Flesh and Fire (6 page)

“It’s not the same. It’s. . .not spellwine?” But they had come from the same bottle; he had seen the Master pour it directly. “Something in the bowl. The sweetness. There is something blocking it. Blocking the magic.”

He hadn’t known anything could do that. He didn’t know anything. . .but he knew this.

The Vineart smiled. “Congratulations, young Jerzy. You passed.”

“Passed what, Master?” At this point, he was so confused, so turned around and exhausted by all that had been thrown at him, intoxicated by the mere smell of the spellwine, Jerzy didn’t care about anything but getting an answer. “What is all this for?”

“For you,” Master Malech said, looking down into the first goblet thoughtfully. For the first time Jerzy noticed a mark on the back of the Master’s hand; a dark red drop, almost invisible against the olive of his skin, as though something had burned him there, years before, and long scabbed and healed.

The Master noticed where his attention lay and, with his free hand, he reached out and lifted Jerzy’s left hand, turning it so that the boy’s own palm lay exposed to view.

Jerzy stared at it like a new discovery; with the accumulated grime washed out of the crevices and out from under his nails, the skin looked pink and defenseless. “My twenty-third year,” Master Malech said thoughtfully, touching the bright red mark on that newly washed wrist. “A surprisingly difficult vintage, that. I only bought two new slaves, I remember, although we needed seven.”

Jerzy stared at the mark as well. He had almost forgotten.

A hustle from the slave-pen, given bare moments to take whatever belongings they cherished. He had only one, a now-ragged scrap that had once been a tasseled scarf. He wrapped it around his wrist and allowed the slaver to shove him back out again. The large tent they came to was overbright, and too warmly heated, and he started to sweat immediately.

The slaver presented him to the man: tall and lean, his face in shadow despite the lamps. Unlike the slavers, who smelled of sweat and tallow—familiar, comforting smells—this stranger reeked of something harder, sharper. The slave sniffed the air without thought, trying to identify the aroma.

The stranger laughed. “Yes, yes. He will do.”

A slaver grabbed his shoulders, forcing his left arm forward, and the boy tensed even as the stranger sipped from a silver cup, watching him. The stranger nodded once, and the slaver unwrapped the scrap and let it drop to the floor. The boy didn’t have time to mourn the loss before the stranger leaned forward and spat onto the boy’s upturned hand. The slaver, no stranger to this process, held him still even as the boy screamed while the liquid etched into his skin. . . .

“And now, as grapes are pressed into wine, we press this slave into something greater,” the Master said, almost to himself, letting go of the boy’s wrist. “You knew the grapes in the crush were weak. You sensed the difference between the pours, and were able to think it through to determine why. And you have not allowed servitude in the fields, or the scorn and abuse of the overseer, to break your spirit. Magic, knowledge, and strength. Those are the three things that are needed. Three things that cannot be taught, only learned. The three things a slave must show, in order to become my student.”

This time Jerzy did drop the goblet. It slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, and dropped a handspan toward the floor. . ..

And stopped there, caught by a simple lift of the Master’s finger, with not a drop of the wine inside disturbed. Jerzy’s breath caught. How had 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 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 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 Washers had a bag of fables and stories to explain it, but Malech saw it as simple practicality. The grapes of one region crafted a specific sort of spellwine, and another region produced something else, and it was near impossible to learn how to craft more than a handful, and even that required a Master’s skill. It was for that reason more than any demigod’s orders that Vinearts kept themselves busy in the yards, and out of the seemingly never-ending politics of the city rulers and the nobility.

Too, Vinearts did not feel the same sort of loyalty to a city or region other folk might: the slaver caravans traveled widely, and slaves might be bought anywhere, so it was rare for a Vineart to end up near the place of his birth. Somehow they almost always found themselves in the region where they were best suited, with the vines that fit their skills, when their years of study were done.

As though by magic, Malech thought, and almost laughed.

“No matter,” he said out loud to the dragon. “Family squabble, paranoia, or civil unrest, I do not care, so long as they keep it out of our lands and pay on time. If they want blood staunch, then blood staunch they shall have.” It was a simple-enough crafting, of the half-dozen different healwines he was known for; a young and simple red, without any subtleties. Despite his grumbling, he had more than enough in the cellars to supply all of Atakus and still maintain inventory until a new vintage could be made.

The room they entered was roughly circular, with candle niches in the walls at regular intervals, an oversized wooden chair with a leather seat, and a wooden desk with a surface that was bare and gleaming. Against one wall a mirror old enough to be tarnished around the edges was propped, its edges framed by gold and silver strands shaped into delicate grapevines. It had cost a fortune to make and ship and would require a year’s earnings to replace, were it to break.

Malech sat down in the chair and leaned back, looking into the mirror. For an instant the surface reflected him from knees to forehead, the tail of the dragon dangling behind him as it took up a new position perched on top of the inner doorframe. He had not brought a student into his home for many years, and the weight of it was heavy on his hands. So much could go wrong, and almost all of it during the first few weeks.

He did not like to use the mirror—the sleep house left scars, both physical and emotional, no matter how long ago you escaped, and you learned to nurse them in private. Spying on another, without their knowledge. . .And yet, the mirror could give him advance warning, if the boy were to be trouble.

Malech frowned at the image, adjusting the fall of his tunic, then spat into his hand and placed his palm flat against the mirror. Feeling the spell pre-existing within the glass respond to his touch, he ordered, “Display Jerzy.”

The boy was still sitting on the bed, staring out the window. His hands were moving slowly, as though he were arguing with himself, and the body language, even through the mirror’s haze, was clearly that of a spooked animal not sure if it should freeze or run. He started, as though in reaction to a sound, and turned. A shadow fell over the floor, and he rose, not the way he might in response to a summons, but the way you did when someone with more power or authority entered a room.

Detta, then.

“Enough.”

The mirror went dark, and then returned to showing the Vineart’s reflection. Detta had been managing his Household for nearly as long as Malech had been resident. She could handle anything short of spell-wine and would come to him if she felt a hesitation or concern.

“The boy has talent,” Malech said to the dragon. “He was able to sense the mediocrity of the crush without any training or experience, and then again to choose the correct cup.”

The dragon swished its tail and lowered its head to its stone talons, waiting for the rest of its master’s thoughts.

“Talent alone is not enough. In the end, Guardian, it is desire that creates a master vintner, makes him into a Vineart. A passion, not for power, or strength, but for the grapes themselves. Anything else leads to ruin.”

The dragon had heard variations on this before, in the years since its carving. It had seen three students come and only one progress beyond that initial stage. If it cared enough, or had a sense of humor, it might have yawned.

Malech was quite aware that his audience was not captivated. He had long ago accustomed himself to speaking to, in effect, a stone wall. It was still better than speaking to himself.

Only time, and tests, would show if Jerzy had that passion, and if he could survive the training that would refine his crude awareness into the skills of a Vineart. At this point in his life, after four decades of mastery, Malech knew better than most how chancy expectations could be.