Glasswrights' Journeyman (42 page)

Mareka hummed as she approached the spider cages, filling the room with a song that vibrated across her ribs and up her throat. She paused before the first of the octolaris, and she waved her hands in a pattern that was becoming familiar to Hal, a pattern that he had seen dozens of times since he took possession of her treasures. She had explained to him that she was Homing the spiders, that she was announcing her presence so that they did not mistake her fingers for food.

She repeated the pattern a second time, and then a third. Then, she did something Hal had never seen her do before – she took the time to waggle her fingers through a fourth repetition. She must fear the octolaris. She must worry that her agitation would provoke them. Nevertheless, she reached for the silver tray.

The markin grubs clung to her fingers like burrs. Hal thought of those same fingers slipping down his spine, and a frisson tingled through him, raising the hairs on his arms.

What would he do if she actually did go to Teheboth? What if she told Thunderspear of her tryst with Hal?

Even now, Hal might escape condemnation. After all, he could argue, men were meant to do their jousting before they settled into married life. He had lain with Mareka before his intentions for the princess were formally announced. He could claim foolishness, fear, nervousness about the change that he faced. His indiscretion would prove embarrassing, but it might not destroy his pending marriage to Berylina. If he painted himself as a fool. As a boy. As a weakling swayed by women.

But if Mareka took the
spiders
to Teheboth, what then? Hal needed the spiders. He needed the income they would generate, the base they would provide for his fledgling Order of the Octolaris. Without the spiders, Hal could not pay the Fellowship. He could never ascend to the leadership of that organization, never work toward the shadowy goals of the Royal Pilgrim.

Watching the spiderguild apprentice sway as she fed her charges, Hal realized that he could set aside Berylina. He could set aside his advisors' plans, thrash their expectations that he marry a noblewoman, a princess. He could offer his hand to Mareka Octolaris. Then, her threats to go to Teheboth would die forever. Then, she would be bound to come to Morenia, to tend her spiders and their young, to guide Hal's new knightly Order.

For just an instant, Hal imagined the outrage of his council lords, their incredulity as he announced his decision. He could see their astonishment, and he imagined the accusations against him. They would say that he had thrown over Berylina, left her behind because of her looks, because of her shyness.

He pictured himself explaining. He pictured himself standing before his council with the octolaris in their boxes, with the riberry trees that Rani was even now negotiating for him.

Rani.

If he set aside Berylina, how could he take a guildswoman for his bride? How could he turn to Mareka, when there were so many better choices?

Besides, if Hal abandoned Berylina, he abandoned her dowry. He lost the immediate payment that he owed to the church; the installment that must be made in one short week, on Midsummer Day. He must have Berylina. There was no way around that.

Berylina and payment to the church. Mareka and payment to the Fellowship.

He could not have both.

Bells began to toll steadily, marking noon. Damnation! He was expected in Berylina's solar. This was the last day that he could visit his bride before the wedding. By Liantine custom, bridge and groom must be estranged for one week before the marriage ceremony. “Mareka,” he began.

“Go,” she said, without turning away from Homing the second spider. “Go to your princess, my lord.”

Hal could hear the smile behind her words, the mockery that straightened her shoulders, that surely quirked her smile. The bells stopped tolling. He was late. “My lady,” he said, and he bowed stiffly, even though she never turned around.

He hurried through the Liantine hallways, walking fast enough that his poor page had to trot to keep up. Only on the solar stairs did he take the time to straighten his tunic, to run his palms through his unruly hair. He hovered by the door, angry that he had nearly forgotten his obligation to visit Berylina. He could not afford to make diplomatic mistakes. Not now. Not with so much depending on rules and custom and obligation.

He waved the questioning Calaratino to silence and listened to the sounds coming from inside the aerie room. He could just make out the murmur of voices low in conversation, and then a tentative giggle, like a wild bird chittering on a tree branch. So. Berylina
could
laugh. Maybe not around him – she was still too shy for that – but at least she was capable of mirth.

Hal sighed and stepped into the solar.

Berylina stood at an easel, a charcoal crayon held fast between her fingers and her thumb. She was studying her parchment carefully, her head turned at an appraising angle, a perspective that hid for just a moment the crossed lines of her sight. She even managed to disguise her rabbit teeth, for her lips were pulled back in a wide grin, a smile that matched the trilling laugh that filled the room. “Don't look directly at me!” she said. “Bain would not look directly at a mere mortal.”

Bain. The god of flowers.

Hal knew the princess's words were not meant for him, and he glanced across the room, following Berylina's gaze. He was surprised to see Father Siritalanu sitting on one of the ornately carved chairs that lined the walls of the chamber. The priest had spread his green robes about his feet, and he had permitted Berylina – Berylina or her nurses – to cover the cloth with flowers. Three great lilies cascaded across the front of the fabric, and a waterfall of forget-me-nots tumbled down his front. There were iris and daffodils, and a careful garland of early roses that wound about his shoulders.

At Hal's entrance, the religious started to stand, upsetting the careful display. Berylina, not noticing the intruder, exclaimed, “No! Don't move yet! I haven't finished.”

“Forgive me!” Siritalanu exclaimed, and in the quick embarrassment of the moment, Hal was not certain if the priest spoke to him or to the princess.

Trying to make the best of things, Hal waved the priest back to his chair as he crossed to Berylina's handiwork. “What have you created there, my lady?”

It was too late for his jovial question. Berylina's smile had faded, replaced by a rapid twitch that she tried to hide by turning her face toward the window. For a long minute, Hal thought that she would not answer at all, but then she whispered. “Nothing, Your Majesty. Only a drawing.”

“Let me see.” He tried to sound boisterously happy, like an eager groom courting his bride.

“Please, Your Majesty. It's only a pastime, a trifle –”

Hal brushed away her protests and circled behind the easel. He was surprised enough that he could not keep from exclaiming as he saw what she had drawn.

Siritalanu's face was identifiable in the work. The young priest grinned openly, as if he were a young man caught at horseplay with his peers. His hands were open in his lap, long fingers twining through the flowers. The blooms themselves were perfectly depicted, exactly shaped and shaded, the black lines carefully contrasted with the creamy parchment.

And yet, the drawing was not merely a portrait. Berylina had captured something more, some alien air, some hint of differentness, of … Hal hesitated before admitting the word … holiness. She had taken the physical presence of Father Siritalanu and transformed it into the image of a god.

“This is quite remarkable, my lady!”

She blushed, as red as the roses that glowed against the priest's green robe across the room. “It's nothing, Your Majesty!”

“You've captured the essence of Bain.”

“Only because Father Siritalanu helped me,” the princess insisted, her shy words gaining strength from her religious fervor. “Only because we prayed before I began my drawing.” The mention of prayer seemed to give her even more confidence, and she hastened to add, “Father Siritalanu has been most generous with his time, Your Majesty. I am grateful that you have let him attend to my spiritual preparation for what is to come.”

“Well, er, yes.” Hal scarcely recognized how many words Berylina had strung together.
Rather, he was flummoxed by what he was supposed to say. She used the phrase “what is to come” as if
summoned to her execution.

One of Berylina's nurses stepped forward and chided her mistress, “You have not shown King Halaravilli any hospitality, Your Highness. You must offer him a cup of wine.”

“Oh!” Berylina started, and she set her charcoal crayon beside the easel. She fumbled as she dropped into a curtsey, and all her new-built eloquence fled as she struggled to get out her words: “Please, Your Majesty, forgive me!”

Hal forced himself to convert his grimace into an honest smile. “No forgiveness is necessary, my lady. And please, do not interrupt your work. When you complete your drawing, we will set it under glass. We will preserve it, and you can keep it in your solar in your new home, in Morenia. You can look upon it to remind you of Bain's hand, guiding you in all your efforts to grow new things.”

The princess blushed and averted her eyes, twisting her fingers about each other and smearing charcoal dust across both hands.

What? Hal wanted to exclaim. He only meant new things – like their marriage. Like the bond between their houses. By all the Thousand Gods – she was only a
child
! He could not have meant anything more by his words! Hal cleared his throat and tried to smooth over his suggestion. “We have many lovely gardens in Moren, my lady. You will be pleased to see Bain's handiwork, I think.”

After one of the nurses glared and cleared her throat peremptorily, Berylina whispered, “I should like that, Your Majesty.” The admission proved too much for her, and she blushed again, gathering up her skirts with her sooty fingers.

“Yes. Well then.” Hal looked at Father Siritalanu, but the religious gave no hint of where he might take the conversation safely. “Well, I should be going, then. I should let you finish your drawing.”

Berylina remained silent until the nurse prompted her with an urgent nod. Then the princess said, “Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

“No,” Hal stumbled. “Thank
you
.”

And he left the solar. Shaking his head, muttering under his breath, cursing his own awkwardness, he closed the oaken door behind him and collapsed against its solid support. He ignored Calaratino's questioning look, ignored the possibility that a nurse, or Siritalanu, or – First god Ait himself forbid – the princess herself would choose that moment to leave the solar.

She was only a child, he told himself. Of course she was awkward. Of course she was afraid. He was hardly helping things, stumbling over his own words as if he were a page himself. All would be better, he promised, after they were wed. Then both of them would know that they were meant to be together, that they would have to work together, for Morenia's sake. Then, they would find ways to speak to each other, to communicate beyond their horrible, uncomfortable blurted words and silences. Their joining before the Thousand Gods would make all right.

But would the Thousand Gods truly bless their union? Would the gods look upon him with favor when he came before them with a clouded heart? For he could not say that he truly wanted to wed Berylina, the girl. He wanted Berylina, the endowered princess. He wanted eight hundred bars of gold.

Then again, what princess
wasn't
desired for her dowry? What king's daughter wasn't meted out as a source of income and stability? And what king had the luxury of wedding for love, for companionship, for happiness?

Before Hal could begin to measure his true response, he heard footsteps on the stairs – fast, eager strides. He forced himself to stand straight, and he threw his shoulders back as if he had just left the solar, ever the enthusiastic bridegroom.

He only took two steps before Baron Farsobalinti burst around the curve of the stairwell. “Sire!”

“Farso! You've returned!”

“Aye, my lord. With Mair and Rani Trader.”

“And your mission? You reached them in time?”

“Aye. Before Teheboth's messenger arrived at the spiderguild.”

Hal's heart soared. “What happened, then? Did you speak with the guildmaster? Did Rani? Were you successful?”

Farso flushed a curious shade of crimson, and he refused to meet Hal's eyes. “I did not enter the spiderguild enclave, my lord. I was … detained at the gate.”

“Detained. … What happened, Farso?” Hal barely managed to lower his voice, remembering that they spoke on a public staircase, in the middle of the Liantine castle. His urgency ripped through his words. “Did you get the trees?”

“Aye, my lord. Rani Trader is seeing to them even now.”

Swallowing a wave of relief more powerful than he had ever expected, Hal smothered his other questions. He hurried down the stairs and out to the main courtyard, with Farso and his page straggling behind.

Everything was chaos. Liantine servants bustled around two great carts. Teams of draft horses snorted, shying as people bustled by. Hal heard Mair's Touched growl before he saw her, before he found her snapping at a pair of hapless servants. “Take care wi' them! It's th' yellow leaves we maun keep safe. Dinna jostle th' puir things!”

And Rani's voice rose loud as well. “Saw those barrels in half, then, and fill them with water. Don't disturb the moss around the base of the trees. Set them in water for now. We'll do better, we'll have to, before they ship to Morenia. Three of them in each barrel. Careful!”

And everywhere, there were riberry trees. Riberry saplings, at least, each as tall as Rani. They were strapped upright on the two carts, lashed together. Filthy silk wrappings wove about their roots, holding in mud at the base of each tree. Twenty, forty. … Hal approximated his counting. Five hundred trees.