Glasswrights' Journeyman Page 32

  And Crestman. Crestman who was a slave now, who had forfeited his birthright, and his commission in the Little Army. Crestman who had been the first man to kiss her.

  Things were different now. Tovin was no soldier. Rani was not controlled by others. She could make her own choices.

  She leaned forward and brushed her lips against the startled player’s. He started to draw back, but she closed her hands in his tunic. “You must believe me,” she whispered. “I meant you no harm. Not you or the players. Not back there, with Lord Anigo. And not now.” His mouth was hot beneath hers, and she felt him respond to the urgency of her words.

  “Ranita,” he warned, the sound almost lost in the rustle of fabric. He raised a hand to the V of flesh at her throat, and she felt a salty sting when he touched the raw nick from the spiderguild guards.

  “Hush.” She enforced the command by lacing her fingers with his. “I am a guildsman, Tovin Player. I can sponsor your players’ troop. I can grant you passage on all the roads.”

  “Not in Liantine.” His voice was husky. “Not here. Ranita, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “I know.” She swallowed hard and met his gaze. “I know precisely what I’m doing. You have taught me, Tovin Player. You taught me how to cut glass, how to set it. I am a glasswright, and I have the power of all Morenia behind me. I can help your players, if you will let me.”

  His copper eyes were dark, nearly black in the well’s gloom. Still, she understood the questions that he asked her, the answers he demanded. “I will, Tovin Player,” she said, and then she pulled their hands between them, drawing him close, close enough that he knew all of her promises, all of her plans, all of her desires that flowed beside the Speaking stream, just beneath the surface of her thoughts.

  Chapter 15

  Hal watched Mareka, measuring the concern that etched her face as she glanced about his apartments. “We still have no word from the spiderguild, my lord?”

  “This is the first day that my people could return. The first day, if they were not detained by your masters.”

  “Not mine,” she said. “Not mine any longer.” He noted her tone, both the resignation and the anger. “They ceased to be my masters the day you took their spiders from me.”

  “I did not take them, lady. You gave them of your own free will. You could have brought them back to your guildhall. You could have turned them over to certain death.”

  “That is not fair, my lord! Admit that you have used me! You used me for your own gain, after all that passed between us.”

  Hal flushed, betrayed by a sudden memory of her flesh hot beneath his hands. “You came to me, Mareka. You came to me with your cursed octolaris nectar. You may not pass responsibility for that.”

  She clutched at her skirts, gathering up the spidersilk between her fingers and freeing it to fall in crinkled planes. Her temper sparked in her eyes, and once again Hal saw the woman who had manipulated him in Liantine’s Great Hall, the schemer who had led him to believe she was a princess, the woman that he meant to court. Her voice was low when she replied, so low that he had to take a step closer to make out her words. “Is that the way King Teheboth would see things? Is that what the house of Thunderspear will think, if they hear that you took another woman beneath their very roof when you were courting the only daughter of the king?”

  “You would not dare, Mareka. You would not dare to tell your tales of lying and seduction.”

  “Why not, my lord? What have I to lose? Not a crown. Not a dowry.”

  “A reputation, though. Mareka Octolaris, to all the world outside these doors, you are a brave apprentice who dared to save your spider brood. You acted to protect a precious treasure that your close-eyed guildmasters would have destroyed. You allied yourself with me – with the enemy – because you had been raised to that duty since birth.”

  “You forget, my lord. I am not bound to you in any formal way. I could save my spiders still, by offering them up to Teheboth.”

  Hal had not thought of that option. He had believed Mareka to be under his control. Nevertheless, he answered sharply, “And you forget, my lady. Teheboth has taken in Jerusha Octolaris as his daughter. He is tied to the spiderguild now. He is their ally. Give him the spiders and they die, as surely as if you returned them directly to the guildhall.”

  “Are you truly so naive that you cannot imagine King Teheboth breaking with the spiderguild? It’s only Jerusha that he’s taken in, after all – a girl rebellious enough to ignore her masters and let a slave girl die! What would the house of Thunderspear do to break the monopoly of the spiderguild? To break that power? Imagine the wealth King Teheboth might gain – and the only thing barring him is Jerusha.” Mareka settled her hands across her belly, as if she enclosed the swollen promise of a child. “What would Prince Olric need to say, my lord? That Jerusha was barren? That she could bear the prince no heir? He’d be within his rights, then. He could set her aside.”

  “And what would you do, Mareka? Would you go to Olric to offer up your spiders? Would you dose yourself with octolaris nectar, and take him unawares?”

  “I could, my lord. I have the power.”

  “Then you’re nothing but a whore.”

  He did not see her hand move, did not see the flat of her palm before the slap resounded in the chamber. His cheek stung as if she had branded him, and he caught at her wrist before she could land another blow.

  “Let me gos’ She twisted loose. “Let me feed my spiders!”

  “My spiders,” he said. “You gave them into my keeping.”

  Her eyes were hot as she stalked to the cages that lined the walls of his apartments. “Only because I saw no other course, my lord. Only because I saw no other way to protect my charges.”

  “There is no other way, Mareka. I am the only guarantee those octolaris will live until their eggs hatch. Not Teheboth. Not Olric. Only me.”

  She turned away, dismissing him with all the arrogance of a princess. He watched her cross to the basket, to the container of markin grubs. She counted out the octolaris’ morning meal, transferring her squirming white victims to a silver platter that she kept there for the purpose. It took her only a moment to tie back the sleeves of her gown, to lace up the flowing garment so that the spiders would not be provoked. She bound silk strips about her wrists, providing further protection.

  Mareka hummed as she approached the spider cages, filling the room with a song that vibrated across her ribs and up her throat. She paused before the first of the octolaris, and she waved her hands in a pattern that was becoming familiar to Hal, a pattern that he had seen dozens of times since he took possession of her treasures. She had explained to him that she was Homing the spiders, that she was announcing her presence so that they did not mistake her fingers for food.

  She repeated the pattern a second time, and then a third. Then, she did something Hal had never seen her do before – she took the time to waggle her fingers through a fourth repetition. She must fear the octolaris. She must worry that her agitation would provoke them. Nevertheless, she reached for the silver tray.

  The markin grubs clung to her fingers like burrs. Hal thought of those same fingers slipping down his spine, and a frisson tingled through him, raising the hairs on his arms.

  What would he do if she actually did go to Teheboth? What if she told Thunderspear of her tryst with Hal?

  Even now, Hal might escape condemnation. After all, he could argue, men were meant to do their jousting before they settled into married life. He had lain with Mareka before his intentions for the princess were formally announced. He could claim foolishness, fear, nervousness about the change that he faced. His indiscretion would prove embarrassing, but it might not destroy his pending marriage to Berylina. If he painted himself as a fool. As a boy. As a weakling swayed by women.

  But if Mareka took the spiders to Teheboth, what then? Hal needed the spiders. He needed the income they would generate, the base they would provide for his fledgling Orde
r of the Octolaris. Without the spiders, Hal could not pay the Fellowship. He could never ascend to the leadership of that organization, never work toward the shadowy goals of the Royal Pilgrim.

  Watching the spiderguild apprentice sway as she fed her charges, Hal realized that he could set aside Berylina. He could set aside his advisors’ plans, thrash their expectations that he marry a noblewoman, a princess. He could offer his hand to Mareka Octolaris. Then, her threats to go to Teheboth would die forever. Then, she would be bound to come to Morenia, to tend her spiders and their young, to guide Hal’s new knightly Order.

  For just an instant, Hal imagined the outrage of his council lords, their incredulity as he announced his decision. He could see their astonishment, and he imagined the accusations against him. They would say that he had thrown over Berylina, left her behind because of her looks, because of her shyness.

  He pictured himself explaining. He pictured himself standing before his council with the octolaris in their boxes, with the riberry trees that Rani was even now negotiating for him.

  Rani.

  If he set aside Berylina, how could he take a guildswoman for his bride? How could he turn to Mareka, when there were so many better choices?

  Besides, if Hal abandoned Berylina, he abandoned her dowry. He lost the immediate payment that he owed to the church; the installment that must be made in one short week, on Midsummer Day. He must have Berylina. There was no way around that.

  Berylina and payment to the church. Mareka and payment to the Fellowship.

  He could not have both.

  Bells began to toll steadily, marking noon. Damnation! He was expected in Berylina’s solar. This was the last day that he could visit his bride before the wedding. By Liantine custom, bridge and groom must be estranged for one week before the marriage ceremony. “Mareka,” he began.

  “Go,” she said, without turning away from Homing the second spider. “Go to your princess, my lord.”

  Hal could hear the smile behind her words, the mockery that straightened her shoulders, that surely quirked her smile. The bells stopped tolling. He was late. “My lady,” he said, and he bowed stiffly, even though she never turned around.

  He hurried through the Liantine hallways, walking fast enough that his poor page had to trot to keep up. Only on the solar stairs did he take the time to straighten his tunic, to run his palms through his unruly hair. He hovered by the door, angry that he had nearly forgotten his obligation to visit Berylina. He could not afford to make diplomatic mistakes. Not now. Not with so much depending on rules and custom and obligation.

  He waved the questioning Calaratino to silence and listened to the sounds coming from inside the aerie room. He could just make out the murmur of voices low in conversation, and then a tentative giggle, like a wild bird chittering on a tree branch. So. Berylina could laugh. Maybe not around him – she was still too shy for that – but at least she was capable of mirth.

  Hal sighed and stepped into the solar.

  Berylina stood at an easel, a charcoal crayon held fast between her fingers and her thumb. She was studying her parchment carefully, her head turned at an appraising angle, a perspective that hid for just a moment the crossed lines of her sight. She even managed to disguise her rabbit teeth, for her lips were pulled back in a wide grin, a smile that matched the trilling laugh that filled the room. “Don’t look directly at me!” she said. “Bain would not look directly at a mere mortal.”

  Bain. The god of flowers.

  Hal knew the princess’s words were not meant for him, and he glanced across the room, following Berylina’s gaze. He was surprised to see Father Siritalanu sitting on one of the ornately carved chairs that lined the walls of the chamber. The priest had spread his green robes about his feet, and he had permitted Berylina – Berylina or her nurses – to cover the cloth with flowers. Three great lilies cascaded across the front of the fabric, and a waterfall of forget-me-nots tumbled down his front. There were iris and daffodils, and a careful garland of early roses that wound about his shoulders.

  At Hal’s entrance, the religious started to stand, upsetting the careful display. Berylina, not noticing the intruder, exclaimed, “No! Don’t move yet! I haven’t finished.”

  “Forgive me!” Siritalanu exclaimed, and in the quick embarrassment of the moment, Hal was not certain if the priest spoke to him or to the princess.

  Trying to make the best of things, Hal waved the priest back to his chair as he crossed to Berylina’s handiwork. “What have you created there, my lady?”

  It was too late for his jovial question. Berylina’s smile had faded, replaced by a rapid twitch that she tried to hide by turning her face toward the window. For a long minute, Hal thought that she would not answer at all, but then she whispered. “Nothing, Your Majesty. Only a drawing.”

  “Let me see.” He tried to sound boisterously happy, like an eager groom courting his bride.

  “Please, Your Majesty. It’s only a pastime, a trifle –”

  Hal brushed away her protests and circled behind the easel. He was surprised enough that he could not keep from exclaiming as he saw what she had drawn.

  Siritalanu’s face was identifiable in the work. The young priest grinned openly, as if he were a young man caught at horseplay with his peers. His hands were open in his lap, long fingers twining through the flowers. The blooms themselves were perfectly depicted, exactly shaped and shaded, the black lines carefully contrasted with the creamy parchment.

  And yet, the drawing was not merely a portrait. Berylina had captured something more, some alien air, some hint of differentness, of … Hal hesitated before admitting the word … holiness. She had taken the physical presence of Father Siritalanu and transformed it into the image of a god.

  “This is quite remarkable, my lady!”

  She blushed, as red as the roses that glowed against the priest’s green robe across the room. “It’s nothing, Your Majesty!”

  “You’ve captured the essence of Bain.”

  “Only because Father Siritalanu helped me,” the princess insisted, her shy words gaining strength from her religious fervor. “Only because we prayed before I began my drawing.” The mention of prayer seemed to give her even more confidence, and she hastened to add, “Father Siritalanu has been most generous with his time, Your Majesty. I am grateful that you have let him attend to my spiritual preparation for what is to come.”

  “Well, er, yes.” Hal scarcely recognized how many words Berylina had strung together. Rather, he was flummoxed by what he was supposed to say. She used the phrase “what is to come” as if summoned to her execution.

  One of Berylina’s nurses stepped forward and chided her mistress, “You have not shown King Halaravilli any hospitality, Your Highness. You must offer him a cup of wine.”

  “Oh!” Berylina started, and she set her charcoal crayon beside the easel. She fumbled as she dropped into a curtsey, and all her new-built eloquence fled as she struggled to get out her words: “Please, Your Majesty, forgive me!”

  Hal forced himself to convert his grimace into an honest smile. “No forgiveness is necessary, my lady. And please, do not interrupt your work. When you complete your drawing, we will set it under glass. We will preserve it, and you can keep it in your solar in your new home, in Morenia. You can look upon it to remind you of Bain’s hand, guiding you in all your efforts to grow new things.”

  The princess blushed and averted her eyes, twisting her fingers about each other and smearing charcoal dust across both hands.

  What? Hal wanted to exclaim. He only meant new things – like their marriage. Like the bond between their houses. By all the Thousand Gods – she was only a child! He could not have meant anything more by his words! Hal cleared his throat and tried to smooth over his suggestion. “We have many lovely gardens in Moren, my lady. You will be pleased to see Bain’s handiwork, I think.”

  After one of the nurses glared and cleared her throat peremptorily, Berylina whispered, “I should like that, Yo
ur Majesty.” The admission proved too much for her, and she blushed again, gathering up her skirts with her sooty fingers.

  “Yes. Well then.” Hal looked at Father Siritalanu, but the religious gave no hint of where he might take the conversation safely. “Well, I should be going, then. I should let you finish your drawing.”

  Berylina remained silent until the nurse prompted her with an urgent nod. Then the princess said, “Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

  “No,” Hal stumbled. “Thank you.”

  And he left the solar. Shaking his head, muttering under his breath, cursing his own awkwardness, he closed the oaken door behind him and collapsed against its solid support. He ignored Calaratino’s questioning look, ignored the possibility that a nurse, or Siritalanu, or – First god Ait himself forbid – the princess herself would choose that moment to leave the solar.

  She was only a child, he told himself. Of course she was awkward. Of course she was afraid. He was hardly helping things, stumbling over his own words as if he were a page himself. All would be better, he promised, after they were wed. Then both of them would know that they were meant to be together, that they would have to work together, for Morenia’s sake. Then, they would find ways to speak to each other, to communicate beyond their horrible, uncomfortable blurted words and silences. Their joining before the Thousand Gods would make all right.

  But would the Thousand Gods truly bless their union? Would the gods look upon him with favor when he came before them with a clouded heart? For he could not say that he truly wanted to wed Berylina, the girl. He wanted Berylina, the endowered princess. He wanted eight hundred bars of gold.

  Then again, what princess wasn’t desired for her dowry? What king’s daughter wasn’t meted out as a source of income and stability? And what king had the luxury of wedding for love, for companionship, for happiness?