Glasswrights' Test Page 9

  A message from the Fellowship had been waiting for Rani when she returned to her tower room after supper, a small scrap of parchment curling in the middle of her work table. “Speak to Jair at midnight.” Now that the night approached that hour, the Pilgrims’ Bell tolled, its steady call muffled by the walls surrounding Rani. She shivered as she thought of other midnight assignations, other secret meetings that had resulted in death and chaos.

  Nevertheless, a longstanding sense of obligation to the Fellowship drove her to the group’s newest meeting place. Rani had made her way from the palace without divulging her destination, accomplishing her escape by ostentatiously displaying a pair of candles and whispering Nome’s name. No one, not even the most zealous of the King’s Men, would challenge a worshiper who seemed intent on saluting the lost princes.

  Rani had kept her steps even as she headed toward the cathedral. It was only after the street curved and she was out of sight of the guards’ hut that she picked up her pace and hurried to the Merchants’ Quarter.

  That part of Moren had been rebuilt in the last three years. Broad streets cut through the ancient section of town, taking advantage of the fire that had razed the former tumble of narrow passages. Rani missed the twisting byways of her childhood, the winding lanes that she had memorized even as she learned to walk.

  The new quarter, though, boasted one of Davin’s greatest innovations. The ancient inventor had suggested a system of alleys laid out behind each row of merchants’ shops. The plan permitted private entrances for the families that lived above their stores. Deliveries could be made in secret, deterring both thieves and competitors. Slops could be thrown into the alleys, leaving the main streets cleaner, more inviting for the customers who supported the merchants.

  Davin had argued with the city planners for days, insisting that his system was worth the extra space, worth the land lost to alleys. The Merchant Council was divided; no one wanted to pay a premium for land that was not directly traversed by customers, but everyone agreed that merchants must keep potential buyers content. Ultimately, Hal himself had sanctioned the plan.

  Rani wondered if the Fellowship had had a hand in the creation of the alleys. Three of their last meeting places had debouched onto one of the dark passages. Tonight’s destination was no different—as she’d woven deeper and deeper into the Quarter, Rani had heard families at work and play around her. Nevertheless, she had been sheltered from witnesses who might have noted her passage if she’d been on the main streets.

  She wondered how her own family would have reacted to the new design. Her mother would have loved the privacy of the back entrance, the ability to keep mud and muck from the rooms where goods were sold. Her father, though, would have grumbled about the lost land. Jotham Trader would have calculated just how many shops could have stood on all the alleyways combined. He would have reminded his wife precisely what her scrubbed floors cost. Rani’s mother would have laughed at the teasing, would have told Jotham that cleanliness was worth three times the price. …

  “Speak, Fellow.”

  Rani jumped. She had lost herself so completely in her memories, in her dreams, that she had not heard anyone approach. Nevertheless, she choked out her response: “The sparrow hides its heart within the clouds.” Sparrow. Heart. Clouds. Not as grim as many of the Fellowship’s passwords.

  “Very well. Follow me.” The command was whispered in a voice so soft that Rani was not certain if her guide was a man or a woman. The figure held a lantern that was nearly completely shuttered; only one narrow beam of light fell upon the floor, guiding Rani’s feet down a narrow flight of stairs. She shuffled along a close corridor, ducking to pass through several low doorways.

  Where were they going? How could this extensive system of tunnels exist beneath the new shops in the Merchants’ Quarter?

  At last, the guide stopped shuffling forward. The lantern was shuttered completely, and Rani blinked in the darkness. She heard a panel slide open, wood against wood, and the soft voice whispered “The sparrow’s heart is plucked by hawks amid the clouds.” Sparrow, heart, and clouds again, but in a darker combination than Rani had contemplated.

  She swallowed hard and heard a door open before her. The hooded guide stepped to one side, ushering Rani forward with a hand that gripped her forearm unerringly. Before she could turn around, before she could choke out a word of thanks, the door closed, settling into its frame like an axe into a chopping block.

  “Ranita Glasswright.”

  Rani knew the voice before she turned around, recognized the speaker before his lantern was opened. “Holy Father Dartulamino.” She took a step forward, but she did not fall upon her knees. There was no need to honor the Holy Father here, no need to kiss the ring that was cut with a thousand facets. Not when Dartulamino summoned her on Fellowship business.

  Within the Fellowship, they were equals—in name, at least. Dartulamino was closer to the core of the organization than Rani had ever hoped to be; he knew more of its clandestine plans. Rani lifted her chin and said, “I’d expected a gathering of the Fellowship.”

  “We have no need to summon all of our brethren. I wanted the opportunity to speak with you alone.” Rani was scarcely comforted by that pronouncement. The Holy Father continued, “So you will stake claim to the name of Ranita Pilgrim. You plan to don the Thousand-Pointed Star and make your holy journey to Brianta.”

  “No, Father.”

  “No?” His surprise turned into a frown. “We were told that you travel west with Berylina Thunderspear.”

  “I travel with the princess, but not as a pilgrim.” The Holy Father’s eyes narrowed, and Rani stood straighter. She hardened her voice and said, “I go to see the masters of my guild. I go to face the glasswrights’ test and craft my masterpiece”

  “I see.” Dartulamino gazed at her for a long moment, and she wondered what thoughts passed behind his shadowed eyes. What adjustments was he making in his calculations? How was he applying the facts that she had fed him?

  Better to force his plan into the open. Rani settled for a direct question. “What interest does the Fellowship take in my journey, Father?”

  He did not answer her question. “The time is drawing near when you must make a choice.”

  “A choice?”

  “You have known of our society for ten years and more. We lifted you out of Shanoranvilli’s dungeons, and we set you in a place of power.”

  “You witnessed my trial,” she contradicted. “The trial when King Halaravilli learned the truth, when he discovered that I had no hand in the death of Prince Tuvashanoran. The Fellowship did not rescue me; King Halaravilli did, as the Chief Inquisitor.”

  “Why do you always fight us, Ranita?”

  The question was deceptively mild, and she grasped for an appropriate answer. Fight the Fellowship? She did not do so consciously. She did not plot to rebel against its leaders, to topple them from power. She only fought the Fellowship when they seemed arrayed against her, when they appeared to act against her own interest and the interests of those she loved. She chose her words as carefully as she would stipple paint upon a pane of glass. “I do not fight the Fellowship, Father. I fight injustice and secrecy and wrong.”

  “Then do you trust your Fellows? You have no faith in our vision for Morenia?”

  Rani bit off a harsh laugh. “How can I trust you, Father? How can I have faith in a secret, in plans that are always kept hidden from me?”

  He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if she were a much younger child. “But that is the meaning of faith, Ranita. You should not need to have ‘faith’ explained to you, not at your age.”

  “I have faith in the Thousand Gods, Father. I have faith in First Pilgrim Jair. I have faith in the divine right of the house of ben-Jair to hold the throne of Morenia. But I cannot have faith in simple men and women who walk the earth and breathe the air, unless they would tell me why they do the things they do, why they command the things that they command.”

 
“And yet you would do all the things your king commands, your king who is—within our Fellowship—a ‘simple’ man.”

  Rani’s rebellion was immediate; her words came out as hot as coals. “I will fight the Fellowship with my last breath if it moves against Halaravilli ben-Jair.”

  The Holy Father’s laugh was dry. “Relax, young fighter. No one is moving against your king today.”

  “But once you did. In Amanthia. You let the assassin Tasuntimanu take up steel against my lord.”

  Again, Dartulamino laughed. “Not I, Ranita Glasswright. Years ago, one of our members thought to take matters into his own hands. One man. One crazed creature. The Fellowship as a whole never plotted against the king’s life.”

  “Then why do you question my loyalty to the crown now?”

  “Not just to the crown.” Dartulamino took a step closer to her. All traces of levity had been washed from his face, scrubbed away in solemn darkness. “I question your loyalty to the crown, to the Fellowship, to the very guild that you have held so dear. I come to warn you, Ranita Glasswright.”

  Her palms were moist, even though her skin was deadly cold. “Warn me against what?”

  “You will face choices in Brianta. You will need to make decisions. Lives will depend on the course you choose.”

  “What sort of course?”

  “Our future. The future of the Royal Pilgrim.”

  Rani shivered. She had heard of the Royal Pilgrim. She swallowed hard and forced bravado into her words. “I’ve heard that prophecy before, but never from you. Never from one in power.”

  “Yet you know that the Royal Pilgrim will bind the kingdoms of the world together. The Royal Pilgrim will gather the Five Kingdoms under one ruler, unite them beneath the cloak of the Fellowship of Jair.”

  “Who is the Royal Pilgrim, then? Who will do these things?”

  This time, the Holy Father’s laugh was genuine. “If only I knew that, Ranita! If I could simply appoint the Royal Pilgrim, then the prophecy would be fulfilled. The Fellowship would complete its mission, and the Five Kingdoms would be at peace.” He shook his head. “No, Ranita. The Fellowship’s prophecy is like a pot that was cradled on a high shelf, a treasure set in a place of honor. The vessel was toppled long ago, and it was shattered. We must piece together what we can, and fill in all the bits that are missing.”

  The tolling of the Pilgrims’ Bell lent an aura of mystery to the Holy Father’s words, a grim air of danger. “But how do you think I can help? Why are you telling me this now?”

  “To prepare you for your journey. We believe—the Fellowship believes—that your travels to Brianta will set our final story into motion. Pieces will be found in Jair’s birthplace. We will bind our shattered vessel.”

  “It’s all well and good to speak in poetry, but I travel for very specific purposes. I will accompany Princess Berylina to keep her safe, and I will test for the rank of master within my guild. I will not be working any mysteries for the Fellowship. I won’t be searching for hidden prophecies.”

  Holy Father Dartulamino shook his head as if she were a reluctant child, slow to master her letters. “You will meet many Fellows in Brianta. Our people are able to move more openly there, where the name of Jair is spoken with faith and courtesy by every living soul. You will meet the core of the Fellowship, and you will receive your orders. You will understand what you must do to work toward the unveiling of the Royal Pilgrim.”

  “That is why you summoned me in the middle of the night? To tell me to watch for Fellows in Brianta?”

  The Holy Father’s eyes glinted at her rebellious tone. “I summoned you, Ranita Glasswright, to warn you about the importance of your journey. Do not assume that you can return to Morenia unchanged. Do not assume that you can set aside lightly the burdens that you take on in Brianta. Do not assume that your path will be easy. And do not assume that the Fellowship will let you shirk your duties. You are bound to us by sacred oaths. You are required to uphold your vows. You go to take the glasswrights’ test, but you will be challenged by the Fellowship as well.”

  “And if I fail?”

  “Ahhh,” the Holy Father sighed, and Rani could almost believe that he was saddened by the words that he was forced to say. “If you fail the Fellowship, you will be cast out from our number.”

  “Cast out? Forbidden to attend meetings?”

  “Forbidden to speak of all you know.”

  “The Fellowship cannot bind my tongue!” Rani answered hotly.

  “Not while you’re alive, no. There is nothing we can do while you’re alive.”

  She heard the threat, blatant as a player’s spoken piece. She started to protest, but she knew that she would gain nothing by squabbling with the priest. Instead, she bowed her head, swallowing hard and fighting to quench the flame of rebellion.

  “Is that all, Father?”

  “That is all that I can tell you now. Travel safely, Ranita Glasswright. May Jair keep you always in his sight.”

  The cathedral bells chose that moment to toll the hour after midnight, a solitary bronze clang that drove down Rani’s spine like a pike. Before she could speak, Dartulamino made a holy sign, and then he disappeared in the shadows at the far end of the chamber. Rani was left to retrace her steps in the dark corridors; her guide was nowhere to be found.

  As she made her way through the Merchants’ Quarter back to the palace she asked herself if the Holy Father’s parting words had been a blessing or a warning. She found no sleep that night as she searched for an answer.

  Chapter 5

  Parion Glasswright took his time choosing the robes that he would wear to greet the Traitor. He had long ago grown familiar with the layers of cloth, accepting that the majesty and power he commanded as guildmaster meant that he was constrained by the garment. He paused in front of a polished mirror and studied the visage that looked back at him.

  There were deep lines in that face, furrows etched by age and fatigue and a craving for revenge. Parion had once been considered a handsome man—he knew that much from gossip and from the whispers of women he could trust. He was a feared man, as well; people hesitated to excite his wrath, to summon the famous fury that hovered beneath the surface of his calm guildish demeanor.

  His parents had not been glasswrights. His father had been an armorer, spending more time in the Soldiers’ Quarter than in the Guildsmans’ Quarter of his youth. Parion’s mother had been a master in the embroiderers’ guild—eyes opened or closed, she could pick out designs more delicate than anyone could imagine.

  Parion had learned craft from both of his parents. From his father, he had absorbed the importance of strong arms, of powerful muscles to manipulate heavy iron. Yet, from his mother, he had mastered the value of delicacy. He knew that a single stitch taken in a particular way could change the way an entire tapestry appeared. He knew that fine work made the difference in a finished piece. Details mattered.

  And, as a glasswright, Parion applied those lessons. He needed to craft windows, design armatures heavy enough and secure enough to protect delicate panes of glass. He also needed to paint, to indicate expressions and thoughts, individual lines that could be read by thousands of viewers from the floor of a cathedral.

  Parion had taken his parents’ lessons and applied them well. He might have made mistakes. He might have taken missteps, but he had never made the same error twice.

  Sighing, the glasswright straightened his garments. He had chosen deepest gold today—a topaz so rich that it shimmered in the light from the window. Let the Traitor be dazzled upon their meeting. Let her measure out the wealth that belonged to the guild, that had come to the glasswrights since they moved away from Morenia. Let her wonder if Parion sent a message of intimidation, or one of greeting.

  And if she could decipher the emotion behind his welcoming her back to the guild, then she was a better sleuth than he. For Parion himself did not know how he felt.

  He knew that he was bound as guildmaster to protect all the glass
wrights sworn to him. He knew that he was obliged to honor the apprentices and journeymen and masters who had passed their respective tests, who had joined the guild, free and clear of other obligations. He knew that he must stand strong against the priestly government of Brianta, stand firm to keep his guild a separate creature from the pilgrims’ bureaucratic tangle.

  But must he welcome a traitor? Must he open his arms to one who had literally cost the glasswrights lives and limbs? Would he not serve the glasswrights better—the true glasswrights, the ones who had committed to the guild with their hearts and souls and hands—would he not serve them better if he destroyed the Traitor? Without thinking, he moved his hands in the automatic signal of supplication, sending forth his thoughts to Clain, asking for the god’s guidance and protection.

  There was a knock at the door, and Parion turned abruptly. An apprentice entered and brushed the prayer bell before saying, “She has arrived, Master. Ranita Glasswright.”

  Parion heard the awe in the boy’s voice, the amazement that a figure from the guild’s rich past could walk among them. Well, he was every bit as much a part of that story. He was every bit a member of the guild. He flashed a sign of gratitude toward the apprentice, his fingers moving automatically through the Briantan custom. “Very well. I will attend her in the audience hall.”

  The audience hall, he thought, as the child responded to his gesture. That was a grand name for the guildhall’s largest chamber. The glasswrights’ guild in Morenia had boasted high walls and shimmering windows, the finest of the guild’s handicraft displayed like a treasury. Here in Brianta, the guild had poached land from Jin, the god of bread, whose followers had finally collected enough gold to build themselves another hall, a grander symbol of their dedication.

  The glasswrights had been too poor to raze Jin’s old buildings. Instead, they had adapted the religious compound, turning one low building into dormitories, another into workshops. The kitchen had become the meeting hall, a dusky, low-ceilinged room, with smoky rafters suspended across the roof.