Glasswrights' Test (47 page)

Dartulamino took three steady steps, mounting to the top of the dais. He pulled himself to his full height, a height made even taller by the helmet atop his head. Hal looked very young, as if he were a child playing at a game of war.

Beside Rani, Mair writhed like a possessed creature, pulling her silken square between her fingers, tugging at the fabric as if she could make it disappear. Rani longed to reach out for her, to gather her close, to protect her from the man they knew was a murderer.

Hal darted a glance at the Touched woman, then flicked his attention to the stone-faced Farsobalinti. Before Hal could speak, Dartulamino roared, “By Jair, you cannot claim innocence about the blood upon your hands!”

By Jair. Dartulamino was making this Fellowship business then.

Despite Mair's strangled cry, Rani felt herself relax. She had not realized how difficult it was to fight a lifetime of teachings. She had not thought how hard it would be to take a stand against the highest priest in the land, against the leader of the very church that had nurtured her since infancy.

But Dartulamino did not stand on the dais as the emblem of that church. Certainly, he bore its trappings, in his fine green robes, in his careful overgown of gauze. But he was not a priest, not today. He was a conspirator. He was a messenger from the Fellowship of Jair. He was a leader of the secret organization that was bent on ruling all the world, on taking over the kingdom of Morenia, and of Brianta as well, of Liantine and Amanthia and all the distant lands that it could reach.

Even as Rani clapped a hand on Mair's shoulder, she watched Hal measure out the same distinction; she sensed the certainty that settled over him as he accepted Dartulamino's oath. Of course, the Fellowship was hidden to most of those who stood in the cathedral. Those soldiers would not recognize the secret meaning behind the traitor-priest's words. Even Father Siritalanu, even Puladarati and Davin were ignorant of the levels of betrayal that stood inside the church.

Rani glanced at the ranks of soldiers, Morenian and Briantan, and she knew that Hal must act quickly. His warriors were growing confused. They had been excited by Father Siritalanu's exhortations; they had collected their strength to rise up against the invaders, against the ships that blockaded the harbor, against the forces that besieged the city's walls. Now, though, they questioned the rightness of their fight.

And, looking out the broken doors of the cathedral, Rani wondered if the soldiers were not wise to quail. A giant plume of smoke rose from the city walls. Odd, Rani thought dispassionately. I never noticed that the gates were framed by these cathedral doors. I never thought that the Thousand Gods watched over all the comings and the goings of fair Moren. I never realized that they cared so much.

But the gates were indeed framed in the doorway, or what was left of the gates. Staring out, Rani wondered what the invaders had done to create such billows of smoke, how they had managed to send such an incontrovertible signal.

She threw a quick glance to Davin, to see if the old man was working out what the Briantans had done, how they worked their war engines. The ancient advisor was nodding slowly, as if he had come to understand some secret, some arcane method of waging war that even he had not considered in his decades of military calculation.

What did it matter, though? What did it matter if the invaders had harnessed some Briantan trick, or merely received a healthy dollop of unholy luck? The city gates were burning.

And if the gates were burning, then the blockading vessels in the harbor would know that the end was near. The Liantines would land their boats and bolster the Briantan forces. They would force their own ships into the harbor, up to the docks. They would add their naval crossbows to the Briantans' weapons, and poor Moren would crumple under the weight.

Rani took a step forward, to advise Halaravilli ben-Jair of the full extent of his danger, in case he had not recognized the pattern. The king's jaw was tight as he glared back at Dartulamino. Had only seconds passed? Was Hal still formulating a response to the secret message that his enemy had delivered?

“Aye, Father,” the king said. “In the name of Jair, the innocent must have clean hands.”

And then, as if he were not threatened, as if there were not enemy armies before him, as if no navy waited to wade into his stronghold, Halaravilli ben-Jair turned his back on the invading priest. He raised his hand to Father Siritalanu and commanded, “Continue, Father. My men await your final blessing.”

“Your men will be cursed if that so-called priest speaks a single word in the name of the Thousand!” Dartulamino's rage spattered across the cathedral floor.

“Continue,” Hal said, refusing to grant the rebel his attention.

Father Siritalanu glanced once from his worldly lord to his spiritual one, and then his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. He raised his hands in a shaking holy gesture, and there was a long pause while pockets of men decided whether to settle to their knees to receive his blessing. “In the name of Arn and Bon, in the name of—”

“Will you risk your soul?” Dartulamino cried to Father Siritalanu. “Your soul and those of all the men who pray here?”

Many of the soldiers who had knelt scrambled to their feet, and more than one fist settled back on a weapon. Father Siritalanu managed to say, “The only souls risked in the house are those that do not bow before the Thousand Gods.”

Holy Father Dartulamino's sallow face grew dark. Rani heard him catch his breath; the sound was amplified by his helmet. She felt the tension curl through his fingers, up his arms, into his gut. As if Mair were a mirror, the Touched woman stiffened as well, focusing all her anger and her grief upon the single man.

“First God Ait will spit upon you,” Dartulamino said, and his voice quaked with fury, nearly as tremulous as poor Father Siritalanu's had been at the beginning of the ceremony. “First Pilgrim Jair will look upon you with outraged laughter. All of the Thousand will turn from you and glory in the ways that they can cause you grief. They will reach into your slumber; they will seize you while you are awake. They will strangle your minds and your hearts and leave you gasping like tiny children, abandoned in a winter storm.”

As if in response to the Holy Father's exhortations, the sun moved behind a cloud bank, plunging both worshipers and invaders into shadows. At the same time, though, the cobalt light that came from the Defender's Window seemed to intensify, pulling in upon itself so that Halaravilli ben-Jair was more captivating, more controlling, more important than he had ever been in his life.

Hal stepped forward, raising his chin so that his necklace of Js was at the perfect angle to reflect the beam from the window. “Father Siritalanu,” he said, and his voice was so soft, so even, that he might have been speaking to a child. “Finish with your service. Complete the War Rites so that my men will best be able to defend me with the strength of their arms and the faith in their hearts.”

Father Siritalanu appeared unable to follow his king's command. The priest's boyish face trembled, and he might have been a child shamed before his elders. Then, he flushed, and his cheeks reflected the crimson of Hal's royal raiment. The priest raised his hands in a familiar holy gesture, but he seemed to have forgotten all his words; he appeared doomed to eternal silence.

And in that instant, in that hesitation, in that pause where all the Thousand Gods seemed uncertain whether to rush in or abandon the rightful cause of Moren, Dartulamino raised his arms. He threw back his head, and he bellowed, “To me, Briantans! To all that is holy in this house of gods! To me!”

For a heartbeat, Hal's loyal troops were frozen in shock. Then, swords slipped from sheaths. Spears were leveled. Axes were hefted to shoulders, arrows nocked to bows.

Dartulamino tossed back his priest-green robes, revealing heavy sheets of chain mail. The man had never expected to parley in the House of the Thousand Gods. He had never expected to reach peace with his king. Dartulamino raised his hands and began to summon the gods, chanting through the decades of their names as if the very syllables graced him with power.

Rani's mind was filled with the presence of the gods; her senses were overwhelmed by sights and sounds, touches and tastes, by countless scents. How had Berylina borne this? How had the princess subjected herself to endless worship? How had she submitted to the Thousand, to their ever-changing, swirling emanations?

Rani shut her eyes against the nauseating array. Her knees buckled, and her breath came fast and sharp, as if she had run all through the city.

“Come along, then!” Suddenly, there was a strong hand beneath her arm, pulling her upright, easing air back into her lungs. She opened her eyes and blinked hard, forcing herself to bring Mair into focus. “We'd best be leavin' this.”

“Mair–” Rani struggled for words.

“Aye, 'n' Laranifarso, too.” The girl gestured toward her silk square. “We came t' 'elp ye, since ye seem all unfit t' 'elp yerself.”

“Help?” Rani asked, not comprehending. The battle boiled in the cathedral behind her. Horrible oaths echoed off the stone spine of the cathedral. When Rani dared a glance over one shoulder, she saw one of the Briantans stumble past a side chapel, pulling down an ornate curtain meant to honor Lor, the god of silk.

“Aye, Rai. Lar 'ere is a smart un. 'E knew there'd be trouble. 'E told me t' come prepared.”

“How could he–” Rani started to protest, and then she looked at the scrap of
black silk and fell silent. Mair was mad. She had been since returning from Brianta. Whatever
fantasies her broken mind wove, whatever dreams she played out now.…

“Dinna argue wi' me, Rai.” The Touched woman certainly sounded reasonable, as sound as she ever had. “Ye'll do as I say, 'n' p'raps ye'll live through th' day.”

A vicious clatter forced Rani to spin around, and she saw ranks of candelabra toppled to the floor, offerings to Tren flying. Soldiers jumped back from the burning wicks. One of the Briantans, discernible by the oversized Thousand Pointed Star embroidered on his chest, picked up a sharp-pointed stand and lunged into a knot of Morenian soldiers. He was cut down, his blood spraying across the altar dedicated to the god of candles.

Mair laughed, and her cold glee was more frightening than anything she had said or done in all the days of her madness. “Are ye wi' us, then, Rai? Are ye wi' us, or d' ye plan t' stay 'ere 'n' be cut down?”

Another Briantan leaped into a group of soldiers loyal to Hal, and fierce blows echoed off shields. Oaths rang out in the cathedral, and the sickening stench of entrails wafted across on the wind that blew through the shattered door.

“I'm with you,” Rani said, and she caught the victorious gleam in Mair's eye.

The Touched girl nodded once, and then she sprang past the dais. Rani never would have sought shelter there, away from the doors, away from the city, away from escape. Mair leaped, though, as if she had a plan, as if she had a destination. She moved with more certainty than she had in months.

Rani watched her friend move, and then she called out, “Sire!”

It was a sign of the devotion between them that Hal looked up at her cry. He did not hesitate to respond to the command in her one word; he trusted her, even in the midst of treachery and chaos. Against the battleground of the cathedral, she saw him measure her gesture. She watched him start to shake his head, to turn back to his soldiers, his pitiful, betrayed men.

But then the choice was taken from him. Farsobalinti bulled into his king, forcing his liege back one step, two, three. A group of soldiers swirled in front of the dais, as if they knew what Mair intended, and Farso took advantage of the chaos to push Hal forward even more forcefully.

Hal started to protest, to plant his feet, but he did not have a chance. Farso worked against him, and then Davin, and Puladarati and Father Siritalanu and a handful of loyal fighting men. All of them rolled past Rani, tumbled after Mair, through a doorway hidden in the floor behind the altar. Steps disappeared into darkness.

Rani hesitated on the threshold. Where was Mair taking them? What secret passage had she mastered years ago, during her misspent youth as a Touched wench who ransacked the city for her personal gain? What was to keep the invading soldiers from following them?

Rani bit back an oath as strong fingers wrapped around her arm. Mair had come back through the passage, come to pull her into the darkness. “Rai!” the Touched woman shouted. “Now! Or ye might as well prepare t' meet Tarn 'imself!”

Rani's eyes were clouded by the green-black wings of the god of death; he always hovered near. Before she could blink away his presence, Mair pulled her forward, into the darkness, into the relative quiet. And then Davin stood at the top of the stairs, resting his hands on the frame of the stone-cut door. He nodded once to himself, as if he had discovered some magic, some secret.

The old man cast one glance down the dim corridor, and then he twisted his wrists, manipulating some hidden latch. The door glided closed behind them, cutting off light, cutting off battle, sealing away Rani and Mair, Hal and Farsobalinti and Siritalanu, Puladarati and Davin and the handful of soldiers who remained loyal to their lost cause.

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Mindy L. Klasky learned to read when her parents shoved a book in her hands and told her that she could travel anywhere in the world through stories. She never forgot that advice.

Mindy's “travels” took her through multiple careers. After graduating from Princeton University, Mindy considered becoming a professional stage manager or a rabbi. Ultimately, though, she settled on being a lawyer, working as a litigator at a large Washington firm. When she realized that lawyering kept her from writing (and dating and sleeping and otherwise living a normal life), Mindy became a librarian, managing large law firm libraries. Mindy now writes full time.