Glasswrights' Test Page 17

  “We struggle,” Crestman said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper spread across gravel. “My Fellows and I are gathered from outside the castes of Liantine, from outside the royal household, the merchants’ quarter. The guildhalls.”

  Rani heard an entire story behind those words. When she had last seen Crestman, he had been carried off as a slave within the spiderguild’s twisting corridors. He had thought that she’d abandoned him, that she’d forsaken him and his Little Army in favor of precious riberry trees. Even as she had heard his bitter accusations spat across a shadowy hall, she had longed to tell him her ultimate plan, longed to assure him that she had not forgotten his cause.

  She had not had the chance, though. He had lost all faith. He had gone to his slavery with the bitter conviction that he was alone in all the world, that she had bartered him and his army of children for a handful of trees.

  Rani started to step forward in the guildhall chamber, but she was restrained by Mair’s hand upon her wrist. She tried to wrench her arm free, but the Touched girl only tightened her grip. Didn’t Mair understand? Didn’t she realize that Crestman needed to be helped?

  As if he were confirming Rani’s thoughts, the wounded soldier said, “I have gathered my people in a series of caves, on the edge of the Liantine highlands. Each of us has a reason for leaving our birth-caste. We have only been together since winter, and we have not yet measured out a way to gain true power in Liantine. I have come to this conclave so that you might know my loyalty to your cause, but I do not yet have great successes to report.”

  Loyalty. Couldn’t the Fellows hear the bitter sarcasm behind his words? Didn’t they realize that Crestman would not bow to them? Crestman had one goal, had always had one goal—to redeem the children who had served with him in Amanthia’s cursed Little Army.

  Rani remembered the first time she had ever spoken with the boy-soldier, when he himself still fought in that cursed force. Even then, he had rebelled against authority; he had battled orders issued by his supposed superiors. His voice had been younger, and stronger, but it had held the same bitter twist.

  The woman on the dais seemed unaware of the danger in the man who stood before her. Instead, she leaned closer to him as he spoke. Rani felt an old scorn rise within her. She swallowed a metallic tang at the back of her throat as Crestman concluded his report.

  “I will return from this convocation and spend the summer strengthening my forces. We will be ready, come winter, to make our first bid on behalf of the Fellowship. I am considering a handful of targets, with varying goals. Some will consolidate our power in Liantine. Others will reach beyond our borders, will bring more glory to the Fellowship in other lands.”

  Crestman looked out over the assembled Fellows as he spoke. Rani could not make out his features behind his silk mask, but she knew his lips would be twisted by bitterness and spite. “Come summer next,” he said to all the assembly, “we definitely will be prepared to make our move.”

  The woman nodded slowly, and her voice was pleased as she accepted his report. Her hands moved in the same way that they had with the Zarithian man, but Rani could see that she leaned a little closer to Crestman, that her hand hovered just above his brow, swept toward his feet with a peculiar grace. Her fingertips nearly brushed against his palms as she gestured east and west. “Thank you for your report, Liantine, and for offering up your service to the Fellowship. In service to the north and to the south, to the east, and to the west, you offer up your reportin furtherance of the Fellowship. May First Pilgrim Jair and all the Thousand Gods watch over you as you move our plans ahead.”

  Crestman inclined his head slightly, and then he turned away. He needed to steel himself visibly as he stepped down from the dais, and Rani wondered what havoc could have been wrought upon his soldier’s body, what damage could have made him move so painfully. Once again, she started to take a step forward, to raise a hand, as if she would aid him.

  This time, however, Tovin caught her wrist. The Player’s touch blazed against her flesh, and she almost thought that he was forcing words into her mind, a crystal warning on the deepest levels that they had shared while Speaking. The pinch of his fingers hurt her, and she started to pull away. His grip was too tight, though, and she hissed, “My lord, I have sworn an oath!”

  Tovin dropped her wrist immediately, and she could imagine the bitter twist of his hidden lips as he stepped back.

  Her whisper was enough that Crestman looked across the assembly. For just a moment, his face was turned directly to her. She knew that he was staring at her. She knew that there was a message in his masked eyes. He needed no words, though, to convey his scorn as he pulled himself straight. She could only imagine the pain that shot up his damaged leg, that ricocheted along his twisted spine as he stepped away and disappeared inside the crowd.

  Rani turned back to Tovin, ready to make amends, ready to explain. He had already moved away from her, though, his broad shoulders set in denial. She knew that he was angry. She knew that he would have nothing of her excuses, her explanations. She knew that he would leave her to complete her glasswright’s test alone, whatever the demands of the Fellowship, whatever the demands of the hooded masses that even now could be well ranged against Morenia. She settled down to await the Fellowship’s counting and report on her homeland.

  Chapter 8

  Berylina bent her head over the prie-dieu in the corner of her room. She needed to concentrate on her prayers. She was going to Mip’s temple that afternoon, to make her first pilgrim’s offering to the god of water. She had waited nearly four weeks to go to Mip—four weeks of focusing on other gods, more familiar gods. Easier gods.

  She could wait no longer though. Not if she wanted to remain true to her cavalcade.

  “Hail, Mip,” she prayed silently. “Carve my life and make it yours. Cut through me, like the river cuts through the earth. Make me yours. Make me holy.”

  Berylina concentrated, trying to hear the nightingale song that was the god’s special signature. She had discovered it the night before—heard a real bird, that was. She had listened to the delicate trill, and she had known that Mip held great things for her, that the god intended for her to work magic on his behalf.

  The sound had inspired her to set up her easel, to dig out her parchment and colored chalks. She had sketched for long hours, squinting at the drawing first through one eye, then the other.

  Initially, her lines were strong. She saw Mip as clearly as she saw any of the gods when she was a child in Liantine. The more she drew, though, the more she realized that her depiction was incomplete. Surely, any worshiper could see Mip’s soft jowls; anyone could make out his tangled hair.

  She must convey more. She must represent the nightingale song that filled her ears. She struggled with red chalk and a black crayon, sketching in firm lines, blurring them with her fingers.

  By the time that she was finished, Mip’s face had disappeared; it was lost beneath a symphony of cross-hatched lines. Berylina was pleased, though. She could hear the nightingale. Mip was there with her.

  Now, in the middle of the day, Mip seemed distant and vague.

  Perhaps he was offended that she prayed here in her apartments, instead of at his shrine. Perhaps he was angered that she had drunk a glass of pale wine the night before, instead of simple water. Perhaps he was hurt that Berylina had waited so long to visit him.

  Or maybe he was staying away because of the racket in the outer room. Berylina tried to close her ears to the conversation, but she could not block out entirely the fight between Ranita Glasswright and Mair. Their debate had escalated since the last bells had rung; they were nearly shouting at each other.

  Ranita said, “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know why they summoned us that night!” They? Who? Beyrlina caught her breath, to better hear Mair’s response. “Maybe they wanted the others to see us. Maybe they wanted our faces known.”

  “That’s never been their way before.” Mair’s voice wa
s stubborn. “Think. It makes no sense.”

  Berylina crept closer to the door so that she could hear Ranita’s reply. “I have thought. I think they meant us to see Crestman. I think they meant him as a warning.”

  “A warning? Or a threat?”

  “He hasn’t done anything!” Ranita’s words were hurried, desperate.

  “But ye ’ave no way t’ say wha’ ’e might do, Rai. Ye ’avena seen ’im since ye left ’im a’ th’ spiderguild.” Mair had slipped into her Touched brogue. Berylina eased the door open a bit to hear even more clearly.

  “You know that I did not just leave him! I had a plan!”

  “’N’ well it served ye.”

  “I’m not going to fight this battle with you again. I did what I had to do. I bargained for the riberry trees. If I had not made the choices that I did, Moren would have suffered, even more than it already had. We needed the trees. We needed the octolaris. We needed the silk trade, to redeem the city.”

  “I’m only sayin’ that yer choices ’ave consequences.”

  “But Crestman! In the Fellowship! Do you really think they’ll use him to topple Hal?”

  “They use ’im? I warrant ’e’ll be th’ one usin’. Th’ boy is ’urt, Rai, ’n’ ’e’s angry. ’E’s a danger t’’ you, ’n’ t’ Moren besides, ’n’ maybe t’ King ’Alaravilli most o’ all.”

  “So what would you have me do? I need to speak with Crestman, Mair. I need to remind him that he is a subject of Morenia. I need to—”

  “Ye can stop that plan right there, Rai. ’E’ll not be list’n’n’ t’ ye. ’E’ll not be trustin’ ye anymore. ’E tried that, twice before, ’n’ ye failed him both times.”

  “I did not!”

  “Ach, sit down. Ye know I speak th’ truth. ’E counted on ye in Amanthia, thought ye’d be ’is lady. ’N’ ’e counted on ye in Liantine as well, built up a story i’ ’is own mind about i’.”

  “I never gave him reason—”

  “Rai, it’s me ye’re talkin’ t’. No need t’ spread yer tales o’ fancy ’ere.”

  “They aren’t tales! They’re the truth!”

  Berylina heard the frustrated sound that Ranita Glasswright made, the growl in the back of her throat. She almost opened the door, almost stepped in to tell the women that they should forget the soldier. When Berylina knelt at her prie-dieu, she saw Tarn following the man, enveloping him in the god’s green-black cape. She recognized Crestman easily enough, even though she had only seen him briefly in her father’s court. If she told Ranita and Mair of her vision, maybe they would realize what was important. They would stop bickering and they would start to pray—to Tarn, or to any one of the other Thousand Gods.

  And that’s what Berylina should be doing herself, praying, preferably in a temple. That was why she had come to Brianta, after all. Not to hide in some sheltered room. Not to become embroiled in Morenian politics. She had undertaken this pilgrimage to test her dedication. A fine job she’d done of it so far. …

  She glanced at the prie-dieu’s kneeler, at the Thousand-Pointed Star that she had set there. She sighed and gathered up the symbol of her pilgrimage, fastening it to her caloya robes. The brooch had made its mark upon her knees, digging deep into the bruises from the day before, and the day before that.

  Pilgrims were meant to bear the Star. That was how their holiness could be known. That was how they announced their presence at the Heavenly Gates. Berylina must not hesitate now, just because her journey was becoming difficult. What was a little pain, in the face of the glory of all the Thousand Gods?

  Unbidden, she pictured her kindly nurse, the woman who had first taught her of the power of the Thousand. Nurse had paid for Berylina’s instruction, had paid with her life, when the princess’s father discovered what he called betrayal.

  Closing her eyes, Berylina felt her father’s spear thrust through her own chest, felt her own heart rend at the bloody wooden tip. Her green robes rustled in the still, still room, and she knew the pain of a wound opening across her own flesh. “Tarn keep her and protect her,” Berylina whispered, forcing the words past the agonizing pain.

  They worked, as they had dozens of times in the past. Tarn rustled his green-black wings above her, retreating to the very edge of her vision. She could feel the wound close upon her chest. She knew, though, that if she peered inside her spring green robe, she would see a line of vivid red. She would see the results of her father’s spear, the visible reminder of the force of his anger. She would see the blood that had been shed to set her on the path of the Thousand Gods.

  With a fee like Nurse had paid, how dare she waste her time locked inside a chamber? Forcing her bruised knees to unlock and move, she opened the door.

  “I’m going to find him!” Ranita said. “You can’t stop me!”

  Berylina cleared her throat, and the two women looked up at her in surprise. They had clearly forgotten that she was in the inner chamber. A blush spread over Ranita Glasswright’s face, but the Touched woman merely lowered her gaze and muttered something beneath her breath.

  “Your Highness.” Ranita recovered first, and she sketched a bow toward Berylina.

  “My lady.”

  “I hope that we did not disturb your prayer.” She sounded embarrassed. Berylina tilted her head, to focus her skewed vision. Ranita squirmed beneath the gaze, and she knew that the glasswright wanted to step to the side, to center Berylina in her own gaze. The princess was used to that reaction, had witnessed it for her entire life.

  When she was younger, she would have glanced away. She would have clasped her hands in her robes, gazing at her interlocked fingers as if they held the secret of all the Thousand Gods, attempting to ease their exposure to her blighted body.

  Now, though, Berylina felt no such obligation. She knew that the Thousand Gods had made her as she was for some reason. She was not yet certain if she was meant to be a warning to the hale and hearty, or if she was to serve as a reminder, to summon all the faithful to pity and to caring. She knew, though, that she would never serve the Thousand by hiding her true form.

  She stared at Ranita Glasswright, her twisted gaze unblinking. As if to emphasize her deformities, she darted her tongue over her lips, across her rabbit teeth.

  To Ranita’s credit, the glasswright did not react. Instead, she swallowed hard and said, “I’m sorry, Your Highness. Lady Mair and I were discussing matters important to our king. I fear that we let ourselves get carried away with the force of our arguments.”

  “The gods are not distracted by our puny human fights.” Berylina felt the words rise within her, steady, certain. She wished that she could always feel that quiet confidence, always know when the gods spoke truth through her. “The Thousand do not care about your dispute.”

  Berylina cared, of course. Berylina cared enough that she would write to King Halaravilli. That night, before she went to bed. She would relay the words that Ranita and Mair had spoken, let him know the danger that they perceived from the soldier Crestman. After all, the Thousand Gods had seen fit to set King Halaravilli upon the throne of Morenia. Berylina must be one of their instruments to keep him there.

  She would have plenty of time to write, later. For now, Mip had waited long enough.

  Berylina settled her caloya robes more comfortably across her frame and tensed her legs beneath her long skirts. Yes. Her knees were steadier now. They would carry her through the streets. She would not embarrass herself, or Father Siritalanu, or any of the Thousand Gods.

  She smiled at Ranita and Mair. “I’ll leave you to your debates, then.”

  “But we’ll come with you, my lady!” Ranita protested. “We’re here to see that you are safe in Brianta.”

  “I’ll be safe enough. Father Siritalanu will accompany me, and my Thousand Pointed Star will protect me. I am only going to Mip’s temple.”

  Berylina watched conflict play out across the glasswright’s face. Clearly, Ranita felt obligated to accompany her. Just as clearly, though
, the glasswright had her own desires, her own goals. Something to do with her broken guild, Berylina supposed. Or the secret that she shared with Mair, the secret that involved the soldier Crestman. Of course, the private obligations won out—Berylina was safe with Father Siritalanu.

  The princess raised her hand over the prayer bell at the door before she said to the two women, “May all the Thousand Gods watch over you. In the name of Hin, I hope that you resolve your dispute.” She left before the look of protest faded from Ranita’s face. The god of rhetoric filled Berylina’s nose with the essence of lilac.

  Father Siritalanu was waiting for her outside. He gazed down the street as she descended the stairs. His face was creased with fine lines, and his lips were pulled into a frown. Here in Brianta, he always seemed to fear for her safety, for her well-being. As soon as Berylina stepped out of the hostel, he leaped toward her. “You were supposed to be here after Jin’s bells.”

  “I needed to finish my prayers, Father. I’m sorry that I worried you.”

  “You didn’t worry me, Your Highness.” His protest was automatic, and his fingers moved in the peculiarly Briantan gesture that resolved disputes. She wanted to tell him that no one should lie—not even priests. “I merely feared that we would be late, arriving at Mip’s temple.”

  She inclined her head, as if she were accepting his chastisement, and her own fingers wove in an additional Briantan suggestion of humility. After all, Siritalanu only meant to help her. He only meant to serve her and guide her worship. Poor man.

  As always, the Briantan streets were crowded. Berylina eased her way through a knot of pilgrims who were vying for a merchant’s wares. It took her a moment to realize that the old man was selling gold-washed leather representations of the Thousand-Pointed Star. Each symbol could be personalized with a tiny medallion, a twist of leather that was stamped with the sign of a particular god. The trinkets looked gaudy, and Berylina wondered who would dishonor a god with such a thing. Even as she asked herself the question, though, she realized that many pilgrims would leap at the chance to return home with such a tangible reminder of a trip to Brianta.