Glasswrights' Test (15 page)

He saw the arguments she thought to present, imagined the protests she would make—all about political obligation and duty and other excuses. He locked eyes with her, bringing to bear all the power of his position with the guild. She must agree to this. She must submit. Otherwise, all his plans would come to naught. He smothered a smiled as she lowered her head and nodded once. “I agree.”

And yet he narrowed his eyes, discovering that a part of him truly did not want her submission. He wanted her to fight him; he wanted her to misstep so that he would have an excuse for banishing her. No. She had accepted his proviso. She had opened the door to the heart of his revenge.

Setting aside the liquid thrill of that discovery, he continued, “You shall not correspond with your king while you reside in Brianta. You shall not send him any letter, by any messenger.”

“Master,” she started to protest, but she must have read the certainty in his gaze, his determination to remain inflexible on these points. She settled for casting a glance toward her colleagues, a plea, and he imagined that she would beg them to write her correspondence for her.

“
Any
letter,” he underscored. “One written by your own hand, or one dictated to another.”

“But if the king should write to me, I must respond, Master. He is my sovereign lord.”

“You seek reinstatement with your guild. Do you think it wrong that you should swear to the basic precepts that any apprentice promises? Do you think that you should be granted special exemption from your guildish oaths of loyalty?”

“But ordinary apprentices would have no reason to contact their king!” She must have heard the stridency in her tone, for she swallowed hard and lowered her voice. “Master.” She took a deep breath, and her exhalation was loud in the still room. “Might I write to the king once, and tell him the reason for my future silence?”

Bargaining. Always bargaining. The Traitor had started her life as a merchant, as a calculating thief, measuring out how much she could steal from hardworking souls in the marketplace. He gritted his teeth, but he said, “One letter. One sheet of parchment, with nothing enclosed. Deliver it to me by midnight tonight, and I will send it on for you.”

“I agree.” Her voice quavered on the two words, but she spoke them—aloud and before witnesses.

Parion nodded and continued with his rules. “You shall remain pure in body and in mind. Each morning, you shall complete a ritual bath in dedication to Clain, washing away the filth of your flesh and of your thoughts. Each evening, you shall complete a cycle of prayers to Clain and to the other gods that you have offended throughout the day. You shall refrain from all unclean touch, but especially from the touch of any man.”

He was not surprised to see her gaze flicker toward the player. Parion had already read the silent story of corruption between the two of them; he understood that she had sought refuge in the unholy circle of that rebel's arms. Parion had lived in Brianta for long enough that he was scandalized by such libertine acts.

Nevertheless, the guildmaster was surprised by the player's response to his demand. In the midst of the audience chamber, surrounded by all the members of the glasswrights' guild, the man laughed aloud. He threw back his head, letting his chestnut hair catch the glimmer of the smoky torches. His throat rippled, and his guffaw was so rich that it brought smiles to the other glasswrights' faces before they remembered themselves.

As if the man suddenly recalled that he was a guest in the hall, he straightened, and he ran his gloved fingers down the front of his tunic. He gave every appearance of a creature abashed, of a man who regretted having disturbed the solemnity of an event. Parion glared, but his fury was nothing compared to the Traitor's. The girl stepped forward, deliberately turning her back on the player. “I agree, Master.”

Well. That had been more successful than Parion had hoped. Perhaps he had driven a true wedge between the Traitor and her strongest supporter. He must remember the trick.

“One last promise, and then we will be done here. You must agree to submit to me in all things. I am the master of the guild you wish to join, and I am the final arbiter of your fate here. I am the one who says, ultimately, whether you join our ranks or not. I am the one who says what you must do and when you must do it. I am the law within the walls of the guildhall. Do you agree to submit to me?”

He saw the arguments move across her face. He saw that she wanted to carve out exemptions from the absolutes. She wanted to submit on some points and not on others. She wanted to claim independence. She wanted to declare herself superior to him, in a thousand niggling ways.

He would have none of that, though. She must yield, now, from the beginning. She must understand that she would have no rights here in the guildhall, she would have no ability to destroy the fragile structure that he had built here in Brianta.

“I may not submit to you, if that would require me to foreswear other oaths that I have made.”

Parion's anger was immediate—a red poker that flashed through his gut. “Then you do not wish to go forward with this! Your presence here has been a game.”

“I
do
, Master! I do!” Without his bidding, she crossed the few steps that separated them, and she collapsed onto the floor, ignoring the grime between the bricks. “Please, Master. Understand that I cannot change the past. I will submit to you on all matters in the future, but I cannot take back other oaths that I have spoken.”

He met her eyes, the green-blue eyes that seemed so much older than the young woman who knelt before him. Those eyes had witnessed death. They had witnessed destruction. They had witnessed treachery and all its costs. They had witnessed his beloved Morada's head, severed and thrust on a post, carried about the Morenian marketplace.

Unflinching, the Traitor met his gaze. “I will submit to you, Master, but only from today forward. Only in our new endeavors. Only in the future. You cannot ask more of me—more than that no glasswright could agree.”

He heard the pleading in her voice, understood the desperation that sparked her words. For just an instant, he contemplated refusing her, imagined her devastation as all her hopes crumpled at his feet.

Before he could indulge the fantasy, though, there was a shuffle in one of the shadowed alcoves, a shift of fabric as the watching Fellows made their presence known. Parion must accept the Traitor. He must welcome her into the fold. Whatever reasons he might have for wanting her gone, wanting her destroyed, wanting her utterly ruined, the Fellowship wanted more.

The Fellowship of Jair controlled him. After all, this was Brianta, birthplace of the First Pilgrim. The Traitor might think that Parion held all the strings; however, he knew that he was manipulated by other, greater forces.

He would accept her for now. But he would make her pay for all that she had done, for all that she had cost him, past and present and future. He had plotted out the course of his revenge, and it would prove sweeter for the delay. She would suffer more for thinking that she held the upper hand now.

“Very well, then,” he said. “I agree to your limitation. Rise, Ranita Glasswright, and be welcomed into your guild, until Clain's feast day when your skill and dedication will be tested by your fellow guildsmen.”

She kissed his hand as he extended it to her, and he wondered if she realized that she did not first look back toward her companions, toward the player and the Touched girl. Parion saw them, though. He saw them, and he realized that both were worried for her. Both resented that she did not look to them for guidance. Both recognized that the Traitor was in danger in the guildhall.

Parion withdrew his hand, moving his fingers in the complicated Briantan gesture of paternity. “Welcome, Ranita Glasswright. Welcome to the glasswrights' guild.”

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

Berylina stood in the street, trying to remember to breathe, to breathe, to look up at the sheer stone walls in front of her. The birthplace of First Pilgrim Jair. Here.

A smile tweaked the corners of her lips. She had done it. She had journeyed to Brianta. Despite a father who believed that she was possessed, despite a new sovereign who was mystified by her, despite a priest who was in awe of her, she had traveled all the way over the Great Eastern Road, arriving at last at Jair's home.

Poor Father Siritalanu. Setting aside his oft-voiced misgivings and his fears for a sixteen-year-old girl, he had completed the journey with her. He had spoken with innkeepers, making sure that Berylina had a private chamber each time they stopped. He had knelt with her in the corners of strange inns, held her hands between his, helped her to call upon the various gods to bless their days. He had spoken with Berylina long into the lonely nights, keeping her company as they listened to the Touched girl, Mair, comfort her crying child. He had cleared his throat and raised his voice to cover the noise of Ranita Glasswright and Tovin Player as they settled into their own, private chambers. …

A flush painted Berylina's cheeks. Ranita and her lover had tried to be discreet. They had tried to keep their actions from the other travelers, tried not to let anyone know about the moments that they stole.

But how foolish did they think she was? How many times could any two reasonable people forget valuable items in their saddlebags, after the horses had been stabled? How many times could doors creak in the night, even in the least maintained country inn? And how many times could Mair's crying baby be an excuse for changing rooms, for bleary eyes and soft smiles in the morning?

Berylina shook her head. She did not care about Ranita and Tovin. She did not care what they said or thought or did. After all, the Thousand Gods blessed the bodies of men and women. Berylina only cared because poor Father Siritalanu had been embarrassed. He had looked at the princess with concern, as if she might expect him to protect her from the indelicacy of the situation.

She was no child. She was a princess of Liantine, the youngest girl in a family with four brothers. She knew the ways of men and women.

And she knew that she would have none of them.

Berylina smoothed her fingers down her green caloya robes, and the silk warmed against her flesh. The Thousand Gods did not call upon all of their servants to be chaste. Men and women were permitted to marry and remain in service to the gods. Nevertheless, the purest of the worshipers, the inner circle of those who remained true to the Thousand, proved their dedication by remaining pure in body and in heart. They remained devoted. They remained strong. Berylina was determined to be one of their number, to dedicate her chastity to the Thousand Gods and First Pilgrim Jair.

And she might as well start here at Jair's very birthplace. She raised her chin. “Very well, Father. Let us enter.”

Siritalanu smiled upon her, and she was warmed by the kindness on his face. He understood. He appreciated her. He knew what she meant, by bringing her pilgrimage here to Brianta. He nodded once and pushed open the door.

Berylina blinked and stepped over the threshold.

Darkness. As Siritalanu let the door close behind him, Berylina caught her lower lip between her teeth. Who cared if the movement emphasized her heavy jaw? The First Pilgrim knew her and loved her, even in her stunted, broken body. He would watch over her, no matter the appearance of her teeth.

Making a holy sign across her chest, Berylina took a single step into the room. A post stood by her right hand, and she reached out to caress the prayer bell that hung there. The jangle was sharp in the chamber, alive, tinkling with power, and Berylina had to smother the urge to wrap her fingers around the bell. She did not want to disturb the other pilgrims. She did not want to summon them from their worship.

No one even looked up, though. No one acknowledged the princess's presence. Thousands of pilgrims touched the bell every day; thousands of worshipers offered up their anonymous prayers in this temple, in the birthplace of the First Pilgrim.

When Berylina blinked hard, she could make out people in the shadows, men and women who knelt at the low altars that lined the walls. She knew all about this holy place; she had heard tales from other travelers and read accounts in Morenia's great library. Each of the altars was dedicated to Jair; each contained a relic of his life, something that the First Pilgrim had touched, had used, had blessed.

Legend said that there were one thousand relics of the First Pilgrim, one for each of the gods. Certainly there were not that many objects in the temple. The counting was a mystery, a token of faith among Liantine pilgrims.

Berylina's knees ached to kneel before the holy objects. Her fingers twitched. She had not had a chance to draw during her long journey to Brianta—her crayons and chalk had been carefully packed away. She had needed to set aside the images of the gods as they came to her, promised to capture the images later.

Those promises had borne fruit, though. With her visions of the gods held at bay, her other sensory impressions had waxed. Every step through the Briantan streets had been a titillation, a stimulation of her nose, her mouth, her ears, her flesh.

As she took another step into the chamber, her eyes began to adjust to the dim light. A single candle burned in the center of the room, thick as her arm and fashioned from plain white wax. The light was suspended from a wrought iron chain that wound its way to the ceiling. One altar huddled beneath the candle, but it was surrounded by a thick knot of worshipers.

Berylina knew why they gathered there. The central altar was built on the precise spot where Jair had been born, more than one thousand years before. His holy mother had crouched before her midwife, delivering the child who would change the world, the child who would open the hearts and eyes of mankind to all the Thousand Gods.

Berylina closed her eyes and breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the room's holiness. Her fingers tingled, and the roof of her mouth thrummed with power. The power of the Pilgrim. The power of the Thousand Gods.