Shatterwing: Dragon Wine 1 Page 2

  An expression of horror passed over his features. “Then he was deranged … prison life must have driven him mad. The teachings of Magol specifically state that only through flames shall ye pass.”

  “You are mistaken. Mez was content. You will find that there are many ways to the source. Those recorded as Magol’s words are only one part. Much knowledge was lost when Ruel moon split. Now drink this tea and be at peace.”

  Brill almost dropped the tea, his face reddening in anger. “You know nothing about me and what will give me peace. My father was a good man, with a true and august vision. I have a revolution to fight.” He drank off the tea as he had the wine, despite its heat.

  Salinda found her temper fraying. “Revolution? Don’t talk to me about revolution … I—”

  Their argument was suspended when a familiar deep rhythmic whoosh approached, growing increasingly louder. Salinda’s gaze flicked upward and ranged over the sky. “Quick, into the hut. The hatchlings are coming.”

  “Hatchlings?” Brill panted as he joined her in the shelter. He looked at her with mouth agape. “You mean—dragon hatchlings?” He peered out the doorway and eased back, his body quaking with fear.

  “Have you not seen a dragon before?” she asked as she glimpsed the underside of a sizable hatchling, its mauve and gray scales glistening fluidly in the light as the creature passed overhead. She caught sight of two others.

  “Yes, a couple … maybe.” He regarded her with his pale face and brilliant blue eyes.

  She jerked her chin in the direction the dragons flew. “These hatchings would be at least three years old,” she replied. “The vineyard is in their path as they leave the hatchery and head to the plains to feed.”

  The dragon hatchlings screeched, the sound lifting the hairs on Salinda’s arms and blanking her ears so she felt deaf. Then hissing, wet-sounding thuds smacked against the ground nearby, making Salinda jump as Brill sucked in a cry.

  “What’s that?” he asked, his voice strained.

  Salinda measured him with a look. “It’s their droppings. They fertilize the soil as they pass overhead.”

  Brill’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Dragon wine grown in dragon shit. That’s a new concept.”

  Salinda nodded. “Yes—and as they haven’t dropped a load for a while, I need to make use of it.” She leaned out of the shelter and scanned the sky and the surrounding vines. “Come with me. We must be quick.”

  Brill limped out of the shelter and gaped when she shoved gloves at him, and then a long-handled stone scoop. “Put them on,” she said, nodding at the gloves as she slid on her own sand-encrusted gauntlets and grabbed her shovel.

  “This is heavy,” he said, sagging.

  Ignoring him, she bolted down the nearest vine row, yelling over her shoulder. “Quick!” He followed after her, but the heavy chains bound to arm and foot slipped and dragged, nearly tripping him several times. Because he lagged behind, it was a few minutes before he came up and stood beside her, panting. Already, she was shoveling out a portion of a large, still steaming pat and separating it into little piles. A trail of smaller mounds littered the vine row.

  “What are you doing?” he said, grimacing. “That’s revolting.”

  “No time to talk now, young prince. Separate this dung into smaller piles like I’m doing. Don’t let it touch your skin.”

  After hesitating for a few moments to study her method, he inserted his scoop. A gush of sulphur-tainted gas nearly sent him reeling. Salinda heard him cough. She was used to it and knew when to hold her breath and shut her eyes. He could barely lift the full scoop, but he tried. Salinda knew his injuries were impeding him, but sympathy wouldn’t help his situation.

  “We must dilute the dragon dung before it sets. Then we have to layer it along the bases of the vines. It is nutrient rich and the fumes help keep disease at bay.”

  Brill stood with shoulders drooping, letting his scoop fall to the ground at his feet. “When do we do that?”

  The three hatchlings had left seven large pats within a trail of smaller clumps. Salinda made some mental calculations. “By the time we finish breaking them up it will be too dark. We’ll have to begin the mixing at first light. It will take all of tomorrow at least.”

  “A whole day.” Brill groaned as he bent to pick up his scoop and began forming another pile. “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Just over ten years.”

  Brill gaped at her. “Ten years? You must have been young when you arrived.”

  “I was fifteen.”

  Brill turned back to his work, shaking his head.

  When Salinda finished separating the dragon dung and looked up, the sun was slipping behind the Fire Ranges, lighting the sky with filaments of purple and red. “We can finish now, young Brill.”

  *

  The small fire had burned down to red and gray cinders by the time she finished preparing the meal. While she cooked, Brill set out their sleeping mats, tossing their thin blankets on top. When Brill finished, he edged closer, sitting on the ground on the other side of the fire pit. She handed him a crudely carved wooden platter topped with grain wrapped in vine leaves. He stared at the food, a look of distaste on his face. She supposed he expected fresh meat or warm bread. When she passed him the watered dragon wine in a roughly hewn goblet, he took it straight away and sipped.

  After swallowing another mouthful of wine, he picked up one of the stuffed leaves and eyed it from underneath. “What’s this?” he asked with a sideways glance at her.

  “Standard rations embellished with vine leaves. Very healthy. Soon you will have more strength than you could imagine.”

  His eyes rolled up. “Spare me,” he said wearily, and shoved the food into his mouth. He gulped down the rest of the dragon wine. Then, without a word to her, he crawled over to his bedding and dragged his scrap of blanket over his shoulders.

  Ignoring him, Salinda ate slowly, savoring each of her vine leaf–wrapped grain bundles. She sucked on her fingers leisurely and sipped her wine as the embers dimmed. Full night had fallen and Shatterwing, the remains of Ruel moon, rose in the dark sky, the debris field sprinkling the firmament with flecks of mauve. Spread over a tenth of the visible sky, the fragments of the moon reflected the light from Margra’s sun in a narrow arc. Dominating the wing were the two larger lunar pieces called Rueline and Ruelette. She sighed when she looked at the wing—a thing of beauty and peril. Then she saw it, a small ball of flame streaking across the sky as another piece of broken moon plummeted. She hoped the meteor did not cause any destruction when it impacted. Too many had already died.

  It wouldn’t be long before Belle moon rose too. Its lavender light would turn the landscape gray and dim the brilliance of Shatterwing. The cadre that Mez had transferred to her glowed in her mind as it continued to settle there. It still carried his presence on the surface, bringing his thoughts and memories to mingle with her own. A tear leaked down her cheek. She missed the old man so much. A future without him was hard to contemplate, but that is what she had to face—a future alone. Protecting the cadre was of paramount importance. It had been hidden at the vineyard for sixty years, since Mez had brought it with him. But there was still so much she didn’t know. The world was dying around her and yet she had no idea when the moment would come when she would need to act. There was still so much to learn about the cadre and from it; she was still a beginner at this. After reflecting on her careless deeds of the morning, when she’d intervened with Brill, she shook her head and wiped the tear away. That had been too big a risk. What if the Inspector had killed her on a whim? If she died before transferring the cadre to another, the cadre would die with her and all the knowledge and accumulated power would be lost when Margra needed it.

  With a sigh, she crawled into her bedding, draped a scrap of blanket around her shoulders and closed her eyes to the world.

  *

  The sun was barely above the horizon when Salinda shook Brill awake. She shoved a bowl und
er his nose, a thick green soup swirling within it. “Eat and then we start.”

  Brill squinted up at her and hesitated.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Ground-up vine leaves, watered wine and a few herbs. We only get rations for one meal a day and we eat that at sunset.”

  “Oh?” He sat up and gulped it down.

  Salinda sat with her back to him, stripped to the waist, while she bathed with a small cloth. Her hair, unbound from her braid, swished past her shoulders. She heard his intake of breath before he said, “I thought whipping was a man’s punishment.”

  As she ran the cloth over her shoulder and back she felt the ridges of the scars—criss-crossed white lines overlaid with deeper, pink gouges. She pulled on her dress, tugging her hem down below her knees, then rebraided her hair. When she turned, she noticed his puzzled expression.

  “You were whipped.”

  She frowned at him and, gathering her tools, shoved the scoop into his hand. “My husband’s work—nothing to do with me being here. Come along.” Her shoulders straightened of their own accord. She didn’t need his pity or his questions; it had happened so long ago and the pain was … distant …

  Surreptitiously, she assessed Brill and saw that his health had improved already. The vine leaves and the wine were working well. The cut above his eye was sealed and dry and his bruises were fading to streaks of yellow and brown.

  But by dusk, after working in the vineyard all day, Brill could barely stand. The violet rays of the setting sun illuminated the vine rows, where other prisoners shuffled back to their own home sites. At camp, Salinda put away the tools and thought about a meal while she washed off the stench of dragon dung.

  A moan from Brill as he sprawled himself in the dirt interrupted her train of thought. A quick glance was all it took to convince her it was time to take action. Walking over to him, she said, “Take off your shirt, young prince.”

  Brill quirked one eye open, his expression wary. When his gaze fell upon the stone jar she held in her hand, he relaxed.

  “Come on, I’ll help you,” she said gently as she dragged his shirt off. He stank of sweat and dragon dung. She spread her ointment and kneaded it into his stiff and sore flesh. The herbs she’d used in the ointment had been a good trade.

  “Is that better?”

  “Mmmmphf,” was all the conversation she could get out of him. Before he fell asleep, she placed a few morsels of food into his mouth and helped him to sip his ration of watered wine. He was snoring softly on his sleeping mat as she ate her dinner and watched Shatterwing rise above the deep-purple horizon.

  *

  A surge of fear, followed by a cry of pain, pierced Salinda’s dream. Groggily, she sat up. Belle moon hung full near the horizon, casting violet-tinged light onto the Inspector and his lackey, Ange. A lantern sat by the guard’s foot and lit up the ground, masking the men’s faces with shadow. Salinda’s heart beat recklessly, for this visit was a surprise. Brill lay prone on the ground huddled into a ball, trying to draw breath.

  “Stay where you are, cow!” the Inspector hissed. “Or I’ll be telling everyone the truth about you.”

  Salinda sat on her heels, gulping back spit. Why fling that information at her now? He’d obviously known for a while. Was it because Mez was dead and could no longer protect her? Her sense of unease drew the interest of the cadre. It was there watching with her. Ange hauled Brill to his feet. The Inspector wore something metal on his fist and used it to hit the young lad across the face. Blood spurted from the cut on Brill’s eyebrow, then his body went limp and his face slack. “Bring him.” The Inspector slipped the knuckle-brace into his shirt pocket.

  Ange dragged the semiconscious Brill away, leaving Salinda alone with the Inspector. The sun would rise soon; already she could make out the dark silhouette of the vines behind the Inspector, his features chiseled by shadow.

  “You did well not to interfere,” he said.

  Salinda stood and nodded dumbly, feeling helpless and afraid. What would Mez have done in this situation? His comforting presence faded from her mind. Mez had warned her that it would take time for her to master his gift, even though he had trained her to receive it. The thing he had given her, the cadre, receded with the anxiety she felt and that worried her. Would fear be her undoing?

  The Inspector stood still, staring at her as dawn began to blossom around them. Tentatively she lifted her gaze to his, saw him nod. “You have served the vineyard well, Salinda. For years now your crops have been consistently the best in quality and quantity.” He unhooked his riding crop from his belt and then tapped it against his leg. There were no sleek urin to ride at the vineyard, but still he carried the crop with him always. She doubted he rode the crude burden beasts, so it was more likely he carried it to intimidate the inmates. She was very aware of it. “I noticed signs of disease in the center two rows in your allotment.”

  “Yes, I was to treat them today … but I need help to do that. Brill will not be able to assist me now—”

  Suddenly the Inspector was unexpectedly close, his breath brushing against her face. If she didn’t know him to be cruel, she would have said he was handsome in a smooth way—small, straight nose, fine, unblemished skin, neat teeth—except for the chill in his gray eyes. “You dare question me?” The tip of his riding crop brushed lightly against her mouth. She dared not flinch.

  Salinda could smell leather mixed with something else … blood? She shook her head, swallowing a mouthful of saliva. “No, I … I was merely trying to explain …”

  The Inspector laughed once, but there was no amusement in his eyes. In the early light of the sun, his gray eyes glinted red. “Mez was the vintner here before this place was a prison. Did he tell you that? Did he tell you he wasn’t a prisoner here at all but an employee? Brilliant, yet deranged. I indulged a few of his idiosyncratic whims, such as allowing you to remain unmolested. For a price, though.”

  She’d known Mez had been there a long time. He had lived so like one of the prisoners that it was easy to forget that he had not been one. Yet weren’t they all prisoners in their own way? Once assigned to the prison vineyard the guards and the tradesmen never left. They lived in the free village, but that name was ironic. They produced the majority of food and resources, like wood from the plantation, meat and vegetables in the farm, so there was no need to leave, no way to leave. Salinda swallowed another mouthful of saliva. All of a sudden her heart beat hard again and twinges of anxiety made her gut clench. The Inspector never revealed anything without a purpose. What did he mean by reminding her that Mez was no longer there to protect her? Letting her know that she wasn’t as smart as she thought she was?

  The riding crop rose to her brow, and he shifted her hair and then brushed the top of her ear. Her pulse raced. Why was the Inspector still here? Why did he taunt her? She knew nothing of rebels or plots and counter plots. Not anymore. She’d done nothing but tend vines since she was fifteen years old.

  “Brill will be returned to you if he knows nothing. He is weak and will break soon enough.” The tip of the riding crop dropped between her breasts, pressing into her sternum. “New prisoners are growing scarce these days and one cannot survive without information from the outside. And I have a pressing need.”

  The first rays of the sun broke, dimming Belle moon to pale purple as it sunk below the horizon. She gazed at it, using it to forget he was there. He stepped away, retrieved the lantern in one lithe movement, and turned his head to see where Salinda was looking. Without a word, he was gone.

  Alone, Salinda fell to her knees, her nerves shattered, her inner harmony destroyed. “Oh, Mez. I can’t do this. I can’t …” Shaking her head, ashamed of her fear, she soothed the cadre as best she could and commenced the day’s work.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Taste of Wine

  The Inspector’s boot winded Brill. The time it took to fill his lungs stretched out interminably. Dazed by the blow to the head, he was aware enough to realize he was going to be
interrogated, likely tortured. The interrogation at the prison in Sartell should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t. The true beginning was here, right now.

  Ange seized Brill in a brutal grip, near twisting his arm from his shoulder. Row upon row of vines filled Brill’s vision. Fear roared through his blood when it occurred to him that they might be taking him to some secluded place where no one could hear him scream. In the dawn light, he could see that they were now in a field. Struggling against Ange’s hold, he wrenched his head around and saw the shadow of a large building. He tried to remember if he had seen it before, tried to get his bearings. There was a dark square hole in the ground—a trapdoor. The darkness below swallowed him up as he was shoved down.

  *

  A cold splash of water roused Brill and, even then, his senses were muddled. He realized that he’d been out for some time when he saw that he was naked and held by taut ropes face-down and spread-eagled over a wine barrel. With each breath splinters pricked the skin of his abdomen, forcing him to consciousness. The room smelled of dirt and damp. Lanterns cast pools of yellow light, leaving the corners in shadow. There were wine barrels stacked in the room. Lots of them.

  He blinked, turned his head and saw Ange, a bucket by his boot. The Inspector strode in, loosening his neck cloth, revealing skin tanned above the neck and sickly white below.

  “So,” began the Inspector. “You’re probably wondering why you are here as my guest.”

  Brill stared mutely at him.

  The Inspector raised an eyebrow. “No? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. I have a thirst for knowledge—I will know all that you know.”

  Brill watched him warily. Fury rippled under the Inspector’s skin like a serpent skimming under sand. He tried to remember if there had been any mention of this man in the family. Bristling Flat had never joined his father’s Highland Confederacy, that much he could remember.