The Shattered Vine by Laura Anne Gilman Read Free Book Online Page A

Kaïnam and Mahault took note and followed suit, forming an oddly shaped, moving guard around Jerzy. He felt like reminding them that he was perfectly capable of defending himself, but the look in the farrier’s eye stopped him.
    Hope, yes, but also a despairing sort of helplessness. If protecting the Vineart from some unknown threat gave him reason to feel useful, Jerzy would not take that away from him. No more than he would have pointed out how little defense Ao could give, if someone were to attempt to steal the wagon.
    His earlier observation was not true for these men. They were not acting like slaves, accepting whatever was meted out to them. They needed to take action—to stand against what threatened them, however they could. He would not wrest that opportunity from them.
    That thought, gruffly practical, sounded so much like Malech that Jerzy felt a sudden pang of loss, all over again. He had so focused on coming home, on healing Ao, and being somewhere he could finally, somehow, turn and fight, that he had almost managed to forget that he would be returning to an empty House.
    Not empty
.
    No. Not empty. The Guardian was there. Detta and Lil, and Per and Roan were there. And he was not coming home alone. That thought did not ease the pain, but made it bearable.
    Trying to escape further doubt, Jerzy focused his attention on their destination, quickly coming into view. The village was small, a series of two-story, red-roofed cottages between two roads, surrounded on three sides by fields and on the other by a longer, one-story building. In the distance beyond, a small herd of red-coated cows grazed on the sloping hill. The group entered the town proper without notice, other than a few sheep that gazed at them and then went back to pulling at the browning grass of the green.
    The ill had been gathered in the main hall, kept away from the others and tended by volunteers, who also made their beds there. Jerzy nodded approvingly. Master Malech had taught the local folk that, back during the plague, and they had remembered, years later.
    The farrier went into the main hall with them while the others stayed behind, unwilling to risk contact with the ill.
    “This is your healer?” A woman rose from where she had been crouched at the side of one of the beds, her voice cutting through the faint gloom even as she moved toward them. A shadowed figure moved beside her, knee-high and muscled. Even before they could see the sigil on her leathers, that hound had identified her as a solitaire.
    The dog stopped, and bared its teeth, shockingly white and sharpagainst black gums. The newcomers stopped as well, taken aback.
    “Stand and let him approach you.” The woman’s voice was firm, not allowing any room for dissent.
    The farrier passed by them, intent on checking the ill or spreading word of Jerzy’s arrival, as the hound padded forward, deep-chested, the body covered with a rough, golden-brown coat that curled slightly, its tail a straight upward plume that did not wag but held itself still, a flag in windless air. Jerzy had heard of these dogs but never seen one up close. The hound, suspicious, extended its great, broad-skulled head to sniff at Jerzy’s hand.
    He held his breath, not sure what to think or expect. The hound’s nose was wet but its tongue was almost dry as it swiped at his skin and then moved on to Kaïnam.
    “What is it—”
    “Shh,” Mahault said, and Kaï subsided, letting the animal circle around him. The mouth closed around the princeling’s fingers, but although it tugged slightly, did not break the skin. Kaï did not flinch, and the hound let go, releasing him and turning to Mahault.
    Her face, tanned by so many months under the open skies, had gone pale, and her eyes were wide, as though she was frightened by this the way she had not been when facing men with raised blades, but Mahault did not falter. She went to one knee, almost as though she were making a deep bow, and raised both of her