Read Online Flesh and Fire by Laura Anne Gilman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Anne Gilman
Ads: Link
had occupied this room, and he’d barely had time to have someone sweep it out after Jerzy passed the first test.
“Yes.” He had explained it to the boy already, but it would take some time—perhaps even weeks—for the reality to settle in.
Vinearts did not appear full-blown from the earth, after all. It was an ironic gift from Sin Washer: generations of trial and error had proven that only the deprivations of slavery, the removal of all family ties and comforts, pushed a man to the point where magic would surface. Even now, he could not coddle the boy, or risk ruining him. The skills were inherent and easily proven by the first test, but the refining of them required a combination of elements. . . .Like the grapes themselves, a Vineart must be stressed to produce the finest results, grown in poor soil and subjected to the elements in order to shine.
Someday he would explain that to the boy and set him on his own course, to acquire and scour his own slave population for the ones he in turn would train, to carry on their tradition. But that day was years to come, assuming the boy survived. For now, they would begin as always.
“Detta will be in soon to measure you for new clothing. In the meanwhile, the harvest requires my attention. I will see you again at the evening meal, which is at tenth chime.”
Not allowing the boy to ask further questions, he exited the room, closing the door firmly behind him. This floor held the sleeping quarters for his household—Detta and now Jerzy on this side, and the four kitchen children on the other, over the kitchen itself. There was also old Per, who cared for the grounds around the House, but the man was a bit strange and refused housing, preferring to sleep in his carefully tended hedges in all but the worst storm-weather. You never saw him, only the results of his work. Malech smiled ruefully; would that more of the world could function that way.
The main floor held the living areas: the kitchen and dining areas, the laundry, and his own quarters, his sleeping chamber and the study where he met the few and far between visitors of importance who came to the vintnery. Such an arrangement would not work in the cities, where persons of importance required more privacy, but here, on his own lands, the matter of concern was not privacy but protection.
The balance of power had not shifted in his lifetime, but Malech preferred caution in all things. The Berengia, his adoptive home, was not the oldest of the Lands Vin, nor the most fertile, but the spellwines it produced always found an eager market, and that gave its Vinearts greater leeway when dealing with secular powers.
Malech was not a superstitious man, and the silent gods had not spoken since the Breaking of the First Vine, but he often gave thanks that the five princelings of The Berengia were jealous of their independence, and suspicious of one another. Because they constantly warred on one another, Malech—the sole Master Vineart within their borders—was too valuable to offend and so did not have to worry about making accommodations or agreements. The price was that he himself had no ally to call upon, should anyone be fool enough to challenge him.
So far, that had never been an issue, but simply because no one ever had challenged did not mean no one ever would. His quarters were on the main floor not because they were finer, but the better to protect the rest of the House in case of attack. It was no matter of heroism, or sacrifice: those who lived here belonged to him, and he in turn belonged to them, service for service.
He paused at the main floor, hearing the reassuring clatter and voices from the kitchen, and then went on. The grapes were harvested and crushed in the shadow of the vintnery, where the vinification tanks were stored. It was there the mustus waited during the trial period, when the potential of each vat was determined, their fate decided. The true work of the House, though, took place out of
“Yes.” He had explained it to the boy already, but it would take some time—perhaps even weeks—for the reality to settle in.
Vinearts did not appear full-blown from the earth, after all. It was an ironic gift from Sin Washer: generations of trial and error had proven that only the deprivations of slavery, the removal of all family ties and comforts, pushed a man to the point where magic would surface. Even now, he could not coddle the boy, or risk ruining him. The skills were inherent and easily proven by the first test, but the refining of them required a combination of elements. . . .Like the grapes themselves, a Vineart must be stressed to produce the finest results, grown in poor soil and subjected to the elements in order to shine.
Someday he would explain that to the boy and set him on his own course, to acquire and scour his own slave population for the ones he in turn would train, to carry on their tradition. But that day was years to come, assuming the boy survived. For now, they would begin as always.
“Detta will be in soon to measure you for new clothing. In the meanwhile, the harvest requires my attention. I will see you again at the evening meal, which is at tenth chime.”
Not allowing the boy to ask further questions, he exited the room, closing the door firmly behind him. This floor held the sleeping quarters for his household—Detta and now Jerzy on this side, and the four kitchen children on the other, over the kitchen itself. There was also old Per, who cared for the grounds around the House, but the man was a bit strange and refused housing, preferring to sleep in his carefully tended hedges in all but the worst storm-weather. You never saw him, only the results of his work. Malech smiled ruefully; would that more of the world could function that way.
The main floor held the living areas: the kitchen and dining areas, the laundry, and his own quarters, his sleeping chamber and the study where he met the few and far between visitors of importance who came to the vintnery. Such an arrangement would not work in the cities, where persons of importance required more privacy, but here, on his own lands, the matter of concern was not privacy but protection.
The balance of power had not shifted in his lifetime, but Malech preferred caution in all things. The Berengia, his adoptive home, was not the oldest of the Lands Vin, nor the most fertile, but the spellwines it produced always found an eager market, and that gave its Vinearts greater leeway when dealing with secular powers.
Malech was not a superstitious man, and the silent gods had not spoken since the Breaking of the First Vine, but he often gave thanks that the five princelings of The Berengia were jealous of their independence, and suspicious of one another. Because they constantly warred on one another, Malech—the sole Master Vineart within their borders—was too valuable to offend and so did not have to worry about making accommodations or agreements. The price was that he himself had no ally to call upon, should anyone be fool enough to challenge him.
So far, that had never been an issue, but simply because no one ever had challenged did not mean no one ever would. His quarters were on the main floor not because they were finer, but the better to protect the rest of the House in case of attack. It was no matter of heroism, or sacrifice: those who lived here belonged to him, and he in turn belonged to them, service for service.
He paused at the main floor, hearing the reassuring clatter and voices from the kitchen, and then went on. The grapes were harvested and crushed in the shadow of the vintnery, where the vinification tanks were stored. It was there the mustus waited during the trial period, when the potential of each vat was determined, their fate decided. The true work of the House, though, took place out of
Similar Books
