The Shattered Vine by Laura Anne Gilman Page A

soles of his feet, rising up through his body. Was this how Master Malech had felt, every day? Or was it the need that made him so aware, the need, and the time he had been away? The thought chewed at him; had the time away made him stronger? Or had it damaged him somehow?
    The hum intensified, and Jerzy’s hand fell away from the flask, reassured. He would not need this, not here. Not when it already surged through his body so quietly, as much a part of him as his blood and breath.
    He moved through the room a second time, not looking at the bodies still on their cots, but rather following the traces of magic he could feel. None of it bore the taint he had been chasing, not obviously, and none of it had the feel of the unblooded vines of Irfan, that dangerous, untamed fruit, and yet there was something familiar about it all. Something that traced back to a shared root.
    “Did anyone new come to the village, just before this all began? They might not have stayed long, even just an hour.”
    Justus consulted the others, briefly, quietly. “Only the solitaire. No, she came after the first illness.”
    “What about the Washer?” someone else asked.
    “The what?” Both Jerzy and Kaïnam turned on the speaker, as though pulled by the same string.
    “A Washer came through on his rounds, just before Harvest.” Justus sounded surprised that they would question such a thing. “As he has done for every season I can remember. Surely he visits the vintnery as well?”
    Each season a Washer came though to bless the crops, to praise the Harvest, to bargain with Detta for their usual shipment of barrels. As a slave, Jerzy had attended the ceremonies but thought more for the Harvest party than the prayers, had taken the Solace of Sin Washer’s Heir but not looked closely at the man who offered it.
    “The same man as previous years?” Mahault had a look on her face that meant she was thinking very hard about something, but wasn’t ready to say what it was, yet.
    “No . . . he was new, younger.” Justus looked pained, his hands pressing against his rib cage as though the thought brought him pain. “But surely he could not have brought this here!”
    Jerzy bit the inside of his cheek, feeling the quiet-magic flood onto his tongue, waiting to be used. Anyone might have brought illness, intentionally or otherwise. A Washer bringing harm was counter to everything Jerzy had ever been taught, but the world had changed. The greeting party at the dock had made it clear that the rules had changed, and no one—not even an Heir of Sin Washer—was beyond suspicion. Jerzy could not overlook the possibility that one of them might be involved, for reasons of their own.
    “Illness comes in many forms,” Kaï said, stepping in to cover Jerzy’s uncertainty. His voice was princeling-smooth and soothing, redirecting attention away from the Vineart. “If he himself did not feel this exhaustion, he may never have known anything was wrong.”
    Or he might have been protected from it. This village was within House Malech’s reach. If this was an attempt to force Jerzy’s hand somehow . . . Washers, unlike lords and Vinearts, had no limits placed on how they might use either magic or power. Sin Washer had trusted his heirs . . . perhaps too much.
    Justus did not care where the illness came from, or what power swirled outside his village. “Can you help them?”
    The same words Kaï had used, when they watched the plague ship rising and falling on the waves.
    “I think so,” Jerzy said this time.
    Mahl brought him the spellwine, and Justus slid a small wooden table over for him to use. Jerzy placed the wineskin in the center of the table, unhooked his tasting spoon, and placed it next to the skin, asking for a bowl of water to rinse his hands in before beginning.
    Despite common belief, vinespells did not require ceremony to decant; his master had been disdainful of such flourishes, saying they distracted from the decantation, but Vineart