Glasswrights' Test (10 page)

King Halaravilli cried out, a wordless wail that carried across the courtyard like the fire stretching to the sky. Queen Mareka crumpled to her knees, her breath coming in short gasps as she sobbed, “Nim! Nim!”

Berylina sensed the presence of the god of wind and dozens of his brothers, all gathered to greet the royal princes. The taste of peach was overpowering, the flash of lights, the jangle of sounds. The princess caught her own breath, momentarily overcome by the visitation of so many holy beings.

And then, she opened her eyes.

The gods had left. They had gathered up the spirits of the princes, begun the destruction of the physical shells that remained behind.

The cathedral close felt empty, even though hundreds of men and women watched the pyre. Berylina heard the queen continue to call upon the god of wind, and she wondered that the woman could not tell that Nim had left. She thought about reaching out to smooth Queen Mareka's hair, to tell her that it was over, that the hard part was past, but there was no reason to steal away a comfort and a prop.

Instead, Berylina waited patiently, knowing that the shrouds would darken and curl, would crumble to ash. Then Berylina would return to the palace with the king and queen. She would kneel in the corner of her small room. Father Siritalanu would come to her, and she would share what she had seen, what she had felt, how she had come to know Nim completely.

And she would prepare for her journey to Brianta, to the homeland of Jair. She would make ready for her pilgrimage. She would submit to the Speaking, and she would open her heart to all the Thousand Gods.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Rani stepped from the shadows into the courtyard, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the brilliant summer sunshine. She was surprised to feel the heat radiating off the flagstones.

A chill had locked her spine when she read the urgent message that a page had carried to her tower chamber. She still held the parchment, curling the scrap between her fingers. She was surprised that the words excited her as much as they did—after all, she had spent more than ten years trying to convince herself that the glasswrights' guild did not matter, that she did not care.

Where was Tovin? What would he say when she showed him the message? She glanced about the courtyard but did not find the glasswright amid the working players.

The troop had taken advantage of the warm weather, stripping off their flowing cloaks and reducing their attire to their preferred tight jerkins and leggings. The simple clothes let them move more freely, tumbling and falling without fear of catching themselves on trailing sleeves and skirts.

Rani's first reaction was surprise at seeing the players in their practice clothes. After all, Hal's edict had been clear—there were to be no public performances of any kind for one year. One solid year, to mark the deaths of the princes.

Rani had tried to reason with him, had tried to explain that an entire year was too long, would cost people too much. Hal had scarcely spared the energy to bridle at her; instead, he had sighed and asked her if her players needed a profit so badly that she was willing to risk offending all the Thousand Gods. Rani had been left spluttering an excuse.

So, whatever routine the players were practicing, it wasn't likely to be viewed by others for months. Nevertheless, the active performers could hardly do
nothing
throughout the official period of mourning. They needed to move, they needed to work; they needed to develop the diversions that would eventually help heal all of Morenia.

As Rani watched, four players climbed to the top of an iron cube. The structure was made from narrow metal bars; there were ample perches for feet and hands. The performers each selected a corner of the device, planting their bodies at unlikely angles. A player who stood on the ground began to count out an even beat, clapping her hands to set a rhythm. After a full count of eight, the players on the cube began their performance, springing from one bar to another.

The performers passed each other in the air. Sometimes, they merely flew like birds. Other times, they clasped hands, reversing the directions of their flights. Once, a pair of agile women twisted about a bar on top of the cube, rotating like fish leaping clear of the ocean.

All the time that the performers executed their leaps and lunges, the single woman stood on the ground, counting out the rhythm, controlling the performance, keeping the action steady and smooth. Rani caught her breath as all four acrobats completed an unlikely series of pirouettes in mid-air, and she took an involuntary step forward when one of the players slipped. The man caught himself easily, though, and he flew back into the routine, passing by his fellows as if he had not endangered the group's precarious balance.

All too soon, the players found themselves back at their original corners, clinging to the iron with hands that trembled from exertion. They waited until their entire company was steady, and then they shouted as one, pushing off the iron structure and landing on the flagstones. Each player tucked his head and tumbled forward, ending on one knee, with arms extended toward a supposed audience.

Rani threw back her head and laughed, clapping her hands together in sheer delight. “That was wonderful!” she exclaimed, looking at each of the performers. “I've never seen you practice that routine!”

The players rose to their feet, smiling to accept her praise. Even as Rani stepped forward to congratulate them further, the fifth player, the one who had counted out the pace, stepped up. What was her name? Rani knew it. … Ah, yes. Takela.

“That was all wrong!” the woman snapped. “Modu, if you take that much time to complete the circuit on the upper bars, Shareni will be stranded at the bottom. She needs the snap from your arms to send her back up to the top.” Modu nodded, his handsome face dark as he stared at the iron stand. “And Shareni, you can't reach for the third bar on the last circuit. You won't leave any room for Robit's foot.”

“But—”

“No argument. This is a matter of safety.” Shareni swallowed further protest and nodded.

Rani felt sorry for the girl. Even she, untrained as a player, could see that there had been no other place for Shareni to rest her hand; she needed the third bar. Perhaps Robit should be asked to change
his
position. Or maybe they should add another beat to the rotation, give Shareni more time to find her place. Rani cleared her throat and stepped forward. “
I
thought that the balance was stunning. I thought that the piece was very well executed.”

Takela looked up, as if she had only seen Rani for the first time. The player bowed deeply, crossing both arms across her chest in a theatrical flourish. The woman's blue-black hair rippled in the summer sunshine. “Ranita Glasswright. We are honored that you've come to watch our humble practice.”

Takela's use of the title brought back all the import of the parchment that still curled inside Rani's hand. It also served to drive a wedge between Rani and the players, to remind them that she was their sponsor. Sighing as she watched the friendly players transform into respectful professionals, Rani reminded herself that she hardly had time for their diversions. She needed to speak with Tovin.

“Alas, Takela,” she said, forcing her tone to be light. “I fear I don't have time to watch your other routines. Is Tovin here in the practice yard?”

“Aye, glasswright. He's in the work shed.” Takela nodded to the building that stood at the far end of the courtyard. Rani offered her thanks and hurried across the flagstones. As she reached the doorway of the shed, she looked back to the players, noting that they had taken their places at the corners of the cube once more. Takela was ready to start the count again, to run them through the entire routine.

Before she could initiate the program, the sun passed behind a cloud, lending a sudden chill to the afternoon air. Rani blinked, and the iron cube stood out in the new light, harsh against the creamy flagstones. Rani was reminded of the funeral pyre that had stood in the cathedral close, of the bitter iron poles that stretched toward the Heavenly Gates. She shuddered and thought a quick prayer for the dead princes, the image of the funeral flames still fresh in her mind after only four short days. Rani ducked through the door of the shed.

Tovin was hunched over a table, peering closely at a beaded mask. A brazier burned beside him, the contents of an iron pot bubbling slowly atop the flame. He looked up as she closed the door.

Rani heard Takela's steady clapping begin again, and she said to Tovin, “Do you think the players are wise to create a piece based on iron bars?”

He did not pretend to misunderstand her. “We cannot spend our lives afraid of iron.”

“But it's so soon. The ashes have scarcely been raked.”

“If the pyre had not burned for the princes, you would not question us. There are other mothers, other fathers who lose their children every day.”

He was right, of course. But the princes were different. Their loss belonged to more than just Hal and Mareka. All of Morenia suffered. She tried again. “But so many people saw this last pyre. So many came to honor the princes.”

“And those are all the ones who will need assistance returning to their ordinary lives. They're the ones who must go back to the cathedral without fear, who must hear a child's cry without regret.”

“But didn't you see the queen? She was destroyed by the princes' deaths.”

“And you think that our players' roles will hurt her more? You think that we could add to the pain of a woman determined to feel guilt, determined to embrace responsibility for a foolish, terrible accident?”

“I think it would hurt her to see the production you plan.”

“And since when do you live your life by what will hurt Mareka?”

She bristled at the coldness behind his words. “
Queen
Mareka.”

“Aye. She bears that title.”

“And King Halaravilli.”

Tovin leaned his brush against the side of the boiling pot. “Then
that
is your concern? You fear that we players will hurt the man?”

Rani heard the transparent jealousy in Tovin's voice. How could she explain to him? How could she tell him that he had no reason to fear, that there was nothing, could never
be
anything between the king and her? She had recognized that hard truth three years before; she had built her life around that fact after Hal and Mareka had wed. Rani had chosen Tovin, but the player still did not trust her.

She made her voice steady. “I fear that you will hurt the king of all Morenia. I fear that you will cause him pain, when it is not necessary to do so.”

Tovin's eyes were copper pools as he studied her face. “Are you ordering your players not to practice this piece?”

“Of course not!”

“You are our patron here, Ranita. You have that power.”

“I am not invoking that power. I am not speaking to you as the players' sponsor. I'm speaking to you as a Morenian. I'm speaking to you as a friend.”

Tovin studied her earnest gaze, and then he nodded. “I'll think about your concerns.”

“That is all I ask,” Rani said. “That you consider the impact of what you do.”

“The piece might not carry past the king's ban. We might tire of it by fall, or winter.”

Consciously setting aside the debate, Rani stepped up to the table and peered at the brazier. She wrinkled her nose at the sharp smell. “What is that? What are you doing?”

Tovin smiled at her tone and waved at the viscous liquid. “That's glue. From rabbit skins. It has to be applied hot, but it will set fast and dry clear.”

“And the mask?”

“We'll use them next summer. There will be four—one for each of the cardinal points.”

“Then you've decided not to use panels any longer?” Rani could not keep the surprise from her voice.

“You have no need to worry about
that
,” Tovin said. “We'll have glass. Glass and costumes and music, too. The masks will only add to the production.” He stirred the glue and sat back on his stool. “What is it, Ranita? You aren't usually so fearful about your status with the players. You're not afraid that I'll abandon you, are you?” His smiled wolfishly.

“I—” she started. “Don't look at me that way!”

“What way?”

“Stop!” She grimaced, and Tovin laughed.

“All right. I'll stop. What have you got there?” She started to hand him the parchment roll, but he shrugged and indicated his hands. “Glue.”

She wrinkled her nose and unrolled the document. Her heart was pounding as she saw the bold letters once again, and she forced herself to take a deep breath. She cleared her throat and read, “From Parion, master of the Glasswrights' Guild, to Ranita, who once counted herself among our number.”

She stopped and looked at Tovin, checking to see if he understood the import of the greeting. He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as if he were going to whistle. Satisfied that he knew what the letter meant to her, Rani continued: “The Glasswrights' Guild will count its masters in its home of exile. We are told that you claim the appellation journeyman. We therefore summon you to spend the summer in Brianta, demonstrating the skills that you have gained. Your test for entry to the rank of master must be completed in one day, on the feast day of our patron, Clain. Join us for the glasswrights' test, or be forever banished from the guild you once called home.”

Rani looked up from the parchment, and she scarcely managed to take a full breath. “Tovin, do you understand? They want me to test for master! They want to recognize my rank within the guild!”

The player fumbled for a rag, wiping the glue off his fingers before he reached for the notice. He read the message, his copper eyes narrowing. “You ‘claim the appellation' then.”