needed to consult Malech’s records. He needed to know if anyone else had ever written of those roots—and if there was a way to cut them, before the disease spread further.
“Jer?” Kaïnam, his voice flowing back from just ahead. “Do we stop, or go on?”
It had become too dark for them to safely ride without risking a horse stumbling, or being attacked by something with better night sight. Jerzy looked up at the sky, now covered with clouds, and shook his head, although he suspected they could not see him.
“Light, come steady, light come low,” he said, turning his closed fist palm side up and summoning quiet-magic into a pale light the same blue-white as moonshine. It slipped from between his fingers, spreading out in a ribbon to light the road just ahead of them.
“Anything more would attract attention,” he said. “This should be enough.”
“We split into two shifts,” Kaï said. “Two resting, while one drives and one keeps watch. Switch at moonrise.” He looked at the sky. “Or as close as we can tell, anyway.”
The night passed that way, the steady clop of hooves and turning of wooden wheels broken by the calls of night birds and the occasional yipping of foxes, while someone stayed alert with Ao’s bow in their hands or, in Jerzy’s case, a small wineskin of firewine at the ready. None of them slept well, and the morning sun found their eyes rimmed with red and crusted with dust, their limbs aching from the aftermath of the fight and the hard jouncing of the road, but all that was forgotten when they made the turn off the main road and up to the vintnery proper.
As a slave, Jerzy had never thought that he would leave the confines of the low stone walls. As a student, he had gone only on his master’s orders, checking on the smaller yards, or traveling to Aleppan, to study with another Vineart—and play the spy on their gossip.
Now, he thought he might feel much as Ao’s people did, ever-leaving, ever-returning. It was a distressing, dizzying thought, compounded by how quiet it all was that morning, with only the occasional invisible but vocal songbird to keep them company.
The immediate yards ran sloping down to the right-hand side of the road, stretching across the Valle of Ivy. The valley itself was cut into a chessboard, half green with crops, the others brown and fallow, interspersed with the occasional gnarled fruit tree, and dotted with low stone buildings where the House slaves lived and the farming equipment was kept. In the distance, a river cut through the fields—the Ivy. The chessboard and the buildings belonged to the House of Malech, one of four Vinearts established within The Berengia.
Master Vineart Malech, once-student of Vineart Josia, who first planted these yards. Master of Jerzy. Dead now, months past, of anattack by the same force that had attacked them: an unknown Vineart, in an unknown land, with strength beyond anything Jerzy had been taught possible.
But he had not been taught enough.
Jerzy resisted looking to the left until he had no choice, the wagon drawing to a stop at the end of the cobbled road. Ahead, a narrower path led to the stables, the henhouse, and the coldhouse, set into the hill behind the House.
To his left . . .
The House itself.
He turned and looked back the way they had come, then toward the fields again. The slaves were out among the vines, working, while others tended the much smaller gardens. A taller, bulkier form strode among them: the overseer.
A slave came running down from the stables, its jerkin clean, if ragged, dark blond hair falling into its face. Its feet were bare, and the expression guarded, until Jerzy turned around.
“Master.”
Something cold touched Jerzy at the sound of that almost casual greeting, and he fought to keep from shuddering.
Once his jaw unlocked, the words came easily. “Take the horses, and make sure they are all well-tended. Unload the wagon—carefully!—and bring the casks to the workroom
“Jer?” Kaïnam, his voice flowing back from just ahead. “Do we stop, or go on?”
It had become too dark for them to safely ride without risking a horse stumbling, or being attacked by something with better night sight. Jerzy looked up at the sky, now covered with clouds, and shook his head, although he suspected they could not see him.
“Light, come steady, light come low,” he said, turning his closed fist palm side up and summoning quiet-magic into a pale light the same blue-white as moonshine. It slipped from between his fingers, spreading out in a ribbon to light the road just ahead of them.
“Anything more would attract attention,” he said. “This should be enough.”
“We split into two shifts,” Kaï said. “Two resting, while one drives and one keeps watch. Switch at moonrise.” He looked at the sky. “Or as close as we can tell, anyway.”
The night passed that way, the steady clop of hooves and turning of wooden wheels broken by the calls of night birds and the occasional yipping of foxes, while someone stayed alert with Ao’s bow in their hands or, in Jerzy’s case, a small wineskin of firewine at the ready. None of them slept well, and the morning sun found their eyes rimmed with red and crusted with dust, their limbs aching from the aftermath of the fight and the hard jouncing of the road, but all that was forgotten when they made the turn off the main road and up to the vintnery proper.
As a slave, Jerzy had never thought that he would leave the confines of the low stone walls. As a student, he had gone only on his master’s orders, checking on the smaller yards, or traveling to Aleppan, to study with another Vineart—and play the spy on their gossip.
Now, he thought he might feel much as Ao’s people did, ever-leaving, ever-returning. It was a distressing, dizzying thought, compounded by how quiet it all was that morning, with only the occasional invisible but vocal songbird to keep them company.
The immediate yards ran sloping down to the right-hand side of the road, stretching across the Valle of Ivy. The valley itself was cut into a chessboard, half green with crops, the others brown and fallow, interspersed with the occasional gnarled fruit tree, and dotted with low stone buildings where the House slaves lived and the farming equipment was kept. In the distance, a river cut through the fields—the Ivy. The chessboard and the buildings belonged to the House of Malech, one of four Vinearts established within The Berengia.
Master Vineart Malech, once-student of Vineart Josia, who first planted these yards. Master of Jerzy. Dead now, months past, of anattack by the same force that had attacked them: an unknown Vineart, in an unknown land, with strength beyond anything Jerzy had been taught possible.
But he had not been taught enough.
Jerzy resisted looking to the left until he had no choice, the wagon drawing to a stop at the end of the cobbled road. Ahead, a narrower path led to the stables, the henhouse, and the coldhouse, set into the hill behind the House.
To his left . . .
The House itself.
He turned and looked back the way they had come, then toward the fields again. The slaves were out among the vines, working, while others tended the much smaller gardens. A taller, bulkier form strode among them: the overseer.
A slave came running down from the stables, its jerkin clean, if ragged, dark blond hair falling into its face. Its feet were bare, and the expression guarded, until Jerzy turned around.
“Master.”
Something cold touched Jerzy at the sound of that almost casual greeting, and he fought to keep from shuddering.
Once his jaw unlocked, the words came easily. “Take the horses, and make sure they are all well-tended. Unload the wagon—carefully!—and bring the casks to the workroom
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