Flesh and Fire (21 page)

“Go!”

The two decantations slammed into each other, twining even as Jerzy directed his casting, binding together and then slamming into the beast with a clap of sound and sparks like lightning hitting the tallest tree on a hill. The effect was immediate. The great sea beast roared, throwing its massive head skyward and letting a body drop from its mouth into the water below with a heavy splash. The serpent’s head bobbed down again, swooping terrifyingly low, heavy-lidded eyes opening wide to reveal a blank, milky-white stare. The magic shimmered again, a pale red haze visible only to Jerzy’s eyes, and the great beast shuddered.

“’Ware! Out of the way!”

The villagers scattered, holding on to their makeshift weapons even as they scattered back up the rocky beach, even as the great body swayed in the air, its maw of a mouth opening wider in a snarl that cut the air and echoed against the cliffs.

“Sin Washer save us,” one of the archers cried, throwing himself down on his knees. His fellow guards stood and stared, their weapons held at shoulder or hip height, useless and slack.

“Washer, look at the size of those teeth.”

Even as one of the archers muttered that, one of the teeth—in truth, fangs the length of a man’s arm, yellow-white and curved like a cat’s claw—fell from that open maw and splashed down into the wet sand.

Jerzy felt the air leave his lungs in a heavy gasp of relief. His twist had taken the spell one step further, sending the great beast not soothing calm, but such a deep relaxation the very bits of bone and muscle unwound from one another, the joints failing so rapidly that it could not remain upright, nor teeth remain in its mouth.

A man below them screamed as he narrowly missed being impaled by the fang. Upright in the sand, it was as tall, to Jerzy’s eyes, as a young child.

The beast was, literally, falling apart as the spell rode down through the massive length of its body. It still lived, however, and still tried to feed, the body thrashing, swamping the remaining boats, the mouth relentlessly trying to reach the villagers on the shoreline. Those fisherfolk scattered and then returned, now prodding at the portions within reach with their staves and spears, drawing its attention at great risk to themselves.

“To arm,” Ranulf shouted, drawing his own weapon, a sword that was dark and battered looking but still promised of sharp edges and a heavy blow in his hands. The princeling did not wait for his men to ready themselves, but ran down the path to the shore, leading the charge. To their credit, the bowmen did not hesitate, even the one who had fallen to his knees quickly rising. Two of them ran with their bows at-ready, the third drawing a blade from his scabbard instead. In seconds, Jerzy was left alone on the bluff, watching as the battle was joined.

Even with the spell making the beast sluggish, it was no easy slaughter: the serpent beast lashed out with its massive head and knocked half a dozen of the fisherfolk into the water, where they sank into the waist-deep waves and were not seen again. Meanwhile, the remaining boats were coming in to shore, not where the battle raged, but farther out, along the rocky shoals, figures creeping onto the rocks and moving slowly for home, trying not to attract the beast’s attention. Jerzy felt the wine sack in his hand, and wondered, desperately, if another casting would help or not. Some spellwines could be used again and again, adding to the effect. Others merely faded once the wine was uncorked, until they were nothing more than a whisper of power.

He didn’t know which this one was. A surge of panic went through him as he tried to remember if he had known and forgotten, or simply never known. Why hadn’t Malech better prepared him?

Because,
a voice that sounded like his own told him dryly,
you aren’t supposed to be decanting spellwines, merely delivering them.

“Disaster either way,” he finally said, and lifted the spellwine to his mouth again. The taste this time was muted, although he wasn’t sure if it was because he knew what to expect, or if the wine was fading already. This time he noticed more subtle details; the touch of tartness on his tongue, the lingering sense of sun-warmed flint surrounding it, the way the liquid seemed to splash into his mouth rather than flow, and the gentle, almost untraceable ribbon of creaminess that wrapped around the flint and tart, binding them together. He had walked the soil of this vineyard, felt the sun on the vines that had produced these grapes, smelled the rain that nourished them, and the wind that cooled them. He knew this wine, even if he had not created it, and that knowledge triggered something deep inside him, tingling like a headache, only without the pain.

“Into the muscles, seep. Soften the flesh, soften.” He whispered it around the golden liquid this time, then swallowed, feeling it slide down his throat. “Go.” It was less a command and more of an entreaty, and he felt the magic within the wine following his desire.

He followed the flow of magic as it swooped down off the cliff, an invisible swarm of bees, a swirl of butterflies, streaking down to meet the beast just as it finally came up onto the beach proper, lengths of its body still coiling and uncoiling behind it in the water, thick, stumpy legs hitting the sand and leaving webbed prints behind. The neck seemed even longer and thicker, out of the water, and the head was terrifyingly close. Yet the prince stood stock-still as the mouth came down at him, closer, closer. . .

To those on the beach, it must have seemed that the princeling’s sword blow decapitated the beast, the heavy blade sliding through scales and flesh without hesitation. Only someone watching the prince would see his reaction, his muscle awareness that he hadn’t struck hard enough to land that sort of blow.

The beast wobbled, its voice cut off midroar, and the coastline resounded with that silence for a heartbeat before the huge head fell backward into the deeper water and the body followed, collapsing on its side, half on the sand, half in the water, sending wavelets racing back and forth and forcing the humans to retreat to a safer distance or risk being swamped.

The spell had done the work. The spell, and Jerzy’s casting of it.

He had just enough time to feel a swell of pride before the fisher-folk were dropping their makeshift weapons and rushing toward their prince, shouting his name and cheering.

What did you expect?
a voice crawled up to whisper in his ear.
Ranulf is the man with the sword and the circlet. All they know is you were the messenger, the servant, the slave. You did nothing. You earned nothing. No shouts for you. No glad praise or—

Over the voice came the cool mental voice of the Guardian, impossible at this distance, and yet unmistakable.
You are Vineart.

Jerzy cut the first voice off without real effort, and the Guardian’s presence faded into a fine mist. He watched the celebrations below him with an oddly distanced eye, observing the details of how the serpent’s flesh remained soft and pliable as the villagers and guards hacked at the body, even as others pulled the boats up onto shore and reclaimed the bodies of those fallen, pulling them a clean distance away from the monster’s corpse.

“A bonfire,” the prince shouted. “A bonfire to burn this abomination, and send a signal that we are not such easy prey for anything!”

At that, Jerzy blinked, and he cocked his head to study the beast a moment before collecting his horse—still waiting patiently, now that the fear was gone—and walking down to the shore to speak with the prince.

Chapter 13

The stink of
the beast was even worse up close. The last chunk of flesh—carefully wrapped in sailcloth, to keep flies away—was placed in the back of the small cart, and the guard who had overseen the loading drew one arm across his nose as though to block out the scent.

“You took this? Instead of gold?”

“I did,” Jerzy said, checking the girth on his mare’s saddle. She turned her head to look at him, as though wondering what he was thinking, and he patted the side of her neck reassuringly. The fact that she had carried him here, and not—unlike Jecq’s horse—run away when the serpent beast attacked, had gone a long way to endearing her to him. He still wasn’t looking forward to the ride back, however.

Agreeing to forego payment for the spellwines in exchange for selected portions of the sea serpent, and the cart and the donkey to ferry them home, had taken the last of Jerzy’s strength. How dare he make such a decision? Yet, he had agreed, in Master Malech’s name. The deed was done.

The guard shook his head and retreated, no doubt to consider the madness of Vinearts and all those associated with them.

It was perhaps madness. If so, Master Malech would punish him when he returned, and there was a part of Jerzy that quailed under that thought. Yet, the curiosity that overcame him when looking at the beast could not be constrained, and had his master not ordered him to take a look at what was left of the first beast? Surely a fresh sample would be even more useful, especially since the prince refused him access to the first village that had been attacked, deeming it too dangerous until the spellwine had thoroughly cleansed the area.

The small donkey attached to the cart made a chuffing noise and flicked one long ear, but otherwise did not seem perturbed. The cart was barely large enough for its gruesome burden, another canvas sail laid over it and lashed to the wood to prevent anything falling out—or anyone seeing what was being conveyed. Enough stories would come out of the day’s events; Jerzy felt no need to add to them. Not until Malech had his say on the matter.

“Young mage.”

Jerzy turned to greet the princeling—Prince Ranulf—now dressed in a sleeveless doublet of dark blue cloth and silver thread over a shirt of such whiteness Jerzy doubted it had ever been worn before, and most certainly not in any field or on any road, where dirt would find it like flies to split grapes. Two of his guards stood behind him, less ready than relaxed. Clearly, they thought their troubles had ended with the delivery of the spellwines and the seemingly effortless defeat of the sea serpent.

Jerzy, thinking back at the size and ferocity of the beast, wasn’t so certain.

“I thank you again for your aid and assistance,” the prince said. His face was calm, but his eyes showed a deeper shadowing. Unlike his men, Ranulf wasn’t certain the spellwine would be enough, either. He knew that it had not been his stroke alone that killed the beast, although Jerzy doubted that the prince would ever admit it, even to himself. He needed to believe his superiority so that others would believe him as well.

“Master Malech is pleased to have been of assistance,” Jerzy replied. Whereas before, on the cliff, they had simply been two men among many facing danger, when Jerzy’s training had been the more useful, here and now he had to fight the need to get down on his knees before the sole authority within these makeshift camp walls, to become as invisible as a slave could manage, and pray not to be noticed. Yet Cai and Master Malech had both taught him that a Vineart was equal to any princeling, maiar, or land’s lord, and bowed to no mortal man. Instead, Jerzy inclined his head, acknowledging Ranulfg’s status and position, and the fact that they stood on his terrain.

The prince seemed satisfied by the gesture and came to stand closer, although still a distance away from the cart. Jerzy was amused, although he did not show it. In truth, the dead flesh did not smell any worse than the alleys of the village they had ridden through or a shit pot in the morning air. But it did remind him that he needed to be on his way, before the smell grew worse.

“If you have need of us again, send a messenger-bird or rider.” Messenger-birds were faster than riders, but you could never be certain if one arrived at its destination or not until a reply came. Riders were slower, but more certain.

“Sin Washer protect us that it is not necessary. We know how to kill these beasts now, and have scouts posted a quarter’s day sail out. We shall not be caught off guard again.”

Jerzy thought the prince was too confident, but, bearing in mind what his master had said about the pride of princes, merely nodded solemnly, and swung into his mare’s saddle. A guard handed up the donkey’s lead to Jerzy, who tied it to the saddle, and put heels to the mare’s flank, moving her forward into a steady walk. There would be no gallop home, not with the cart in tow, and his buttocks were deeply thankful for that.

The small crowd had already faded back to their other chores as Jerzy rode out of the prince’s camp, the two-wheeled cart rattling behind him. He did not look back to see if anyone watched him go.

* * *

TRAVELING WITH THE wagon, it took almost half again as long for him to return home. By the time he passed the road marker indicating that he was on Malech’s lands, his eyes were gritted with exhaustion, and he felt as though he had aged a year. The sight of the first vineyard he passed along the road washed him with relief, and he felt the passing urge to wave to the workers, but his fingers would not unclench from the reins. By the time the donkey cart rattled its way onto the stone-lined track up to the House midway through the third day of travel, Jerzy felt as though his hips were broken and his back bent in two, and the simple act of sliding off the mare’s back nearly killed him.

A slave came up to take the reins from his numb fingers, and led the mare away to be fed and taken care of, without needing orders. Another unhitched the donkey and, making note of the ear tag that indicated who he belonged to, led him away as well. He would be fed and groomed, then returned.

“Bring the cart to the icehouse and unload it—do not open anything, or remove the bindings,” Jerzy told a third slave, an older youth who looked vaguely familiar. A nickname came back to him: Mouser. They might have roughhoused together, once upon a time, or labored in the vineyard, tilling soil and pulling weeds. Another lifetime ago.

The slave ducked his head and shoulders to show his understanding of the orders and reached for the shaft of the cart, pulling it toward the small stone house. The cooler air there would keep the flesh intact until Malech had a chance to look it over.

“Welcome home, young one.” Detta waited at the front door of the House, wiping her hands on a dish towel. The keys on her belt around her ample waist jangled as she moved, and they sounded like air chimes to Jerzy’s ears, worn down by the sound of eight hooves and two wheels on too long a stretch of road. “Did you stop to feed, or were you so intent on coming home you forgot all else?” She read the answer on his face, and shook her head in mock dismay. “Vinearts, all the same. Not a one of them can bear to be away from their grapes a moment longer than they must. . ..All right, you. Come and be fed, else you’ll fall over and Malech will be annoyed with me for not preventing it. And then you’ll be for a washing, because you reek of horse and. . .” Her nose wrinkled, and she turned away, walking faster. “On second thought, Jerzy, you’ll be washing before you’re sitting down to any table of mine!”

He paused to sniff at himself, and frowned. He had thought the smell was coming from the cart, not him. Still, a hot bath would be welcome.

There was a new helper in the House since he had left, a young woman named Gert. She had long black hair tied up with a red kerchief, and pale skin and green eyes that made him wonder if she, like Cai, was Caulic. She carried the steaming water in for his bath, dumping and carting the empty pitchers out without comment or a second look, even as Jerzy was shedding his clothes and dropping them onto the cool slate floor.

“Her father’s selectman in Blerton,” Detta said almost casually, picking his clothes up and draping them over her arm. “She’s four sisters older, so I’ve taken her on to teach her how to run a household, for a few months only.”

Jerzy heard the threat implicit in the House-keeper’s words, and slewed his head around from watching Gert’s retreating backside to meet Detta’s round, amused gaze. “I would never. . .” he stammered.

“Oh, you’re too pretty by half for girl children not to notice, for all Gert’s playing it casual. But you won’t be cruel to her; you’re not careless that way, no. I’ll give you that much. You won’t be trouble, not in that way, and eventually they’ll learn to let you alone.”

Jerzy stared at her, completely lost now. She thought that he would. . .or that the girl would. . .like Cooper Shen had. . .wouldn’t he? Jerzy was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of his member, soft against his thigh. If it did not respond to fumblings in the sleep house, surely it would have done something now? But all he felt was exhaustion.

“Take your bath, sir, and then come down for your meal. Master Malech will want to speak with you directly after.”

Jerzy was actually surprised that the Guardian hadn’t been sent for him already.

He dropped his trou as Detta left the room and closed the door behind her, then stepped into the tub, sighing in relief as the hot water touched his skin, seeping into the aching muscles. If there had been room, he would have sunk his entire body under water and stayed there until his skin was as loose as the beast’s, falling off the bone. But the tub was too small. . ..Jerzy frowned. The tub hadn’t been too small before. Were they using a new one? He looked down. No, it was the same one as always. And yet, where once he could have stretched his legs out in front of him, now he had to bend them at the knees to sit comfortably, and the sides of the tub seemed to press in more than they had before.

He shrugged, and grabbed the soap. Sooner he was clean, the sooner Detta would feed him.

HE MET WITH Malech in the study, taking his usual place on the stool, now dressed in a clean shirt and trousers, barefoot for comfort. Self-conscious after the tub’s revelations, the seat suddenly felt uncomfortable, and he couldn’t quite get his legs to settle. His hair, still damp, flopped over into his eyes, and he shoved it back with a grimace. He would have to ask Lil if she could cut it for him again.

“So. You return with a cart and a donkey. . .and no coin.”

“Master.”

“Don’t ‘Master’ me, boy. I can’t see Ranulf cheating me, so whatever you did you must have had some reason to do. Don’t hesitate now.”

Malech sounded annoyed, but not angry. That allowed Jerzy to gather his heart up from where it had settled in his stomach, and try to explain.

“It was like nothing I had ever seen. Not a sea serpent as you described, not a familiar beast, but as though one such creature had mated with another, and then mated with a third, to create this thing. Body of a snake, yes, but the head was like a cow’s, and the teeth of a meat eater. . .and the skin, where it was not scaled, was rough like a. . .” He hesitated, trying to find the right description. “It was rough, like an old vine,” he said finally. That wasn’t a perfect description, but it was the best one he could come up with, and the more he thought about it, the better it worked.

“And. . .?”

“And it seemed to me that. . .” What had seemed so obvious at the time was less so, in the study, under Malech’s cool gaze. “It seemed to me that something new, something dangerous, was something that we should not leave to a warrior, but inquire into ourselves.”

He waited. After a half year and more, he no longer feared that the Vineart would send him back to the fields as a slave, exactly, but somehow not knowing the price of failure was worse than certainty.

“And you brought back a cart. Filled with this creature?”

“Parts of it.”

“Well.” Malech rose to his feet, and went over to the slender work-table, assembling an assortment of clear vials from a wooden box, and filling them out of the blown-glass flasks of various liquids. “Fetch my carry bag,” he ordered, but Jerzy was already across the room, taking down the battered leather case by its strap. It held ten vials snug in a block of softwood, snug and secure against breaking or jostling.

“Now,” Malech said, when the vials were filled, stoppered, and placed inside the case. “Come show me this treasure you’ve brought home.”

The icehouse was set off to the side, into the hill, and guarded against the sun’s direct rays; shadows were already gathering around the thick wooden doors.

The cart had been unloaded, and the contents placed, still wrapped in the canvas sail, on the planked floor. Surprisingly, cooled down, the remains did not smell bad at all, but rather something slightly familiar and not entirely unpleasant. He sniffed, the way he might to test a wine, and his nose reported back a combination of seawater, fish, and. . .mold?

Malech spit into his hand and held it up to the nearest wall. That was enough to trigger the mage-lights set there, and they flickered to life, pale blue lights cool enough not to disturb the blocks of ice shoved against the far wall.

“How did you do that?” Jerzy asked, fascinated.

“I hadn’t shown you that?” Malech shook his head in disgust. “No, other things crowding my mind. My apologies, boy. That’s the quiet-magic, what some call mage-blood. Remember I told you, the magic’s in the flesh, not the words? It gets into our flesh, too. All the years of crafting and tasting and working with magic, some of it gets under your skin, stays in your blood. Some get more, some less. Enough, at least, to trigger a prepared spell, like that one. The firespell-lights were set into the walls by my master when he took over this property; any one of our lineage can trigger them.”

“Even me?” Jerzy’s eyes widened at the thought.

“Eventually. Now, show me what you bought with my gold.”

Jerzy dropped to one knee and pulled back the edge of the canvas, tugging the heavy material until the entire load was displayed. Malech placed the leather case on the ground, and came closer.