Read Online The Shattered Vine by Laura Anne Gilman - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Anne Gilman
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the damage done. And weathervine, to freshen the air around this town, flush the soil clean of its blight.
“Go.”
The magic shimmered and then burst, a hundred drops off in twice as many directions. Jerzy felt his knees wobble and his head swim.
“Jer?”
“I think it worked,” he said, before his body gave way entirely, and he collapsed.
Kaïnam caught the Vineart as he fell to the floor. He could not say what had warned him; some change in the way the other man stood, or the way his hand turned on the silver spoon he was holding, clenching the stem tightly, like a convulsion. Whatever the clues, his body reacted before his mind could put them together, keeping the Vineart from injuring himself as his body crumpled.
“Jer!” Even as Mahault cried out in concern, there was a motion fromthe bed, and the patient, an older woman with skin weathered from wind as much as age, opened her eyes and squinted suspiciously up at them.
K AÏNAM WAS WORRIED . He did not show it; to show his concern would be to cast doubt on Jerzy’s decision, and Kaïnam was too much a son of Atakus to ever publicly disagree or doubt his captain, on the sea or off. And yet he cast sideways looks at the Vineart when he didn’t think anyone else was watching, and he worried. Jerzy had recovered quickly from his collapse; had waved off their questions with a breezy explanation that made no sense if you knew anything of how vine-magic worked. The villagers and solitaire, overwhelmed by the nearly immediate recovery of the previously pain-racked patients, did not stop to question it: perhaps, despite their proximity to Vinearts, they truly did not know anything of them.
Kaïnam knew. He thought, perhaps, that Jerzy did not know how much he knew; the others took what Jerzy revealed so matter-of-factly, with no interest beyond the fact of what Jerzy did, that it was less evident the interest Kaï himself took in the how.
Not the magic itself: Kaïnam knew that he had no skills in that area. But the things that made other people powerful, that was something he studied. His sister had schooled him well: if you knew what drove another person, if you knew what gave them strength, you knew their weaknesses, too. Claiming exhaustion from spreading the magic among so many individuals—even had Kaïnam never seen a spellwine decanted before, he had traveled with this crew for months now. He had seen the Vineart do things that were not spoken of, subtle and overt, and drawn his own conclusions.
Jerzy was far stronger than he would admit. Possibly all Vineart were. If so, it would explain Master Edon, back on Atakus, insisting he could protect the island from danger, how he had managed to wreath the entire island in magic so that it could not be found by outsiders. Hidden strengths, magelike powers, kept for two thousand years of unbroken secrecy.
In another life, when he was only his father’s son, that secrecy would have worried him, greatly. Now . . . he worried only that his friend’s limits had been reached, and they were not yet safely at the vintnery.
And even when they arrived . . . it would not be safe. The sense of urgency drew tighter, the skin between his shoulder blades twitching as though someone danced the tip of a blade along it. Jerzy was so focused on returning home, he was not thinking beyond that, but Master Vineart Malech had been killed within the walls of his own House. They could not assume it would be any sort of refuge or safe harbor. They could not assume there would be any refuge whatsoever, until their enemy was found, and defeated, or they were all dead.
Kaïnam had been born to a family of power, but he had been a younger son, and as such had watched and advised, not led. Then his sister had been murdered, and his father pushed to madness, agreeing to Edon’s foolhardy defense that had only made things worse, causing others to fear that
Atakus
was the source of the evil, the cause of this misery—drawing enemies
“Go.”
The magic shimmered and then burst, a hundred drops off in twice as many directions. Jerzy felt his knees wobble and his head swim.
“Jer?”
“I think it worked,” he said, before his body gave way entirely, and he collapsed.
Kaïnam caught the Vineart as he fell to the floor. He could not say what had warned him; some change in the way the other man stood, or the way his hand turned on the silver spoon he was holding, clenching the stem tightly, like a convulsion. Whatever the clues, his body reacted before his mind could put them together, keeping the Vineart from injuring himself as his body crumpled.
“Jer!” Even as Mahault cried out in concern, there was a motion fromthe bed, and the patient, an older woman with skin weathered from wind as much as age, opened her eyes and squinted suspiciously up at them.
K AÏNAM WAS WORRIED . He did not show it; to show his concern would be to cast doubt on Jerzy’s decision, and Kaïnam was too much a son of Atakus to ever publicly disagree or doubt his captain, on the sea or off. And yet he cast sideways looks at the Vineart when he didn’t think anyone else was watching, and he worried. Jerzy had recovered quickly from his collapse; had waved off their questions with a breezy explanation that made no sense if you knew anything of how vine-magic worked. The villagers and solitaire, overwhelmed by the nearly immediate recovery of the previously pain-racked patients, did not stop to question it: perhaps, despite their proximity to Vinearts, they truly did not know anything of them.
Kaïnam knew. He thought, perhaps, that Jerzy did not know how much he knew; the others took what Jerzy revealed so matter-of-factly, with no interest beyond the fact of what Jerzy did, that it was less evident the interest Kaï himself took in the how.
Not the magic itself: Kaïnam knew that he had no skills in that area. But the things that made other people powerful, that was something he studied. His sister had schooled him well: if you knew what drove another person, if you knew what gave them strength, you knew their weaknesses, too. Claiming exhaustion from spreading the magic among so many individuals—even had Kaïnam never seen a spellwine decanted before, he had traveled with this crew for months now. He had seen the Vineart do things that were not spoken of, subtle and overt, and drawn his own conclusions.
Jerzy was far stronger than he would admit. Possibly all Vineart were. If so, it would explain Master Edon, back on Atakus, insisting he could protect the island from danger, how he had managed to wreath the entire island in magic so that it could not be found by outsiders. Hidden strengths, magelike powers, kept for two thousand years of unbroken secrecy.
In another life, when he was only his father’s son, that secrecy would have worried him, greatly. Now . . . he worried only that his friend’s limits had been reached, and they were not yet safely at the vintnery.
And even when they arrived . . . it would not be safe. The sense of urgency drew tighter, the skin between his shoulder blades twitching as though someone danced the tip of a blade along it. Jerzy was so focused on returning home, he was not thinking beyond that, but Master Vineart Malech had been killed within the walls of his own House. They could not assume it would be any sort of refuge or safe harbor. They could not assume there would be any refuge whatsoever, until their enemy was found, and defeated, or they were all dead.
Kaïnam had been born to a family of power, but he had been a younger son, and as such had watched and advised, not led. Then his sister had been murdered, and his father pushed to madness, agreeing to Edon’s foolhardy defense that had only made things worse, causing others to fear that
Atakus
was the source of the evil, the cause of this misery—drawing enemies
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