Glasswrights' Test (23 page)

Pilgrims were meant to bear the Star. That was how their holiness could be known. That was how they announced their presence at the Heavenly Gates. Berylina must not hesitate now, just because her journey was becoming difficult. What was a little pain, in the face of the glory of all the Thousand Gods?

Unbidden, she pictured her kindly nurse, the woman who had first taught her of the power of the Thousand. Nurse had paid for Berylina's instruction, had paid with her life, when the princess's father discovered what he called betrayal.

Closing her eyes, Berylina felt her father's spear thrust through her own chest, felt her own heart rend at the bloody wooden tip. Her green robes rustled in the still, still room, and she knew the pain of a wound opening across her own flesh. “Tarn keep her and protect her,” Berylina whispered, forcing the words past the agonizing pain.

They worked, as they had dozens of times in the past. Tarn rustled his green-black wings above her, retreating to the very edge of her vision. She could feel the wound close upon her chest. She knew, though, that if she peered inside her spring green robe, she would see a line of vivid red. She would see the results of her father's spear, the visible reminder of the force of his anger. She would see the blood that had been shed to set her on the path of the Thousand Gods.

With a fee like Nurse had paid, how dare she waste her time locked inside a chamber? Forcing her bruised knees to unlock and move, she opened the door.

“I'm going to find him!” Ranita said. “You can't stop me!”

Berylina cleared her throat, and the two women looked up at her in surprise. They had clearly forgotten that she was in the inner chamber. A blush spread over Ranita Glasswright's face, but the Touched woman merely lowered her gaze and muttered something beneath her breath.

“Your Highness.” Ranita recovered first, and she sketched a bow toward Berylina.

“My lady.”

“I hope that we did not disturb your prayer.” She sounded embarrassed. Berylina tilted her head, to focus her skewed vision. Ranita squirmed beneath the gaze, and she knew that the glasswright wanted to step to the side, to center Berylina in her own gaze. The princess was used to that reaction, had witnessed it for her entire life.

When she was younger, she would have glanced away. She would have clasped her hands in her robes, gazing at her interlocked fingers as if they held the secret of all the Thousand Gods, attempting to ease their exposure to her blighted body.

Now, though, Berylina felt no such obligation. She knew that the Thousand Gods had made her as she was for some reason. She was not yet certain if she was meant to be a warning to the hale and hearty, or if she was to serve as a reminder, to summon all the faithful to pity and to caring. She knew, though, that she would never serve the Thousand by hiding her true form.

She stared at Ranita Glasswright, her twisted gaze unblinking. As if to emphasize her deformities, she darted her tongue over her lips, across her rabbit teeth.

To Ranita's credit, the glasswright did not react. Instead, she swallowed hard and said, “I'm sorry, Your Highness. Lady Mair and I were discussing matters important to our king. I fear that we let ourselves get carried away with the force of our arguments.”

“The gods are not distracted by our puny human fights.” Berylina felt the words rise within her, steady, certain. She wished that she could always feel that quiet confidence, always know when the gods spoke truth through her. “The Thousand do not care about your dispute.”

Berylina cared, of course. Berylina cared enough that she would write to King Halaravilli. That night, before she went to bed. She would relay the words that Ranita and Mair had spoken, let him know the danger that they perceived from the soldier Crestman. After all, the Thousand Gods had seen fit to set King Halaravilli upon the throne of Morenia. Berylina must be one of their instruments to keep him there.

She would have plenty of time to write, later. For now, Mip had waited long enough.

Berylina settled her caloya robes more comfortably across her frame and tensed her legs beneath her long skirts. Yes. Her knees were steadier now. They would carry her through the streets. She would not embarrass herself, or Father Siritalanu, or any of the Thousand Gods.

She smiled at Ranita and Mair. “I'll leave you to your debates, then.”

“But we'll come with you, my lady!” Ranita protested. “We're here to see that you are safe in Brianta.”

“I'll be safe enough. Father Siritalanu will accompany me, and my Thousand Pointed Star will protect me. I am only going to Mip's temple.”

Berylina watched conflict play out across the glasswright's face. Clearly, Ranita felt obligated to accompany her. Just as clearly, though, the glasswright had her own desires, her own goals. Something to do with her broken guild, Berylina supposed. Or the secret that she shared with Mair, the secret that involved the soldier Crestman. Of course, the private obligations won out—Berylina
was
safe with Father Siritalanu.

The princess raised her hand over the prayer bell at the door before she said to the two women, “May all the Thousand Gods watch over you. In the name of Hin, I hope that you resolve your dispute.” She left before the look of protest faded from Ranita's face. The god of rhetoric filled Berylina's nose with the essence of lilac.

Father Siritalanu was waiting for her outside. He gazed down the street as she descended the stairs. His face was creased with fine lines, and his lips were pulled into a frown. Here in Brianta, he always seemed to fear for her safety, for her well-being. As soon as Berylina stepped out of the hostel, he leaped toward her. “You were supposed to be here after Jin's bells.”

“I needed to finish my prayers, Father. I'm sorry that I worried you.”

“You didn't worry me, Your Highness.” His protest was automatic, and his fingers moved in the peculiarly Briantan gesture that resolved disputes. She wanted to tell him that no one should lie—not even priests. “I merely feared that we would be late, arriving at Mip's temple.”

She inclined her head, as if she were accepting his chastisement, and her own fingers wove in an additional Briantan suggestion of humility. After all, Siritalanu only meant to help her. He only meant to serve her and guide her worship. Poor man.

As always, the Briantan streets were crowded. Berylina eased her way through a knot of pilgrims who were vying for a merchant's wares. It took her a moment to realize that the old man was selling gold-washed leather representations of the Thousand-Pointed Star. Each symbol could be personalized with a tiny medallion, a twist of leather that was stamped with the sign of a particular god. The trinkets looked gaudy, and Berylina wondered who would dishonor a god with such a thing. Even as she asked herself the question, though, she realized that many pilgrims would leap at the chance to return home with such a tangible reminder of a trip to Brianta.

People wanted to remember their travels. They wanted to hold treasures in their hands, concrete images to help them recall the time that they had spent upon the road. The city teemed with trinkets—carved wood emblems unique to each of the Thousand, clay figurines, colored ribbons. What was next, Berylina scoffed. Was every Briantan set on earning gold in the name of the Thousand?

Berylina needed no such physical reminders of course. She had the images in her head. She had the twisted paths that the gods revealed inside her own mind, the chambers that they excavated inside her senses. She sighed and hurried past the busy merchant.

Father Siritalanu guided her to Mip's temple with a directness and care that showed he had already scouted out the path. Only once did he take her down a side street. When she looked at him curiously, he flushed and walked a little faster. “Father?” she asked, in a tone that hinted at her royal lineage. She used that voice rarely, because it made guilt prick at the back of her throat. This time, however, the commanding voice worked to her advantage. The priest turned toward her but refused to meet her eye. “Father? What is it? Why are you taking me this way?”

“I wanted to avoid the crowds in that street,” he said at last.

“What crowds? What is in there?” She stopped and planted her hands on her hips. She was determined not to miss out on any aspect of her pilgrimage, on any worship that she might make to complete her journey.

“A temple, Your Highness. Nothing more. No need for you to worry.”

“I'm not worried, Father. I'm curious. What god?”

“Perhaps I was mistaken, Your Highness. Perhaps we could have continued without mishap.”

“Father!”

“Your Highness. …” Father Siritalanu actually produced a kerchief from beneath his robe and began to mop at his brow. Berylina wondered at the priest's discomfort. After all, he was pledged to honor all of the Thousand—to recognize and exalt each of the gods for what that deity could bring into the world.

Berylina hardened her voice, strengthening it with the snap of command that she had learned at her father's knee. “Who is it?”

“Quan, Your Highness.”

The god of harlots. Berylina's belly flipped, and she stifled an uneasy laugh as her nose was filled with the sharp odor of boxwood. She had not met the god of harlots personally; he had never come to her as she stood ready with her crayons and parchment. Nevertheless, she had heard men whisper of him, and a few of the gods spoke to her about their colleague. She knew that Quan was a wastrel, a spendthrift. She could imagine what form worship took in his temple.

Or perhaps she couldn't.

“Never mind, Father. You were right in choosing this path for me. I appreciate your guiding me to Mip.” She strengthened her approval with a hand gesture.

The look of relief on Father Siritalanu's face was almost comical. For just an instant, Berylina wondered just what she
was
missing by not forcing her way into Quan's temple. Poor Father Siritalanu. He would probably never recover if she demanded passage. Instead, Berylina turned away from the sharp boxwood scent. “The afternoon escapes us. Let us go to Mip.”

Berylina followed Father Siritalanu through the streets, trying to ignore the maelstrom of sensations as she walked. As she passed minor shrines, the gods beckoned to her, sending out their particular signatures. Her nose filled with scents, and she narrowed her eyes to slits in an attempt to cut down on the spinning, flickering visions. Never before had she been surrounded by so much godhood; never before had she sensed herself to be among so many holy beings.

She knew that they were nearing Mip's sanctuary when the trill of a nightingale rose above the chorus. The birdsong was still soft, delicate, but it resonated louder as she turned one last bend in the street. She could feel the notes in her ears, but they traveled down her nerves, into her body, into her bones.

Berylina fell to her knees on the threshold of the temple. “Hail, Mip, holy god of water. Welcome this pilgrim into your sanctuary and look upon her with blessings. Recognize her dedication to you and accept her prayer as the blessing that she means it to be.”

The god heard her. She felt his attentions turn her way, sensed them as an intensification of the nightingale song. Berylina glanced at Father Siritalanu, to where the priest patiently knelt beside her, but he did not seem to recognize the power that rose before them. Nevertheless, the bird song grew louder, and Berylina raised her eyes, amazed that none of the other pilgrims seemed to hear it, to feel it.

The crescendo continued to build, the notes gliding ever sweeter, ever closer to their true, eternal meaning. Berylina could see into the temple's courtyard; she could make out pilgrims kneeling and praying. An altar stood in the precise center of the space, raised as high as Berylina's waist. A delicate metal framework stood behind the block of polished stone, and Berylina could make out a pair of artisans who worked at something.

What were they doing? What had they brought to honor Mip?

Berylina turned her head, letting her better eye focus on the workers. Ah! They were glasswrights! They were installing a frame, a panel that saluted the god of water.

The green-clad princess stepped closer to the construction, angling to one side.

There. … Without the sunlight shining directly on the glasswork, she could see the craftsmanship, recognize it for the beauty that it was. The panel was a medley of cool blues and greens, soft colors that swirled into each other like all the shades of a river. They caught the sky and reflected it back, breaking it into its component planes. They snared the stone of the courtyard as well, softened it, smoothed it. They captured the essence of Mip.

Berylina realized that her eyes were filled with tears. She had never seen guildwork like this. She had never imagined that an artisan could create such a true work of art, such a strong sense of rightness. The nightingale trill pounded through her limbs as she looked about the rest of the courtyard, checking to see which of the pilgrims had recognized the beauty, the
rightness
of the glasswrights' labors.

No one paid attention to the guildsmen, though. Pilgrims made their offerings, prayed before priests, spoke to each other. Families gathered together, sharing common meals as the sun climbed toward noon. The glasswrights might have been invisible for all the attention that was paid to them.

Berylina watched the worshipers kneeling before Mip's fountains. There were three watery displays inside the temple walls. In the first, a single great spray of water arced toward the sky, pushed to glory by arcane engines beneath the ground. In the second, a pool of water spread in a perfect circle, the water welling up slowly and mysteriously, cascading over the sides of its stonework ramparts like a sheet of liquid silver, only to be caught in a larger, placid pond.

The third fountain, though, was the one that cried out to her most clearly, speaking in a voice almost as perfect as the glasswrights' panel. Great blocks of stone were arranged in tiered layers, rising up like the stairs in a god's castle. Water splashed from the top of the rocks, cascading down in leaps and arcs, hitting new surfaces and sparkling as it fractured in the air. Everywhere that Berylina turned, rainbows glinted, prisms arced as they caught each other and bent and glimmered. The patterns were always glorious, always holy, and yet they changed eternally. The fountain cycled through different patterns, and water crashed down on different planes of stone.