Weight of Stone (2 page)

But it would not be forever. If his plan succeeded—and it would, he would not doubt—then he would bring this exile to an end, finally.

He could practically taste that promise, sweet and juicy, to wash away the taste of ashes he had carried since he had learned the truth of why they had come to this place generations before; come, and been abandoned. His people might believe that the Grounding had been an accident, a twist of fate that crashed three ships onto these unwelcoming shores. He knew otherwise.

He knew, and could never forget, or forgive.

“We are running out of time,” he said again, this time looking at his companion as though to demand a response. “The Harvest is upon us, and if we are not ready this time …”

The other man in the chamber laughed, a rusty sound, as though he did not often speak, and even more rarely showed humor. “Ximen, old friend. All is on schedule. In the old lands, their vine-mages turn on each other, the safe-ports close against strangers and allies alike … rumors spread and fear grows. We are ready. There is no need for concern.”

The vine-mage was thrice Ximen’s age, half his weight, and had a core of hatred that burned in him brighter and hotter than the summer sun. And he was no man’s friend, old or otherwise. You challenged him at great risk, and almost certain failure. The Praepositus did not fear the vine-mage, precisely, but normally kept a cautious tongue around him. Today, the weight of reports burdening his desk, the growing sense of time passing and risk increasing, made Ximen incautious.

“And yet, I have concern. We are pouring so much into your scheme,
old friend,
that there is less to use here.” A real worry: the land beyond the limits of the Grounding were harsh, the beasts vicious, and only spellwines kept them safe—and only this one man before him could
craft those wines. He would not risk his people, not even to save them. “You are certain it is working?”

Ximen did not know the details of the vine-mage’s scheme, only the broad strokes. That was not optimal, yet he had no choice but to trust the other, and that knowledge was a knife’s point to the back of his neck, every waking thought and most of his sleeping ones as well.

“Patience a little while longer, Praepositus of Grounding,” the vine-mage said, smiling a little, without real humor.

The Praepositus frowned, not pleased with the answer, and the vine-mage noted that displeasure. Ximen was short but well muscled, with a wrestler’s build and the clean-shaven head of a fighter, and were he to suddenly become enraged, it was not certain magic alone would stop him, not if he acted swiftly. If he would not willingly anger the vine-mage, the vine-mage was also wary of him. It was a delicate dance between them, to push thus, and no more.

“I wish you would tell me exactly why you hesitate, now, when all has been set in motion,” Ximen said, pulling his robe more closely around his frame as though he were cold, although a fire burned warmly in a nearby hearth, and the air was comfortable, even with the open window. “Merely to ease my foolish concerns.”

The vine-mage put down the manuscript he was reading, keeping his place with one finger, and gave Ximen his full attention. “The vines are deep and the roots spread far.”

Every child heard that saying from the teat, mostly to remind them that, no matter how far away they might feel, they were still connected to their distant homeland, far away and silent. From this man’s mouth, it sounded more ominous.

“Yes, so you keep telling me. If they spread so far, why have we not yet—”

“Roots take time to grow,” the mage said, cutting off a discussion they had repeated many times before. “I wish to make sure the moment is right, before I allow them to flower. Patience, Praepositus.”

The now-patronizing tone irritated Ximen, but he tried not to show
it. Others might think that the vine-mage was subject to him, but Ximen knew better. Magic made men odd, and this one had drunk deeper than most.

“Still. I do not like this delay, so late in the game. A single discovery, and—”

“There will be no discovery, not until I wish them to know who they face.” The vine-mage’s arrogance was no less frustrating for being well earned. “Did I not deal with the single Vineart who managed to track me back? Have I not dealt thus with every Vineart who might be a threat?”

Ximen nodded once. He had. From an impossible distance, the mage had reached out and plucked the spying eye from that Vineart’s head, then crushed the body into dust, leaving no trace behind to be found. Others, too, unaware and unprepared; it was no great matter for his vine-mage to reach his heavy hand and take them. Silently, swiftly, slaying them where they slept, or tearing them apart as they tried to resist.

But a Vineart who was not unprepared, who was not unaware … would he be as simple to destroy?

Ximen held those doubts deep within his darkest thoughts. Five years. Five years since he had approached the vine-mage, a daring plan in mind, and found him already halfway there. No guard or personal vigilance could stop the vine-mage if he felt that Ximen were suddenly an obstacle rather than an ally. And yet Ximen needed reassurances, even if this need pushed too far and angered the other man.

For the moment, the vine-mage seemed to be amused, rather than annoyed. “We have had confidence in you for these many years, worthy Praepositus. Now, have confidence in us. Magic beast and sudden storm are all very well, but the strongest storm cannot batter a well-built house. We weaken the foundations, sow chaos in their soil, and the house falls with a single blow. Soon we shall sweep in and take our revenge.”

Ximen nodded again, less reluctantly. This, too, they had discussed before. For generations, the people of the Grounding had survived,
accepted the abandonment, made the best of the harsh land they had been given. But that ended with his rule. Never again would his family be cast into shadow, his people forgotten like an unpleasant chore. Not even if the gods themselves demanded it. He would not crawl before Sin Washer himself, if it came to that. He would not be denied the power that was rightfully his, for the failure of others seven generations before.

The fact that the vine-mage most likely had another agenda in mind did not bother Ximen, so long as it marched in step with his own. This land taught the necessity of compromise, the virtue of the long view.

The vine-mage pushed a wooden cup across the table toward his prince. “To justice, my old friend. Though it took generations, it will be ours.”

The Praepositus reached out and took the goblet, letting the warm scent of the
vina
reach his nose. It smelled of ripe berries, and warm spices, and the bitter branch of vengeance too long denied. His people, his
family,
abandoned for the political aims of a single man, the foolish trust of those who should have known better, who followed the promise to this harsh, unloving land … and were there betrayed to their death.

But they did not die. And they would return and take payment for that betrayal, not just on the blood of the one who had sent them but on all who thrived while they were gone.

He raised his cup in turn. “To justice.”

T
HE
W
ESTERN
S
EA

Spring

Jerzy of the
House of Malech, Vineart-student and currently accused apostate under the mark of death, heaved his guts over the side of the ship and wished, not for the first time, that a wave would simply sweep him over the side and be done with it.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Ao had come up behind him while Jerzy was losing what was left of his previous evening’s dinner, and was standing by the railing, glancing out over the calm blue waters. The trader was barefoot and shirtless, his straight black hair slicked away from his round face, emphasizing the narrow, heavy-lidded eyes that, even when things were going badly, held some inner amusement—often, as this morning, at Jerzy’s expense.

Above him, the wind snapped the canvas sails and rattled the main. The air was sweet and salty; large white birds sailed overhead, calling out in harsh, high voices as they searched for breakfast in the waters below; and the sun was only just rising, turning the briny blue-green depths into a brighter aquamarine.

Jerzy would have traded it all for a miserably rainy day in the dankest room anywhere on solid land.

“I hate you,” he said, leaning against the wooden railing and wishing that his limbs would stop shaking already.

Ao laughed, but there was real sympathy in his voice. “No, you don’t,” he said. “Here.” The trader handed him a towel to wipe his mouth. The cloth was scratchy linen, air-dried and smelling of mildew and sea spray, but Jerzy barely noticed at this point. They had been at sea for ten days now, and he had been sick every single morning.

Jerzy pushed a sweat-damp lock of hair off his forehead and mopped his skin with the towel, then looked up at the dun-colored sail snapping in the breeze above them. The creaking, slapping noise still sounded dangerous to him, but he freely admitted that he knew nothing about boats or sailing, leaving that to Ao and the third member of their party who was currently at the helm, steering them through the waters.

The thought of her made him look over his shoulder to where Mahault stood tall and proud at the wheel, her attention on the far horizon, where water seemed to merge into sky without a single obstacle to mar the view.

Her blond hair was no longer caught up in the formal, complicated knot she had worn as the daughter of the lord-maiar of Aleppan, but was instead braided into a thick plait, hanging halfway down her back. The time under the open skies had bleached it from deep gold to the color of straw, and darkened her smooth skin to a pale brown, almost exactly the color of tai, the bark brew popular back home. Her lady-mother would have been outraged to see her daughter looking so much like a common sailor.

The fact that Mahault seemed happier now, free and browned, than
she had been the entire time he had known her in Aleppan, took away some of the regret Jerzy felt at his involvement in her exile.

The thought made him grimace. Mahault would have glared at him if she knew he was taking any responsibility at all for her actions—she had made the decision to leave on her own; in fact, she had used their rescue of him to make her own escape. An exile, yes, but a chosen one, against worse options.

And at that, she was faring better than he—not only was he a poor sailor, but his skin pinked under the sun, burning at the bend of his arms and back of his neck unless he kept them covered. Ao assured him that the skin would darken over time, adapting to the different weather, but Jerzy didn’t want to spend enough time here to discover the truth of that. He wanted to go home.

Unfortunately, that was the one place he could not go.

Eleven days ago they had fled the city of Aleppan, barely one step ahead of Washers who named Jerzy apostate, oath-breaker, saying that he had broken Sin Washer’s Commandment forbidding one Vineart from interfering with the vines of another.

It was a crime punishable by death.

Jerzy was not guilty of that crime, but he was not innocent, either.

Master Vineart Malech, Jerzy’s master and teacher, had sent him to Aleppan under the guise of studying with Vineart Giordan—itself an unheard-of breach in tradition—to listen, in that city of trade and gossip, for further news of recent, disturbing events: magic-crafted serpents attacking shoreline villages, strange disappearances of Vinearts, out-of-season vine infestations, and more they had not yet heard about.

Instead, Jerzy had discovered that the strange happenings went deeper than Master Malech could have dreamed, attacking not only Vinearts and villagers, but men of power as well. While trying to investigate, he had been caught up in lines of deceit and magic entangling the lord-maiar, Mahault’s father, and turning Aleppan into a deadly trap for both Jerzy and Vineart Giordan.

Ao and Mahault had risked everything to help Jerzy escape, fleeing
the city on horseback with only what Mahault had had time to throw into packs, and no idea where they would go or what they could do.

Unable to contact his master, with not only his own survival but his companions’ to consider as well, Jerzy had decided to go to the one place where he could not be easily tracked: open water. As a member of the Eastern Wind trading clan, however junior, Ao had been able to barter their two horses and Mahault’s jewelry for this ship. It was seaworthy but small, and not meant to be taken out of sight of the shoreline.

Given a choice, Jerzy would never have willingly set foot on another boat, after his terrible sickness on the way from his home in The Berengia to Aleppan. The risk of illness was welcome, compared to the options: if they stayed on the shore, they would have been retaken, he would have been killed, and Ao and Mahault … he did not know what would happen to them, but it would not have been good.

The three of them had agreed that until they determined how far the search for them had spread, it was safer here on the empty waters, where they could see any pursuit coming. Their supplies were limited, though, and they needed to replenish their fresh water or they would die of thirst, surrounded by seemingly endless blue waves.

Jerzy felt the responsibility for their situation keenly; it was his fault, his failure that had brought them to this. He had promised to give his companions a chance to recoup the losses incurred when they linked their fates to his … but he had no idea how to do that. More, he could not allow that promise to become his foremost priority. He was Jerzy of the House Malech; his first and only obligation was to warn his master of what he had learned in Aleppan.

But Jerzy had no way to contact Master Malech; the enspelled mirror he was meant to use had been broken when he was arrested, and he had neither messenger birds for the sending nor knowledge of a decantation that would cast his voice into his master’s ear, even if he had access to the proper spellwine.