Glasswrights' Master (2 page)

On the dais, Father Siritalanu moved his hands in a holy symbol, and Rani's fingers reflexively followed. Perhaps the gods
would
help her. Perhaps they would calculate some escape from Moren's nearly inevitable destruction. Perhaps they would figure out a way that the city could slip free from the closing pincers of attacking armies.

After all, King Halaravilli had surrounded himself with his best advisors. When scouts first reported that the Briantans were marching, Hal had hurriedly recalled Duke Puladarati from distant Amanthia. When the Liantine ships appeared on the horizon, Hal had summoned Davin from the inventor's tower chamber, asking the old man to craft a system for breaking the blockade. Those advisors stood on the dais now, the lion-maned Puladarati brushing back his hair with his three-fingered hand, Davin squinting out at the soldiers through his deepest wrinkles.

The pounding of the battering ram echoed inside Rani's thoughts, squeezing her heart with its predictable rhythm.

Father Siritalanu swallowed hard, as if he were trying to drown his own hopeless desperation, and then he continued. “And let us pray in the name of Bon, the god of archers.” In her mind, Rani immediately heard the powerful whinny of a stallion, the sound of Bon. In the past year, she had grown accustomed to meeting the gods this way, to gathering their introduction through her eyes or her ears, her mouth or her nose, through her very flesh. The gods came unannounced, pouncing on her as if she were a mouse daring to invade their feline domain.

She would offer herself up to Bon if that would help. She would sanctify herself to the god of archers, if only Morenia's soldiers would be strengthened. The War Rites were designed to protect fighting men, to give them comfort and confidence as they prepared to chance their lives on a battlefield. Perhaps the sound of a stallion was precisely what they needed. Perhaps that was all they required to stave off the invaders.

“That's right, Lar,” Mair crooned beside Rani, directing her words to the soiled silk. Her voice was loud enough that many people in the cathedral looked away, embarrassed. Rani scowled and stepped closer, knowing without looking at the dais that Farso's face would be carved with sorrow. Hal would be glaring at her, ordering her to keep Mair under control. He had wanted to forbid the Touched woman from attending the service altogether.

Rani had argued, though, that it would take an entire herd of stallions to keep Mair from the cathedral. She would not easily pass up the chance to gaze upon her husband, to study the new grey streaks in Farso's hair, to memorize the most recent lines etched into his face, into the face of the man who had fathered her poor, doomed son.

Now, that man looked straight at Father Siritalanu, raising his voice to proclaim, “Bon, give us strength against all our enemies!” The vow was shouted by hundreds of warrior voices, and the words echoed off the ceiling.

Almost, they drowned out the change of timbre in the battering ram. Almost, they hid the fact that the last
boom
was deeper. Almost, they obscured the sound of splintering oak, the roar of warriors on the distant plain. Rani could imagine the Briantan men maddened by their success; she could picture soldiers scrambling to enter the city, fighting to be the first to course through Moren's streets.

As if he were unaware of the encroaching disaster, Father Siritalanu moved his hands in another holy symbol, and his voice echoed off the cathedral ceiling. “And let us pray in the name of Doan, the god of hunters.”

A flash of forest-deep green blinded Rani. Would Doan protect them? Or would he shelter the Briantans and Liantines? Could Morenia possibly be the hunter, or was she doomed to be the hunted, the prey, the hapless victim?

The soldiers in the cathedral might never have thought to ask the question. Father Siritalanu raised his voice yet higher, and the cords of his neck stood out as he proclaimed: “We ask you Doan, god of hunters, to watch over Morenia. Doan, give us strength against all of our enemies!”

“Doan give us strength!” the soldiers cried, and their feet pounded out their military pattern upon the floor.

“Doan give us strength!” Rani added her voice to the melee. How many more gods would Father Siritalanu honor? How many more deities would he weave into the ancient Rites? How much more time did they have before the Briantans broke into the cathedral?

As if King Halaravilli heard Rani's impatience, he stepped forward, making his way to the center of the dais. The soldiers watched their king hungrily, pounding their mailed fists upon their shields. They stomped the stony floor as if they would crumble it into dust. Puladarati and Farso looked out with satisfaction, even as Davin cocked his head toward the cathedral doors.

“Soldiers of Morenia!” the king proclaimed, and Rani was struck by the realization that he was far more than simple Hal, much greater than the companion she had known for nine years, than the friend who trusted her to advise him on matters of trade.

This was Halaravilli ben-Jair, king of all Morenia, founder of the Order of the Octolaris. This was a man who had held his throne for nearly a decade, despite conspirators of all kinds. This was a man who had fought his own demons, overcome his own doubts, fought to unify his kingdom against all threats.

As if Hal sensed the awe that Rani cast toward him, he raised his chin, setting his jaw as he stared out at his assembled soldiers. The men continued their clamor, a noise loud enough to drown out the roar of the successful Briantan soldiers, to wash away the tumult of foreign priests and warriors crowing victory in the Morenian streets.

Hal nodded slowly. His hands rose from his sides, and he looked like a priest himself, like one of the holiest men of the kingdom, summoning power and faith and devotion from his assembled warriors.

Then, just when Rani could not imagine the soldiers showing any more dedication, just when she could not fathom their demonstrating a greater love of their king, Hal took a single step forward. The motion brought him squarely into a beam of sunlight, a beacon that streamed from one of the highest windows in the cathedral wall.

Rani knew the window well. She had watched her glasswright masters crafting it when she had first joined their guild. She had scrubbed its clean lines from a whitewashed table when she was only an apprentice. She had studied every join of lead and solder; she had viewed it from inside the cathedral and from without.

Hal stepped into the cobalt stream of the Defender of the Faith.

Rani's guild had made that window for another descendant of Jair. They had fashioned the masterpiece for a man who was dead these nine long years, a man whom Rani had watched stand on the very same dais. Without glancing up, Rani knew that the window would reflect a near-perfect image of her king, the long lines of his face, the square shape of his jaw. She would see Hal's high cheekbones, his penetrating eyes. She would be looking at Hal's older brother, the prince who had been groomed to rule the kingdom, the glorious lord who had been cut down in the prime of his life, but she would see King Halaravilli ben-Jair captured there.

The riotous soldiers knew nothing of glasswork, of grozing irons or diamond knives. They had never heard of silver stain, or lead chains, or specially forged armatures to support the weight of a glassy masterpiece. Their knowledge was limited to swords and maces, battle axes and spears. They knew about long leagues marched down endless roads. They knew about blood and sweat and the salty stench of exhaustion.

And they knew about their king. They knew that their king was threatened, that he called upon them to rise up against invaders. They knew that they were about to be tested, that they were being asked to pledge their lives anew, to offer up the most personal of devotions.

Halaravilli ben-Jair raised his arms above his head, letting the cobalt light stream over his hands, down the ornate golden sleeves of his robe. He let the light envelop him, and when he was fully washed in its power, he proclaimed: “The house of ben-Jair needs you now! In the name of my glorious father, Shanoranvilli ben-Jair, in the name of my brother Tuvashanoran who once led you, I call you to stand beside me this day!”

Hal filled his lungs to continue his exhortation, but before he could speak again, there was a tremendous crash. The cathedral doors flew back on their massive hinges, and their oaken planks shattered against the marble walls.

Rani had expected chaos. She had thought that the Morenian soldiers would immediately unsheath their swords, that they would surge forward to slake their thirsty steel with the invaders' blood. She had pictured tumult in the side chapels, gore flowing from altars like wax from melting candles. She had imagined the reek of battle, the sickening pall of blood and fear and worse.

But there was none of that. There was none of the noise and the confusion, none of the heart-pounding horror. Instead, there was silence. And when Rani looked to the shattered doors of the House of the Thousand Gods, she could see why.

Holy Father Dartulamino stood clothed in robes of deepest green, gold trimmed, ermine lined, framed in the broken remnants of the cathedral doors.

And yet Dartulamino's power did not come solely from the fact that he was dressed in priestly robes; rather he had alloyed that force, forged a new core of faith. As if to symbolize his new strength, he wore a helmet on his head, a massive gold-washed construction. The headpiece fit him closely; accenting his cheeks, protecting his skull with the sharpest of metal points. Even down the length of the cathedral, Rani could make out the fierce glint of his noseguard and the sturdy metal flaps that came down over his ears.

As if the image of a warrior priest were not enough, Rani realized that the Holy Father also wore a film of black gauze over his robes. She remembered the last priests she had seen wearing such shrouds, to the curia in Brianta. Those men had used their holy office to sacrifice a woman; they had murdered Princess Berylina in service to their supposed gods. What could Dartulamino mean, donning such a garment in the House of the Thousand Gods? What evil did he think to work here?

As if in answer to her questions, men appeared in the church's shattered doorway–rank after rank of soldiers, all clad in dark Briantan cloaks. Rani knew those garments; she had worn one during the long summer months when she sought to complete a pilgrimage in the city of First Pilgrim Jair's birth, when she worked to become a master in her guild. Each Briantan warrior proclaimed his religious dedication with the Thousand Pointed Star emblazoned on his chest. The brilliant gold splashes declared that the men dedicated their lives to all the Thousand Gods, to the First Pilgrim who had recognized the force of those deities. The Briantan soldiers were prepared to die to spread the fervor of their faith. They were ready to be martyrs for the Thousand.

Dartulamino strode down the aisle, looking neither to the left nor the right as he approached the great dais at the front of the cathedral. His warriors marched behind him in precise formation, their metal-shod boots clanging on the marble floor. The Briantans were well-armed and fully rested; aside from manning the battering ram, they had spent their time on the plain outside the city recovering from their long march across Morenia.

Hal's soldiers shuffled as the enemy marched between them, and every hand moved closer to its weapon. Nevertheless, Rani sensed the superstitious fear that gripped the local men. They were present for the Rites; they had gathered to concentrate their power for a battle. That concentration was not complete; final blessings had not been bestowed. Hal had waited too long in summoning Father Siritalanu, and the Morenian soldiers were not fully prepared.

Beside Rani, Mair grew tense as Dartulamino approached. The Touched woman spread her fingers over her silk square, as if she could protect the fabric from rending blades. Her breath came fast, and her eyes flashed wildly. She reached one claw toward the man that she had wed, toward the father of her dead son, and it seemed that she was trying to signal Farsobalinti, trying to alert the nobleman to the evil in their midst.

A high keening tore at the back of her throat, a sound of terror annealed with rage. Rani remembered stallions she had heard, declaring their fury in hopeless battles, and she recognized Mair's passion.

Bon, Rani thought. The god of archers sounded like a stallion screaming.

But none of the archers inside this church had his weapons ready. And even if he had, not a single man would have dared to sight down a shaft. None would have been brave enough or ruthless enough or foolish enough to draw against the Holy Father of the church of the Thousand Gods.

Dartulamino paused on the first step of the dais, and his men fell into formation behind him. He glared at Father Siritalanu, his gaze searing beneath his helmet as if it had the power to set the younger priest on fire. Father Siritalanu stood firm, but his plump face grew as pale as the marble altar behind him. The wind tore down the cathedral aisle, unimpeded by the ragged shards of the broken doors, and the younger priest's robes caught against him, outlining his body like a sad joke.

Father Siritalanu was no warrior. His legs were thin beneath his gown. His belly was soft. His arms had never been shaped by the weight of a sword, by the pressure of heavy labor. Nevertheless, he raised his chin, facing down the invaders as if he thought he could win this encounter.

Rani fought the urge to twist her hands in nervousness, to wring some confidence from her solemn gown. Why hadn't they started the ceremony earlier that morning? Why hadn't they completed the ritual swearing in of the soldiers the day before? Why were they unprepared in the face of this threat, in the swell of imminent danger?

Father Siritalanu's breath came faster, and Rani suspected that he was reciting the same catalog of failures. The poor man tried to draw himself up taller, straighter.

Beside Rani, Mair's lips curled back into a snarl. Dartulamino was perhaps the man Mair blamed most for the loss of her son. The priest was one of the strongest members of the Fellowship of Jair; he had long been instrumental in coordinating the cabal in Morenia. To this day, neither Mair nor Rani–nor Hal himself, for that matter–had learned who had given the actual order to steal away Laranifarso, who had commanded that the child be executed. Rani could still remember the moment when they learned of the infant's death, though, the instant that Mair had toppled from a shrewd, spirited advisor to a mad woman bent on revenge.