Glasswrights' Test Read online

  Rani shivered on the prison steps. She had left her gown with Berylina, although she had reclaimed her cloak, draping it over her shift. She should not be cold in Brianta. She should not be chilled beneath the desert sun.

  Her belly twisted, and she remembered that she had not eaten since the spoonful of lumpy gruel that Larinda had permitted her upon her arrival at the guildhall that morning. Larinda was reveling in the power that Master Parion had given her, seeking out ways to torture Rani with their sorry past. Each morning, the journeyman required Rani to mix the gruel as she had years ago, when Cook controlled the kitchen.

  Rani had contemplated refusing, but she knew that her disobedience would be reported back to Master Parion. She could not afford to brook the guildmaster now. Not when her test was so close. Not when his orders had been so explicit. Not when she had voluntarily agreed to eat only at the hall, and to be bound in all guildish things by Larinda Glasswright.

  Rani sighed. She was a fool. The gods were stirring in Brianta, and she was letting herself be distracted by a rivalry more than a decade old.

  Her dissatisfaction turned to true concern, though, as she contemplated what Tovin would say about the afternoon’s development. He had never told her explicitly that she must not lead a Speaking, but surely he would expect her not to act without his permission. What would he say when he learned of Berylina’s demand? How angry would he be with Rani when he learned that she had given in?

  She hesitated even longer on the steps, and bells started tolling. The carillon was distinctive—trios of high pitched tones, which were only picked up by a handful of other temples. Father Siritalanu cocked his head and then he said, “Bern.”

  Bern. The god of rain. The name summoned up an immediate sensation for Rani—her skin was brushed with the rough rasp of sand, as if she were rolling on a distant beach.

  “Father!” she gasped, even as her mind rebelled against the illogic of the touch. Rain? Sand? Why should the two be joined in sensation? Was this the madness that had driven Berylina to be so different all her life, that had set the princess apart in Liantine and in Morenia and now here in Brianta?

  “I do not wish to speak of this,” Father Siritalanu said. “Not here. Not now.” He glanced at the Midden behind them, his scowl seeming to state that the very walls had ears. He hurried around the corner of the building, away from the door, away from the guards.

  Rani followed after, determined to ask for guidance. What was happening to her? Bern’s touch was as clear as a voice, as certain as rain in Zarithia. What had Berylina done to her? What madness was taking over her mind, her skin, her ears, her eyes? What had happened inside that cell?

  As if to echo her fears, a pilgrim detached himself from the shadows at the foot of the building, limping toward them as if he were ancient, or terribly scarred. “Alms,” the man whispered. “Alms in the name of all the Thousand Gods.”

  Rani started to shake her head and continue on her way. She was hungry and tired and worried about her oaths to guildhall and lover. There were too many beggars in Brianta, too many supposed innocents preying on the devotion of the faithful. And she was not willing to open up her cloak to get at the pouch where she kept her coins. The Briantans would be scandalized to see a woman on the street wearing only her shift.

  Apparently, Father Siritalanu was also willing to ignore the pauper; he glanced at the creature and picked up his pace, striding down the street beside the prison.

  “Mercy!” the beggar whispered. “Have mercy on a poor soul!”

  Rani refused to look at the man; she hastened after the priest.

  “Hold!” the beggar urged, his raspy voice becoming harsher. “If you would call yourself holy, stop in this place of sorrow and of wrath!”

  “Father!” Rani called, anxious to be rid of the man. If the priest would just give the beggar a coin, they could be gone from here. They could return to their rooms and begin the serious work of figuring out how to help Berylina, what to do for her now.

  For an instant, she thought that Father Siritalanu would ignore her. She could see the angry set of his shoulders, measure his high emotion in the pounding of his booted feet against the cobblestones. Rani wanted to tell him that he wasn’t being fair—she had nothing to do with whatever strange force had come into Berylina’s cell.

  Rani was not to blame. She was not at fault, no matter what the priest would have her believe. She was the victim here, not some robed, sanctimonious man who was young enough to be her brother. She was the one who was hungry. And cold. And weary.

  “Father, stop!” Rani’s command, though, was lost against the stone. Even as she spoke, a trio of dark shapes rose up in front of her, hooded figures that flowed from the shadows at the base of the prison wall as if they were living images of its horrors. “Father!” she cried again, but this time, the single word was filled with terror, with warning and with rage.

  The priest whirled toward her, but he could take only one step before he was overpowered. The three shadows closed around him like well-trained soldiers. Rani saw glints of steel, soon hidden in the darkening streets. She turned to run, but two more shadows coalesced at the end of the lane, where the street debouched in front of the prison. Tossing her head, she could make out another two creatures at the far end of the passage, beyond Father Siritalanu, beyond the armed attackers.

  “In the name of Jair, be still!” the beggar barked, dropping his pretense of a whisper.

  Crestman.

  Rani knew the voice at once. She had dreamed that voice, had hoped for some sort of reunion, reconciliation. But when she had nestled, safe and secure in Morenia, she had never imagined that she would speak with him in Brianta, in a twilit street, with a knife sparkling between them. In the name of Jair. … Her belly twisted with more than hunger. This was Fellowship business then.

  “Crestman,” she said.

  “Ranita.” He betrayed no emotion in the single word.

  “Do not hurt the priest. He has done nothing.”

  “So long as he does not fight my men, he will not be harmed.”

  Crestman stepped closer to her, and his cloak slipped to the side. Even beneath his garments, she could see his twisted leg, his deformed arm. “What happened to you?”

  “I was a slave in the spiderguild.” She heard the grim statement, knew that he accused her, although there was no open condemnation in the specific words he chose.

  Rani’s fingers longed to reach out to him, to pull his cloak closed, to cover him and protect him. Instead, she asked, “What did they do to you?”

  “I tended their octolaris. The spiders’ poison is strong, but for some, it is not deadly.”

  For some. Rani listened to the untold stories behind the statement. Some, the poison had killed. Some—the Amanthian soldiers that Crestman had bartered for. Some—the children that he had hoped to save.

  “I’m sorry, Crestman.” Her words came in a rush, tumbling as if she had not rehearsed them, night after night after night, only that afternoon. “I did not have a chance to explain to you. I did not have a chance to share my plans. I was going to negotiate for the Little Army in the spring, after we had the riberry trees, after we had the spiders. I was going to—”

  “You were going to trade us, so that your king could be safe.”

  “He is my sovereign lord, Crestman. You know that. You used to value loyalty above all else.”

  “I value loyalty when people are worthy of my devotion.” Volumes were written behind his dark eyes. Rani remembered the battles that he had fought, the way that he had struggled to dedicate himself to others. Crestman had told her of his induction in the Little Army, and the horrors that he had been forced to commit in that body’s name. He had told her of deeds he had done, so that he could be devoted, so that he could be loyal, so that he could be true. But that loyalty had been offered to those who were not worthy, to those who would enslave an army of children for profit.

  She forced her voice to be steady as she nod
ded toward his hooded black cloak. “So you are loyal to the Fellowship now?”

  “Aye.”

  “Without knowing their goals? Without knowing their designs?”

  “I know enough to see that we can walk together for some time. Our paths might diverge farther down the road, but for now, I think that they want precisely what I do.”

  “What is that, Crestman?”

  For just an instant, his soldier’s demeanor broke. She saw ghosts behind his eyes, shadows of all he longed for. She saw a desire so sharp that her heart clenched, and a rage so hot that she took a step back. He recovered quickly, though, and when he spoke his voice was steady, level, a commander’s on a battlefield. “We want Queen Mareka dead.”

  “What!” Rani’s exclamation echoed off the stone walls. Even in her amazement, she glanced at Father Siritalanu, as if to see whether the priest had heard the absurd demand, as if to measure whether she was dreaming.

  “Dead. By the feast day of Dol.” Dol. The god of good health. Rani heard the sound of rustling parchment.

  “But what has Mareka ever done to the Fellowship?”

  “We have plans, Ranita, and she is not in them. We have goals, and she stands in our way.”

  “Plans. Goals. The Fellowship always whispers so. I think that our leaders change the rules of this game whenever the wind shifts.”

  “Then you admit that you are one of us? You admit that you are bound by the Fellowship, and all that it works toward?”

  Rani gaped, open-mouthed. Never, in all her years of association with the shadowy cabal, had she been asked so openly to affirm her dedication. At least not in a darkened alley, with a blade glinting in failing daylight. “How can I, Crestman? I know nothing of those ultimate goals. I am kept in the dark.”

  “We’re all of us in the dark, sometimes.” His response immediately made her think of the time he had spent in the spiderguild, the time that he had lived as a slave. She wondered what darkness had surrounded him then—physically, spiritually. What torment had he suffered?

  He closed his fingers about her wrist, grinding the fine bones as if his grip were iron. She was embarrassed to hear her belly growl, as if it were unaware of the importance of this exchange. “You say that you’re a Fellow, and now you’re asked to prove it. You are to slay Queen Mareka by no later than Dol’s day. The queen must die if the Fellowship is to survive.”

  “But Hal is one of us!”

  “King Halaravilli ben-Jair is not to know of the Fellowship’s plans, not until they have transpired.” Rani heard Crestman’s hatred, heard the unspoken vow of vengeance behind his bitter words. She knew that the soldier believed Hal to be the source of all his pain, the root of his imprisonment.

  “Crestman, do you realize what you’re asking? Even if I chose to betray my liege lord, even if I chose to harm Morenia, I would be covering my hands with royal blood!”

  “As if you haven’t killed before!”

  The exclamation turned Rani’s stomach. Suddenly, she was thirteen years old again. She was kneeling in a soldier’s barrack room, watching wine-dark blood pool upon the floor. She was looking into the eyes of a good man, an honest man, a soldier who had given up his life to her suspicions. Dalarati. The man had forfeited his blood when Rani was led astray by dark conspirators. Dalarati had been young and faithful and strong and true, and she had slain him because someone had told her lies.

  Crestman nodded. “You’ve held a knife. You’re no blushing virgin there.”

  Rani heard his rampant jealousy. Dalarati might have been the first man that Rani had killed, but Crestman was the first that she had kissed. Even then, four years ago, she had felt the passion on his lips, she had known the heat that burned for her. She had known, and yet she had ignored—she had chosen Hal over him, chosen her king over a soldier.

  And then Hal had chosen Mareka.

  Rani could still remember her dismay when she learned of Hal’s impending marriage. She had returned from the spiderguild, flush with her success in negotiating for the rare riberry trees. She had mourned the loss of Crestman, feared the damage that she had worked with the solider, but she had gloried in the success of her mission. She had acquired the trade goods that her king demanded.

  And yet, she learned that Hal would wed Mareka. Not Berylina, who at least would carry the wealth of the house of Thunderspear. Not some other princess, with the weight and authority of royalty. Mareka Octolaris. Like herself, a mere journeyman in a guild. A manipulative, scheming woman, who had gotten herself with child in order to extort the king of Morenia.

  And now, Rani was being offered the chance for revenge. She was being handed a knife and told to use it. She was being ordered by the Fellowship—by the very forces that had saved her life when she was only thirteen years old. How could she not obey?

  She pictured herself sneaking into Mareka’s chambers. The night was dark, the shutters closed. The curtains were drawn about the royal bed. Rani entered, wearing a shift of coal-black, carrying an iron dagger. …

  Rani swallowed. Of course, she pictured the murderer in a black shift. Of course, she envisioned that particular dagger. The players had a character in their pieces, the Assassin. Rani had repaired the glass symbol for the role only a few months past, setting the dark pieces in a new lead framework. She was casting herself in a players’ piece, applying the knowledge of a troop of pretenders.

  Like Tovin. Rani had joined with Tovin before she learned of Hal’s betrayal. She had been with the player even before the king had taken Mareka.

  She might believe herself wronged. She might believe Hal foolish. She might believe Mareka shrewish and manipulative. But she had made her choices as well. She could not punish Hal for the same decisions she had made.

  “I can’t, Crestman. Tell the Fellowship that this is more than I can do.”

  “Ah, Ranita. … This is precisely why you could never be a soldier.”

  “Why? Because I listen to my heart? Because I have a conscience?”

  She saw him flinch, and she realized that her words bit even deeper than she had intended. His voice was tight as he shook his head. “Because you make decisions without learning all the facts.” She started to protest, but he cut her off. “No. Listen. You have access to the queen. You will work for the Fellowship. You will poison Mareka before Dol’s day. And if you do not, then others that you love will pay the price.”

  Rani felt the threat slide down her spine like the edge of a dagger. “What have you done, Crestman?”

  “Me? I’ve done nothing but convey your orders to you. Our colleagues, though, are quite taken with children. Even though Laranifarso is a difficult babe. Even though he cries when he’s away from his mother. Even though the Fellowship dares not grow too close to him, too attached, in case they need to . . . manage him. In case they need to prick your memory of your vows to the Fellowship.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “We already have. Hurry home, Ranita. Mair needs you. Her child has gone missing, and there is nothing that she can do. Nothing at all that she can do.”

  “You’re a monster!”

  “I’m a soldier, Ranita. You understood that once.”

  “But what can the Fellowship gain by this?”

  “What can the Fellowship gain by having Mareka out of the way? What can the Fellowship gain by placing another queen beside Halaravilli ben-Jair, a woman who can bear a living heir?” Rani heard the threat that even Crestman did not dare to speak aloud. If Hal had an heir, a biddable child, then he himself would become unnecessary. By breeding a son, Hal would sign his own death warrant. The Fellowship would gain control of Morenia, once and for all.

  Rani argued. “Laranifarso is a child, Crestman. He’s a helpless pawn in this game.”

  “We all are, Ranita Glasswright. We all are.” Rani saw memories shift behind Crestman’s eyes, crazed sorrows and angers and loves. He lowered his voice so that she was forced to step closer to him. “How naive can you be?”


  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think it mere coincidence that you are in Brianta at the precise moment that the Fellowship needs you here?”

  “I am in Brianta because the glasswrights came here. I am in Brianta to take my guildsman’s test.”

  “You are in Brianta because the Fellowship told your precious guildmaster to summon you.”

  “What? Why?” Rani’s shock bit off her words into short exclamations.

  Crestman laughed bitterly. “You’ve heard the tales before. A Royal Pilgrim will lead hte Fellowship, will unite all the lands.”

  A Royal Pilgrim. Rani’s thoughts flashed to Berylina, to the blooded princess who sat confined in her cell. Was she the one? Rani’s skin tingled as she thought of the raw power that has passed between them, the energy that had sparked from the Speaking.

  Crestman shook his head, as if he were rejecting what had transpired in the cell. “The Fellowship called you to Brianta. It wanted you to know that the wait for the Royal Pilgrim grows short. It wanted you to see the forces that are gathered in dedication to Jair. It wanted you to hear the counting, to know our strength, to see—once and for all—just where you and Halaravilli and Morenia stand within our plans. The Fellowship wanted to give you one final chance to cast your lot with us forever.”

  “You want me to murder.”

  “We want you to show your loyalty. We want you to join us as we mount our final bid for power.”

  “Mareka is my queen.”

  “And the Fellowship is your family. We summoned you, Ranita, to remind you of that. To remind you of all that we have to offer you. Of all that we have to achieve.”

  “And if I refuse?” She dared to look him in the eye.

  “If Laranifarso proves not sharp enough a spur, look to your glasswrights’ test, Ranita. Look to your guildwork. Accept your mission with the Fellowship, or you will see your precious glasswrights’ guild turn against you as well.”