Glasswrights' Apprentice (3 page)

Rani lit her taper and muttered the Guildsman's Prayer, words that had already become familiar in the short months since her apprenticeship. Every morning, under Cook's watchful eye, she muttered the Prayer upon awakening. She spoke it before each meal, before each artistic undertaking, before each installation of finished glasswork, in penance before the disciplinarian and - finally - at the end of every day, on her knees beside her pallet. “May all the gods look upon my craft with favor, and may they take pleasure in the humble art created by my hands. May Jair Himself be pleased with the humble offering I make, and may the least of my works bring glory to the world. May my works guide me to the Heavenly Fields in my proper time, as the gods do favor. All glory to the Thousand Gods.”

Despite her best intentions, Rani rushed through the last few words, unable to pry her attention from the crowd. Not surprisingly, with the vulture of a herald standing guard over the door, most of the folk were Noble. Of course, each of the major Guilds was in evidence - the Tilers, the Embroiderers, the Painters, the Armorers, others that Rani could not see from her current vantage point. Each guildmaster or guildmistress wore a heavy robe of office, surmounted by a cloak emblazoned with that particular guild's symbol. Rani did not immediately see the glasswrights' Guildmistress Salina, but she calculated a path that would keep her as far from the other craftsmen as possible, eager to avoid a confrontation. Nowhere in the cathedral did she espy another apprentice.

Rani's evasive course took her down the right aisle, bobbing beneath the masterful Pilgrimage windows. In fact, with a final elbow placed sharply in the side of a Noble girl (a child too young to complain to her non-observant mother), Rani made a space for herself at the edge of the south transept. Craning her neck, she could just make out the massive window where Instructor Morada toiled. From inside the cathedral, the glasswork looked complete, with all its lead stripping in place. That completeness, though, may have been a deceptive trick of the light, for the sunlight was brilliant - strong enough to hint at the scaffolding just beyond the window. Rani noted that those rays focused through the window exactly as the guild had intended.

There, at the foot of the transept altar, was a pool of brilliant blue light. Blue, because that was the color of the King's heir, the color of pure intention and noble goals, the color of the Defender of the Faith. The clear light focused through the glazed robe of the Defender in Morada's masterpiece, untempered by other hues, even by the riot of color streaming through neighboring windows. Pride filled Rani's narrow chest and straightened her spine.

She might have boasted to her neighbors, or at least flashed the guild-blazon on her cape a little more flamboyantly, if the Defender's procession had not begun at that precise moment. Trumpets rang out as if a battle loomed, and a strained hush fell over the crowd. The fanfare was repeated once, then twice, and then two times more - a total of five to match the Touched and the four castes that Jair had lived.

With each repetition, pockets of worshipers fell to their knees - first the few Touched who had been permitted to enter the cathedral as servants to Nobles. In rapid procession, the scattered Merchants knelt (Rani almost forgot and fell to her knees), followed by Guildsmen (Rani gratefully remembered her new status), Soldiers, and finally Nobles.

The trumpets gave way to a choral antiphon, sung by children who were secreted in the clerestory aisles far above the worshipers. Those clarion voices rang out like chimes on the gates to the Heavenly Fields, and Rani shivered at the unexpected beauty. As the fluted notes echoed off the cathedral's ceiling, Prince Tuvashanoran processed down the aisle.

Each royal step was marked by the crowd's gasp of awe and admiration. Trapped at the edge of the south transept, Rani was tempted to pinch her way to the nave, but she restrained her twitching fingers, knowing that she had an uninterrupted line of sight to the azure puddle of light and the Presentation itself.

And she was not disappointed.

Prince Tuvashanoran was easily the most popular Noble in the City's history. Not only was he breathtakingly handsome, but he was the very flower of knighthood. He had won the golden spurs with ease in the Spring Tourney, treating his opponents with compassion and respect. Various princesses from rich and fabled lands to the north and east were presented at court on a regular basis, and the Prince entertained them all - singing in his rich baritone, playing his lute, and showing off his horsemanship in the castle's central courtyard. But he was more than a courtier.

Last spring, when the thaw was late and wet snow was still deeper than a man's chest, wolves had coursed down the hills outside the City. On a damp, foggy night, Prince Tuvashanoran came across the Pilgrim's Bell unmanned, despite the clear danger to the travelers who made their way through the misty countryside. Rather than send for servants and waste valuable time, the prince stood by the bell himself, tolling the heavy metal through the night with such calm precision that not a single person in town realized anything was amiss. Five Pilgrims straggled in during the fog-ridden night, one with tales of narrowly escaping a giant beast, a Wolf of the Underworld.

Prince Tuvashanoran led a hunting party that very day, despite having not slept the entire previous night. He rode the beast to earth and presented the gigantic pelt to the High Priest so that the warm fur could be distributed to the needy among the Touched.

Now, the legendary Tuvashanoran strode down the nave, golden fillet catching the gleam of tinted light from the clerestory windows. Each step was a ballet of grace; each turn of his head was a symphony of responsibility.

When he reached the altar, Tuvashanoran knelt, bending his regal knee before the impossibly ancient High Priest. The old man's face was obscured beneath a high, jeweled miter, his age-wasted body enlarged by a voluminous cope. The High Priest beamed at his spiritual son, then raised shaking, liver-spotted hands to hover over Tuvashanoran's raven hair.

As the children's antiphon reached its musical climax, the prince bowed his head in complete submission to the Thousand Gods. The High Priest's lips moved in unheard prayer before the old man helped the young lord to rise, turning him back to look at the gathered masses. Tuvashanoran was visibly touched by the homage proffered by the worshipers, and he spontaneously raised his hands to echo the High Priest, gathering in his people's adoration like a lowly merchant-farmer bringing in sheaves.

The echoing antiphon faded, and an acolyte stepped forward, moving with a careful choreography that contrasted with Tuvashanoran's spontaneous gesture. The prince shrugged off his cloak, stepping away from the jewel-encrusted garment that was worth more than the glasswrights' guild could command in an entire year of commissions. The acolyte staggered under the heavy garment as one of his fellows spread a golden cloth before the altar.

Only when the fabric was an unrippled puddle of metallic silk, did Tuvashanoran return to his kneeling posture. He offered up his joined hands to the High Priest, tendering the sort of fealty usually reserved for the Crown. The High Priest, expecting the honor, took those royal hands between his own, nodding solemnly before setting palsied palms upon the Prince's bowed head. There was a long moment during which not a rustle of silk or velvet could be heard, and then the Priest's voice echoed up to the clerestory. “Who brings this man before the altar of the Thousand Gods?”

“It is I, Shanoranvilli ben-Jair, King of Morenia, Lord of the City, and Defender of the Faith, who brings my son to the altar.” Rani started guiltily; she had not even seen the king process down the nave. From the crowd's indrawn gasp, Rani realized that few others had watched their liege approach, so captivating was Tuvashanoran.

Looking across the dais, Rani could see the entire royal family looking on in pride. Beside King Shanoranvilli stood his young wife, the exotically beautiful Queen Felicianda. Prince Halaravilli was there as well, scarcely two years older than Rani herself, and Prince Bashanorandi, Rani's own age. A flock of princesses rustled on the platform, craning their young necks to see what their eldest brother was doing. Or half-brother, Rani amended mentally - Prince Bashanorandi and the princesses were all Queen Felicianda's children; only Tuvashanoran and Halaravilli survived from the king's first marriage.

The High Priest did not appear to be concerned with the complicated relationships in the royal family. Turning to King Shanoranvilli, he intoned gravely, “Defender of the Faith, you call yourself. And what proof do I have that you bear that title?”

While the king's voice might quaver, there was nothing weak or yielding in his stance on this brightest of bright days. Keeping his eyes on the High Priest, Shanoranvilli raised sere hands to the heavy chain of office encircling his neck. Even at this distance, Rani could make out the massive, interlocked J's of the chain, the letters so ornate that they were hardly recognizable. J for Jair, J for the royal house. “I wear the Defender's Chain, Father, symbol of my obligation to the Thousand Gods and reminder of the power that those gods give to me.”

“And why do you come into the Gods' House today?”

“I come to transfer this Chain, to one who, in his youth, can Defend the faith better than I.”

The High Priest looked down at the king, as if he were considering this offer for the first time. Rani shivered at the expression in the Holy Father's eyes, for she had seen such a look once before - the night she forsook her parents' house for the guild. There was pride there, but it was buried beneath sorrow, the emotions so keen they sliced across the cathedral's charged air.

“And do you come here of your own free will?” The priest asked at last, his bushy eyebrows arched high so that they merged into one commanding line above his far-seeing eyes.

“Aye, I come of my own free will.”

“And you, Prince Tuvashanoran, do you take up this burden of your own free will?”

“Aye, I take it up of my own free will.” The Prince's voice was proud and strong, hurtling up to the windows with the vigor of youth.

“Then let the Church prepare you for your duties.” The High Priest raised a trembling hand, and a cloud of acolytes swarmed about the dais. Rani knew that the boys were her own age, apprenticed to the church and its priests even as she served the guild. Still, they looked like little children as they darted about the kneeling Prince, averting their eyes to the stony floor rather than gaze directly at their liege. The whole thing was ridiculous, Rani scoffed - these same boys were Tuvashanoran's cousins, his closest family. Only royalty would be permitted to participate in a ceremony as important as Tuvashanoran's Presentation. The royal boys could not truly have been overwhelmed with awe in the space of a few hours.

The old man, for his part, merely gave a curt nod, indulging in a single wave of a liver-spotted hand to confirm that the child was acting in the justice and light of all the Thousand Gods. Only when the Prince managed a spare nod as well, did the boy actually summon the nerve to lift up the golden fillet, to hold aloft the symbol of worldly commitment. Thin lines of enamel-work caught the cobalt sunlight, flashing brilliantly to the crowd.

As the acolyte stepped away, bearing the worldly burden, Rani felt the urge to shout with pride for the glory of her Prince. The High Priest raised his arms, as if summoning the force of the heavens. “Welcome to the house of the Thousand Gods, my son. Welcome to the most holy seat of the Pilgrim. As you set your feet upon the Defender's road, you must let the gods know of your desire to serve them, of your desire to be their sword arm in the battles of the world.” The High Priest gestured to a naked sword that lay upon the altar, unadorned steel glinting with a deadly power.

“Before you take up this new weapon for your battle, drink of this cup, the stirrup cup for the journey you now undertake to serve your people, the kingdom of all Morenia, the community of the faithful.” The priest held out one withered hand and an acolyte stepped forward to pass the old man a gilded chalice. The goblet was heavy, requiring two trembling fists to raise it before the awed people. With a bow, the priest passed the chalice to Tuvashanoran, who paused for a moment to settle the weight of metal and jewels in his own grasp. When he raised the cup, he found the exact focus of light from the Defender's Window, making every facet of each embedded jewel wink at the congregation. Then, Tuvashanoran drank deeply, swallowing the holy wine with relish, with the fanaticism of a soldier riding off to battle. Only when the massive cup was drained did he hand the treasure back to the high priest.

The old man nodded proudly. “Now, my son, prostrate yourself in the house of the Gods, before the Pilgrim's Table, and offer up any thoughts that would make you impure to carry out your mission in the world.”

Rani heard the congregants' collective sigh as Tuvashanoran followed the Priest's orders. The prince moved like a cat, fully composed, aware that every eye in the cavernous nave was tied to him. Touching his brow to the base of the altar, Tuvashanoran unconsciously flicked the edges of his undertunic, causing the snowy linen to billow into angelic wings. Then, before the image could be lost and the Prince could become just an ordinary man kneeling before an ordinary block of marble, Tuvashanoran prostrated himself before the altar of the Gods.

A lump of pride grew in Rani's throat as she watched. She might only be an apprentice. She might only be the youngest child of a merchant family, a family that had scrimped and saved to buy her way into a guild. Still, she was a part of the force that had painted the portrait before her, part of the brotherhood that crafted the regal image of a Prince shedding his temporal crown to take up his spiritual one. Rani could not keep from casting her eyes up toward her small contribution to this pageant, to the window that Instructor Morada had scarcely finished in time for the Presentation. Whatever panic had been in the guildhall, whatever rage Morada had expressed on the scaffold, it had been worthwhile, for that rush and fury had created this perfection.