Glasswrights' Test Page 6

  Siritalanu led her from her apartments in the royal palace, walking rapidly through the city streets. They passed few people, for Moren was officially in mourning. All of the shops had been ordered closed in honor of the day’s grim business, and many homes were draped with somber black banners.

  Berylina knew these Morenian passages well; she traveled back and forth to the cathedral several times each day. In fact, she had considered asking King Halaravilli to let her reside in the cathedral close, to live among the priests and their caloyas. She had not found the courage to make such a request, though. It would be easier after she had traveled to Brianta, after she had a stamped and sealed cavalcade to evidence the depth of her devotion.

  The square in front of the House of the Thousand Gods was filled with mourners— nobles, merchants, guildsmen, soldiers, even a few Touched on the edges of the crowd. The cathedral itself would already be filled with nobles and priests, members of the royal family’s own caste. Nevertheless, all the people of Moren felt their liege lord’s pain; all wished to express their sorrow with prayer, with chanting, with offerings to the gods.

  Berylina was not surprised when Siritalanu skirted the edge of the House, bringing her to the transept door. The crowds were thinner there, and people yielded to the power of their paired green robes. Berylina inclined her head in gratitude, keeping her eyes directed toward her feet. A flush spread across her cheeks as she thought of all the people who watched her. Suddenly, it was difficult to swallow. She fought the urge to clench her hands into fists, to shrink away to nothingness.

  Without asking, Father Siritalanu understood where Berylina would like to offer up her special funerary devotions. He guided her to the large side chapel that was dedicated to Nome. On an ordinary day, the god of children was greeted by thousands of worshipers; his altar was broad, and the ceiling of the chamber was opaque with soot from the candles that burned to his glory. Today, every inch of altar space was aflame with lit tapers.

  Berylina’s hand trembled as she selected her own candle to add, forfeiting a heavy gold coin in exchange. She waited for a trio of women to edge away from the altar, and she ignored the pitying stares that they cast upon her face. Instead, she moved forward to the empty space before the block of marble, dropping to her knees. She raised her candle to one that already burned, using the existing flame to kindle her own.

  The wick caught and flared high, drawing Berylina’s attention to the carved letters on the front of the altar. NOME. Each letter was carved deep, the marble rising into strong minims, curling into delicate horizontal strokes. As Berylina opened her mind to the god of children, she heard his name inside her thoughts, heard the jaunty piper’s air that was his unique signature.

  Of course, she could not hear all the gods. Some came to her as colors. Some were scents. A few were flavors, spread out across her tongue. Berylina knew that she was different, that her sensing the gods’ physical presences was strange and wonderful. She pitied the other worshipers, the ones who saw only marble and paint, only candle flames left by petitioners. They missed so much. They never knew the true nature of the beings they prayed to.

  “Nome preserve us,” she thought as she settled onto her knees. “Nome keep us safe from harm.”

  That was a ridiculous prayer, though. She wasn’t in any danger. She did not need Nome to watch over her. No, she should have prayed to the god of children a fortnight ago. She should have appealed to him when he first played a few notes for her, on that sunny morning when she was walking to King Halaravilli’s new silk hall.

  She had heard Nome beside her then. She knew him well—he had come to her often when she still lived in Liantine. On the day of the silk auction, she had heard his piping air, like the songs that her nurses sang to her in her Liantine nursery when she was a young child. Nome had played urgently the day of the silk bidding, pushing his notes into her morning prayers. She had heard him when she knelt at the prie-dieu in the corner of her room, and again when she passed the Children’s Fountain, in the middle of the Nobles’ Quarter. The carved toys that were suspended from the ancient font had danced in the morning breeze, their jointed arms swinging, their heads bobbing as if they moved in time to the god’s music.

  Berylina had tried to silence Nome in frustration. She had been intent on reaching out to Lor, trying to gather in the peppery scent of the god of silk. After all, she was going to honor Lor in the name of King Halaravilli. She was going to invoke the god’s blessing on the new guildish venture. She had thought that she had no time for Nome’s frivolous games.

  If only she had listened to Nome’s music . . . if she had just let the god tell her all that he had to say! She had even been drawing that morning, before she left for the guildhall. He could have folded his fingers around her own, guided her hand across the page. She might have depicted Queen Mareka’s bedchamber, the tall window that looked over the town. She might have drawn the balcony, with its raised stone bench, with the curious, steep stairs that led from the queen’s apartments to the balustrade. She might have seen the queen pacing outside her rooms, ignoring her physicians as she took the sun, as she leaned out to see the strong, proud lines of the distant silk hall.

  In the days since the disaster, Berylina had told herself that things might have been worse. The queen could have toppled over the edge of the balcony, fallen into the courtyard below. If that had happened, Queen Mareka would have lost her own life, along with those of the twins that she bore.

  Instead, the queen had yielded to her chiding ladies-in-waiting. She had agreed to return to her curtained bed. Blinded by the brilliant sunshine as she approached the steep stairs, the queen had turned to look over her shoulder, imagining that she could hear the silk master cry out “Sold!” for the first lot of cloth. She had placed her foot unsteadily on the stone edge, and she had turned her ankle, toppling on the joint that was swollen from pregnancy. She had reached out to catch herself, but she had missed the stone upright of the window. Six stairs. Six stone steps, and then the queen had fetched up sharply against the leg of a wooden table.

  Even now, Berylina could imagine the flurry in the queen’s chambers. She knew that the gods had been invoked: minty Zake for chirurgeons, salty Chine for mothers. Piping Nome, for children, of course.

  And for several long minutes, those prayers had seemed enough. The gods had shifted to a new balance. They had spun about in their eternal dance, touching each other, moving into patterns, embracing and protecting the people who offered up prayers to them.

  Queen Mareka had been eased into her bed, covered with woolen blankets. She had sobbed in frustration and pain, snapping at the noble lady who attempted to tend to her twisted ankle. One attendant ran for wine, another for water, to lay cool cloths upon the royal foot.

  And then the birth pangs started.

  When it was all over, Nome had come to Berylina, piping his lament. He had explained that the princes had come too soon. No god could work all miracles. Nome could not stop actions that had already begun. The queen’s womb was injured by her tumble down the stairs, by her crash against the table—Nome could not stop that. The twins were startled to wakefulness by the fall—no god could change that, either.

  If there had been one infant, Nome might have proven strong enough. But he’d needed to divide his attention between two young charges; he’d needed to breathe life into two fragile bodies. In the end, the princes were too small. There was nothing to be done.

  Tarn gathered up the royal heirs. The god of death folded them beneath his green-black cloak, hiding the light of their souls under silk that shimmered like a beetle’s wings. He carried them off before they ever tasted life in the palace, before they ever had a chance to live their royal lives. Nome had relinquished his hold with a sad shrug, a skirling of pipes that was almost lost on the summer breeze.

  So why was Berylina lighting a candle to him now? Why was she trying to summon his music, to bring forth the god? She could not settle her reasoning into words. Nome w
ould understand, though. He would know that she would not ignore his warnings again. She would not overlook his piping for thoughts of another god, even for Lor, the silk god.

  She stayed on her knees until Tarn’s Knell ceased its tolling, the heavy clang trailing off into murmur-dusted silence. Usually, Berylina loved the sound of a fading campanile—the cathedral bells summoned worshipers each week, ushering all the faithful into the House of the Thousand Gods. Hidden in the notes, Berylina could hear an entire symphony of gods, a thousand voices singing out amid the metal tones.

  Tarn’s Knell was different, though. It was lonely. Sad.

  Berylina pulled herself to her feet, casting one last glance at the candle she had lit. Wax had melted around the wick, a clear pool that shimmered in the chapel’s heat. She imagined submerging herself in the circle, searing away her human flesh until she was nothing but devotion to the gods, nothing but pure, unformed worship.

  There was no time, though, for such fantasies of faith. She must attend King Halaravilli. She must offer up her prayers, that the newest royal twins might be received beyond the Heavenly Gates.

  Siritalanu was waiting for her, of course. He took her arm as she left Nome’s chapel, and he eased her through the throng that filled the cathedral. The tall nave was crowded with folk who came to honor their king, to mourn with him, yet again, for lost heirs.

  This time was the worst. Two sons, gone. Two perfect boys—ten fingers each, ten toes. Flawless rosebud lips, and ears that folded against their tiny skulls like wisps of parchment. They were so small. …

  Berylina wished that she had not seen the children. She knew that the memory would haunt her dreams for months; the dead twins would hover in front of her eyes when she should be seeing the gods. She would smell the ladanum upon their tiny bodies when she should be breathing the fragrance of one of the Thousand. She would hear their tiny cries, the pitiful mews that they had managed before their chests fell still in the summer afternoon.

  Now that they had lost their battle, Berylina must bear witness to their struggle. That was her fate, after all—to bear witness for the house of ben-Jair. The Thousand Gods had had a reason to raise her up from her own home, to carry her forth from her land of infidels. She had journeyed across the sea to this new home so that she could attest to the power of the Thousand Gods in the lives of men, in the lives of the royal family.

  Father Siritalanu understood. That was why he brought her to the front ranks of the nobles. That was why he guided her to stand with the priests and the caloyas of the king’s own household. She had a clear view of Holy Father Dartulamino when he stepped onto the dais in the middle of the transept.

  The Holy Father’s face was drawn, dark, as if the children he mourned were his own. Cloth of gold draped across his shoulders, weighing down his green robes. The priest’s dark eyes were hooded, and his handsome face was grave. He raised a commanding hand, and all eyes followed the arch of his fingers, turning to look down the nave of the church.

  The crowd parted slowly, as if people were reluctant to look upon unbridled grief. From Berylina’s vantage point, she could see anxious faces; she could make out anger and sorrow and more than a little fear.

  The king and queen were dressed in full mourning attire. Their robes were dyed deepest black, stiffened with somber embroidery that made each step seem like a rigid military march. King Halaravilli had placed a pounded iron crown upon his head, its heavy band his sole concession to royal status in the House of the Thousand Gods. He moved like a man defeated, like an ancient warrior bowed beneath a conquering army. His face was haggard, and Berylina wondered if he had slept in the fortnight since the silk sale. He should not be burning more babes; he should not be offering up more fallen heirs on funeral pyres.

  Queen Mareka leaned heavily on her husband’s arm. Her slight body nearly disappeared in her stiff mourning gown; the fabric swallowed up her slender limbs. Her face was pale as whey in the afternoon light, and her flesh took on an unhealthy glow as she passed through the jeweled tones of the stained glass windows set high in the cathedral walls. Queen Mareka moved like a broken woman, like a grandmother tottering toward an unclean grave. She limped as she walked beside her husband, clearly favoring the ankle that had turned so cruelly, that had betrayed her so completely.

  Holy Father Dartulamino waited until his king and queen stood before him. “Greetings to all in the name of the Thousand Gods.”

  “May all the gods bless you,” Berylina responded with the crowd.

  “I come before you with a heavy heart,” the priest said. “Throughout our lives, we all must witness the work of Tarn. We all must greet the god of death and recognize the dominion that he holds over us, for Tarn will gather each of us beneath his cloak when our course is done.”

  Each time the priest spoke the name of the god of death, Berylina saw a flash of green-black, the iridescence of an insect wing, hovering above King Halaravilli. Her heart went out to the man, and she wished that she could spare him, that she could shield him from Tarn’s cold attentions.

  After all, the king had tried to be kind to her. Even when he courted her. Even when he intended to marry her, beneath the hateful eyes of the Horned Hind. She could understand that now. She had grown so much since she left her father’s court. Before, when King Halaravilli had wooed her, she had been so afraid. She had thought that he meant to have her only to bolster his own treasury, only to add to his store of gold.

  Now, she knew that Halaravilli was a religious man. He took his obligations as Defender of the Faith seriously. He extended his protection to her, even though she had no gold left to give. He made sure that Berylina had parchment for her drawings, and chalk and ink and whatever else she required.

  Holy Father Dartulamino continued with the funeral service. Perhaps it was easier for the king and queen, knowing that the prayers they spoke aloud were the standard prayers of death, the same words that had been choked out by grieving parents for centuries. In the eyes of the Thousand Gods, there was nothing special about the loss of the princes, no special failure on the part of Queen Mareka or the king. Standing in the cathedral, they were not required to act as royalty; they did not need to lead all of Morenia. Rather, they could be parents—simple, grieving parents.

  It was customary to display possessions of the dead upon the altar during a funeral service. The royal princes, though, had not yet owned a thing. They had been birthed so soon that they had not received a single gift from any lord or lady, from any distant land.

  Berylina sighed. Ordinarily, eager nobles would have sent treasures to commemorate Queen Mareka’s pregnancy. People had waited this time. They must have been uncertain, after the losses of the other babes. They had not wanted to waste their gold, their ivory, their gifts of greeting.

  Nevertheless, two plaques sat upon the altar, hurried emblems that had been crafted to honor the children. One was carved with the arms of ben-Jair, the king’s proud lion twisting in low relief. The other captured the queen’s arms—or those of her former guild, at least. An octolaris spider rose from the wooden surface, its eight legs arched high above its back. A web traced across the wooden surface, symbol of the silk that Mareka had brought to Morenia.

  Raising his hands above the plaques, Father Dartulamino intoned: “Hail Nome, god of children, guide of Jair the Pilgrim. Look upon these Pilgrims with mercy in your heart and justice in your soul. Guide the feet of these Pilgrims on righteous paths of glory that all may be done to honor you and yours among the Thousand Gods. These Pilgrims ask for the grace of your blessing, Nome, god of children.”

  Once again, Berylina heard Nome’s high pipes, but his tune was mournful now, fleeting. She could not help but look about the cathedral, to examine the other worshipers, to see if any of them heard the notes.

  Apparently, none did.

  After Holy Father Dartulamino completed the traditional death prayer to Nome, he moved on to summon other gods. There was Tak, of course, the god of spiders, in honor
of the grieving mother. Berylina heard a clarion call, like a hunter’s horn in the woods. There was Fen, the god of mercy. Berylina smelled fresh-baked bread, hot from the oven. The priest invoked Ote, the god of peace, and Berylina blinked against the shimmering gold of a summer sunset.

  And then, of course, the priest summoned Tarn. Berylina fell to her knees with the other worshipers, buffeted by waves of green and black. She knew that she knelt on marble; she knew that she wore a dress of plain green silk. Yet everything before her eyes seemed different, shimmering, empowered by the god.

  Berylina recited the familiar prayer, rolling the individual words over her tongue without paying attention to them. The final phrase echoed in the cathedral, breathed by hundreds of worshipers: “These Pilgrims ask for the grace of your blessing, Tarn, god of death.”

  Through her shimmering fog, Berylina saw Queen Mareka topple to one side, overcome by great sobs. King Halaravilli tried to slip an arm around his lady, to ease her back onto her knees, but the queen was too distraught. The Holy Father set his jaw and made a subtle hand gesture for a pair of green-clad caloyas to step forward and assist.

  “It is not fair!” the queen wailed from the marble floor. “Tarn takes too much! He has enough of my children! The Heavenly Gates are dripping with my children’s blood!” The religious women gathered around the queen, patting her black-clad arms with their soft hands. The queen, though, recoiled from their green garments as if the women burned her. She struggled to her knees and raised a defiant fist to the Holy Father. “This is not fair, Priest! No god should ask this of a mother!”