Glasswrights' Journeyman (32 page)

“Yes, Father,” Berylina responded, swivelling her splintered gaze to look at the green-clad man.

“The Thousand Gods favor the brave, my lady,” Siritalanu continued, stepping out of Hal's shadow.

“Yes, Father,” Berylina repeated, and her voice was stronger.

“Will you pray with me, Lady? Will you raise your voice to First Pilgrim Jair and all the Thousand Gods?”

“Yes, Father,” Berylina said one more time, and then she added, “Please.”

Siritalanu glanced at Hal, as if asking permission, and the king waved his priest across the room. Anything, he wanted to say. Anything to keep the princess from sobbing, from crying so desperately to be spared the terrible fate of wedding him.

Father Siritalanu nodded as if he were accepting a military commission, and then he strode across the solar. He knelt beside the princess and took her hands between his own, and if he noticed that they were slick with perspiration, he did not show that knowledge on his smooth, unlined face. Instead, he nodded once, and he pitched his voice so low that Hal could scarcely hear him.

“Have you prayed to Nome before, my lady? Have you prayed to the god of children?”

“Aye,” Berylina said. “But not for many weeks.”

“Let us speak with him, then. Let us speak to Nome, and then to some of his brethren. In the name of Nome, let us pray.” Siritalanu bowed his head then, and the motion brought him even closer to the princess. She followed suit, her unruly hair bobbing as she began to whisper formulaic words with the priest.

Hal watched for a moment. He was grateful to Siritalanu, grateful that the priest would take the initiative to calm the princess. He waited until he heard Siritalanu say, “Let us also pray to Fen. Let us pray to the god of mercy.” The priest had mercy on his mind today. Well, Fen had been good enough for Hal to address, so why not send the princess's prayers in that direction as well?

Hal padded softly to the door. The nurses watched him move as if they were afraid of what he might do, but Berylina seemed entirely unaware of his passage.

Siritalanu knew, though. The priest looked up as Hal reached the doorway, his eyes solemn as they met Hal's across the room. The religious rested a hand on Berylina's wiry hair, spreading his fingers wide, as if he were gathering some precious essence from those unruly strands. His lips curved into a calm smile, a peaceful smile, a smile that Hal could imagine a mother sharing in a private moment with a child. Siritalanu inclined his head slightly, and Hal nodded his gratitude before he left the solar.

Only when he stood outside the room, on the dim landing at the top of the stairs, did he begin to shudder in revulsion. What sort of monster was he? What sort of man so terrified his prospective bride that she ran from him, fled sobbing into a corner, into the arms of a priest? And what horror would Berylina suffer if she knew the full extent of Hal's sin, if she knew the things that he had done with Mareka Octolaris?

If Hal were a true man, he would stride back into the solar and speak to Berylina. He would release her from his schemes, from all his machinations. He would tell her that he never meant to frighten her, that he never intended to force her to be his bride.

And yet, Hal did not have that luxury. He was a warrior-king, fighting to save Morenia, fighting to control the Fellowship, no matter the cost. If one child, one endowered princess, could save his kingdom, what choice did Hal have?

And perhaps Berylina would come to love him. Stranger things had happened. And if she could not love, then perhaps she could come to trust him. And even if she was never able to trust him, perhaps she would one day not be afraid. At least that, by all the Thousand Gods. Let Berylina no longer be afraid.

Hal made his way down the winding stairs. The true business of this transaction was not to be done with the princess. It was time to confront Teheboth Thunderspear.

Hal walked toward the Great Hall, where he knew Teheboth was holding court. The Liantine king had predicted that his cases would occupy him until mid-day, but he had pledged to spend the afternoon touring the wharf with Hal, showing him the recently completed system the Liantines had installed for docking new and larger trading boats. A system of beams and hoists with iron grappling hooks enabled stevedores to empty a fully laden ship in two days, less than half the time the same ship would take in Moren.

Hal strode into the Great Hall with pretended confidence. As expected, Teheboth was seated on his throne, centered before the glistening green and silver spidersilk hangings that had been Jerusha Octolaris's bride-gift. The Liantine monarch looked every inch a ruler, surrounded by nobles and retainers, by attentive lords and scribbling scribes.

For just an instant, Hal regretted that he had not waited, that he had not assembled an entourage to impress Teheboth. Surely Hal should have someone at his side at this auspicious moment – Farso, at the very least.

That was ridiculous, Hal chided himself. He was only seeking a reason to delay. He was only trying to put off the inevitable bargaining. He did not need Farso. He did not need anyone. He was a man in his own right. A noble. A king.

Teheboth flicked a glance toward Hal, but he did not spare his royal visitor a word. Instead, he turned his full attention back to the nobleman kneeling before him.

“Very well, then, Hestaron. You clearly cut down trees that did not belong to you, and the lumber is already lost at sea, lost in the ship that sank. You cannot make remunerations directly for your wrong. You leave me with no choice but to order a restoration of coin.”

Hestaron bowed his head, and Hal could read jagged tension across the man's shoulders. His rote response sounded heavy, dull, as he said, “That would be a mercy, Your Majesty.”

“You shall pay to your neighbor three times the value of the trees that you cut – three times the value, in gold coin, by no later than the first day of winter.”

Hestaron's head shot up, and a look of incredulity crossed his face. “Your Majesty, I cannot make such payment! I lost my goods at sea! In the name of all the Thousand Gods, have mercy!”

“Silence!” Teheboth cut off the man's protest. “The slavish Thousand Gods conduct no business here! For that sacrilegious outburst, you will make an offering to the Horned Hind. You will pay to her priests the value, once again, of all the trees that you cut down.”

“Mercy, Your Majesty, I beg of you! Where am I to find such funds? You said, yourself, my ship sank in the first spring storm.”

“Aye, Hestaron. Your ship sank. The Hind seeks vengeance in mysterious ways. You will find the funds, or borrow them, or raise them from your vassals, whatever you must do. If not, you will be sold to any honest bidder, and your debts will be paid from your slave-price.”

“By all –” Hestaron began again, but then he smothered his words. “Aye, Your Majesty,” he managed, barely able to choke out the rest of the expected reply. “Your Majesty is merciful and just.”

Teheboth's eyes glinted as he acknowledged the formula, and he waved his nobleman to his feet. “Be gone, then. We'll expect you at our first winter court, with records showing you have paid in full.”

Hestaron muttered as he strode past Hal, clenching his hands into fists. The braid of his beard trembled as his lips worked, and Hal quailed before the man's fury. What land was this, where slavery was a threat hanging over vassals' heads? Where calling on the Thousand Gods cost men honest gold? And how had Berylina clung to her faith in a household where the Horned Hind was so firmly entrenched?

“Morenia!” Teheboth shouted from his throne, cutting short Hal's speculation. “Are you ready to break bread with us, then?”

“Aye, my lord,” Hal answered, striding down the aisle to meet Teheboth.

The Liantine king gestured expansively to the courtiers assembled in the hall, to the frantic scribes and heralds. “It has been a long morning, with everyone eager to finalize business before the cycle of summer fairs begins. Let us leave this room, so that the clerks can finish their work.”

Hal nodded in agreement, following Teheboth to a smaller chamber, a windowed room stripped bare of clinging spidersilk. Wooden panels gleamed in the light, smooth reminders of Teheboth's woodland goddess. A table had already been laid with a fresh-baked loaf of bread, a round of creamy cheese, and a flagon of ale. The king of Liantine poured two cups and proffered one to his guest, all the time discussing the matters that he had heard that morning, the difficult decisions he had made for the good of all his people.

Hal listened to the stories and offered polite agreement when required. Even as Teheboth boasted, Hal tried to calculate a way to broach his own difficult case. Before he could pull the talk around to Berylina, though, Teheboth set his goblet firmly on the table. His braided beard jutted forward as he said, “So. You want my daughter, and you want me to pay to be rid of her.”

Hal was startled by the king's directness. For just an instant, he wished that he had Rani by his side, even if Teheboth would have disregarded her woman's words. “I would have our houses joined in friendship, my lord.”

“And that means Berylina, does it not? Unless you're planning on whelping a daughter on some other dam and teaming her with one of my boys.”

Hal cleared his throat. “I ask for Berylina's hand in marriage.”

“I haven't much to offer in the way of a dowry. Not with four boys to maintain, and the cost of Olric's marriage still smarting.”

Hal despised himself for the greedy protest that rose to his lips, but he forced himself to say dispassionately: “What can you do, then? What gifts does Princess Berylina bring?”

“Two hundred bars of gold.” Teheboth set the figure on the table between them, as if he were reciting the cost of bread and cheese. “Along with the usual trappings and finery of a girl of her station, of course.”

Two hundred bars. Not even half of what Hal needed, of what he must pay the church on Midsummer Day. Hal forced himself to swallow some ale. “I think that you do not recognize the true value of your only daughter, my lord.”

“I value her,” Teheboth said. “I value her, but I am realistic. If I offered more for her dowry, my own kingdom would crumple under the pressure. My lords would rise against me if I drained Liantine's treasury, even for our beloved princess.”

“Your beloved princess. …” Hal knew that a shrewd bargainer would mention
Berylina's deficits – her straying eye, her rabbit teeth. Rani would certainly do as much if
she were here. He could not bring himself to criticize those immutable elements, though, and so he
said, “Your beloved princess appears too shy to lead folk here in Liantine. If I may say so,
Berylina is a delicate creature, my lord. She must be protected from strain and stress. She should
not be burdened with the knowledge that her father counts her value at only two hundred bars of
gold.”

“Ah,” Teheboth sighed. “Perhaps you are correct. But maybe my daughter's shyness would be entirely cured if she learned how much her suitor truly values her. I'd gladly entertain a bid for a bride-price, my lord. Especially because you will take my only daughter so far away.”

Teheboth's paternal piety sparked Hal's temper. He was not about to purchase Berylina, to spend his own precious gold on the princess! Morenia was not some outlying swamp, after all. It was a strong kingdom, an old kingdom. The House of Jair had sat its throne for generations, far longer than a Liantine upstart –

Hal forced himself to smother all his angry thoughts. He must remain calm. He must not let himself be provoked. “Surely a princess so beloved would warrant a
greater
price paid by her father. Say, one thousand bars of gold.”

Hal wanted to ask for more. He wanted to declare that he would not take Berylina for a sovereign less than two thousand bars. Two thousand bars would let him pay the first installment to both the church and the Fellowship, avoid Rani's still-nascent octolaris plan.

But two thousand bars would never change hands. Teheboth had his own battles to fight in Liantine – honoring the Horned Hind left little room for play. If Hal demanded two thousand bars, he risked being dismissed outright. So he repeated: “One thousand bars.”

Teheboth choked on his wine, spluttering, “One thousand! You think me a richer man than even
I
hope to be!”

“I know you are a rich man,” Hal countered, “and a loving father.” He put his goblet on the low table, and he snared the gaze of the Liantine king. He kept his voice steady, hoping to convey beyond any doubt that he was through with bargaining. He was through debating. He would have his thousand bars or Berylina would stay in her father's court, perhaps forever. Hal said, “I see the richness of your palace, Teheboth. I drink your fine wine, and I eat your food. I see the newbuilt palace chambers, with all your fine-carved wooden panels replacing dusty spidersilk. I know what you can pay, when you care to do so. Do not undervalue your daughter. Do not sell her so cheaply that you embarrass her, and yourself as well.”

Teheboth's face flushed crimson, and Hal wondered if he would have dared to be so blunt before Moren's fire, before his kingdom was threatened with ultimate collapse. “Mind your tongue, my lord,” Teheboth managed to say.

“Mind your daughter! Mind that you honor her as the only girl your lady ever birthed. Mind that you honor her as the only sister among her brothers, as the bridge that can join our kingdoms forever.”

“Five hundred bars,” Teheboth countered.

“Eight hundred.”

“Done. But the wedding must be held on Midsummer Eve.”

“Why Midsummer?” Hal asked in surprise.

“It is a day most blessed by the Horned Hind. Berylina is a potent symbol for my people, my lord. As you have argued so shrewdly, she
is
my only daughter. There are rumors about in Liantine that she holds to the old faith, to the ways of your Thousand Gods. If she weds on Midsummer Eve, my people will be assured of her true beliefs. They will know the holiness of all the house of Thunderspear, and I will not be bothered by fools like that Hestaron you saw this afternoon.”