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Authors: Laura Anne Gilman
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sight, in the cool, stone-walled rooms below his study. It was there Malech went now, passing easily through a door that could not be seen unless you already knew it was there, down stone steps to a long passageway.
The workrooms were down here, the cellars where he tasted and blended, perfecting the steps that turned mustus into spellwine, where he stored those most potent bottles, the most dangerous spells. The House that was visible from the ground was barely half the property—while the main cellar opened to the side of the House, to allow for the casks and vats to be brought in and out, there was much more, hidden from the outside by both construction and magic. Jerzy would learn all those rooms and hallways, eventually. But there was one spell active in this level that no student, no matter how trusted, ever gained access to. The Guardian.
Greetings, Master Malech.
The dragon over the last doorway was the only other being who could move freely through every structure on the property, and none save Malech could command it. Carved from the dark gray stones of The Berengian hills, The Guardian had no taste and no sense of humor, but it was polite, if stiffly formal, and thoroughly loyal. Every few years the Vineart thought about carving a new guardian out of a more pliable stone, to make it more of a companion, but there was no real need, and therefore no time.
“Greetings, Guardian,” he said in response. “What occurs in my absence?”
Little . The stone dragon uncurled itself from the arch over the doorway to the cellar, where it waited when not needed and followed him in. The size of a small dog, the fact that its wings moved up and down was merely a conceit of the dragon itself. The slaves work without too much gossip, the weather holds fair for the rest of the five-day, and a message arrived this morning asking for a shipment of blood staunch. It cocked its head and tilted its muzzle into the air. We will need more, soon.
The spell that gave the Guardian awareness—bought at immense cost many years before from the one Master Vineart capable of crafting it—did not also give it the ability to foresee the future, yet it often saw connections in things that Malech did not, and the Vineart had learned to trust its predictions.
“If I make more, something will be less,” he said, but nonetheless made note of it. “The slaves do not speak of their missing companion?”
The dragon merely gazed at him with blind stone eyes. The dead slave was already forgotten, and while Jerzy’s mysterious survival might cause some to wonder, by the next morning even that would fade. Even the dragon, who knew nothing of blood and flesh, knew this. Slaves lived day-to-day. Memory was the privilege and curse of free men.
“Who ordered the blood staunch?” Not that he cared particularly what princeling warred on another, and Detta would handle the sale, as always, but it behooved him to pay attention. Human nature’s urge to spar and slaughter—and their resulting need of his healwines—was what made him wealthy, and the House of Malech so powerful.
Atakus .
That did make him pause. The island-nation of Atakus was better known for defensive stances than aggressive ones, and was almost obsessive about keeping their reliance on other Vinearts—indeed, anyone not of their island principality—limited. They could not grow healwines, however, and so were forced to import those spells. “Has anything happened there recently I should know about?”
There is no news out of Atakus, save that Vineart Jaban sent a negotiator to Atakus two weeks ago.
“His reason? The negotiator’s mission?”
The dragon did not answer, meaning that it did not know. In truth, it was no matter to Malech: when Sin Washer broke the Vine, shattering the First Growth into the five elements of earth, water, fire, flesh, and aether, he wasted his divine breath commanding the inheritors of the prince-mages to stay off the seats of power. The
The workrooms were down here, the cellars where he tasted and blended, perfecting the steps that turned mustus into spellwine, where he stored those most potent bottles, the most dangerous spells. The House that was visible from the ground was barely half the property—while the main cellar opened to the side of the House, to allow for the casks and vats to be brought in and out, there was much more, hidden from the outside by both construction and magic. Jerzy would learn all those rooms and hallways, eventually. But there was one spell active in this level that no student, no matter how trusted, ever gained access to. The Guardian.
Greetings, Master Malech.
The dragon over the last doorway was the only other being who could move freely through every structure on the property, and none save Malech could command it. Carved from the dark gray stones of The Berengian hills, The Guardian had no taste and no sense of humor, but it was polite, if stiffly formal, and thoroughly loyal. Every few years the Vineart thought about carving a new guardian out of a more pliable stone, to make it more of a companion, but there was no real need, and therefore no time.
“Greetings, Guardian,” he said in response. “What occurs in my absence?”
Little . The stone dragon uncurled itself from the arch over the doorway to the cellar, where it waited when not needed and followed him in. The size of a small dog, the fact that its wings moved up and down was merely a conceit of the dragon itself. The slaves work without too much gossip, the weather holds fair for the rest of the five-day, and a message arrived this morning asking for a shipment of blood staunch. It cocked its head and tilted its muzzle into the air. We will need more, soon.
The spell that gave the Guardian awareness—bought at immense cost many years before from the one Master Vineart capable of crafting it—did not also give it the ability to foresee the future, yet it often saw connections in things that Malech did not, and the Vineart had learned to trust its predictions.
“If I make more, something will be less,” he said, but nonetheless made note of it. “The slaves do not speak of their missing companion?”
The dragon merely gazed at him with blind stone eyes. The dead slave was already forgotten, and while Jerzy’s mysterious survival might cause some to wonder, by the next morning even that would fade. Even the dragon, who knew nothing of blood and flesh, knew this. Slaves lived day-to-day. Memory was the privilege and curse of free men.
“Who ordered the blood staunch?” Not that he cared particularly what princeling warred on another, and Detta would handle the sale, as always, but it behooved him to pay attention. Human nature’s urge to spar and slaughter—and their resulting need of his healwines—was what made him wealthy, and the House of Malech so powerful.
Atakus .
That did make him pause. The island-nation of Atakus was better known for defensive stances than aggressive ones, and was almost obsessive about keeping their reliance on other Vinearts—indeed, anyone not of their island principality—limited. They could not grow healwines, however, and so were forced to import those spells. “Has anything happened there recently I should know about?”
There is no news out of Atakus, save that Vineart Jaban sent a negotiator to Atakus two weeks ago.
“His reason? The negotiator’s mission?”
The dragon did not answer, meaning that it did not know. In truth, it was no matter to Malech: when Sin Washer broke the Vine, shattering the First Growth into the five elements of earth, water, fire, flesh, and aether, he wasted his divine breath commanding the inheritors of the prince-mages to stay off the seats of power. The
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