Glasswrights' Test (44 page)

“Farsobalinti!” Hal's voice cracked with authority, with a determination that Rani had not seen in years. “Take your wife away from here. Take her to your apartments, that she might mourn in peace.”

The nobleman glared at Hal. Of course that was what he should do. Of course that was what he was attempting to do. Attempting and failing, miserably.

Rani knew that she was responsible for all of this. She had made her choice; she was now reaping all that she had sowed. She had failed as a glasswright, failed even as a conspirator in a secret organization bent on conquering the world. Failed as a friend.

She stepped forward, easing up to Mair's side. She gently laid a hand on Farsobalinti's arm, urging him to step away. She saw the sorrow blooming on his face, knew that his loss must be worse, even more terrible, because he did not know why, he did not know how, he did not know what had caused his son to be taken from him.

“Come, Mair,” Rani said, kneeling beside her friend.

“No! Do not tell me to come! Do not tell me what to do! They murdered my son! They stole him, and they killed him, and they never told me why! They never gave me a chance!”

Rani tried to breathe past the pain in her belly, tried to find some word of comfort. What could she say, though? She had had a chance. She had made a choice.

She looked at Hal, begging him, pleading with him to say something, anything. After a moment's hesitation, he took a step closer, resting his hand on noble Farso's arm, as if he respected Mair too much to reach out to her. “My lady. My lord. I promise you this. I will find the people who have done this. I will find them, and I will bring them to justice. They will pay for the life that they have stolen. By First Pilgrim Jair and all the Thousand Gods, they will pay!”

Now, Hal did hold out a hand, helping Mair to her feet. “Go now, my lady. Return to your apartments with your husband. Turn to him in your grief, and prepare yourselves for yet another pyre, for yet another offering to the Thousand. But be of good spirit, my lady. This matter does not end here. By my crown and all my kingdom, this matter is not yet done.”

Mair let herself be handed off to Farso, but she bared her teeth in a lioness's snarl before she turned away. “I will not forget that oath, Your Majesty. I will not forget the promise that you've made.”

And then, the grieving parents walked away, leaning close to each other to share their sorrow and their strength. Rani's eyes filled with tears as she remembered the nights that she had sat up with Mair, nights that she'd been kept awake by Laranifarso's fussing. She had held that child. She had nurtured him. Not as a mother, certainly, but as a woman who had loved him. The flame of outrage that flickered beneath her breastbone could be nothing compared to the inferno that Mair must feel.

Rani's anger was substantial enough that she missed Hal's first words to Father Siritalanu. She did hear him say, though, “And I thank you for your concern. I know how hard Berylina's passing must have been for you.”

“Thank you, Sire. Of course, I grieve for the death of any innocent creature.” Rani heard the stiff formality of the words, but she understood far more. The man had loved Berylina. He had loved her with the helpless passion of a priest, with the forbidden power of a man. He had loved her, knowing that she would never,
could
never, return that love.

And when he lost her, he felt as if he had lost his bride. His bride, his child, his dedicated worshiper—all had perished in the curia chamber in Brianta. Rani heard the distant rush of a waterfall, and she recognized the voice of Rul, the god of pity.

Siritalanu was oblivious, though. He heard no god, saw no god, tasted no god. He held his faith through tradition, through the repeated mechanics of worship. He had feared Berylina's strange rapport, and he would be entirely undone if he knew that Rani had inherited that communion.

“We will leave you, Father, to finish your worship in peace.” Hal's words were a mercy; he managed to sound as if he had not seen the tears welling up in the priest's eyes.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Siritalanu said, bobbing his head. For once, his boyish face looked aged; weariness stretched his flesh, and it seemed that his skin was dusted with some grey powder. He moved his fingers in a holy sign, first in front of the king and then in front of Rani.

Hal nodded his appreciation, and then he turned away from the still burning pyre. Lacking a specific command to the contrary, Rani followed him back to the palace. They walked through the gates, through the corridors, up the winding staircase to the tower room where they had been reunited only a fortnight before.

Hal sent away his attendants, declining offers of food and drink and a new-built fire. He insisted that he had accounts that he must review; there were matters that he needed to discuss with Ranita Glasswright.

As the door closed behind the last of the servants, Rani said, “That is not my name.”

“Glasswright? And what else would you call yourself?”

“The matter is not what
I
would say. It is the title that they would grant to me. Or not.”

“And who are they? The glasswrights of a distant kingdom.”

“My lord, they were
your
glasswrights once. They once lived in Morenia.”

“Some of them, aye. But I do not recognize them now. And I wonder that you do.”

Rani blinked, and she saw Larinda's masterpiece behind her eyes, the old guildhall in all its glory. “They were a mighty power once, the glasswrights' guild.”

“Aye.”

“They work to be a force once again. They labor to honor every one of the gods with their glasswork, to decorate every shrine dedicated to one of the Thousand.”

“And there is a chance that they might succeed. If they free themselves from outside forces. If they learn to act on their own, without undue influence from the Fellowship.”

Rani wanted to believe that. She wanted to believe that she had failed her test only because the Fellowship had decreed it so. She wanted to believe that Master Parion had found mastery in her glasswork, that he himself had recognized her creation as a worthy offering to Clain.

She shook her head. “It is not as easy as that. If the guild had wanted to raise me to master, it would have defied the Fellowship.”

“Would it? Knowing the price that it once paid for getting caught in politics beyond its walls?”

Hal had not been in Brianta. He had not seen the open anger, the yearning, the loss on Larinda's face. He had not seen Master Parion's single nod, his silent acceptance of the players' tools that Rani had employed.

Still, she had fought with Hal enough. She offered up a token of agreement: “It is impossible for me to say, my lord. Impossible for any of us to know.”

Hal sighed, as if he had not wanted her concession after all. “I'm sorry, Rani. I know how hard you worked. I know what you sacrificed in traveling to Brianta.”

“I did not lose as much as some.” There. Someone needed to speak of the deaths, of Berylina and Laranifarso.

“Rani, you did not cause their deaths.”

“That is not what you said when I arrived home, my lord. You blamed me for Berylina”

“I spoke in anger then.” He looked directly in her eyes. “I was afraid. I feared what Liantine will do, what Berylina's death will mean for me and my people and all of Morenia in the months to come.” She knew that he could admit his fear to her. He could admit anything to her. “I did not mean those words, and I should not have said them.”

She offered up her own apology. “I did not intend to add to your troubles. I did not want to make you afraid for Queen Mareka's life.”

He nodded, and she wondered if he was remembering the feel of that glass vial beneath his fingertips. She swallowed away the taste of metal as he said, “And so.”

“And so,” she repeated, and then she found the courage to go on. “You know that the queen remains in danger.” He nodded. “If the Fellowship does not find her, Crestman might.”

“I know. If not for him, I would send her back to her spiderguild. They might have the power to protect her from the Fellowship.”

“Not from Crestman, though. Not from a man who served as their slave.” She pictured Crestman's wasted leg, his twisted arm. “She would not last a month there.”

“And last she must,” Hal said with a sardonic twist to his lips. “For she remains my lawful wife. And in seven months, she'll be the mother of my lawful heir.”

Rani's heart clutched inside her chest, and even in the secret spaces of her own mind, she could not say if she reacted from fear or loss. If Mareka succeeded in carrying this child, Hal's life would be in danger from the Fellowship. And if she failed, Hal would need to answer to his people. Nevertheles, she said, “I offer my congratulations, Sire.”

Hal looked at her steadily, and she knew that she must hold his gaze, must keep her face from expressing her doubt, from unfolding her private pain. He would know, of course. He would know precisely what she thought and how she felt, because he was her king. Because he had fought beside her for eight long years. Because they had shared in the birth and the rebuilding of his monarchy.

“I accept them,” he said at last. “On behalf of my lady wife and myself, I accept them.”

“And the queen is in good health in these early days?”

“As good as she has been at any other time. She called an herb-witch to her this time, when my own chirurgeon refused to aid her in her quest.”

“An herb-witch?” Rani could not keep from twitching as she thought of the accusations against Berylina.

“Aye.”

“Your priests must have been furious.”

“Mareka gave them no cause for that. She went to the cathedral every morning and called the herb-witch every night.”

Rani nodded. “She was successful, at least.”

“So far.” Hal shook his head, as if he disagreed with someone. “So far, she succeeds. But she will not stay safe in Riverhead. She must travel somewhere else. Somewhere secret. Somewhere where Crestman cannot reach. I think that I will send her—”

“Do not tell me!” Rani could not keep panic from her voice.

“You know that I value your counsel, Rani.”

“Do not tell me where you send the queen!” She stumbled over the words in her haste to get them out. “The Fellowship and Crestman have tested me, and twice I have failed. I paid with my trial for the glasswrights' guild, and I paid with Laranifarso. Do not tell me where you send Queen Mareka, so that the Fellowship cannot use me again.”

She saw the battle on his face. For all his faults, for all his uncertainties, Hal was a good man. He wanted her to stand beside him; he wanted to include her in his kingdom.

Or maybe, Rani thought, he did not want to be alone. He did not want to stand on the tip of the arrow.

He said, “You know that I must declare myself against the Fellowship now. It is not enough that I fight Crestman, who was only their instrument. I must take them down, or die in the trying.”

She knew. She must do the same. She had known when she heard that Laranifarso was murdered. She had known in the long pause between her heartbeats when she read that she had failed the glasswrights' test.

But she had known for longer than that. She had known when she saw Crestman in the dim-lit street outside the Gods' Midden. She had known when he had pressed poison into her hand, when he had bid her kill a queen.

As a child, she had acted blindly, taking a life when she was bidden to do so. She had watched innocent blood pool beside her, watched shock and horror spread over a good man's face.

But she was not a child any longer. She made her choices now. She took on her own missions, accepted her own burdens, assumed her own responsibilities. She chose to act for justice, for right. So she had spared Mareka's innocent life.

“I know that you must declare war on the Fellowship, my lord. And I will be there by your side. I will fight them, as long as I am able, and I will aid you in your quest in any way that I might. That, at least, I can swear. That, at least, I can promise today.”

Hal looked at her. She wondered if he saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, the lank strands of her hair, the tired lines around her mouth. She hoped that he did not. She hoped that he remembered the glasswright who had journeyed out from his court to escort a princess, the woman who had taken up her burden, who had promised to nurture and support a lost pilgrim, a hopeless cause.

He nodded, and she knew that it did not matter which vision of her he saw that day. He knew her then, and he trusted her now, no matter her appearance, no matter the changes that had come over her.

She broke the connection between them first, looking away with eyes that suddenly stung with unshed tears. She glanced down at the brooch upon her breast, at the tangle of metal that had come to seem like an extension of her own heart.

Her Thousand-Pointed Star. Sacred to her still. Despite everything that had happened in Brianta, everything that she had witnessed, everything that she had done. Everything that she had not done.

She unfastened the clasp on the Star, and she held it out to Hal. He hesitated only a moment, and then he folded his fingers over hers, over the gold, over the ancient symbol. “By Jair,” she said. “By Jair, I'll work with you to bring the Fellowship to its knees. We'll destroy that twisted body so that it can never work its secret evil again.”

His fingers tightened around hers for only a moment, and he repeated, “By Jair!”

And then, he was gone. She knew that he went to speak to soldiers, to guards, to arrange for the transport of his wife and queen to some safe place.

Rani crossed to the window of the tower. As she looked out over Moren, a breeze sprang up, lifting her hair from her face. Heavy clouds now filled the sky, great lowering banks of grey that seemed ready to fold over the top of the cathedral. A growl of thunder rolled across the city.