Glasswrights' Journeyman (23 page)

“I've always liked rainy days, myself. Farsobalinti can tell you, when I was a boy, I would sit in my nursery and play with my tin soldiers for all the long wet days of spring. Even when my brothers and sisters pestered our nurses to let us play outside, even when they begged to run up and down the palace hallways.” Hal cast a quick look at Farso, who nodded as if he recalled Hal's own awkward wordlessness. Berylina seemed to realize that Hal meant her no harm, and her breathing slowed to normal.

Taking the princess's reaction as a good sign, Hal kept up his babbling. “I would sit on a stone bench in a deep window, much like this one. My nurse would bring me warm milk and fresh-baked bread, and crisp autumn apples if we had any. I could spend hours reading books on the history of Morenia, on all the battles fought by my father, and his father, and his father before him. I would study maps and plot those battles, and while away entire days with reading. Reading and writing and drawing.”

“I draw.”

Hal tried hard to mask his surprise, his relief that the princess had finally said something – anything. He dared not ask her a direct question. Instead, he shrugged and looked down at his hands with a self-deprecating grin. “I drew, but nothing I would show to anyone. I could sketch a map or two, and I could scribble out a coat of arms. But I never was much good at drawing figures.”

“I draw figures.”

“That takes skill! You must have had good teachers. I never found anyone with the patience to teach me how to draw figures.”

“My drawings are in the solar.”

“The solar must be cold today.” Hal paused, curious to see if she would fill the gap in conversation. Berylina stared at her hands, wringing her fingers as if she could not think of a suitable reply to his statement. Fighting not to sigh, Hal continued. “Spring weather is so unreliable. All this rain would be snow, if it were only a little colder. In Morenia, we get a great deal of snow in winter, and some in spring.”

“The solar is very bright when it snows, but it's too late in the year for that now.”

Hal fought to hide his surprise – that was the longest speech that Berylina had shared with him. “Alas,” he said, trying not to speak too quickly. “The solar is not likely to be bright today. The rain clouds are thick. No, this is a day for torches in the hallways and candles on our writing desks.” Still no response. “I think that Bern must be good friends with Tren.”

“The god of candles has no friends.”

“Why certainly he must! Candles light our way in the dark! They are signs of good cheer. Certainly the god of candles must be the embodiment of that very good cheer. He must be one of the most popular gods!”

“He gives out all his glad tidings in his candles. He has none left for himself.”

Hal was stunned. Two consecutive sentences, two complete thoughts, two statements directly contradicting what Hal himself had said, and the princess was not blushing at all. Clearly, she felt strongly about candles. Or gods. “I'd never heard that about Tren.”

Berylina took a deep breath and braved Hal's direct gaze. “I've drawn Tren. Would you like to see him?”

Hal sensed how much the question cost her, how much she longed to flee from him, to run to her nurses and hide her face in their skirts. He saw that she cast a glance toward Farso, that she took in the nobleman's attentive presence as if it physically pained her. Still, she included both of them in her invitation, waving one hand slightly in front of her. Hal made his voice grave, and he bowed a little as he said, “Yes, Your Highness. We would like that very much.
I
would like that.”

Berylina turned away without saying anything else, walking determinedly to the door of the chamber. Hal caught an expression of surprise on the face of the younger nurse, the woman who had spoken for the princess when they first entered the room. The servant quickly masked her emotion, though, and fell into place behind her mistress, waving the other nurse forward.

They made a strange procession in the hallway. Berylina led the way, her pudgy hands clenched into determined fists at her sides. Both nurses followed behind, wearing the drab black dresses that were expected of their station. The older one turned to look at Hal several times, as if he were a beast harrying them along their way. Farso trailed all of them, a silent honor guard, a chaperon. Hal suspected that the tall nobleman hung back so that he would not be tempted to laugh aloud, so that he would not mock outright his hapless king.

Why should this be so difficult? Hal was not afraid of women! He certainly had no trouble talking to Rani – even fighting with her. There were other women as well – Mair, and his four sisters, and any number of ladies who were married to his lords. He'd had nurses as a child, and none had left him tongue-tied. None had left him wondering if he held his arms correctly, if he stepped quickly enough, but not too fast.

Of course, none of those women was likely to be his bride.

And none was so afraid of him that her breath sounded like sobs as she led him through the palace hallways.

The solar was reached by a well-sculpted stone stair, a graceful curve that arched to the highest point in the castle's north tower. Berylina paused at the door to the chamber, bowing her head. Her short fingers hovered over the latch like fluttering sparrows, and Hal could almost hear her thoughts, hear her questioning why she had brought a stranger – a man! a suitor! – to her refuge.

She waited for so long that the silence grew awkward, even more uncomfortable than all the other silences she had spawned. Hal waited for one of the nurses to urge her forward, to push the door open, but apparently the women dared not be so aggressive.

Hal glanced at Farso for guidance, but the knight only shrugged. When Hal could no longer bear the tension, he said, “Perhaps, my lady, you can show us the solar another day. It's probably just as well that my companion and I return below. A cup of mulled wine would do all of us well, chase away the chill.”

“No.”

Berylina could not say more than the one syllable, but she made her fingers close on the iron latch, and she pushed the door open with the grim determination of a prisoner marching toward the headsman's block.

Hal followed her into the solar.

At first glance, the room seemed empty. Great panes of glass were set into three walls, including the one that looked out on the storm-tossed sea. Rain sleeked down the windows, the rivulets making it difficult to decipher clear forms in the city below.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, Hal could make out dark wooden chairs that hulked against the solid wall, grim with carvings that tangled about their clawed legs. A low table crouched in the center of the room, like a beast skulking before its master. A shuttered lantern was centered on the table, its wrought iron seeming to send out the bitter chill that permeated the room.

One of the nurses shook her head as she stepped over the threshold, muttering something about the wayward whims of children. She eased past her charge and bustled over to the lantern. When she leaned down to tend to the wick, she shielded her work with her black-clad body, but light soon blazed up in the solar, sending shadows scurrying for the corners. The nurse lit a pair of tapers that stood at either end of the table, encouraging further life to enter the room.

Hal could see now that the solar had not been deserted. In fact, there were many signs of the pleasure taken in the room. Lap rugs were draped over two low chairs, and a small book lay open on the floor. A quick glance showed the volume to be an illustrated Book of the Gods, with brilliant blue- and red-illuminated pages devoted to the lives of the Thousand. An ivory comb rested on the low table near the lantern, and Hal could glimpse a single mouse-brown hair trapped between its teeth.

His attention, though, was drawn to an easel that stood by the far windows, as if an artist had looked out over the distant ocean while she worked. Heavy parchment was attached to the board, held in place with a clever arrangement of brass pins. The stand's sturdy tray held sticks of charcoal and white clay crayons and one long piece of reddish chalk.

The parchment presented the detailed outline of a figure, firm lines emerging from the beige background. Hal could see a man's gnarled arms, muscles twisted with some extreme effort. Reins were twined between his fingers, and Hal could just make out a waterspout hitched to the leather, the swirling storm visibly pulling at the restraints. The man's face was contorted with the effort to harness the storm. His cheeks were hollow above a ragged beard that was braided in the Liantine fashion, entwined with shells and bits of flotsam. The man's shoulders were draped with seaweed, and his hair was fashioned from fantastic blocks of coral.

“Kel,” Hal said.

“Yes,” Berylina said, and she flushed. This time, though, the color in her cheeks was not the burn of shame. It was the powerful shade of pride. She was pleased that Hal had recognized her handiwork.

“You've drawn him well.”

“He's not finished.” Berylina crossed to the easel and picked up one of the charcoal crayons. The tool seemed to grant her the power of speech. “I started him on the day that you arrived. You said that Kel had been kind to you, driving your ship across the ocean. I prayed to him in the evening, and he sent me this vision.”

“You prayed –” He heard the confidence in her tone, and he registered the strangeness that a child would speak of visions from a god in such an offhand manner. “I understood that your people do not place much faith in the Thousand Gods.”

Berylina flushed, but she raised her chin defiantly. Hal tried to ignore the jutting of her rabbity teeth. “Some of my people know your gods. My nurse, she first taught me of the Thousand Gods.”

“Your nurse?”

“Aye.” Berylina waved toward the oldest of her attendants. “Her people come from Amanthia.” From Amanthia. Like the enslaved Little Army. The nurse was too old to be one of Sin Hazar's soldiers, though. Her family must have come before the Amanthian king began his desperate policy.

But the Little Army soldiers who had entered Liantine in the past several years – they had brought with them their Thousand Gods. Perhaps the slaves were the reason for Teheboth's vehemence in hunting the Horned Hind. Perhaps the Amanthians' faith was sharpening worship in Liantine, turning folks back to their old ways, their dark ways, the mysterious ways of the woodland goddess. …

Princess Berylina, though, was holding to her attendant's example: “My nurse taught me. She knows the truth.”

“The truth!” Hal started to ask Berylina how she could defy her father, but he bit off his words, though, when he feared they might sound like an accusation. He tried to sound casual when he asked, “May I see the other drawings you have made?”

The princess darted a quick glance at him, as if she feared he mocked her. Hal held his face carefully blank, keeping his expression polite but offering no further pressure. The danger seemed to pass, and Berylina turned to a table in the far corner of the solar.

“Here, my lord. Here are my other drawings.”

Hal moved forward, past the two silent nurses, away from Farso. The first drawing was Yen, the god of music. He had a tambour in one hand, and pipes leaned against his feet. His mouth was open in a round O, as if he were singing aloud, and his hair flowed around his head in rhythmic curls.

The next parchment showed Glat, the god of snow, with a mantle of fresh flakes across his ancient spidery shoulders. The old man's head was nearly bare, with just a rim of wispy hair at the back of his skull, a circle that might only have been a dusting of snow.

There was Ile, the moon god, and Par, the god of the sun. There were the gods of horses and hawks, and one tiny sketch of the god of cats. Toward the bottom of the pile, there was a drawing of Tren, the god of candles.

As Berylina had said, he was not a happy god. His face was drawn in long lines that spoke of ill temper, of bitterness, as if he had eaten uncooked greens. He extended a candle toward his viewers, apparently luring them forward, drawing them into the sketch. Hal could see what Berylina meant, when she said that the god had no friends. He did his job, he presented his candles, but he had no energy left for good cheer and glad tidings.

The princess's drawings were not perfect. Hal could tell that they were not done by a court painter. In one, an arm was twisted at an unnatural angle; in another, silk robes fell in rigid, impossible folds. Nevertheless, each sprang from the page with an energy and a life all its own, a level of detail that amazed him. It was as if the gods had come to Berylina one by one, journeying to sit beside the princess in her solar, gathering about their attributes so that she could commit them to parchment. Father Siritalanu, with his earnest faith, would be fascinated.

Hal looked up from the drawings and caught Berylina smiling shyly at him. He covered his surprise by saying, “These are very good, you know.”

“The gods … they come to me. I can see them, and they reach out to hold my hand. They help me draw.”

“You must be a very holy person for the gods to speak to you in such a manner.”

She shrugged. “They come. I think of them, and I call them by name. Sometimes, I need to pray to get their attention. I've never asked for one to visit me and been refused.”

Hal could not keep from probing. “Your father must be very proud of you.”

Berylina looked at him oddly. He could not tell if her gaze was skeptical, or if she was merely catching him with one of her skewed eyes. Then she whispered, “My father would have no interest in my drawings.”

Hal turned back to the work. He noticed one piece of particularly large parchment turned upside down, peeking out from a pile of completed drawings. “What's this one?”

“Nothing!” Berylina lurched forward and planted her fingers squarely on top of the page.