Glasswrights' Master (38 page)

The water flowed faster now, and Rani could scarcely catch her breath against its riotous tumble. She told how she had learned to fashion iron armatures, great metal frames to hold the heaviest of glass pieces. She described how to anchor her designs in the iron, how to integrate the support so that it was part of the craft, part of the beauty.

The stream tumbled forward, and Rani caught glimpses of the color grinding that she had mastered, the smooth pestle in her hand, the constant, endless grinding of pigment against smooth glass surface. She folded in the image that she had learned in Kella's cottage, the carved lip of a mortar, with its symbols of Mart and Mip, Gir, and Ralt, the gods of earth, water, fire, and air watching over the process. She saw the brilliant colors that she had worked, the perfect piles of lapis and cinnabar, of lamp-black and lead. She felt the muscles in her arm clench and unclench, moving in perfect, spiraling circles.

The stream became a riot, and Rani Spoke of mixing water with the pigment, added gum arabic to some, grinding, smoothing, blending. She dipped her finest brush into the color, squeezed out excess pigment with fingers that were stained and confident. She painted the first of her designs onto glass panes, delicate tracery on some, dramatic design on others. She crafted the expressions of people, the suggestion of dramatic scenes stretching into the background. Her fingers flew across the glass like a weaver's at a loom, and designs spun out beneath her hands as if she were crafting them all in a single sweeping motion.

And then Rani could hear the thundering waterfall, see the spray as the Speaking stream reached the boulders that guarded its last precipice. She gathered together the final energy, collected up the panes that she had designed. She consigned them to the furnace, to the great brick kilns that she had first tended in her childhood. She stoked the fire and let the paint meld with the glass, let the design become one with the sand and the lead and her thoughts. She tended the kilns for hours, for days, feeding each a specific amount of hard, dried wood.

And then, she caught herself against the rope that Tovin had strung across the Speaking river. She clung to the lifeline, becoming aware of the hemp beneath her fingers, soggy but firm. She gathered her feet beneath her, planted them on the rushing river bed. She took one step toward shore, then another and another. She felt small stones beneath her feet, and she tensed her calves, flexed her knees, forced herself forward one more step. One more heave on the rope, one more surge of energy, and she was safe on the shore, looking back at the tumbling riot of thought and learning and memory.

Sighing, she sat back on her stool. Her palms were spread flat on the table before her, pressing against the wood as if she were rooted to its surface. Her throat was dry with all that she had said, with all the lessons that she had relayed of her craft. She filled her lungs with another deep breath and exhaled slowly. Again. Again.

And she forced her eyes to open. She forced herself to focus on the player sitting across from her.

He studied her silently for a long moment, and then he raised a hand to brush back the lock of hair that had fallen from behind her ear. “Thank you for the Speaking,” he said. “You enrich your players beyond measure.” She was not certain if he teased her, until he kept his voice somber and said, “You are ready. I will leave you.”

“Tovin, don't!” She was surprised at the desperation in her voice.

“I'll be back, Ranita. When you least expect me, I'll come riding in to Moren. My players and I will have new tales to tell, new plays to play. We'll entertain you and your husband and your children, for days and weeks and months and years.”

She caught the hand that hovered by her cheek, hovered despite the lightness in his tone. Husband. Who was she to marry? Tovin was the only man who would have had her, and he was leaving. Tovin, or Crestman. She shuddered as she thought of the soldier, shuddered without thinking. Quickly, she said, “I'm sorry, Tovin.”

“I'm not.” He smiled, and she thought his gentle mirth might be real, might be his, might not be the product of his training for the stage. “You were good for me and I for you, but we've grown now. You have a life here in the city, and I've one on the road.”

She knew that they had left each other before, that her heart had broken at his previous farewells. This time, though, his words seemed right. They seemed true. She matched the curve of his lips then, brushed his mouth with her own. “Thank you, Tovin Player. Thank you for all that you have taught me.”

His embrace was quick, and then he glided toward the door of the tower room. “Use it well, Ranita Glasswright. Complete your work here, and make this player proud.”

Rani turned back to the table before her, pausing for only a moment before she lifted the bucket of whitewash and began to cover the empty, eager surface.

 

* * *

 

Rani took a deep breath before she began to walk down the aisle of the mighty cathedral. In the months since the Fellowship's fall, debris had been cleared away–shattered glass, twisted lead, crumbled stone braces. The massive hall had been cleaned, but it had not yet been rebuilt. That labor was still to come. That labor might take a lifetime.

With every step, she remembered other times that she had been in the building: in her childhood, when she stood beside her mother and her father, surrounded by siblings on the feast day of Hern, the god of merchants.

She paused, waiting for Hern's salty flavor to spread across her tongue. She could remember the taste of him, remember it as clearly as the first childhood rhyme she had ever mastered. Now, though, the god of merchants kept his distance, sparing her his flavor, letting her concentrate on her current mission.

She continued to walk past the cathedral's side chapels, ignoring the throngs that filled the spacious nave. She knew that the day had been declared a feast day for all castes, not just for the guildsmen whom she represented. Hal had ordered almond cakes distributed among the Touched and wine among the soldiers. Merchants were relieved of taxes for all sales made that day, and noblemen had been summoned to a feast at the palace that very night.

A breeze picked up, and Rani was grateful for the ermine robe that covered her shoulders. It had been a gift from the furriers' guild, a fine symbol that she was about to be brought back into her chosen caste. She had donned the garment with gratitude, both for its warmth and for its emblematic approval.

As she walked, Rani heard the whispers of speculation growing in the crowd. Four boys carried her masterpiece on a litter behind her. The actual glasswork was hidden inside a leather-covered box, nestled in protective folds of velvet. Rani had settled it there herself, muttering a quick prayer to Clain, waiting for the memory of cobalt light to flash behind her closed eyes.

Hal waited for her on the dais, and Rani glanced at his face with a feeling akin to sadness. She remembered when he had been a slight youth, when he had stood beside his father as the King's Inquisitor. He had questioned her then, made her tell a truth that burned inside her heart, within her hand.

All unknowing, he had set them upon the road of the past eight years, for he had granted power to the Fellowship, to the Watchers as Rani had known them then. Hal had welcomed the black-robed fellows, grateful for their alliance against a nest of assassins. How different would things have gone, if Morenia had not relied upon the Fellowship? Might Hal's face be free of all his lines of care?

Rani forced away the questions. She had trusted the Fellowship. They had seemed to bring peace and stability in a troubled time. Even now, the surviving members spoke fine words from their prison cells. Dartulamino had been forbidden any visitors, so smooth were his lies and so shrewd his arguments. Glair had been placed in a solitary cell, that she might not gather new allies, might not build new weapons against her king and kingdom. There would be trials for all of them, for Dartulamino and Glair and all the fellows who had gathered in the round room beneath the cathedral.

The prison cells were overflowing, between members of the Fellowship, and Briantan priests who had been captured in the streets, and Liantines who had roamed the docks in the harbor. Hal had already engaged in lengthy negotiations with the weakened king of Brianta; he had sent scalding demands to Teheboth Thunderspear, with whom he'd once held peace.

Ambassadors had traveled the high roads, bearing gifts to Morenia and promises of future prosperity. Teheboth, never afraid of spilling blood to further his own ends, had sent Hal a grisly gift of half a dozen heads, leaders of the Liantine Fellowship, all.

Rani had looked upon the blackened, stinking things, and her heart had twisted in her chest. Crestman had known these people. He had brought them into the Fellowship's tent. He had lured them from a life of hopeless slavery into the engines of war.

Crestman. Even now, he was rotting in the earth. Hal had refused him a pyre, refused to recognize that the man had once been a valued captain in the Morenian army. At first, Rani had thought to argue, but her heart was hardened when she thought of little Laranifarso, of Marekanoran whom she had never met, even of Mareka. No, Crestman would rot, as if that indignity might right the wrongs of a life poorly lived.

There
had
been other pyres though, for all the men who had died upon the plain, for all of the loyal Morenians and Sarmonians who had given their lives to liberate Moren. Hal had witnessed every one, joined by King Hamid who had stood straight as an arrow in his well-tailored robes.

When the last ashes had cooled, Hamid had returned to his homeland. He had not dared to tarry longer in the north. As expected, his electors had called for a new king. Even now, Sarmonia's landed men were debating potential monarchs, arguing about the merits and detractions of various men. Hamid was said to ride throughout his land, bolstering his proponents.

He might regain his crown. He might be voted back to his throne. And even if he were not, his travels enabled him to root out the Fellowship, to unveil the traitor electors who had first turned against him, when he was still a legitimate king.

Rani was surprised to find herself at the base of the cathedral's dais; she could not remember the final steps that had brought her there. A strong breeze whistled down the aisle, and she shrugged deeper into her ermine robes. Here, at the front of the great religious hall, the winds blew stronger, gathering strength from every empty window that gaped above the nave. At least the doors had been repaired; the carved portals that Dartulamino had splintered had been replaced by simple oak panels.

Rani took the four steps with confidence, setting aside the memory of her last appearance in the cathedral proper, of her frantic scramble for the secret passage behind the altar. Hal helped her up the last step, taking both her hands in his.

His palms were warm and dry; his touch was steady. She bowed her head and sank to her knees before him, aware that all four of the boys knelt in the aisle behind her, carefully lowering their precious burden. Hal spoke above her bent form, projecting his voice for the people who filled the cathedral. “Greetings, Ranita Glasswright. It gives us pleasure to see you in the House of the Thousand Gods.”

Again, Rani felt a swirl in her memory, a whisper of the glory that she had seen, that she had summoned. The gods stood at bay, though, keeping to their unspoken promise to let her live her life uninterrupted. Rani crossed her hands over her chest, speaking loudly but knowing that her words would not carry to all. “Gracious lord, the pleasure is for this humble glasswright.”

“We have been told that you would offer up a gift to us this day.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” Rani looked up into his face. She could see his father's bones, the strong cheeks that had marked Shanoranvilli ben-Jair from the first day that she met the ancient king. She remembered kneeling before that man, years ago, when she had come to the cathedral as First Pilgrim. She took courage from the memory, from the thought of all that had passed since, all that she had survived, and learned, and come to master.

“Aye, Your Majesty,” she repeated, and this time her voice could be heard by the entire assembly behind her. “I come to present you with a gift. I come to present you with the symbol of my guild, and to ask, if it pleases you, that you will grant us license to operate in Morenia as the refashioned glasswrights' guild.”

“Let us see this gift, then.” Hal raised her to her feet, and once again she remarked on how his touch was strong and firm.

Without bidding, the four boys climbed to the dais, balancing their burden with pride. They set the litter upon the floor and looked to Rani for further instruction. Before she could step forward, though, to open the magnificent box, Hal gestured to the man who stood closest by his side. “Baron Farsobalinti, will you give aid to Ranita Glasswright?”

“With honor, Your Majesty.” Farso glided to the litter, but he paused before he opened the box. He took the time to meet Rani's gaze, to study her face. She read that he was pleased to help her, that he was proud to stand by the side of his king. But even deeper than that message, woven into the set of his shoulders and the smoothness of his face, she read that he was at peace. He had accepted the death of his son and the madness of his wife, the loss of Mair forever. He still mourned his family, might mourn them forever, but he had renewed his mission to serve his king, to work for Hal's rebuilding of Morenia.

Rani's lips quirked into a smile, and she lowered her head in the faintest of nods. Farso bowed deeply, and then he swept away the lid of the wooden box.

Years ago, she would have been afraid to handle the glass creation nestled on the velvet. Her fingers would have trembled; her palms would have been slicked with sweat. She would have imagined her punishment if she dropped it; her knees would already ache with the embossed designs set into the benches before the altars of Sorn and Lene and all the others who had watched over her apprenticeship with exasperation.