Flesh and Fire

by Laura Anne Gilman

  His master, however, merely said: “The old vines. . .We have no idea what they could truly accomplish, left with only legends that grow into impossibilities with every generation. I suspect the prince-mages, yes, could force another to do their will. But those wines and the prince-mages who crafted them are long gone, and not even the scholars of the Altenne can bring back their knowledge.”

  Malech leaned forward, his dressing gown falling open as he rested his hands on his knees. His intense gaze held Jerzy motionless, his eyes, in the dim light, seeming to glow from within. “But there is much knowledge we have reclaimed. Much we can do, within our limited modern scope. And I will teach you this, as my master taught me, and you will add to the knowledge.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And what will you do with that knowledge, once it is yours?”

  Jerzy blinked. Things had happened so quickly, he was still dizzy, half expecting it to end as suddenly as it had begun. He had certainly not thought about that, never looked beyond the day, the week, the thought of the learning itself so overwhelming there could be no room for anything else.

  Malech was waiting for his answer, and so he said the first thing that came to mind. “Use it to learn more.”

  Malech leaned back, and rubbed his close-cropped beard with one long finger again, this time with obvious pleasure. “Then let us see what you are capable of, young Jerzy. Let us begin with the source of our magic.”

  He stood, and walked to the wall. The stone gave way before him, not sliding away but simply disappearing. Jerzy didn’t have time to gape, Guardian’s tail thwapping him hard between the shoulders and knocking him off the stool to get him moving as well.

  Stumbling to his feet, he rushed into the misty hole in the stone, holding his breath and hoping that the wall would not suddenly return when he was halfway through.

  “The first mage, in the days when the world was young and full of discovery, drank of the mustus and felt the magic stir within him. But he did not understand what it was until he gave himself over to the mustus, took it into himself, and let the magic change him.”

  It was only then that Jerzy saw the wooden vat in front of them. Taller than Master Malech, and wider than three men could reach around, it looked like the vats in the vintnery he had spent weeks punching down, but it. . .felt different. The air around it felt different.

  “In you go.”

  “Master?” His voice squeaked, and his eyes flicked back and forth from the Vineart to the vat, but the thought of running never entered his mind. Where would he go? Instead, he slipped off his leather shoes and pulled the shirt over his head, folding it and handing it to Malech, who took it with grave courtesy.

  There was no ladder, no handholds on the vat. “How do I. . .”

  Even as the words came out of his mouth, he felt himself rising into the air, as if someone had taken him by the back of his pants and lifted him.

  “Sin Washer, save me,” he whispered, but before he had a chance to panic, the invisible hand had brought him over the rim of the vat and dropped him in.

  The mustus went up his nose; that was his first realization. Sweet, clean, and suffocating, pressing against him even as his feet touched the bottom of the vat. He knew how to swim, at least enough to keep from drowning in the stream, but his arms and legs remained still, his brain fogged and unpanicked.

  Drown. Drown yourself. Breathe in and breathe out and let the liquid enter your lungs.

  It was impossible, but Malech’s voice urged him to relax, to give over and allow the must into his skin, his veins, his lungs, to trade out blood and bone for sweet juice.

  He trusted his master. Trusting, he breathed in.

  MALECH WAITED, STANDING easily by the vat, his body relaxed in a way that was not mirrored in his mind. Minutes passed, and he wished for the glass he had left in the other room. Vin ordinaire was not spellwine, it did not go through the final specification to bind magic to spell, but that cask had a pleasant kick to it that made time pass more easily. Yet this was no time for kicks, pleasant or otherwise. If something were to go wrong. . .

  If something were to go wrong, his student would die, drowning horribly, and the entire vat would be ruined.

  A Vineart did not form attachments, not even to those within his own House. A Vineart stood alone, as they had since the days of Sin Washer and the breaking of the Vine. And yet. . .the boy had potential, even more than any of his students before. There was magic fermenting in him, and a steady, careful hand could raise him to a magnificent vintage. If the boy did not falter, or fail.

  “Rest easy, Jerzy. Trust the grape. Trust yourself. This is the first step, the most important step, and you cannot go further without first taking it.”

  INSIDE THE VAT, Jerzy felt the mustus leaching into his skin, softening him, blurring the lines between juice and flesh. Once the shock wore off, he knew the liquid: this mustus was from bonegrape, the healgrape that grew higher on the ridge of the southern vineyards, where the cooler air swirled around its leaves and kept the juice tart and pungent. Picked, and pressed, and placed into this vat, waiting. . .for him. He knew it, and it knew him. Time ended, his lungs stilled, his limbs faded. Blood was mustus, and mustus, blood. Magic swam with him, into him, touching the magic the Master said was within him, and suddenly. . .he understood.

  Not all. Not much. But there was a connection now where before there had been only confusion and frustration. He felt the magic in the mustus the way he had in the vineyard. . .and recognized it within himself.

  A Vineart was not merely one who knew how to craft magic into spellwines. A Vineart was magic. . .and spellwines were him.

  Surfacing, gasping as cool air replaced the liquid in his lungs, spluttering and coughing, Jerzy grabbed blindly, his fingers closing around the smooth metal band of the vat’s rim. He hauled himself out, throwing his legs over the edge and dropping down onto the ground. His pants made a sodden noise against his legs, and his skin prickled in the suddenly cold, dry air. A rivulet of mustus ran down his face, and he licked the drop off his lips without hesitation. It was clean and sweet and sang on his tongue.

  Malech stood before him, his face solemn, his deep-set eyes cast into shadows, looking at him consideringly. “Give me your hand.”

  Jerzy didn’t have to think, but lifted his left arm, presenting his hand, palm up, to his master. Those long fingers touched his palm, tilting the hand down. A sense of dislocation: the last time Malech had done this, he had been smaller, shorter, and his hand had to reach up.

  Malech’s thumb stroked the skin over the mark, and Jerzy’s eye was drawn down to it, only to discover unmarked flesh. Before he could react, Malech turned his hand over, and presented Jerzy with it. The simple bright red brand that had identified him as a slave was gone, but a darker, rounded weal now rested on the outside of his wrist, as though a drop of wine had spilled from a cup and landed there, staining his skin indelibly.

  On Malech’s left wrist, a similar, darker stain mirrored his own.

  “You. . .did that.”

  “Not I,” Malech said quietly. “The vines know their own. It is done, and sealed. Your true training will begin after lunch. Go wash yourself; you’re going to be very sticky in a few moments, and the insects will flock to you in an annoying fashion.”

  Jerzy stared at the mark, wet hair plastered to his forehead and dripping into his eyes, and then looked up at his master. The Vineart smiled faintly, his angular face not softened at all by the motion, and then he turned and left.

  Jerzy breathed in deep, trying to keep his legs from wobbling as the aftermath finally hit him. Picking up his shirt and shoes, he followed Malech out through the hazed-out wall. Malech was nowhere to be seen, but the Guardian still sat on the beam overhead, its tail swinging gently as though pushed by a breeze. Its pointed muzzle turned to watch Jerzy as he walked through the room and out the door, but the Guardian did not move to follow him.

  The stairs seemed far steeper and longer th
an usual, and when he came to the first landing, Jerzy stopped and stared at the light that was streaming through one of the narrow windows.

  Guardian had woken him at night. The sunlight in front of him reached well into the window, striking the halfway point on the stone floor. The day was half over, and he hadn’t even noticed.

  Your true training will begin after lunch.

  His slave-mark was gone.

  Finding a burst of speed somewhere in his exhausted legs, Jerzy raced up the last flight of stairs and burst into his room, tossing his shirt and shoes onto the narrow bed, and stripping his wet pants off as quickly as possible, draping them over the windowsill to dry in the sunlight. Naked, he grabbed more clothing out of the drawers and started to put them on.

  He stopped, one leg halfway in, and reconsidered: was it better to be on time, or clean?

  The feel of his skin, starting to get sticky, decided him. The clothing was left on the bed while he used the pitcher of drinking water and a clean shirt to wipe the worst of the mustus off his skin, then the rest of the water was poured over his hair until it felt decently cleansed.

  He would have preferred to go stand in the stream and let the cold water run over his body, but there was no time for that, much less go in search of one of the kitchen workers to have them heat water for an actual bath. Master Malech was waiting.

  Chapter 6

  PRINCIPALITY OF ATAKUS

  The Principality of Atakus was not grand, by most standards; the island was small, and had only one Master Vineart to call its own. But that was Master Vineart Edon, and his delicate, dry wines were renowned for their control of winds. Seafaring lands paid whatever gold required to carry a cask of that spellwine on board every ship in their fleet, and to have their captains trained in their use. Whatever other spellwines Atakus needed, that gold could and did buy.

  More significant to the Principality was the fact that those spells, cast over the whitecapped waters surrounding Atakus, had kept them safe from storms—and pirates—for five decades and more. The only visitors who came safely into the royal port of Atakus were those who were welcome. . .or who flew the red flag of parlay and negotiation.

  Such visitors were greeted in the roofed courtyard on Mount Parpur, off to the side of the royal residence. The matching building next to it was the main royal residence, which also doubled as the Hall of Governors, where local leaders came to discuss matters of governance with their lord and master. Simply built, two stories high and studded with garden courtyards within and external views that carried for leagues in every direction over endless crystal blue waters, the white marble structures could easily be mistaken for places of worship, not government.

  The prince of Atakus was an old man, whose seven grown sons were all put to work in the massive bureaucratic system, and two of his three daughters were solitaires, warriors who gave up all claim to House or family. His oldest and only remaining daughter, Thaïs, stood by his side during the daily workings, and was nicknamed “Wise Lady” for her political acumen by those who heard her speak. As a female she could not inherit his throne, but whichever son took over when he died would be wise to curry her favor, or risk disaster.

  Current odds among the betting citizens had the second son as favorite, since the eldest showed more skill for paperwork than leadership, but it was the fourth son who was most often called to court, and was often seen, heads bent together in close discussion, with his sister.

  This bright, cool day found the two of them seated beside the flowering hedge garden outside her sleeping chambers, on a white marble bench bathed by the morning sunlight. Thaïs was not a beauty, but had a grave dignity that won her a few serious suitors whom she had, so far, put off. Her long, thick black hair was tied up with a string of pink pearls and her body wrapped in a dark red dress of simple design. Her brother Kaïnam was more slender, his equally black hair tied at his neck with an unadorned cord, and his red trousers were matched by a plain white jacket without collar, fastenings, or lapel. Both were barefoot, their embroidered court shoes abandoned in the grass. A small white-and-black cat prowled at their feet, snatching at insects.

  They had spent the morning with their father as he held court, listening to the thoughts and complaints of his governors, as he did every three-month. But this session had been different.

  “It might be coincidence.”

  “It might. But it isn’t.”

  “It might also not affect us at all.”

  “You are an idiot.” She said it with affection, but in a matter-of-fact tone that did not allow argument.

  A messenger had arrived the week before, from Ekai, a small territory off the main island. Ekai had no true government, no ruler, and was important only for its deep fishing harbor and a sunward-facing hill of ancient vines. That land was held by Jaban, the Vineart trained by Master Edon, who by training and common bonds looked to Atakus for guidance and protection. The messenger had carried a scroll written in Jaban’s own hand, and presented it personally to the prince, who had then brought the subject up for discussion at this day’s Session.

  “Three ships destroyed, along with a royal ransom in spellwine,” she reminded him. The Wise Lady had read the report, as her brother had not, and she felt the truth in it. “Driven to disaster by unruly winds, within our territory—waters protected against exactly such a thing. Kaïnam, think it through. How can it not affect us?” She pushed the cat away gently when it pounced on her toe.

  “One man’s report is not a fact,” her brother countered, his usual dry, almost mocking tone moderated by the seriousness of the matter. He scooped the cat up in his arms and petted it until it went muscle-slack, purring with pleasure. “The winds are not always controllable, and if they were fools enough to use open flame rather than firewine to fill their lanterns. . .” He shrugged. Fire was a force of nature, and Nature commanded even magic; not even a Master Vineart was proof against that.

  “They were seasoned sailors; we have no reason to assume that they used open flame.” That was a fool’s mistake, unthinkable for any ship-master to condone. “But you are correct, we have no evidence, either way. A good point, thank you.”

  Their argument was less an argument than a sounding of arguments, in case her counsel was called upon. It was a role they were both accustomed to and normally enjoyed, but the loss of life—more, the possible implications for the much-vaunted benefits offered to ships using the Atakusian harbors—were sobering.

  A horn sounded, thin and reedy, and they stood, him returning the cat to its grass hunt, both sliding their feet into cloth slippers quickly retrieved from under the bench. The short break was over; the prince and his advisors had returned, and the Session was resuming. Time to head back.

  Inside the Hall of Governors, Erebuh son of Naïos sat on a simple wooden bench, the surface worn by generations of royal backsides that had warmed it. The prince sat up straight and stern, his once-black hair gone pure white, his skin tanned and lined with age and sunlight. Rumor had it that he had once spent a summer working a vineyard, far away. It could not be true, a royal son among slaves in the domain of a Vineart, but the rumor—and the aura of magic—still lingered on him.

  The negotiator, Tomas of Eka, stood before the court once again, wearing a formal sash the pale yellow-green of unripe grapes over his travel-stained clothing. His boots were worn through, and he limped, as though there was a stone in the heel of one.

  “My lord,” he was saying as the two siblings reentered the court. “You have my master’s petition. I beg of you, hear it and give me leave to return with an answer.”

  The ruler of Atakus studied the negotiator, not allowing any thought or emotion to appear on his age-lined face or in his dark eyes. “I have heard the report of this messenger of Vineart Jaban, and conferred with Master Vineart Edon.”

  Edon was an old man, older even than the prince, but his spellwines still showed the vigor of a man a third his age. He stood on the other side of the bench, a hardwood
staff held securely in one clawed hand. It was forbidden for a Vineart to hold power, but not for one to stand with one who held power. Still, the Washers, while not speaking directly against either man, often preached pointedly about Sin Washer’s Command, and the dire consequences of power mating to power.

  Her father merely laughed and called the Washers alarmists and old women.

  He was not laughing now. “Vineart Jaban tells us of disaster fallen upon merchant ships carrying spellwines from our ports, under our protections. Ships—seaworthy, tested ships, flaming like bonfires, all hands and their cargo lost.”

  There was a restless movement among the twenty or so gathered in the court’s yard, but no one spoke up or indicated anything other than rapt attention to their prince’s words.

  “Master Edon has also heard these reports. He also hears from elsewhere within our domain of crops ruined by insects out of season, rot from nowhere, and rains that come down out of a clear sky.”

  Thaïs felt her back stiffen as her father spoke. She had not known of these events. A foul wind, even within Master Edon’s range of protection, might be coincidence, as her brother said. A strange rain, a disastrous rot, a plague of pests, each might be bad luck or a poor season. Together, all in one year, all within their borders: that she did not trust.

  “I do not trust this news.”

  Her liege lord spoke of the same mind. She had, in truth, learned at the knee of wisdom. And, she admitted to herself, paranoia. Atakus was small compared to the other Lands Vin, but their ports were well placed and much in demand—and eyed hungrily, every now and again, by ambitious princes. All that kept them independent was the strength of their Vineart. Edon had trained half a dozen students who, like Jaban, did not travel far from the principality, establishing their enclosures from Jaban’s own cuttings, and owing him—and the prince—their loyalty. They might not be native to the islands, but they were Atakusian, blood and bone, by the time Edon was done with them.