From Whence You Came (3 page)

Bradhai had never bothered before about the fact that the rest of the Lands Vin did without, or what they might think of him for it.

The idea left him thoughtful, but, he was worn from the stress of the day, his eyes began to droop before the servers cleared their platters. Aware that the next morning would be stressful as well, he declined an offer to join the others in the courtyard for an evening pipe, instead excusing himself to climb the stairs to the room he'd been told was his. It was scarcely a closet, the bed half as narrow as his own back home, but Bradhai was too tired to care. There was only a single candle in the room, no spell-lights, and with a sigh he touched the waiting flint-clock to wick, until a feeble yellow light danced into being, too tired to summon the blood-magic that would give him clearer magelight. He then stripped off his clothing, fell aching into the surprisingly comfortable bed, and knew nothing more.

o0o

A Vineart woke early; it was in his nature to respond to the moods of the soil and seed. A sailor, he discovered, woke even earlier. There was no light in the sky when a fist pounded on his door, and Arias stuck his head in to
hissst
a wake-up.

“Tai and soot on the tooble,” he said. “Hoorry or it'll be gone and you'll be fair sore.”

That was what Bradhai thought he'd said, anyway. “Tai” had been the only word that truly registered, but thought of the thick, stinging brew got Bradhai up out of the bed and back into his clothing, making it to the table in time for there to still be some left. “Soot” turned out to be “soup,” a thick porridge of beans and milk that Bradhai stirred dubiously, but as the rest of the men were eating it, decided to try it anyway.

He preferred his usual morning break of sausage and bread, but it wasn't bad, and he could see where an ostlery or inn, making a meal for so many, would prefer a single pot any child could stir.

“Fair weather rising,” Hernán said. “We should make excellent time, once we cast off.”

“Cast off?” Bradhai looked up from his soup, and frowned, suddenly unsure and quite sure he did not like what that implied.

“Man, did you think you'd be standing on the shore, waving your hands and swallowing magic? No, no, if you're to prove it wasn't your fault, my man must see the winds rise and fill his sails, and no lie.”

Had there been any way to back out, to make his excuses and ride for home, Bradhai would have done it. But had there been any way, he would not have been there in the first place.

“You've never been shipside before, have you, boy?” One of the other men at the table spoke up, suddenly kind. Bradhai distrusted that on instinct.

“Vinearts are landsmen,” Hernán said. “Of course he hasn't. And none of your tricks, matesman. This is an honored guest on the
ladysong
and you'll do well to remember that.”

“Me, sir?” The matesman looked innocently at them all, and then snorted. “Oye, sir. Honored guest and off limits to the boys. I'll pass the word.”

And with that, the meal seemed to be ended, as the matesman got up and started shouting to others in the main room, and the carters went off to settle their bill.

“You've nothing to worry about, boy,” Hernán said. “If your spellmaking's as solid as you say, you'll give us a demo and then be back on your way, and all accounts settled.”

No one had called him ‘boy' since Master Wy had died, but this did not seem the time or place to take offense. Bradhai knew that his spells had not failed. And yet, somehow, unease roiled in his stomach, disrupting his digestion unpleasantly.

“Go, fetch your things. It's a quick walk down to the docks from here, and I'm told the
ladysong
's
eager to go.”

o0o

The
ladysong
was nowhere near as elegant or dainty as her name implied; more the bellow of a cowherd, Bradhai thought on first seeing her heavy lines and wide girth in the grayish dawn light, and feeling how she wallowed in the water. Hernán had introduced him to the captain, a blustery man half Bradhai's size and twice his age, who seemed to have no name, only “captain,” and then stashed the Vineart in an alcove away from the bustle of dozens of men each doing their job intently, and with a great deal of coarse yelling and swearing. 

Bradhai held onto the bench he'd been put on, and tried to focus not on what was happening around him but the distant dark sea awaiting them, and the promise of the wind, once they were free of the harbor. His Sense twitched. His primary was the growvine, but the aethervines whispered to him just as strongly, else he could not grow them much less incant them into ordered spells, and the faintest tip of that magic lingered out there, in the ocean airs. 

This was why they bought his spells, to fill their sails and drive them forward, to calm the sky's tempests, and bring them safe home again. His magic – the aether portion of it – was made for this place.

He focused on that, and the bustle and chaos around him faded, the rolling of the boat became a lull, and it wasn't until Hernán appeared next to him that Bradhai realized that he had left his alcove, and was standing at the railing, the wallowing of the ship having become a smooth roll, and the
ladysong,
released from the harbor's shelter, had become a different, far more elegant beast, riding the open sea like a horse might own the road.

“Ah. I had a thought you might be a sailor, under all that soil,” Hernán said. “Welcome to the wild seas, Vineart Bradhai.”

It hadn't been what he expected. The sea was dangerous, everyone knew that; the only reason to take the sea-road was to harvest the schools of fish that swam in the shallows, or to carry freight or travelers from one shore to another. You did not linger, and you found no delight in it.

And yet, the deep green-blue of the water, the spumes of white and occasional swirls of deeper black, somehow reminded him of the slopes of his own yards, the freshening breeze and the sun at their back akin to what he felt on a brisk Spring morning as the leaves unfurled, and the magic began to speak. Even the roll of the boat as it moved through the waters, the crackle of sails and wooden posts as they cut against the wind sang to him in a way he had not expected.

“It's beautiful,” he admitted.

“Like a woman with a knife,” Hernán said. “You admire but you stay alert, that's how a sailor survives.”

Vinearts had no truck with women, armed or otherwise, save they had a woman to cook for them, and Bradhai could not imagine Cook – kind, but not given much to speech - as beautiful, or dangerous.

“There are beasts in the depths, the great serpents, and the krekken, and the leviathans… but they are shy of ships this size, and only rarely seen, for all the stories crewsmen tell into their ale.” Hernán shook his head. “Even brigands are rare – you encounter them by chance, and show them your heels as soon as you might. No, the danger is in the wind, Vineart. The wind and the waves, and their changeable moods. A squall can drive even the
ladysong
into the depths, while a dry spell abandons her to drift, helpless and alone, until she and all within die of despair.”

“Save that they have windspells to protect them. I understand the importance of my work, Shipsmaster.”

He put as much curtness into his voice as he dared, suddenly reminded of why he was here, against his will.

Hernán left soon after that, and the crewsmen working around him ignored him, so long as he stayed out of their way. It wasn't that they were rude; more that they simply had no time to deal with anything that need not be tied down, rolled up, strung out or otherwise adjusted to keep them moving forward. The sun rose into the first third of the sky, and the water changed from deep blue-green to an almost shimmering green, broken with wavelets of foaming white. Occasionally there would be a dark shadow underneath, where fish swarmed, echoing a flock of birds taking wing in the blue of the sky above.

“Normally, if we're not trying to make up time, we'd throw a net.” One of the sailors, a weather-bit man with skin the color of the planking, saw him looking down. “They're fine eating. You do your magics, maybe we can pick some up on the way back in. Show you how sea-farin' feeds a hungry man.”

“I'd like that. I think.” There was a creek nearby that gave up silver-finned cotts; they were good eating, but Bradhai suspected the tender, almost sweet flesh would be nothing like what might be caught in the depths of the sea. Vinearts did not keep cattle, and while Cook maintained a garden out back, where she grew their essentials, their table depended on the flock that roosted in the old barn behind the House, eggs and flesh supplemented by meat and the occasional wheel of cheese from local farmers in exchange for a barrel of his
vin ordinaire
, the wines that did not hold enough magic to be incanted.

He wondered if the crewsmen would like a barrel of the same, in exchange for the fish, and if it would last long enough to be carted home.

“Hoy! West and down!” The call came from high above them, and Bradhai craned his neck to look up, squinting as the sunglare hit him in the eyes.

“Hoy, west and down!” the sailor next to him yelled, passing the word along, and then poked Bradhai roughly in the ribs, forgetting – if he even understood – who the Vineart was. “Come see this,” he said, and his grin revealed a mouth half-lacking in teeth. “A sight you'll never see on land, I'll vouch you that.”

Uncertain, but willing, Bradhai allowed himself to be led further along the railing. 

“There. See it?”

He saw nothing save the endless open waters, rising and falling in swells as they turned and rolled. Then the hint of something caught his eye, a change in the color of the water, a tension that had not quite been there before, almost the way he felt before a storm, or the evening before the first grapes began to ripen in the sun….

“Full on!” the call came, even as something burst through the surface of the water, a huge gleaming blue-black shape, fully the length of the
ladysong
but no boat, this, breaching from the water. It soared into the air a full length, turning to fall back into the water, surrounded by flumes, with a resounding crash that silenced all other noise.

“Sin Washer's Grace,” Bradhai breathed, his eyes wide and his heart racing. “A leviathan?”

“Aye,” the sailor said, as proud as though he had spelled the beast up himself. “And not even the largest of ‘em, neither. Why I-“

“Full on!” came the cry again, and they both turned to watch, eager for a repeat. But this time the beast did not thrust itself out of the water into the sky, rather seeming to thrash on the surface, twisting and turning, its great tail rising as though to slap something down.

“Fire and rot,” the sailor swore, and turned, shoving Bradhai away from the railing. “Take cover, man, and stay down!”

Bradhai could not move, not even for his life's safety. His gaze was caught on the great leviathan, trying desperately to escape something rising below him, something that had it in its grasp, somehow. A krekken? But no, krekken only emerged in storms, and the sky and sea were calm, save the battle in front of them. The ship, previously sailing alongside the leviathan's path, was now hauling about, hurrying to get out of the way.

And then it rose – no, not it. Two beasts, grey-green and elongated, heads the size of a cart, limbs pulling at the leviathan, great clawed pads scoring the heaving sides as it turned once again to escape. But what might work against men with spears, or a krekken, could not avail it, not when those two great heads came down as though driven by a single intelligence, and each took a bite out of it.

Blood flowed, turning the water murky, and the wind brought the smell of entrails and raw flesh, making Bradhai gag and turn away.

When he recovered enough to look again, the seas were empty.

“Port and down!” the call came, this one far more alarmed. The leviathan was gone, but the serpents remained.

“Turn! Turn and away!” someone shouted, and the
ladysong
turned again, her prow heading away from the encounter, and another canvas sail snapped open overhead, released by sailors seeking extra speed.

The Captain's voice bellowed out again, louder than any sailor's chant or wood's creak. “Vineart! Now for your proof, if you will!”

Despite the ‘if you will,' it was not a request. Grabbing the wineskin at his belt, Bradhai hurried to join the captain and Hernán, standing on the raised deck just behind the main mast.

“That? That is what you hope to save us with?” The captain said, spying the palm-sized wineskin in Bradhai's hand.

“I need no more than this,” he said. In truth, he did not even need all that. But there was no need to tell these people how little spellwine was actually required. If their coin bought more, they were happy, and his House prospered.

He stepped onto the deck, and looked to the Captain. “What and where?”

The Captain might be worried, but he had a protocol he would follow. “Two lengths south and east, if you would, Master Vineart.”

“I am no Master yet,” he said, uncorking the skin with his teeth, and letting the stopper dangle from its tie. “But soon, with Sin Washer's Grace.” With his free hand, he lifted the silver spoon from his waist, and measured out just enough of the aetherwine for the spell.

Silver was useless for cups or pitchers: spellwine and the metal did not well like each other. But for the brief time it rested in the shallow of the spoon, the silver caught the deep red glint of the wine, showing the clarity and depth of the magic.

He let it linger a breath longer than was needful, to ensure both the Captain and Hernán made note of the wine itself, then slipped the liquid onto his tongue.

Holding it there, he closed his eyes, and felt the magic surge within him. Others, ordinary folk, might use a spellwine; it was incanted for them to use. But a Vineart – especially the Vineart who crafted it – could sense more in the wine, call more from less, do more without cost. That was part of the blood-magic within them, what tied them to their vines.