer!” A tug on his arm, breaking him from his fascinated stare. “Jer, come on!”

  Ao, fingers curled around his wrist, tugging on his arm, pulling him toward the water, even as the fire spread along the beach, and a low horn sounded across the water—the fire alarum, coming from the Washer’s boat. They had seen the fire; they would be coming to investigate.

  “In!”

  Jerzy and Ao splashed out into the water and were hauled into the boat by the others, Mahl’s strong arm grabbing Ao, while Kaïnam dragged Jerzy by the scruff of his collar and one leg, dropping him unceremoniously onto the crowded floor.

  Ao recovered first, pushing Kaïnam out of the way and grabbing his oar. “I’ll row. You mind your weapons. We’re not out of this yet.”

  Mahault and Ao set to work with the paddles, carrying them against the tide. They were aiming not directly toward the Heart but sideways to it, hoping to avoid being seen by sailors on the other ship. Jerzy got up on his hands and knees, his gaze drawn not back to the beach where his fire still raged, but out across the water.

  The Washers’ ship was a flurry of sounds and movement, longboats being lowered into the water, sailors going down rope ladders and picking up oars. They would be on their way, too soon. If any of them spotted the smaller boat, crossing their path …

  The Heart turned against the wave, going broadside, hiding them from view.

  “Thank you,” someone whispered. Jerzy thought it might have been Kaïnam, from where the sound came from, but it was such a low whisper, he couldn’t be sure.

  Shouts reached his ears now, amid the repeated sounding of the fire alarum. The fire on the beach was no threat to either ship; even if it broke the command he
placed on it, the fire would not be able to pass over the expanse of ocean….

  Jerzy paused. He didn’t think it could, anyway. The decantation was simple enough; creating fire was one of the most basic of incantations, the second one he had learned. It was the intensity that was potentially dangerous. Once it had burned the offered fuel, the flames should die. If not …

  “Oars up, heads down,” Kaïnam ordered, his voice pitched to not carry beyond the four of them, and they all bent over, crouching as much as they could to create the smallest silhouette, even as Ao and Mahl let their oars be still, lifting them just out of the water so their momentum was not slowed. It was full dark, but the moon was full directly overhead, shining on the water, and an alert scout might see them, or hear the sound of the oars.

  Jerzy’s breathing came too loud, harsh and ragged, and he tried to modulate it, calming himself the way he would before a major incantation. But his legs trembled under him, and his back ached, and his thoughts refused to settle. What if the fire broke loose and spread? What if one of the sailors saw them? What if, even if they did reach the ship safely, the other ship caught up to them, even with half their crew on shore? What if …

  Then the bulk of the Heart loomed in front of them, and Kaïnam was reaching for a rope that dangled from the side, just as they had left it, pulling them tight against the hull.

  “Ao, you’re quickest. Up and throw down the ladder, but quietly,” the prince ordered, and Ao scrambled to obey, going hand over hand up the rope, barely making a sound. There was a pause, too many heartbeats waiting for a shout of discovery, or the twang of a bolt being loosed, hitting wood or flesh. Jerzy felt the itch to turn around, to look back at the shore, to see if the other ship had noticed them yet, but he stilled the urge. He was not superstitious, he did not believe that doing so might tempt the silent gods, but he would not risk that it might, either.

  The rope ladder came down, making a banging nose as it hit the side of the ship, and Jerzy flinched, knowing how easily sound traveled over water, at night.

  “Go!” Kaïnam urged them. Mahault was first, grabbing a pack and slinging it over her shoulder, then going up the ladder at a steady clip. Jerzy looked at the half casks, then at the ladder. He could lift the casks easily, but not without both hands. How would he get up the ladder? He would have to use magic, but it would take so long….

  “Lift the entire fool boat,” Kaïnam said, sensing his dilemma. “After you’re safe onboard.” Jerzy blinked at the obviousness of the solution, then grabbed his pack and a wineskin marked with Giordan’s sigil, and scrambled up after Mahault.

  Behind him, Kaïnam tied the smaller boat securely to the tug-rope, then followed up the ladder.

  On deck, Jerzy saw that Mahault was already at the wheel, checking to make sure that nothing had been damaged or disturbed while they were away. The small spell-light was still burning over the wheelhouse, catching glints of gold in her hair as she worked, her movements swift but sure as she unlocked the wheel and rechecked the map she had carried from the shore.

  Ao had already lifted the weigh-anchor and was standing by the railing looking back toward land. Jerzy finally gave in to the urge, and looked as well.

  The sheet of fire still raged, shards of angry white flame reaching twice a man’s height, building a wall nothing living could pass. It was holding the narrow line Jerzy had directed it into, and Jerzy felt some of the tension leave him. The two longboats had made it to shore, but their captains wisely kept them in the water, directing the sailors—and, Jerzy presumed, Washers—to slog through to the sand itself. The flames blocked them from where the campsite had been, however, preventing them from getting close enough to see they were gone.

  Neth was no fool, and he knew what Vinearts were capable of. It would not take the Washers long to realize they had been tricked. The Heart had to be under way before then.

  “Clear space,” Jerzy said to the other two, gesturing with his right arm as he lifted the wineskin and pulled the wax stopper out with his teeth. The skin felt warm in his hands, and he worried briefly that the rough treatment had damaged the wine. Spellwines were hardly delicate, once incanted, but it was still possible for them to become ruined by mishandling.

  One sip, barely wetting his tongue before the crisp, bright aroma filled his mouth and nose, allayed his fears. The familiar sense of a weatherwine hit Jerzy’s awareness, and with it came the sound of Vineart Giordan’s strangely appealing bark of laughter, the way his hands moved when he spoke, the look in his eyes that last day, when he realized he had been trapped, and called up one final storm to try and free himself….

  Jerzy shut those memories off, and let the vin magica ready itself.

  “Wind under wood,” he whispered, enunciating carefully to ensure the decantation was clear. “Lift like a babe, safely stored. Go.”

  The command took effect, and the smaller craft shuddered and began to move, as though lifted by an invisible hand.

  “Kaï, they’re going to see us soon, if they haven’t already. Can you show them we have teeth as well?”

  “There are bows stored belowdeck,” Kaï said grimly. “Night shooting is tricky, but if need be, I can prick them a bit.”

  “Go, do that.” Jerzy did not want to use magic against them. He had killed three times, using magic, and the memory still made him feel ill, even though twice had been mercy killings, the last a matter of survival.

  The smaller boat was almost even with the railing now, and Jerzy and Ao reached up to grasp it, untying the rope and preparing to guide it down onto the deck, when something hit the bottom of the Heart, making it rock, and them stagger. Jerzy’s attention distracted, the spell wavered, and the smaller craft crashed to the deck, parts of its hull splintering.

  “What was that?” Ao asked, looking around, even as they heard shouts coming from the other ship, and Mahl swung hard on the wheel, moving the Heart away from whatever had hit them.

  “Someone, the sails!” she called, her voice high with panic. “Get the sails!”

  Jerzy looked back at her and saw what she had seen, rising out of the water too close for comfort, too close for safety. “Oh, root and rot,” he swore, even as he was scuttling backward, away from the side of the boat. He grabbed at the wineskin, trying to remember the proper decantation, then lifted the skin to his mouth, but another blow hit them, against the side of the ship this time, and he choked on the liquid, sending it down the wrong way, the misdirected magic making his chest burn.

  And then the cause of the bump rose over the railing, illuminated in the starlight.

  Up close, the serpent’s head was even more terrifying than the ones he had seen at a distance, the head and sinewy neck covered with muddy brown scales, the milky-white eyes scanning for movement that might indicate prey. The Guardian might have the same basic shape as this beast, but there was no more relation between them, especially as the beast opened its black-lipped maw, revealing a ragged double row of teeth, and the stench of things long-dead and rotted.

  Had he called it? Had his magic drawn the beast to do its master’s dire bidding, the way he had called the cat’s-paw on the road, that afternoon?

  “Down!” Kaïnam cried, breaking Jerzy’s panicked thoughts. Even as Ao threw himself to the deck, dragging Jerzy with him, there was the sound of something flying past them, like a hawk stooping to the kill, and a thick bolt embedded itself into the beast’s head just below one dead-looking eye, where the scales did not completely defend.

  The sea serpent let out a high-pitched keening noise, and more of the great, scaled neck appeared, rising up into the sky as the beast looked for its attacker.

  Shouting, no, screaming came from the sailors, and Jerzy had a passing thought that it would be a terrible but useful thing if the serpent decided those on the beach would make easier prey, but the beast seemed intent upon them.

  There was the sound of something soft and heavy hitting wood, and then the welcome noise of ropes being hauled on, an
d the mainsail going up, cracking and bracing in the night air.

  “Shoot it again!” Ao cried, but it was taking too long for Kaïnam to reload the bow, and the serpent had found them. The head swooped down, even as Jerzy pulled all the quiet-magic he had in his body and threw it at the beast, imagining the shape to the Guardian, created to protect all of House Malech: stone wrapped in fire, aimed like another, far more deadly crossbow bolt.

  He let the magic fly just as the serpent’s head dipped closer and its mouth opened over him. The heavy stink of rotted flesh and sour vina rolled up from its gullet, too many rows of sharp teeth visible, and Jerzy knew in that instant that, no matter what he did, he would die.

  Even as he thought that, consigning himself to Sin Washer’s solace, there was a mad howl, the sound of a wolf in full rage, and Ao threw himself at the creature’s head, knocking into it, distracting it from Jerzy even as the spell hit the beast directly between the eyes.

  Jerzy rolled, trying to get out of the way, hearing only the crack and flap of the sails over his pounding heartbeat, all else fallen away to a dull roar of background noise. He landed facedown on the deck, waiting for those terrible teeth to come down on him, to swallow him whole.

  Instead, there was a heavy, wet thunk, and an even heavier splash of something falling back into the water. And then silence.

  A heartbeat later, the silence was broken by the sound of Mahault’s scream, followed by the sound of feet racing across the deck. Jerzy got to his knees, pushing up against the deck, and realized that his hands were wet and sticky. He looked down, saw that he had placed his palms into a puddle of something dark and wet. He frowned. The serpent he had helped kill near Darcen the year before had not bled.

  “Get a tarp, something to wrap him in,” Mahault was yelling over her shoulder, knelt down by something. Jerzy crawled forward, not trusting his legs to hold him, leaving a trail of red handprints on the weathered wooden planks.

  “And healwine! Jerzy, get healwine, quickly!”

  Cradled in Mahault’s arms, Ao lay, slack-jawed and ashen, his eyelids fluttering as he tried to focus. The blood was coming from him, Jerzy realized, even as Kaïnam dropped a handful of flasks on the deck beside them.