Glasswrights' Master (29 page)

Perhaps she had made a mistake. The Fellowship might not come for her. Certainly, they had bargained with Kella, but who knew the terms of their deal? Maybe they would not retrieve Rani, not that night, not the next day, or the next.

Once the Sisters had agreed to Rani's mad plan, Kella had embraced her role with enthusiasm. She had pulled each rope tight, double-checked every knot. Rani had endured the rough treatment and reminded herself that she had a plan. She had a goal.

But she would not last long, tied up as she was. Even now, thirst blazed across her tongue. Her belly rumbled with a hunger as deep as any that she had experienced when she was an apprentice glasswright.

At least, she thought wryly, she was learning a new trade. She was perfecting her woodcraft, identifying the sounds of the forest, interpreting more signals than she had ever thought existed. At first, she had listened to every movement outside the cottage with an alertness born of desperation. There was a surprising amount of noise in the twilight–birdsong, and the bark of a nearby fox, and trees soughing in the wind.

As the evening wore on, though, she could no longer listen to the forest. Her blood beat too loudly in her veins; her breath rasped too harshly in her lungs. Her mind fed her terrifying stories, the sorts of tales that she had first whispered to herself when she joined the glasswrights' guild, when she was a lonely apprentice sobbing on a lumpy pallet.

No one cared if she lived or died. The Sisters had left the cottage; they would never return. The Fellowship would not search her out, even if they had once clamored for her blood. Hal would never search for her; his life was simpler with her gone. Mair might come–but only to laugh over her bones.

Rani was entirely alone, without family or friend.

And perhaps, she thought as her belly cramped with hunger, that was fair and just. After all, she had let Laranifarso and Berylina die. She had watched Crestman be enslaved by the spiderguild. She had lifted her own knife against the soldier Dalarati, a handsome young man who done her no harm, no matter what she had believed at the time. She had let dozens of glasswrights be maimed. She had summoned Prince Tuvashanoran ben-Jair to his death.

So much blood had been shed by her and for her. She must pay for her past. She must do what she could to balance the scales. And that payment could only be made to the Fellowship, could only be made to the secret brothers who plotted even now to control all the known world.

She was through with running. She was through with seeking escape. She was ready to face the Fellowship, to confront them, and to be done with their threat forever. She was ready to take back her life, even if that life was forfeit in the process.

The cottage was very dark. Its windows were nestled too deep in the walls for starlight to penetrate. Rani let her eyes close, allowed her neck to relax so that her head touched the floor. She had long since lost sensation in her fingers and toes. She could no longer feel the edges of the ropes that bit into her flesh.

She had mortified her body in the past, and she had survived. Upon arriving in the glasswrights' guildhall, she had broken more rules than she knew existed. She had been summoned to the Hall of Discipline more times than any apprentice in the guild's long history, ordered to kneel before altars erected to the strictest of the Thousand Gods.

Sorn, the god of obedience, had become her friend and nearly constant companion.

Sorn. As she thought the god's name, the taste of honey coated her throat. Honey. Sweet. Soothing. Nurturing, even as it soothed flesh grown raw from her harsh breathing.

Reviving at the god's sustenance, Rani tried to remember who else had lived in the Hall of Discipline. There was Lene, of course. As if he had never been more than a single step away, the god of humility sparked against her flesh, his icy touch cold enough to burn. The sensation was not calming, could never be comforting, but Rani found herself more alert.

After all, she must stay awake. She must not slip off in the furry darkness. She must.… She must.…

Lene stepped closer, chilling her back to wakefulness. Yes! She must be alert when the Fellowship arrived. She must be conscious when she joined the final confrontation with the secret society that had used her since they first made her acquaintance.

So many years had passed since Mair had brought her under the Fellowship's protection. Mair.… Poor Mair, still wandering, still searching the forest for the peace she once had known. Had Rani been right to tell her friend the truth? Had she been right to force Mair to give up hope, to give up any possibility of peace and happiness?

With one single breath, Rani was back in the glade where she'd last seen Mair. She could feel the sun beating down on her shoulders; she could smell the grass that she had crushed as she ran to the boulder where her friend sat. It had seemed right to tell Mair the truth then. It had seemed fair.

But what if Rani had only acted for herself? What if she had only confessed because she wanted to rid herself of guilt? What if, what if, what if.…

In the quiet of the darkened cottage, her thoughts spun around themselves like the ribbons of player-children as they shouted out their patterned games. She felt herself drifting high above her trussed up body. The pain in her shoulders was gone now, nothing but a memory stretched tight across her chest. The loss of her fingers, her toes–what did she care? She was floating. She was separate. She was alone.…

And still, a corner of her mind worked on the question she had set herself minutes ago, hours ago, a lifetime ago. Who were the gods in the Hall of Discipline? Whom had she served when she was a wayward apprentice? Honeyed Sorn. Icy Lene.

Plad. A splash of acid vinegar woke her up. The flavor was acrid, sharp, and she forced herself to swallow. Patience? What god of patience would rouse her from her sleep so cruelly? How could Plad take such bitter exception to her wandering thoughts?

She started to curse his name, but she choked on another sour splash across her tongue. She spluttered and spat, trying to rid herself of the flavor. The motion pulled her shoulders back, stretched them against her bonds, but it was worth the pain to be free of the taste.

Only as she started to relax her shoulders did she hear the feet on the walk. Bold steps. Boot-shod feet, clapping down on the stone path with grim authority.

Rani had only enough time to turn her face toward the threshold, to set her features into a grimace of defiance, and then the heavy oak door flew open.

Five men stormed into the cottage. Two bore torches, flickering flames that threatened to catch Kella's dried herbs, to kindle all the knotted plants that hung in the rafters. Two other men carried knives–long blades that caught the torch light and glinted like burning tongues. The leader was not encumbered by fire or weapon; he merely stood inside the doorway and commanded his men with a single curt hand gesture and one barked word.

She had expected the newcomers to be rough. She had expected them to be angry. She had braced herself for harsh words as they demanded her compliance, as they issued their sharp orders to stretch, to stand, to face them in her shame.

But she had not completely prepared herself for the pain.

She watched the knife in the soldier's hand. Its honed edge slipped beneath her bonds, sawed away at the rope around her ankles. The other armed man moved behind her, and she was shoved from side to side, nearly unbalanced by the force as a knife cut through the loops around her wrists.

For one glorious moment her shoulders were unpinned. Reflexively, she took a breath so deep she nearly choked. Her lungs came close to freezing in the night air, freezing as if Lene kissed her. Filling her lungs again, Rani ordered her fists to unlock, her fingers to uncurl.

Then, the nearest soldier jerked her to her feet. Her knees buckled immediately, and only the man's quick grasp kept her from plummeting back to the floor. She could not feel his fingers on her arm, though, could not feel the pressure as he supported her, swearing all the while.

She could not feel his fingers, but she knew her blood was running back into her arms, into her hands, into her own fingers. First like ice, and then like fire, then like a million stinging wasps.… Rani drew a breath to cry out, but her lungs were overwhelmed by the freezing air. She turned toward the man who held her, gasping, choking, desperate for anything to help her breathe.

She knew that she should call upon the Thousand. She knew that one of the gods could help her, could pump sustenance into her chest, into her body. She should go through the cavalcade, count the gods in their decades until she found one who could save her.

But as she looked at her captors, words tumbled from her mind. The names of gods, prayers for mercy, petitions for assistance, all were driven from her thoughts. Instead, all that she could do was watch the grim face of the soldier man before her, the soldier who had suffered for her, fought for her, nearly died for her.

Crestman.

His face was drawn, the skin grown tight over the sharp bones of his cheeks. His hair was cropped short, ready for a soldier's helmet. His eyes darted about the cottage, keeping watch over the door and the windows, the fireplace and the pallet, any place where danger might lurk.

It was his scar that held her attention, though. The smooth flesh tensed beneath his eye, glinting in the torchlight. Even now, even with her arms burning, her legs quivering, her lungs pulsing to expand, she could not help but wonder what he would have looked like if his lion tattoo had never been removed. What would have happened if he had stayed in Amanthia, if he had led the soldier's life for which he had been bred, for which he had trained?

She took a single step toward him, watching the flicker of torchlight carve his face. She remembered other flames that she had watched with him, other soldiers who had answered his commands. She raised a hand, as if she would touch his scar, as if she would summon back the boy who had lived beneath the tattoo, who had loved her in the clumsy way that boys love. “Crestman,” she said, pouring her returning strength into the two syllables, even though she knew that her mission was hopeless.

“Silence!” His voice cracked against the cottage rafters.

But she could not be silent. She could not forget the boy who had reached out for her so many years ago. “Crestman,” she said again, and she stumbled as she moved toward him.

His hand rose faster than she could follow, his fingers curled into a fist. She realized that he was using his left hand. She reached out toward his right side, and then she saw that his entire arm was withered, his fingers curled into a tight claw. Quicker now, she glanced at his leg, and she recognized the full extent of the damage that she had only glimpsed once before, in a darkened alley in Brianta.

He had been crushed by the spiderguild. He had been destroyed by the poisonous octolaris. His strength and his power had been leached from him, sucked away by the vicious creatures that he had been forced to tend.

“Crestman,” she said one more time, and she heard tears at the back of her throat.

“I said ‘silence!'” he roared, and then his fingers tightened, his fist moved, his arm sailed through the air, across the space that separated them. She heard the impact before she felt it; she heard the smack against her flesh, the snap of her jaw sliding to the side. Her head lashed back, and her neck stretched, and she whirled around and down and down and down. The floor of the cottage was harder than she remembered, hard enough that it felt like wood as her head slammed against it, and she slipped away to darkness.

 

* * *

 

She dreamed. She dreamed that she was back in the glasswrights' guild, wandering the stone hallways. Her hands were filled with the implements of her craft; she carried a grozing iron and a length of lead stripping.

She wanted a diamond blade. It was important for her to be ready, to be armed. The grozing iron could hit someone over the head. It might even knock someone unconscious, if she could get enough room for her swing.

But she needed to protect her life at closer quarters. She needed a diamond knife, a sharp edge, a thin blade.

She fled down a corridor, barely making the turn that led to the hidden staircase. She and Larinda had hidden in the stairwell often, sheltering in the shadows as they gnawed on crusts of bread, laughing at the masters' unbelievable demands.

Now, there was no laughter. Now, Rani did not pause. She leaped up the stairs, taking them two at a time with legs that were longer, stronger than her legs had ever been when she lived at the guildhall.

She emerged on a narrow balcony overlooking the refectory. She could see the full room beneath her, the mingling crowd. She recognized masters and journeymen and apprentices.

She barely managed to stop herself as the balustrade caught across her waist. She was so startled by the stonework that her hands opened. The grozing iron clattered on the ground below her, followed by the duller thud of the lead stripping.

The sound drew the attention of all the guildsmen in the hall. Every face turned to look at the tools; every eye turned to the balcony, to Rani.

Blood pounded in her ears. Her lungs burned in her chest, ached with her panicked flight. Her skin stank with sweat, rank with pungent terror.

She tried to step away from the balcony, tried to escape, but she was pinned there, drawn forward by the haunted faces below.

And then, as one, every glasswright lifted his hands. Every glasswright pointed toward the balcony, toward Rani, toward the traitor who had destroyed the guild.

Rani choked in horror as she saw those hands, as she made out the bleeding stumps where skilled thumbs once had been attached. Blood dripped from every glasswright–thick, crimson rivers that flowed to the floor, that covered the tile.

The room began to fill with blood, and the glasswrights' robes were stained. Rani cried out for them to lower their hands, to stop their wounds.