Free The Shattered Vine by Laura Anne Gilman

his gaze alert to every farmer in his field, every animal loping through the brush. In that manner, the day passed easily into dusk, and they came to where the road branched, one—their route—becoming a softer, grass-edged track, while the main road continued on toward the northeast, and Roget’s Stamp.
    After bidding Jerzy and the others farewell, Keren drew Mahault aside a few paces.
    “You carry a blade with confidence, and ride far from your birthplace,” she said to Mahault. “The lord here, Ranulf, needs more troops than he can gather. Another woman, with some skill and courage . . . he would not enquire as to where she received that training, or who her sponsor was. And once in . . .” She lifted one shoulder, as though to imply that no one else would be moved to ask such a question, either. “I have seen enough, and so has Codi, to judge you worthy of the sigil, if that’s your desire.”
    Mahault felt a fierce rush of excitement. It
was
her desire, and had been since she was old enough to understand the extent of her own dreams. Traveling with Jerzy, the freedom she had discovered, merely confirmed that, however things turned, she would never be able to go back to what she had been, to the life her father had wanted for her. That tide, as Kaïnam would say, had gone out and would not return.
    The others had paused to allow the two to make their farewells, but she did not pretend they could not hear, did not pretend not to see Ao’s quick, worried glance her way, or the way Kaïnam sat more firmly into his saddle, as though preoccupied with the calmly grazing beast, or the way Jer let the reins of the wagon rest loosely as he studied the wide open sky, watching the gentle curve of a raptor overhead hunting for a rabbit in the fields stretching below.
    Mahault had been given the chance to train as a solitaire once before, and abandoned it when something stronger than a dream had summoned her away, the whisper of the guardian’s voice, telling her that she was needed. Her friends thought she had made a sacrifice; she knew they expected she would take this second chance, grab it with both hands.
    She wanted to. She desperately wanted to.
    But that tide, too, had gone out; that road would not be ridden. The solitaires could give her a future, a way to make her way in the world for the rest of her life, without uncertainty or fear. She would have a four-legged, faithful companion at all times, never be alone, never be subject to any restrictions save the ones she accepted of her own will, never bound to a situation she could not accept.
    A dream. What she wanted, held against what she needed. . . . In the end, even if her father had disowned her, even if her heart called her one direction, she was still a maiar’s daughter, born and trained to a responsibility beyond herself. The independence that she had craved, the freedom . . . she knew it now for an illusion. The moment she understood what was at stake, to consider what might happen if Jerzy were to fail, her loyalties had been struck.
    “Thank you,” she said to Keren, and meant it. “That . . . means much to me. But I will ride with Vineart Jerzy.”

Chapter 3
    T HE G ROUNDING
    Spring
    O
ne month each
season, Ximen made a point of visiting with the men who stood watch over the Grounding, the Seven Fortifications who protected the holdings and fields their great-grandsires carved from this harsh landscape, and made their own. Three Fortifications were on the Wall to the west, two stationed to the north, one south, and the seabound patrol, historically and uselessly set to watch for aid that never came across the waters.
    Traditionally, the visit was to ensure that the men kept up their guard, and to hear any mutters or complaints the men felt could not be brought to their commanders. The truth, he had discovered early on, was that each visit ensured that he, their Praepositus, did not become soentrenched within the walls of the Grounding that he