Glasswrights' Journeyman Page 34

  Hal heard her words and barely kept himself from muttering a petition to the Thousand Gods. He needed to change his world. He needed to create a way to keep both the church and the Fellowship at bay. And if, along the way, he could experience this … speaking, this change that made Rani Trader glow, then he was willing to try. He was a desperate man, and he was willing to try nearly anything. “You’ll think on this, Rani? You’ll find a way for me to keep both church and Fellowship content?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, my lord.” She nodded and turned back to the window. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter 16

  “Sire, this is most irregular.”

  Hal whirled around to face the Holy Father. He had already fought this battle with Dartulamino, already explained why the leader of the Morenian church was expected to watch over a heathen wedding ceremony – to watch over and to give his blessing. “Yes, Father, it is.” Hal’s page jumped at the anger in the king’s voice, stumbling as he backed away to the edge of the tent. Hal scarcely spared a glance for the wooden casket that Calaratino held, for the jewels that glinted on their velvet bed.

  Hal could hear the crowd outside the pavilion, the rising pitch of excited voices as people gathered on the edge of the woods. The morning fog had burned off, and the sun was hot on the spidersilk tent. Hal knew that the hour must be approaching noon, that it was almost time for his wedding service to begin. He waved at the page. “Go ahead, Calo. Tell them that I’ll be ready in a few moments. I wish to pray with the Holy Father.”

  The boy’s eyes were as big as trenchers as he bowed his way out of the pavilion. “Yes, Sire,” he said.

  “And make sure that we are not interrupted,” Hal said as Calaratino reached the door.

  “Yes, Sire.” The page seemed incapable of any further words. That was just as well. The last thing Hal needed was a child spreading rumors about a squabble that he had overheard, a jagged dispute between the crown and the church. Hal waited until the spidersilk folds of the door had fallen into place, until he had regained as much privacy as was possible amid this farce of a wedding spectacle.

  “Father,” he said, stepping closer to Dartulamino and lowering his voice. How many times must he explain himself? How many times must he state that he had had no choice regarding the blasphemous rites? “Father,” he began, after a deep, steadying breath. “You know the danger that I faced. You know that I had no choice here. I must gain Princess Berylina’s hand in marriage. I must have her dowry, if Moren is to be rebuilt.”

  “Some costs are too great, Sire.”

  “But not this ones’ Hal fought to lower his voice, remembering that anyone could hear through spidersilk. “Not this one, Father. Don’t you understand? It is more important than ever for me to wed Princess Berylina. She believes in the Thousand Gods. She embraces them with her very soul. She is endangered staying here in Liantine, here in the heart of the territory held sacred to the Horned Hind. If I can help her escape by wedding her here, today, then I am obliged to do so. And if I can get her dowry for Morenia at the same time, so much the better.”

  “You risk your very soul, Your Majesty. You chance having the Heavenly Gates locked against you forever!”

  “Who says that, my lord? Is that the Holy Father speaking? Or is it the Fellowship of Jair?”

  The priest gaped, seeming astonished that Hal had dared to name the shadowy cabal aloud. “My lord, if you think for one instant –”

  “I think every instant. I think that the church would like nothing better than to have the crown forfeit on its obligations. I think that the priests would like me to fail to make my first repayment, fail to render up my first usurious return tomorrow. You would shake your head in sorrow, and you would sigh at the dishonor, but you would gather up my power all the same.”

  “Sire – ”

  “But,” Hal continued, not permitting Dartulamino to interrupt, “that is nothing compared to how you would gloat if I fail to pay the Fellowship. I still don’t understand precisely what test the Fellowship has set me, Father, what they intend to do with the bars of gold I’ll pay. I recognize the power of the Fellowship, though – the power of its promise. The power of its threat. The power of the Royal Pilgrim. I will meet the Fellowship’s demand, and by giving, grow stronger. You may not want me as a rival, but you will not drive me away, Dartulamino. I know my obligations, and I begin to understand my potential.”

  “Your ‘potential’ is lost if you give yourself to Liantine, if you sell yourself to the Horned Hind.”

  “I’m selling no one. I’m fighting to preserve what is mine, in any way that I see fit. And if that fight requires wedding a Liantine princess atop a wooden platform on the edge of a sacred grove, then that is what I will do. If I must kneel before a horned hind, then I will. If I must take my child bride on a bed of holy fir boughs, I will. I will not give up on Morenia, Dartulamino. I will not let you have my kingdom without a fight!”

  Before the Holy Father could respond, the tent flap opened, and Teheboth Thunderspear ducked inside. The king of Liantine looked like an invading warrior – he had set aside his resplendent silks for riding leathers painted with the green and silver of his homeland. Teheboth’s beard was braided with bits of pierced antler, and his hair was clouted back, held at his neck with a fantastic bronze medallion, shaped like the stylized Horned Hind he had painted on Hal’s brow months before. In his hand was a massive spear, an ancient token of his house that glinted with deadly iron at the tip.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” Teheboth said, scarcely sparing a glance for the Holy Father. “I was told that you were praying.”

  “I was,” Hal said, refusing to elaborate. Let the Liantine wonder at the method of prayer for followers of the Thousand Gods.

  “I trust you’ve found the spiritual guidance you require, then,” Teheboth said, after only a moment’s pause. “Our people are waiting to witness the joining of our houses.”

  Hal nodded and settled his crimson cloak about his shoulders, the resplendent garment glinting even in the dull light that sifted through the tent. He paused for one moment, reaching into the wooden casket that the page had held to withdraw a heavy chain of interlocking Js. J for Jair. J for the Defender of the Faith.

  He turned to Dartulamino. “Father? Will you assist me?”

  Hal watched the Holy Father weigh his options. The man could take the chain of office. He could settle the golden Js around Hal’s neck. He could give his blessing to the wedding, to the joining of Morenia and Liantine.

  Or he could refuse. Without explaining about the Fellowship, without letting people know his reasons. He could gather up his holy entourage and abandon King Halaravilli.

  Dartulamino was no fool. He understood the political world. He sighed and stepped forward, taking up the golden chain. No emotions flicked across his sallow face as he said, “In the name of all the Thousand Gods, Sire.” He raised the necklace over Hal’s head. “In the name of First Pilgrim Jair.”

  “In the name of Jair,” Hal murmured, accepting the silent challenge. Dartulamino might have yielded as the Holy Father, but there were battles left to fight. The Fellowship remained a tangled skein – a glittering, unknown mystery.

  Teheboth shook his head and muttered something under his breath, which might have been a prayer to the Horned Hind. He refused to acknowledge the Holy Father as he turned back to the entrance of the tent. Lifting the flaps of spidersilk with a warrior’s disdain, the Liantine gestured Hal to walk before him. Hal scarcely had a chance to see that Dartulamino stalked behind, furious.

  Even though Hal knew the assembly that waited for him, he was still surprised. Hundreds of people stood on the edge of the forest, resplendent in their finest clothes. The Morenians wore spidersilk and velvet – all of Hal’s council lords, and Davin, and various nobles who had managed the journey to Liantine. Hal caught Puladarati’s eye as he strode nearer the assembly, and he nodded gravely. The former regent had worked his magic once agai
n, gathering together the finest of Morenian and Amanthian nobility, regardless of the short time for planning, regardless of the straitened times.

  There were Liantines, too, dozens of Teheboth’s lords. Hal recognized many of them now, after his days in the foreign court. Prince Olric stood with Jerusha at his side, almost lost in the swirl of the royal family. The followers of the Horned Hind were obvious throughout the crowd – each man wore riding leathers, his beard braided with antler and wooden decorations. Even the Liantine ladies sported bronze medallions, the symbol of their faith.

  Hal looked across the field to the edge of the forest, to the platform that had been erected beneath the shadow of the trees. A woman stood there, all alone. She was clad in chestnut-colored velvet, a long, straight gown, with sleeves that covered her wrists. Her hair was pulled back into an elaborate headdress, a carefully woven construction that hinted at antlers, at horns that were captured and lost in the shifting sunlight on the edge of the trees.

  So that was the priestess, sacred to the Horned Hind. That was the woman who would watch over Hal’s joining with Berylina. She gazed at him across the field, and he measured her cool appraisal. He might not be content with what was to happen. He might have fought battles against his nobles, against his own priests. But the priestess of the Horned Hind must have her own reservations, her own concerns about joining the house of Liantine to a heathen.

  Hal knew that Berylina was not yet present. Teheboth had briefed him the day before on Liantine custom, on the traditions that this wedding ceremony would follow. Hal, in turn, had told Puladarati, had ordered all his followers to be prepared for the foreign observances. He could only hope that the Morenians would follow his lead.

  The crowd fell silent as Teheboth escorted Hal across the field. Morenians and Liantines alike clustered near, pressing closer to the wooden platform at the edge of the forest. Teheboth acknowledged his people as he moved, nodding here, touching a shoulder there. The procession was nothing like Morenian pomp, nothing like the regal service that would take place if Hal were marrying his bride in the house of the Thousand Gods.

  Hal wondered if he was expected to make the same casual recognition of his retainers. He could not, though. They would not know what to make of a royal smile, of a comradely touch as their king moved toward one of the holiest moments of his royal life. Hal contented himself with seeking out the eyes of his favorites among the crowd.

  Puladarati first, of course. The other council lords – Count Edpulaminbi, Count Jerumalashi. Davin, scowling, his deep-lined face dark beneath the summer sun. Farso, standing near the front.

  And beside Farso was Mair. The Touched girl wore a simple gown, unadorned linen in Farsobalinti’s glinting blue. Hal wondered for an instant if there were a message there, if there were other nuptials to be celebrated. Not today, though. No such distraction for today.

  Rani stood beside Mair. Hal swallowed hard and met her gaze. They had not spoken since the day that she returned from the spiderguild – both had been swept up in duty and responsibility. Each day, he had hoped to see her, hoped at least for some missive, as she outlined a plan to save him, to save Morenia and Amanthia both. He had waited for her to set forth a strategy, to tell him how he might keep both his dowry and his octolaris.

  But she had failed him. She had not found a solution. They must act, separately, solving the problems in order. First they would take Berylina’s dowry on this Midsummer Eve. Then, they could repay the church. Then they would find a way to meet the Fellowship’s demands. With Mareka’s spiders if she cooperated. Without, if necessary.

  With a curious twist of pride, Hal saw that Rani wore his crimson, her gown brilliant against the gold of her hair. Her eyes flicked toward the dais, and then across the field, to the pavilion where Princess Berylina waited. She swallowed hard, and he longed to go to her, to seek her blessing. There was no time, though, no opportunity. Besides, before he could take a step, before he could make the decision to follow Teheboth’s casual example, Rani reached for the arm of the man who stood beside her; she leaned close to whisper something to her companion.

  Tovin. Tovin Player. Hal had not known the man when Rani returned from the spiderguild, but Hal had asked Farso, and Farso had demanded information from Mair. So, Tovin Player had taught Rani her glasswork. He had guided Rani to the spiderguild. He had accepted her sponsorship for his troop, when the spiderguild denounced the players. Even now, Hal knew the players were gathering their belongings, preparing to take ship for Morenia as soon as the wedding festivities were ended.

  After Rani’s request, Hal had Spoken with the players – quickly and without much concentration. A woman named Flarissa had come to him, and she had swung a pearl drop before his eyes, calming him and asking him questions. He had answered briefly, recalling the day that he first heard Berylina’s name.

  Nonsense. There was no power in the Speaking, no force to explain Rani’s reverential tones when she discussed the players. The troop played games, dressing in their amusing costumes, standing on their makeshift stage. Entertainment, yes, but a power to change people’s lives? Not at all. At least not when the questions he was asked concerned Berylina. If the players had asked him other things, delved into other secrets, closer to his heart. … Hal set aside the thought.

  And, as Hal watched, Tovin Player covered Rani’s fingers with his own. The intimacy sent a shudder down Hal’s spine, a chill that set his jaw and made him think of angry commands. Before he could even summon up words, though, Hal’s gaze slipped to the edge of the crowd, to a figure clad in white.

  Mareka Octolaris. No, no longer Octolaris. As expected, the spiderguild had denounced its shamed apprentice. It had made formal demand for its spiders, for the twenty-three beasts that even now crowded along the walls of Hal’s apartments in the palace. The spiderguild had raged, but Teheboth had stood fast. The right of embassy had held. So far. Perhaps Hal had only imagined the problems Mareka had threatened. Perhaps she had only been playing with him; she had never truly intended to back out of their arrangement and proffer up her spiders to Liantine.

  Mareka stared at Hal across the field of grass, and she seemed the very model of decorum. The passion she had shown him, the heat of the octolaris nectar, might all have been a dream. Now, her hair fell demurely down her back, like a girl’s. Her brilliant white gown hung straight. She had worn the spidersilk at Hal’s first feast in Liantine; the cloth was shot through with delicate glints of color. Mareka’s fingers were laced before her, serenely folded, as if she waited patiently for some long-expected announcement.

  “My lord Halaravilli ben-Jair!” Teheboth’s words boomed across the grassy field, forcing Hal’s attention to the foot of the dais. “I bid you welcome in Liantine! Welcome to our court, and to a taste of our hospitality, beneath the sky, beneath the watchful eyes of the Horned Hind.”

  The Morenians murmured as the priestess stepped forward. The woman did not speak, as a priest of the Thousand Gods would do under such circumstances. Instead, she inclined her head, with all the grace of a deer, of a noble beast caught on the edge of the forest. She raised her hands in a complicated gesture, as if she were summoning some elemental force to look upon the proceedings on the edge of the forest.

  Hal crossed to the man who would become his father, and he spoke loudly enough that all could hear him. “My thanks, Teheboth Thunderspear. I am grateful for this opportunity to join you in the summer fields.” Hal extended his hand as they had agreed before, clasping Teheboth’s forearm in the time-honored show of friendship and faith. Teheboth’s eyes glinted above his beard.

  “Please, my lord,” Teheboth said. “I bid you welcome and pray that you will partake of the hospitality of the house of Thunderspear. I fain would offer up a humble gift in recognition of the honor that you do my house today.”

  Hal forced an easy smile across his face. He and Teheboth had discussed this presentation. He knew what was to come. Hal let himself be led to a majestic chair that stood jus
t below the raised dais. The chair – a throne, really – was crafted of finest oak, smooth grained wood that had been carved and polished by an expert craftsman. The arms had been worked to resemble the trunks of mammoth trees, and the back of the chair was a medley of whorls. Branches broke out at the top of the chair, wild and unruly, shadowy limbs that mimicked the horns of a magnificent twenty-pointed stag.

  Hal inclined his head to Teheboth and crossed to the chair. The seat was easily broad enough for two grown men. Teheboth had explained that it was called a marriage bench, that it was the first of many symbols of man and woman being joined together beneath the Horned Hind. As the ceremony progressed, Berylina would come to sit beside him, come to join him beneath the horns.

  Only when Hal was settled did he realize that his slippered feet rested on spidersilk. The oaken throne had been set atop a woven tapestry, a magnificent length of cloth that was even now being ground into the earth. If the occasion had been less solemn, Hal might have smiled at the outrageous symbolism. Teheboth was determined to make his point, determined to carve the once-powerful spiderguild out of the affairs of his court.

  The king of Liantine waited until his guest was settled, standing patiently until Hal felt the wood behind his spine. He knew the image he presented; he knew that the horns would seem to grow from his own crowned head. Defiantly, Hal sought out the Holy Father’s gaze on the edge of the crowd, nodding slightly as the sallow priest grimaced and glanced away.

  “Halaravilli ben-Jair, you came to us on an auspicious day. You arrived in Liantine on the day of the Spring Hunt, on the day each year when the Horned Hind offers up her life for the betterment of all her most true worshipers. You rode out with my men on that hunt, and you stood beside the Hind as she died her yearly death. The Hind spoke to me as she fell beneath my spear; she told me to mark you as one of hers, to gather you into the house of Thunderspear. And so I made the mark of the Horned Hind upon your brow, and I welcomed you into my court.”