Glasswrights' Test (22 page)

She felt strangely exposed without a silken mask, with only her hood to hide her from her Fellows. At the same time, she resented the masking robes, the invisibility of her fellows. If only she could find a Morenian in the crowd, she might know if Hal were in some immediate danger. Was this why Dartulamino had warned her? Was this why the Holy Father had told her that she must make a choice? And where did the Royal Pilgrim fit into all of this?

Even if she deciphered a threat here, she fretted, she would have trouble reporting it. She had sworn to Master Parion that she would not correspond with her liege lord. She could not even dictate a letter to Mair or to Tovin; she could not communicate with Hal in any way. In frustration, she caught her lip with her lower teeth. Before she could catch Mair's eye, another figure was summoned to the dais.

“Next in the counting, we have our newest member. Step forward, Liantine, and report upon your findings.”

The crowd shifted again, and someone else was allowed to move toward the dais. Rani saw that this Fellow moved with a tremendous limp, as if his left leg refused to obey the commands of the rest of his body. How could the Fellowship exist in Liantine? she wondered. The land had fallen away from faith in First Pilgrim Jair, from belief in all the Thousand Gods. Liantine was given over to the Horned Hind almost entirely. And yet the woman's words had been perfectly clear—she had said that the Liantine chapter of the secret organization was the newest.

Rani understood as soon as she heard the messenger speak. “Greetings from distant Liantine, where the Fellows number two and forty in all the land.”

Crestman.

His voice was ragged, breathy in a way that suggested he spoke through great pain. Rani was so surprised that her throat tightened; she could not help but make a noise, like a woman surprised by a sudden cramp, like a child beset by a stinging insect. Tovin glanced at her sharply, and she swallowed hard, trying not to betray any further emotion. The other Fellows closed in around her, as if they expected her to take some action against the Liantine messenger.

But the woman who led the convocation continued as if there had been no interruption. “Greetings, Liantine. We gratefully count your two and forty with the twenty-six members we've already noted. How fares the Fellowship in your land?”

“We struggle,” Crestman said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper spread across gravel. “My Fellows and I are gathered from outside the castes of Liantine, from outside the royal household, the merchants' quarter. The guildhalls.”

Rani heard an entire story behind those words. When she had last seen Crestman, he had been carried off as a slave within the spiderguild's twisting corridors. He had thought that she'd abandoned him, that she'd forsaken him and his Little Army in favor of precious riberry trees. Even as she had heard his bitter accusations spat across a shadowy hall, she had longed to tell him her ultimate plan, longed to assure him that she had not forgotten his cause.

She had not had the chance, though. He had lost all faith. He had gone to his slavery with the bitter conviction that he was alone in all the world, that she had bartered him and his army of children for a handful of trees.

Rani started to step forward in the guildhall chamber, but she was restrained by Mair's hand upon her wrist. She tried to wrench her arm free, but the Touched girl only tightened her grip. Didn't Mair understand? Didn't she realize that Crestman needed to be helped?

As if he were confirming Rani's thoughts, the wounded soldier said, “I have gathered my people in a series of caves, on the edge of the Liantine highlands. Each of us has a reason for leaving our birth-caste. We have only been together since winter, and we have not yet measured out a way to gain true power in Liantine. I have come to this conclave so that you might know my loyalty to your cause, but I do not yet have great successes to report.”

Loyalty. Couldn't the Fellows hear the bitter sarcasm behind his words? Didn't they realize that Crestman would not bow to them? Crestman had one goal, had always had one goal—to redeem the children who had served with him in Amanthia's cursed Little Army.

Rani remembered the first time she had ever spoken with the boy-soldier, when he himself still fought in that cursed force. Even then, he had rebelled against authority; he had battled orders issued by his supposed superiors. His voice had been younger, and stronger, but it had held the same bitter twist.

The woman on the dais seemed unaware of the danger in the man who stood before her. Instead, she leaned closer to him as he spoke. Rani felt an old scorn rise within her. She swallowed a metallic tang at the back of her throat as Crestman concluded his report.

“I will return from this convocation and spend the summer strengthening my forces. We will be ready, come winter, to make our first bid on behalf of the Fellowship. I am considering a handful of targets, with varying goals. Some will consolidate our power in Liantine. Others will reach beyond our borders, will bring more glory to the Fellowship in other lands.”

Crestman looked out over the assembled Fellows as he spoke. Rani could not make out his features behind his silk mask, but she knew his lips would be twisted by bitterness and spite. “Come summer next,” he said to all the assembly, “we definitely will be prepared to make our move.”

The woman nodded slowly, and her voice was pleased as she accepted his report. Her hands moved in the same way that they had with the Zarithian man, but Rani could see that she leaned a little closer to Crestman, that her hand hovered just above his brow, swept toward his feet with a peculiar grace. Her fingertips nearly brushed against his palms as she gestured east and west. “Thank you for your report, Liantine, and for offering up your service to the Fellowship. In service to the north and to the south, to the east, and to the west, you offer up your reportin furtherance of the Fellowship. May First Pilgrim Jair and all the Thousand Gods watch over you as you move our plans ahead.”

Crestman inclined his head slightly, and then he turned away. He needed to steel himself visibly as he stepped down from the dais, and Rani wondered what havoc could have been wrought upon his soldier's body, what damage could have made him move so painfully. Once again, she started to take a step forward, to raise a hand, as if she would aid him.

This time, however, Tovin caught her wrist. The Player's touch blazed against her flesh, and she almost thought that he was forcing words into her mind, a crystal warning on the deepest levels that they had shared while Speaking. The pinch of his fingers hurt her, and she started to pull away. His grip was too tight, though, and she hissed, “My lord, I have sworn an oath!”

Tovin dropped her wrist immediately, and she could imagine the bitter twist of his hidden lips as he stepped back.

Her whisper was enough that Crestman looked across the assembly. For just a moment, his face was turned directly to her. She
knew
that he was staring at her. She
knew
that there was a message in his masked eyes. He needed no words, though, to convey his scorn as he pulled himself straight. She could only imagine the pain that shot up his damaged leg, that ricocheted along his twisted spine as he stepped away and disappeared inside the crowd.

Rani turned back to Tovin, ready to make amends, ready to explain. He had already moved away from her, though, his broad shoulders set in denial. She knew that he was angry. She knew that he would have nothing of her excuses, her explanations. She knew that he would leave her to complete her glasswright's test alone, whatever the demands of the Fellowship, whatever the demands of the hooded masses that even now could be well ranged against Morenia. She settled down to await the Fellowship's counting and report on her homeland.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

Berylina bent her head over the prie-dieu in the corner of her room. She needed to concentrate on her prayers. She was going to Mip's temple that afternoon, to make her first pilgrim's offering to the god of water. She had waited nearly four weeks to go to Mip—four weeks of focusing on other gods, more familiar gods. Easier gods.

She could wait no longer though. Not if she wanted to remain true to her cavalcade.

“Hail, Mip,” she prayed silently. “Carve my life and make it yours. Cut through me, like the river cuts through the earth. Make me yours. Make me holy.”

Berylina concentrated, trying to hear the nightingale song that was the god's special signature. She had discovered it the night before—heard a real bird, that was. She had listened to the delicate trill, and she had known that Mip held great things for her, that the god intended for her to work magic on his behalf.

The sound had inspired her to set up her easel, to dig out her parchment and colored chalks. She had sketched for long hours, squinting at the drawing first through one eye, then the other.

Initially, her lines were strong. She saw Mip as clearly as she saw any of the gods when she was a child in Liantine. The more she drew, though, the more she realized that her depiction was incomplete. Surely, any worshiper could see Mip's soft jowls; anyone could make out his tangled hair.

She must convey more. She must represent the nightingale song that filled her ears. She struggled with red chalk and a black crayon, sketching in firm lines, blurring them with her fingers.

By the time that she was finished, Mip's face had disappeared; it was lost beneath a symphony of cross-hatched lines. Berylina was pleased, though.
She
could hear the nightingale. Mip was there with her.

Now, in the middle of the day, Mip seemed distant and vague.

Perhaps he was offended that she prayed here in her apartments, instead of at his shrine. Perhaps he was angered that she had drunk a glass of pale wine the night before, instead of simple water. Perhaps he was hurt that Berylina had waited so long to visit him.

Or maybe he was staying away because of the racket in the outer room. Berylina tried to close her ears to the conversation, but she could not block out entirely the fight between Ranita Glasswright and Mair. Their debate had escalated since the last bells had rung; they were nearly shouting at each other.

Ranita said, “How many times do I have to tell you? I don't
know
why they summoned us that night!” They? Who? Beyrlina caught her breath, to better hear Mair's response. “Maybe they wanted the others to see us. Maybe they wanted our faces known.”

“That's never been their way before.” Mair's voice was stubborn. “
Think
. It makes no sense.”

Berylina crept closer to the door so that she could hear Ranita's reply. “I
have
thought. I think they meant us to see Crestman. I think they meant him as a warning.”

“A warning? Or a threat?”

“He hasn't done anything!” Ranita's words were hurried, desperate.

“But ye 'ave no way t' say wha' 'e might do, Rai. Ye 'avena seen 'im since ye left 'im a' th' spiderguild.” Mair had slipped into her Touched brogue. Berylina eased the door open a bit to hear even more clearly.

“You know that I did not just leave him! I had a plan!”

“'N' well it served ye.”

“I'm not going to fight this battle with you again. I did what I had to do. I bargained for the riberry trees. If I had not made the choices that I did, Moren would have suffered, even more than it already had. We needed the trees. We needed the octolaris. We needed the silk trade, to redeem the city.”

“I'm only sayin' that yer choices 'ave consequences.”

“But
Crestman
! In the Fellowship! Do you really think they'll use him to topple Hal?”

“
They
use
'im
? I warrant 'e'll be th' one usin'. Th' boy is 'urt, Rai, 'n' 'e's angry. 'E's a danger t'' you, 'n' t' Moren besides, 'n' maybe t' King 'Alaravilli most o' all.”

“So what would you have me do? I need to speak with Crestman, Mair. I need to remind him that he is a subject of Morenia. I need to—”

“Ye can stop that plan right there, Rai. 'E'll not be list'n'n' t' ye. 'E'll not be trustin' ye anymore. 'E tried that, twice before, 'n' ye failed him both times.”

“I did not!”

“Ach, sit down. Ye know I speak th' truth. 'E counted on ye in Amanthia, thought ye'd be 'is lady. 'N' 'e counted on ye in Liantine as well, built up a story i' 'is own mind about i'.”

“I never gave him reason—”

“Rai, it's
me
ye're talkin' t'. No need t' spread yer tales o' fancy 'ere.”

“They aren't tales! They're the truth!”

Berylina heard the frustrated sound that Ranita Glasswright made, the growl in the back of her throat. She almost opened the door, almost stepped in to tell the women that they should forget the soldier. When Berylina knelt at her prie-dieu, she saw Tarn following the man, enveloping him in the god's green-black cape. She recognized Crestman easily enough, even though she had only seen him briefly in her father's court. If she told Ranita and Mair of her vision, maybe they would realize what was important. They would stop bickering and they would start to pray—to Tarn, or to any one of the other Thousand Gods.

And that's what Berylina should be doing herself, praying, preferably in a temple. That was why she had come to Brianta, after all. Not to hide in some sheltered room. Not to become embroiled in Morenian politics. She had undertaken this pilgrimage to test her dedication. A fine job she'd done of it so far. …

She glanced at the prie-dieu's kneeler, at the Thousand-Pointed Star that she had set there. She sighed and gathered up the symbol of her pilgrimage, fastening it to her caloya robes. The brooch had made its mark upon her knees, digging deep into the bruises from the day before, and the day before that.