The Shattered Vine Read Free Page B

until home,” he said quietly. “Only a day to home.” That had been the other reason to choose this port: a direct road to House Malech, Jerzy’s home and the only place he would feel safe, protected by his own vines and the Guardian’s stony presence. A place where he would have access to the healwines he needed to ensure that Ao recovered—although he would never be able to replace the limbs the serpent’s teeth had torn away.
    The guilt Jerzy felt at that was useless: it was a blow, along with Master Vineart Malech’s death and Jerzy’s own exile, to be laid at the feet of their enemy, the mysterious outland Vineart who had created the serpents and set them to the hunt, who had undermined the Vin Lands, sowed suspicion and death to further his own purpose.
    Jerzy’s gut burned with the need to make the man pay. They had a name now; Ximen, and a title, Praepositus, courtesy of the man he and Kaïnam had interrogated back in Irfan. With those, if it had not been for Ao’s injury, they could have been out searching for him, putting the bastard on the defensive. . . .
    Bad luck. They had that, it was true.
    “Ho, the
Heart
!”
    “That’s torn it, then,” Mahault said grimly, coming up alongside Jerzy. The former maiar’s daughter might have put back her skirts and tied her long, sun-golden hair back in the complicated knot Jerzy had first seen her wear nearly half-year prior, but her face was thinner and harder than that girl could ever have imagined, and the way her hand rested at her hip, looking for the sword discreetly packed with her other belongings, was new.
    “It might not be . . .” Jerzy stopped as the four men drew close enough to identify. Three were unknown to him, anonymous bodies draped in red. The fourth, and their clear leader . . . that face he knew.
    “Washer Oren.”
    Any hope Jerzy had that this was purely coincidence or chance died with that name. The Washer had been the most junior of the three Washers sent to question him last spring. Neth, Oren’s master, had beenonboard the ship that hounded them on the coast of Irfan, had been the one who confronted them, ordering them to wait until the Collegium sent new orders on Jerzy’s fate.
    They had not been inclined to wait.
    Jerzy scowled at the Washers, secure in the fact that he was far enough back they could not see him. If Oren was here, and Neth was there, where was the third Washer, Brion? The fact that the older man was not to be seen was slightly comforting, but only slightly. Oren was young, but the others gathered around him clearly looked to him for orders. And that meant Oren was taking orders from someone else.
    Someone who knew the name of their ship, and that Jerzy was onboard. Had Neth gotten word to the Collegium already, quickly enough to muster a party to meet them? And how had they known . . . ?
    Jerzy checked that thought. The same way the Washers had known to find the
Heart
along the Irfan coast: clearly they had access to tracking spells. The Collegium could afford to buy the precious aetherwine that housed that particular spell, if the need was great enough, and, clearly, they thought it was. Unable to find them on the ocean, the Washers had set tell-tales along the coast . . . and the
Vine’s Heart
had sailed right into it.
    Jerzy lifted his hand slightly in agitation and found Ao’s fingers brushing against his palm, a brief, comforting touch.
    “Ho, the party,” Kaïnam called out in return to the hail. As the actual owner of the vessel, with Ao, it was his right to act as captain, and Jerzy did not envy him it. “What can we do for you, Brothers?”
    Oren squinted up at the figure on the plank. “You are Kaïnam, Prince of Atakus?”
    “I am.” Despite hardship, Kaï’s long, lean body remained loose-limbed, the sleek black hair shining under the afternoon sunlight and his grave beauty looking as though it would best grace a coin rather than a living being. In no way did he indicate surprise that