Giordan had embraced them, claiming that people felt more reassured when they had something to watch. Justus and the others, even Kaï and Mahault, needed reassurances now, even if the ill would not see it.
His hands washed and dried on a rough, clean scrap of cloth, Jerzy uncorked the wineskin and poured a scant mouthful of spellwine into the shallow lip of the spoon.
The quiet-magic for healing already rested on his tongue, the soft red fruit of healwine filling his senses, the softness of it soothing the bitten flesh, making him feel stronger, calmer, even before the decantation was made. He didn’t remember that happening before, but then again, every time he had drawn on it before he had been stressed, facing danger or uncertainty. Here . . . he was home, and although there was clearly trouble, he could sense no immediate danger, no flavor of the enemy’s taint following him to these sloping, stony lands.
The aetherwine was stronger, right out of the skin; his nostrils twitched as the scent of it rose into the otherwise stale air of the sickroom and he breathed in deeply.
As a slave, he had been forbidden to breathe of the mustus, the crushed, raw juice of the grapes. Tamed and shaped, the spellwine could still intoxicate.
Behind him, he could sense the others, but if they spoke or moved, he could not say; all of his attention was focused on the dark red liquid resting in the spoon’s depression, moving slightly as though stirred by a breath from within. No matter how often he saw aetherwine, it still awed him in a way no other legacy could, not even the cold, unblooded grapes they had discovered in Irfan. Aethervines, tradition said, had taken the brunt of Sin Washer’s touch, had absorbed his anger and his sorrow, and turned it into something . . .
Magnificent. Stubborn, like weathervines. Deep and rounded, like healvines. Powerful, like firevines. And yet, as delicate as a morning’s drop of dew, so easily ruined in the wrong or careless hands. And so very, very rare. . . .
He let the spellwine breathe a moment, then lifted the spoon to his mouth and let the liquid slide between his lips, joining the healwine magic already gathered there.
And something else, slipping into the warmth of the healvines and the sparkle of the aether, a building pressure of clean, tart power. Weatherspell. Giordan’s vines, rising inside him without being called, as though it was his proper legacy.
This was forbidden. This was dangerous.
This was why Jerzy was apostate, not any reason the Washers could name.
He had taken more than his due share, his allotted-by-Sin-Washer legacy. Any man might use any spellvine incanted. Any Vineart might—secretly, unknown to outsiders—use quiet-magic to expand and increase a decantation. But quiet-magic grew from exposure to the vines, from being accepted by that legacy. To blend them; to absorb thework of more than one master; to twine the legacies into something more powerful than they were alone . . .
These were the mark of a prince-mage. These were the things Sin Washer commanded to end.
Jerzy let those thoughts go, focused on what needed to be done. “Into the air, rise and clear,” and even as he spoke the words, forming them carefully around the liquid resting on his tongue, he was aware that he was asking, not commanding. The words were right, but the tone . . .
“Into the air, rise and clear,” he repeated, infusing more command into the words this time. Magic, unformed or mis-formed, would do as it would, not as you would have it do.
The two legacies stirred, and he could feel the magic rise, sweeping outward from him, through him, into the air, waiting. His body shivered in response, but he focused on the next step, careful not to lose control. The command was everything.
“Clear the afflicted, set them free.” As he said it, he visualized what he wanted each part of the magic to do: the aetherwine to wipe them clean, and the healwine to follow after and repair
His hands washed and dried on a rough, clean scrap of cloth, Jerzy uncorked the wineskin and poured a scant mouthful of spellwine into the shallow lip of the spoon.
The quiet-magic for healing already rested on his tongue, the soft red fruit of healwine filling his senses, the softness of it soothing the bitten flesh, making him feel stronger, calmer, even before the decantation was made. He didn’t remember that happening before, but then again, every time he had drawn on it before he had been stressed, facing danger or uncertainty. Here . . . he was home, and although there was clearly trouble, he could sense no immediate danger, no flavor of the enemy’s taint following him to these sloping, stony lands.
The aetherwine was stronger, right out of the skin; his nostrils twitched as the scent of it rose into the otherwise stale air of the sickroom and he breathed in deeply.
As a slave, he had been forbidden to breathe of the mustus, the crushed, raw juice of the grapes. Tamed and shaped, the spellwine could still intoxicate.
Behind him, he could sense the others, but if they spoke or moved, he could not say; all of his attention was focused on the dark red liquid resting in the spoon’s depression, moving slightly as though stirred by a breath from within. No matter how often he saw aetherwine, it still awed him in a way no other legacy could, not even the cold, unblooded grapes they had discovered in Irfan. Aethervines, tradition said, had taken the brunt of Sin Washer’s touch, had absorbed his anger and his sorrow, and turned it into something . . .
Magnificent. Stubborn, like weathervines. Deep and rounded, like healvines. Powerful, like firevines. And yet, as delicate as a morning’s drop of dew, so easily ruined in the wrong or careless hands. And so very, very rare. . . .
He let the spellwine breathe a moment, then lifted the spoon to his mouth and let the liquid slide between his lips, joining the healwine magic already gathered there.
And something else, slipping into the warmth of the healvines and the sparkle of the aether, a building pressure of clean, tart power. Weatherspell. Giordan’s vines, rising inside him without being called, as though it was his proper legacy.
This was forbidden. This was dangerous.
This was why Jerzy was apostate, not any reason the Washers could name.
He had taken more than his due share, his allotted-by-Sin-Washer legacy. Any man might use any spellvine incanted. Any Vineart might—secretly, unknown to outsiders—use quiet-magic to expand and increase a decantation. But quiet-magic grew from exposure to the vines, from being accepted by that legacy. To blend them; to absorb thework of more than one master; to twine the legacies into something more powerful than they were alone . . .
These were the mark of a prince-mage. These were the things Sin Washer commanded to end.
Jerzy let those thoughts go, focused on what needed to be done. “Into the air, rise and clear,” and even as he spoke the words, forming them carefully around the liquid resting on his tongue, he was aware that he was asking, not commanding. The words were right, but the tone . . .
“Into the air, rise and clear,” he repeated, infusing more command into the words this time. Magic, unformed or mis-formed, would do as it would, not as you would have it do.
The two legacies stirred, and he could feel the magic rise, sweeping outward from him, through him, into the air, waiting. His body shivered in response, but he focused on the next step, careful not to lose control. The command was everything.
“Clear the afflicted, set them free.” As he said it, he visualized what he wanted each part of the magic to do: the aetherwine to wipe them clean, and the healwine to follow after and repair
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