“I didn’t know which one,” he said, his gaze fastened onto Ao and Mahault, flinching when Ao let out a low, pained moan. “I didn’t … Sin Washer’s mercy, Jer, do something!”
Crawling closer, Jerzy saw what the others had already known; Ao’s upper body was intact, barely scarred by the serpent’s teeth—but both of his legs now ended just above the knee. The blood on the deck came from him, not the serpent.
His gorge rose up into his throat, and Jerzy forced it back down, refusing to allow himself to pass out. Mahault was still cradling Ao, murmuring something to him in a soft voice, while Kaïnam dropped to his knees on the other side, trying awkwardly to wrap a tarp around his lower body.
“No.” Jerzy’s voice was harsh, cold, and Kaï stopped midmotion. “Put him down. Both of you. Put him down.”
“But he’s bleeding, he’ll bleed to death if we don’t—”
“He’s dead already, no matter what you do.” Ao had gone from ashen to sickly, his skin coated with sweat, the pulsemark in his neck throbbing with effort, and the blood was still streaming from the ragged stumps, all—
Jerzy averted his gaze, swallowing hard. He couldn’t think about the fact that this was Ao, bitten off like a … no. There was no time, no chance. No chance but one.
A Vineart did not show weakness. A Vineart stood apart. There was no time to calm himself, no possibility that he could be calm, or careful. Jerzy grabbed the nearest wineskin, not caring which it was, and pulled the cork out with his teeth, splashing the liquid down his throat.
Bitter-ripe, rough as bark but potent as fire, the spellwine resented being treated that way, burning his throat and making him gag and cough. He pushed Kaïnam aside, ignoring the blood drenching his trou and staining his hands, and put his fingers directly onto the wounds, feeling the wet warmth of his skin and the sharp jagged jut of bone.
“Stay with us,” he whispered, not a spell but an order, risking a brief look at Ao’s face. “Stay with us.”
Ao’s head moved, and Jerzy decided it was a nod of assent.
He knew the decantation he needed; Master Malech had taught him, in the weeks after the cart accident, when two slaves had died. “For when the worst happens,” Malech had said. Not if, but when.
“Blood to blood, flesh and bone. Bind and succor, make him whole.” Jerzy paused, feeling panicked that it wasn’t enough, not powerful, not determined enough. He thought of the figurehead, of the hands holding the wreath of leaves, protecting this ship, and directed the decantation as much at it as the magic within him. “Go.”
Jerzy thought he had known what to expect. He was wrong. The surge of magic pulled out of him like he had been thrown into the press himself and crushed with the Harvest, all the magic flowing out of his body. All he had, his magic, his anger, his fear, the memory of Ao that first meeting in the maiar’s House, the offer of friendship to a young Vineart who had no understanding of what that meant; everything went into the spell, spreading up into Ao’s damaged body, finding and mending, cauterizing the wounds and keeping him aware, and alive.
When it was done, Jerzy fell back, not feeling—or caring—when the back of his head hit the deck.
“He’s breathing,” he heard Mahault say, her voice catching on a sob. “He’s breathing.”
Jerzy turned his head enough to see her catching up the tarp and wrapping it around Ao’s body, hiding the now-cauterized stubs from sight.
“Get us out of here,” he told Kaïnam. “Now.”
The serpent would keep the others from following; even if it was dead, the sailors would fear another appearing from the night-dark waters, stranding those on shore.
The serpent had allowed them to escape.
Jerzy laughed, knowing it was horrible, hearing the exhaustion, the fear, in his voice, but unable to stop as he felt the ship shudder underneath them as they picked up wind and headed back out into the wide sea.
The thought struck him, a cold blade to his throat that stopped the laughter, and left only exhaustion.
Too much water. Too much emptiness where there should be soil. No touch of leaves, no whisper of magic … it was empty, barren, and it left him weak and adrift. He could not fight an enemy that strong, could not hope to win, like this.
More: he could not help Ao. Legless, with so much blood loss, held intact only by Jerzy’s magic …
If Jerzy ordered it, they would keep to their plan, follow the scrying into the unknown of the Forsaken Sea.
But Ao would likely die.
The Vin Lands. The lands of the Vine. The Vineart Lands. His enemy fought from a place of strength, and moved pieces about to suit him. So, too, then, would Jerzy, Vineart of the House of Malech.
“Jer.” It was Mahault, standing over him, blocking out the stars. “Where are we going?’
The answer rose to his lips, as though he had known all along.
“Home.”
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Front Flap
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
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
Weight of Stone Page 38