Read Online Flesh and Fire by Laura Anne Gilman - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Anne Gilman
Ads: Link
the Master done that? There had been no spellwine poured, no decantation. . .Jerzy had never seen magic worked, but the stories all said that it needed both spellwine and decantation in order to happen!
“It may not be spellwine any longer,” Master Malech said mildly, not remarking on the boy’s shock. “But it’s still an excellent vintage. It would be a shame to waste it.”
Jerzy, his hand shaking, retrieved the goblet and lifted it to his mouth, waiting until his master lifted the first cup in a salute and took a sip himself before allowing the liquid to touch his tongue.
It was. . .Jerzy had no words for it. Sharp and bitter, full and sweet, tingling on his tongue and making his mouth water. A smell like the flowers outside, the dampness of an old barrel, and the crack of air before a storm. . .
“Relax,” his master said. His voice was stern but his eyes were gentle over that narrow nose, not cruel or cold at all. “There will be time for you to learn what you are tasting. For now, simply enjoy.”
Jerzy nodded and took another sip, this time letting the liquid rest on his tongue and then swallowing the mouthful without trying to understand it. The bitter and the sweet melded, and he felt the still-tense muscles in his back begin to relax.
None of this could be real. He would open his eyes and still be in the slaves’ sleep house, old Wax snoring in the bunk above him, the day-chime about to ring and another day in the field about to begin. . .
“It’s real,” Master Malech said, and Jerzy wasn’t surprised that his master knew exactly what he was thinking. “Some confusion is normal, but it will fade, and soon you will not be able to remember living any other way. That is how it always is. Come. Let me show you where you will sleep, from now on. Perhaps that will help.”
Jerzy nodded, put his goblet back down on the table with a twinge of regret, and followed his master out of the tasting room. The wine alone could not be to blame for the confusion buzzing in his head; if the Master said he could make things make sense again, Jerzy would follow him anywhere.
Chapter 3
Malech, Master Vineart of the House of Malech, citizen of The Berengia, was amused. Harvest was a stress-laden, dawn-to-midnight affair, and when he woke that morning, he had not expected to spend half of the day away from his vines, or to enjoy the experience quite so much. But life, he had found, had a way of surprising even the most jaded and weary of Vinearts.
“This is. . .mine?”
The boy had a look of stunned wonder in his eyes, looking around the sparse bedchamber as though it were a palace. Malech did not allow the smile he felt to escape, but remembering other such looks over the years, all the way back to his own, gave him a sense of real pleasure.
“Yours, yes.” Despite his emotions, his voice was dry, as befitted a master. He still owned the boy—Jerzy—but differently from before. Now it was not possession of body, but of soul, and desire.
The room he had brought the boy to was in the upper level of the House, above his own study, with a single window that looked out—by design—over the vineyards. Jerzy could not see the sleep house from there, nothing that might be a reminder of his previous life except the grapes growing into the distance. The floor was bare, the bed narrow, the single cabinet barely large enough for three changes of clothing, but as the boy possessed only the clothes he stood in—and Malech had no doubt but that Detta would burn them immediately—it would be more than enough room for now.
And from Malech’s own distant memories of the sleep house, the large room no doubt seemed enormous to the boy.
“And I am to study with you. I’m to be your student.” Jerzy sat on the narrow bed, making the frame squeak. His bare feet rested on the polished wooden floor, and Malech made a mental note to have an old rug brought in before the winter. It had been too many years since anyone
“It may not be spellwine any longer,” Master Malech said mildly, not remarking on the boy’s shock. “But it’s still an excellent vintage. It would be a shame to waste it.”
Jerzy, his hand shaking, retrieved the goblet and lifted it to his mouth, waiting until his master lifted the first cup in a salute and took a sip himself before allowing the liquid to touch his tongue.
It was. . .Jerzy had no words for it. Sharp and bitter, full and sweet, tingling on his tongue and making his mouth water. A smell like the flowers outside, the dampness of an old barrel, and the crack of air before a storm. . .
“Relax,” his master said. His voice was stern but his eyes were gentle over that narrow nose, not cruel or cold at all. “There will be time for you to learn what you are tasting. For now, simply enjoy.”
Jerzy nodded and took another sip, this time letting the liquid rest on his tongue and then swallowing the mouthful without trying to understand it. The bitter and the sweet melded, and he felt the still-tense muscles in his back begin to relax.
None of this could be real. He would open his eyes and still be in the slaves’ sleep house, old Wax snoring in the bunk above him, the day-chime about to ring and another day in the field about to begin. . .
“It’s real,” Master Malech said, and Jerzy wasn’t surprised that his master knew exactly what he was thinking. “Some confusion is normal, but it will fade, and soon you will not be able to remember living any other way. That is how it always is. Come. Let me show you where you will sleep, from now on. Perhaps that will help.”
Jerzy nodded, put his goblet back down on the table with a twinge of regret, and followed his master out of the tasting room. The wine alone could not be to blame for the confusion buzzing in his head; if the Master said he could make things make sense again, Jerzy would follow him anywhere.
Chapter 3
Malech, Master Vineart of the House of Malech, citizen of The Berengia, was amused. Harvest was a stress-laden, dawn-to-midnight affair, and when he woke that morning, he had not expected to spend half of the day away from his vines, or to enjoy the experience quite so much. But life, he had found, had a way of surprising even the most jaded and weary of Vinearts.
“This is. . .mine?”
The boy had a look of stunned wonder in his eyes, looking around the sparse bedchamber as though it were a palace. Malech did not allow the smile he felt to escape, but remembering other such looks over the years, all the way back to his own, gave him a sense of real pleasure.
“Yours, yes.” Despite his emotions, his voice was dry, as befitted a master. He still owned the boy—Jerzy—but differently from before. Now it was not possession of body, but of soul, and desire.
The room he had brought the boy to was in the upper level of the House, above his own study, with a single window that looked out—by design—over the vineyards. Jerzy could not see the sleep house from there, nothing that might be a reminder of his previous life except the grapes growing into the distance. The floor was bare, the bed narrow, the single cabinet barely large enough for three changes of clothing, but as the boy possessed only the clothes he stood in—and Malech had no doubt but that Detta would burn them immediately—it would be more than enough room for now.
And from Malech’s own distant memories of the sleep house, the large room no doubt seemed enormous to the boy.
“And I am to study with you. I’m to be your student.” Jerzy sat on the narrow bed, making the frame squeak. His bare feet rested on the polished wooden floor, and Malech made a mental note to have an old rug brought in before the winter. It had been too many years since anyone
Similar Books
