Glasswrights' Test (41 page)

She saw other patterns, though. She saw a son who rode from his mother, early and often, trading on behalf of the players. She saw a man whose pride was wafer thin, whose sense of self-worth was wrapped up in delicate glasswork and fragile lead chains. She saw a man whose eyes darkened whenever she mentioned her feudal obligations, her past life at court.

Now, she saw the pattern. She saw the pattern, and she knew that she could not change it. Not now. Not with the tools she had at hand. Not with the mission that still lay ahead of her, the goals she must accomplish.

“Goodbye, Tovin.” She was surprised that her voice did not shake.

“Goodbye.”

For a moment, she thought that he would kiss her. She thought that he would close the distance between them, that he would fold his arms around her, that he would bring her near enough that she could hear his heartbeat.

But then, she saw the shutters fall across his eyes. His fingers tightened on the iron clasp of his trunk. He was already moving on, already saddling his horse, already fleeing Moren. He was already gone.

She turned on her heel and left the hut, ignoring the laughter of the children, ignoring the good-natured curses of the acrobats, ignoring the joyful bustling life of the players.

 

* * *

 

When Rani woke, the last fingers of sunset pried through her window. She lay on her bed, catching her breath from the nightmare that she'd dreamed: Messengers had arrived from the glasswrights' guild—endless messengers, streaming into the center of the players' enclave. Each of them carried a crumpled parchment message. Each of them bowed before her, proffering up the guild's verdict. Rani had taken every scrap of parchment, unfolded it, smoothed it with trembling hands.

“Upon most sad reflection, I, Parion Guildmaster, determine that the journeyman once known as Ranita Glasswright has not yet mastered the means of creating glasswork. Until such time as said Ranita shall perfect her skills, she shall not be known by her guildname, here in Brianta or anywhere in the wide world that honors the name of the glasswrights' guild.”

Failure. Scrap after scrap, messenger after messenger, reporting on her absolute failure.

Rani had sobbed in the dream. She had sobbed like a fiend, like a madwoman, like she had sobbed in Hal's study earlier that day. Was it only that day? Had she lost so much since dawn? Her king? Her lover? Her respect for herself?

She managed to sit on the edge of the bed. Her room was hot, and the air was still, but her skin was cold and clammy. She dragged herself to the small table in the corner, fumbling for an ivory comb. As she worked through the tangles in her hair, she tried to calm herself, tried to push away the bitter memories of her dream.

She did not know that Master Parion would fail her. Not yet.

Her hair was damp, and it hung limp against the back of her neck. When she looked at the ivory comb, she saw several fine strands glinting in the last of the evening light. It seemed that she'd been losing her hair since she'd been in Brianta. If she ran her fingers along her scalp, they came away twisted with strands.

Perhaps she
had
been poisoned. Perhaps the gods had a cruel sense of irony. Crestman had set her on a path, given her a vial to kill a woman, even as someone had worked to kill her with poison. Maybe the gods were laughing, enjoying her plight from their seats in the Heavenly Fields.

Rani poured a glass of water, but she could only choke down a single swallow before the metallic taste closed her throat. She glanced at the window again. It was still too early to do what she must do. She needed darkness. Total darkness.

She crossed to the prie-dieu that was set beneath the window, strategically placed to capture any errant breeze. Tovin had moved the prayer bench for her before they left for Brianta, before the summer reached its fever pitch.

He'd be gone by now. Gone, and sleeping in some inn. Would he really take ship for Sarmonia? She would have thought him too tied to his troop. But it was hardly
his
troop any longer. It had become hers, in the years that the players had spent in Morenia.

There would be time enough, tomorrow, to think on Tovin. For now, she had best pray to the Thousand Gods. She would need their assistance in the work that she must complete that night.

As she knelt on the wooden prayer bench, her hands found their way back into her pockets. There was Crestman's note. Now, she could finger it without feeling the gaping hole in her chest. She could picture the proud soldier, twisted and maimed. She could remember him as he had been, as he wanted to be once again.

And beside it was the vial of poison. Her belly clenched as she thought of the smell of it, sharp, acrid. That afternoon, it had taken her a long time to work the stopper loose. A small amount had splashed on her hand, and she had recoiled. Crestman had been quite clear, though. Mareka must
drink
the poison for it to do any harm. Rani was not likely to be damaged by a drop on her flesh.

Now, she set the vial on the prie-dieu's crossbar, folding her hands over it in a careful attitude of prayer. Which of the gods would note her appeal tonight? Which of the gods was assigned to listen to a reluctant assassin?

Tarn seemed too easy a choice, but Rani reached out for him nonetheless. “Hail Tarn. Listen to this poor pilgrim and grant her petition. Watch over her, and keep her in your grace. Hail, great Tarn.”

The rush of black-green wings was immediate, even though her words were stilted. The small vial seemed to grow beneath her fingers, to expand until she could feel each bump, each whorl in its imperfect construction. Dusty bits of cork still flecked the container's mouth, and she brushed them off hesitantly, mindful of the liquid within.

“Hail, Tarn,” she started again, only to stop when the green-black shimmer threatened to overwhelm her.

What had happened in that curia chamber? Rani remembered the ecstacy that had spread on the princess's face, her certainty as she spoke of the gods. Berylina had clearly known that they were in the room with her, that they surrounded her. The princess had seen them; she wasn't crafting tales for the curia priests. She had not exaggerated for the religious body.

And in the middle of the trial, Rani had thought that she, too, might actually be aware of the gods around her. She could remember the power that she had felt during her Speaking with Berylina, her certainty that the gods were present in her ears, in her mouth, in her nose and her flesh. She had sensed the gods precisely as Berylina had.

But was Rani only imagining those presences? Were they part of the illness that had dogged her since her arrival in Brianta? Were they an expression of hope, of desire, of desperate longing to share poor Berylina's faith?

Or—even more frightening—were they real? Had the gods come to Rani with the strange emanations that Berylina had known?

Rani bowed her head, reminding herself to concentrate on the prayer at hand. She tried to speak to Roat, and Arn, and Fen. But none of the gods seemed near to her, none appeared to listen. Justice, courage, and mercy were distant ideals. Rani's fingers grew slick upon the glass vial; the container seemed to send out its own rays of heat.

Under other circumstances, Rani would have been grateful. It had been so long since her bones had felt warm, so long since she had taken a breath without stilling the urge to shiver. So long since she had been well.

After tonight, she would have time to heal. After tonight, she would be removed from the Fellowship's threats. Laranifarso would be delivered, and she could return to the serious work of supporting Moren, of supporting Hal. He would need her, of course. He would rely on her more, once Mareka was gone.

Life in Moren might return to the old patterns, to the customs and traditions from before the fire. From before Berylina and Mareka. Life might be simple again.

Rani gave up on prayer. She used the prie-dieu to pull herself to her feet. Her knees ached as she straightened, and her thoughts flashed on memories eight years old. As a young glasswright, she had spent a great deal of time praying to Sorn, the god of obedience, to Plad, the god of patience. The glasswrights' prayer benches had been embossed with the symbols of their crafts; Rani's knees had been gouged more times than she cared to remember.

Those prie-dieus had perished in the old guildhall. Perhaps Parion had ordered more constructed for the hall in Brianta. Odd, that Rani had not seen one while she was in Jair's homeland. Odd, that the guild seemed all out of keeping with the gods. Odd, that the glasswrights held themselves so far apart, even in their new home.

More mysteries. More thoughts. More riddles to be solved.

After tonight. She was letting her mind wander so that she could avoid the serious business at hand.

Rani leaned out of her window, noting that the guards had taken up their night-time positions by the palace gates. Their torches burned high, and she knew that the men's faces would shine with sweat in the summer night. She craned her neck and tried to look up at the royal apartments, at the window where Mareka slept. The angle was too steep, though. She could not see the queen's balcony from her room. She could not see her destination.

The Pilgrims' Bell began to toll across the night, summoning the faithful from the surrounding countryside. The deep tones had saved lives in the middle of winter, gathering in pilgrims who would otherwise have succumbed to snow or wolves or worse. Now, in the summer, the bell sounded weary, exhausted, as if it longed only for one single night of sleep.

Sleep. Rani would have that after she completed her mission. Long hours of sleep, with no more cares.

For now, though, she must begin. She must complete her task. Otherwise, the Fellowship would never be content. Laranifarso would never be free.

The torches in the corridor outside her apartments seemed too bright. Rani shielded her eyes, slitting her fingers so that her vision could adjust. The skin beyond her eyelashes felt tight, stretched, as if it had been turned to leather by her sobbing that afternoon.

She glided through the corridors without a challenge from a single guard. She crept down to the kitchen, confident that Cook would be asleep. These were the few dark hours, after scraps from the evening's dinner had been fed to the dogs, before it was time to mix yeast and flour, to knead the next day's dough.

Rani knew these passages well. She had discovered them with Hal when she was little more than a child, when she first came to the palace. In the dark days after she realized that her family was gone, after she knew that Bardo had truly betrayed her to his own secret band. … If only she had known then that there was lightness in those days, that there was quiet and

comfort. … Those were the times before Hal was called to wear the crown, before they had the weight of a kingdom between them.

Hal had led her from the nursery to the kitchens, taking midnight passages to liberate secret hoards of sweetcakes. Now, with the wisdom of an adult, Rani knew that Cook must have expected their visits. The plates were always filled, always covered with a single linen kerchief, always kept close to the warm stove.

Rani swallowed, trying to ignore the taste of metal. Secret palace passages. … She had long thought them a thing of the past.

Taking a deep breath, she stopped outside the kitchen's double doors. She hesitated in the darkness, resting her fingers in her pocket, against the glass vial. It was there. Returned to its normal size. Its normal weight. Its normal cool, glassy feel.

Rani's fingers found the low door beside the entrance to the pantry. Her fingers worked the latch from memory, remembering to press down completely before pulling the door toward her. She needed to double over to stoop beneath the lintel; she had needed to duck even before, when she was still a child.

The hidden passageway was tall enough, though. Hal had speculated years before that the secret stairs had been built for the convenience of the palace servants, so that they could carry trays of food and drink to the royal apartments.

Rani surprised herself on the climb. She remembered where the staircase twisted. She remembered where she needed to stretch over a crumbled step. She remembered where leaking rainwater had slicked the outside edge of four consecutive stairs.

And then, before she had a chance to recall more of her childhood, more of her carefree days, she had reached the top of the secret passage. One sniff confirmed that she was at her destination; the upper entrance to the steps was hidden in a garderobe.

As a child, she had been terrified of that closet. It was secreted in the queen's apartments, in the nest of rooms that had been corrupted by Queen Felicianda. Rani's imagination had always run rampant; she had imagined that the royal conspirator's wraith still haunted the chambers where she had lived in life. Hal had teased her once, pointing out that even if the Amanthian queen's spirit persisted, it was not likely to linger in a garderobe.

Rani shook her head. She had greater fears now than any imagined spirits. She was haunted by more frightening images, by more dangerous threats. She was plagued by the living.

As if she suffered from a nervous spasm, she reached again into her pocket. The vial was there, mocking her with its barely perceptible weight.

Rani had to catch her breath before she could hear the Pilgrims' Bell here. She was deeper in the palace, more sheltered behind stone walls that were intended to keep out the most determined intruder. But the men who had designed the fortress had not counted on betrayal in their own ranks. They had not worked to keep the queen safe from someone already free to roam the keep.

Standing with her hand on the door that led to Mareka's bed-chamber, Rani hesitated. There would be guards in the outer corridor. If the queen heard her moving about, she could summon help with a single cry.

Rani had called those guards to herself, a lifetime ago. When she was thirteen years old, when she arrived at the palace as the First Pilgrim. She had chafed under the watchful eye of a guardsman, a stolid soldier who had dogged her every step, keeping her from making contact with her brother. What was the man's name? Mercu—? Mardo—?