“Aye, Father. Thank you for coming,” Hal said. “I wanted you to guide me in my prayers.”
“Certainly, Sire.” The priest closed the door behind him with precision. With the same precision Mareka had used when she had locked out the outside world. … Hal sucked in his breath, as if he had burned himself on his memories. He would not conflate the priest’s actions with those of the spiderguild apprentice; he would not sin that gravely.
Siritalanu came to stand beside the prie-dieu, running his hand over the top of the prayer bench. “It is good that you call me when you wish to pray, Your Majesty. It is good to reach out to the Thousand Gods at this changing time in your life. The gods watch over all their children with pride, but they are particularly pleased when we turn to them at times of celebration.”
“I am far from home, Father, and I feel the need for comfort.”
“Let us pray, then.” Hal bowed his head before the young priest. “Let us pray in the name of Fen, the god of mercy.”
Hal clenched his hands on the back of the prie-dieu, trying to collect his thoughts. He tried to remember that he was the Defender of the Faith, invested with that office at the same time that he was crowned king of all Morenia. The Thousand Gods should look upon him with favor. With forgiveness.
The priest whispered, “Hail Fen, god of mercy. Forgive us our transgressions, Fen, and find a path for us back to the ways of righteousness.”
Hal forced himself to repeat the words, trying to anchor himself upon their familiarity. He let Siritalanu move him from Fen, to Kom, the god of courage, to Lum, the god of love, and – finally – Rit, the god of marriages.
The priest was right, of course. Why not enlist Rit’s help before Hal spoke with Berylina? Why not embrace the power of every one of the Thousand Gods? Hal forced himself to relax in Siritalanu’s prayerful words. He let himself be lulled by the priest, by the familiar petitions that washed over him, that flowed from his mouth. There was comfort in the prayers, comfort in kneeling humbly, comfort in the familiar silence of the Thousand Gods.
When Hal had completed his appeal to Rit, he left his head bowed for several long minutes. Siritalanu remained kneeling beside him; his presence barely measured by his breathing. Silence enfolded the two men, bonding, comforting, protecting.
But Hal knew that he could not stay at the prie-dieu forever. He could not stay in the paneled apartments that had been assigned to him by King Teheboth, in the chamber where Rani had left him, where Mareka had come to him. The warm coverlet of comfort woven by the prayers began to fray, and Hal forced himself to breathe deeply, as if he were a soldier settling into his gear and heading off to battle.
It was time. Time to go to Berylina.
He stood shakily and leaned against the back of the prie-dieu. The priest clambered to his feet as well, reaching out a hand to steady his liege. “Are you all right, Your Majesty? You look pale.”
“I am fine, Father.” Father. The priest was a boy; what could he know of Hal’s trepidation? He was no one’s father. The word shivered through Hal’s guilty memories as he remembered Mareka’s touch, as he remembered her flesh melting into his. No! Hal was not a father, either. Hal could not be a father. Not yet. Not until he had taken a proper bride. The gods could not be so cruel.
“Your Majesty!” Siritalanu gasped as Hal’s knees began to buckle.
“I am fine,” Hal repeated, gasping sharply and forcing his head to clear, forcing the dizziness to abate. In the distance, a bell began to toll, and he swallowed hard. “I am expected in Princess Berylina’s solar, Father.”
“Perhaps you would like me to send her a message, Your Majesty. I can tell the princess that you are not well enough to join her.”
“No, Father. That is not possible.”
“I’ll come with you, then.”
Hal started to dismiss the earnest young man. After all, what more could the priest do for him? What more could he do, with his round eyes and his smooth cheeks, his boyish good nature? Siritalanu could never understand all the issues at hand.
What could it hurt, though? A priest was proper. A priest belonged on the fringes of a courtship – more than a merchant did, more than an apprentice. A religious presence would be … appropriate.
Hal raised a hand to the circlet on his brow, as if checking to make sure that the weight was centered. His head ached, but that might be from the weight of the fillet, or from his sleeplessness, or his hunger. …
“Come, then, Father,” he said grimly. “We mustn’t keep the princess waiting.”
“Aye, Your Majesty.” The priest made a small bow and followed him out of the chamber.
They passed others in the hallways, Liantines intent on their daily work about the castle. Hal nodded when he should, looking left and right like the king he was. No one stopped to stare at him. No one stopped to ogle. His blemished conscience was not apparent on his face, not marked on his fine robes. For all these Liantines knew, Hal was the same man he’d always been, the same moral suitor king.
Even Berylina’s nurses were unaware of how he had changed in the past two weeks.
“My lord!” the youngest said, as soon as he stepped into the solar. Both attendants dropped into pretty curtseys.
“My lady,” Hal replied courteously, waving both women to rise. “Please! Do not stand on ceremony for me!” He forced a smile across his lips. “Father Siritalanu and I thought that we would come and partake of the warm spring sunshine here in the solar.” He turned to Berylina and braced himself. “Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, my lord,” Berylina replied without prompting – a fine sign. She licked her lips nervously, though, drawing unfortunate attention to the rabbit teeth that got in the way of her tongue.
Hal crossed to the windows, looking down at the Liantine harbor. He wanted to be on his own ship. He wanted to carry Mair’s firelung weed back to Morenia, to supervise the difficult labor of tearing down the old city, building up the new. He could not leave yet, though. He must finish his mission here. He forced himself to concentrate, to turn back to the child he was courting. “Have you been drawing today, my lady?”
Berylina flushed shyly, ducking her head to study her hands. Nevertheless, she darted a glance toward her easel, and Hal crossed to study the work in progress.
She had begun the drawing with black charcoal, outlining the figure with determined, heavy lines. The man’s cloak fell in neat folds. His legs were sketched with skill, making it appear that he strode off the parchment. A fillet circled his brow, capturing a glint of light, and a heavy chain was strung around his neck. Hal stepped closer to study that chain, and he saw that it was fashioned of interlocking Js. J for Jair. J for the Defender of the Faith. He immediately looked at the figure’s face, his stomach tightening as he expected to see his own features reproduced. Berylina had not yet finished her work, though. The drawing’s visage remained blank.
Hal swallowed hard and darted a glance toward Siritalanu before choosing the safest conclusion. “It’s Jair, then.”
“Aye,” the princess confirmed, apparently grateful that he had been able to identify the portrait. “The First Pilgrim.” Hal thought that the girl would not manage any further words, but then she closed her poor, crossed eyes and said, “I thought to draw him as a gift for you. I thought to give him to you when you return to Morenia. When will you be leaving, my lord?”
Hal was touched by her earnest tone, by her naive hope. She must sense that time was disappearing, that Hal’s mission was coming to a head. Now, he must speak honestly. He must destroy the princess’s fragile hopes and make her recognize her future. He knew now that he would wed her; there had never been any real doubt.
He made his voice as gentle as he could. “Soon, my lady. Soon, we both will leave. I intend to bring you to my home, as my bride.”
There was a rustle among Berylina’s nurses. Certainly they could not be surprised by Hal’s announcement. Speculation had been running high throughout all Liant
ine, from the moment his boat had docked in the harbor. Nevertheless, this was the first time that he had dared to speak of his plans directly to the princess. She blushed furiously and looked away, twisting her hands in her skirts.
Hal felt an answering heat rise in his own cheeks. He should have planned this conversation more completely. He should have figured out precisely what he would say, not left an awkward silence where the princess must respond. Foolishly, he had confessed his intentions on the spur of the moment, inspired by Berylina’s drawing and her pathetic question, but now that he had begun, he was bound to continue. He sank to one knee in front of her, capturing one pudgy hand in his. “That is, my lady, if you will have me. If you will allow the crown of Morenia to settle on your brow.”
Poor Berylina’s fingers were slick between his own, and she looked as if she would dearly love to flee somewhere, anywhere. She glanced at the easel, at the stack of parchment beside the stand, at her expectant nurses. Her throat worked, but she seemed unable to make any sound emerge.
Hal waited patiently, looking up at his intended. The longer he paused, though, the more flustered the princess became. She closed her eyes, and her breath came fast, so fast that he began to fear that she would faint. Her lips trembled, as if she were about to weep. “My lady!” Hal exclaimed, transferring some of his own nervousness to his exclamation.
The cry proved too much for the princess; she pulled her hand from his and whirled away. Before Hal could rise up, Berylina had fled to the far corner of her solar, flinging herself onto her knees. She bent her head and made a holy sign across her chest. Her lips moved in frantic, desperate prayer.
Astonished, Hal clambered to his feet, but he restrained himself from crossing to the distressed child. Father Siritalanu refused to meet his eyes; the priest studied the drawing of Jair as if it held the secrets of all the Thousand Gods. Both nurses looked at their charge with pity, and then the older once said, “I’m sorry, my lord. Her Highness is not well today. She was up quite early, making her drawings, and she must be overtired.”
Hal heard the attempt to spare his royal sensitivities, the bid to treat Berylina’s actions as normal. He wanted to protest that he had meant her no harm. He had intended to honor her with his request. He had thought it would be easier for the child to hear him ask for her hand directly. It wasn’t as if she had a say in what would actually happen, after all. It wasn’t as if she would be permitted by Teheboth to decide whom she would wed.
“I understand, my lady,” Hal forced himself to say graciously to the nurse. He straightened his tunic and looked across at the princess, whose shoulders were now shaking – with either tears or frantic gasps, Hal could not be sure. “I would not disturb Her Highness any more than I already have.”
He bowed stiffly and started to turn back to the door, but Berylina cried out. “Your Majesty!” she sobbed, but she would not turn to face him. “I am sorry, my lord!”
Hal’s heart twisted inside his chest as he thought what the words must cost her. “No, Your Highness. The sorrow is mine. I did not intend to distress you. By all the Thousand Gods, my lady, that was never my intent.”
“B – By all the Thousand Gods,” Berylina whispered, her words scarcely audible across the room.
At her faint speech, Father Siritalanu stepped forward, as if he had only just come to life in the solar’s bright sunshine. “The Thousand Gods look upon all their children with grace, my lady.” The priest’s voice was young and earnest, loud in the glass-walled room.
“Yes, Father,” Berylina responded, swivelling her splintered gaze to look at the green-clad man.
“The Thousand Gods favor the brave, my lady,” Siritalanu continued, stepping out of Hal’s shadow.
“Yes, Father,” Berylina repeated, and her voice was stronger.
“Will you pray with me, Lady? Will you raise your voice to First Pilgrim Jair and all the Thousand Gods?”
“Yes, Father,” Berylina said one more time, and then she added, “Please.”
Siritalanu glanced at Hal, as if asking permission, and the king waved his priest across the room. Anything, he wanted to say. Anything to keep the princess from sobbing, from crying so desperately to be spared the terrible fate of wedding him.
Father Siritalanu nodded as if he were accepting a military commission, and then he strode across the solar. He knelt beside the princess and took her hands between his own, and if he noticed that they were slick with perspiration, he did not show that knowledge on his smooth, unlined face. Instead, he nodded once, and he pitched his voice so low that Hal could scarcely hear him.
“Have you prayed to Nome before, my lady? Have you prayed to the god of children?”
“Aye,” Berylina said. “But not for many weeks.”
“Let us speak with him, then. Let us speak to Nome, and then to some of his brethren. In the name of Nome, let us pray.” Siritalanu bowed his head then, and the motion brought him even closer to the princess. She followed suit, her unruly hair bobbing as she began to whisper formulaic words with the priest.
Hal watched for a moment. He was grateful to Siritalanu, grateful that the priest would take the initiative to calm the princess. He waited until he heard Siritalanu say, “Let us also pray to Fen. Let us pray to the god of mercy.” The priest had mercy on his mind today. Well, Fen had been good enough for Hal to address, so why not send the princess’s prayers in that direction as well?
Hal padded softly to the door. The nurses watched him move as if they were afraid of what he might do, but Berylina seemed entirely unaware of his passage.
Siritalanu knew, though. The priest looked up as Hal reached the doorway, his eyes solemn as they met Hal’s across the room. The religious rested a hand on Berylina’s wiry hair, spreading his fingers wide, as if he were gathering some precious essence from those unruly strands. His lips curved into a calm smile, a peaceful smile, a smile that Hal could imagine a mother sharing in a private moment with a child. Siritalanu inclined his head slightly, and Hal nodded his gratitude before he left the solar.
Only when he stood outside the room, on the dim landing at the top of the stairs, did he begin to shudder in revulsion. What sort of monster was he? What sort of man so terrified his prospective bride that she ran from him, fled sobbing into a corner, into the arms of a priest? And what horror would Berylina suffer if she knew the full extent of Hal’s sin, if she knew the things that he had done with Mareka Octolaris?
If Hal were a true man, he would stride back into the solar and speak to Berylina. He would release her from his schemes, from all his machinations. He would tell her that he never meant to frighten her, that he never intended to force her to be his bride.
And yet, Hal did not have that luxury. He was a warrior-king, fighting to save Morenia, fighting to control the Fellowship, no matter the cost. If one child, one endowered princess, could save his kingdom, what choice did Hal have?
And perhaps Berylina would come to love him. Stranger things had happened. And if she could not love, then perhaps she could come to trust him. And even if she was never able to trust him, perhaps she would one day not be afraid. At least that, by all the Thousand Gods. Let Berylina no longer be afraid.
Hal made his way down the winding stairs. The true business of this transaction was not to be done with the princess. It was time to confront Teheboth Thunderspear.
Hal walked toward the Great Hall, where he knew Teheboth was holding court. The Liantine king had predicted that his cases would occupy him until mid-day, but he had pledged to spend the afternoon touring the wharf with Hal, showing him the recently completed system the Liantines had installed for docking new and larger trading boats. A system of beams and hoists with iron grappling hooks enabled stevedores to empty a fully laden ship in two days, less than half the time the same ship would take in Moren.
Hal strode into the Great Hall with pretended confidence. As expected, Teheboth was seated on his throne, centered before the glistening green and silver spidersilk h
angings that had been Jerusha Octolaris’s bride-gift. The Liantine monarch looked every inch a ruler, surrounded by nobles and retainers, by attentive lords and scribbling scribes.
For just an instant, Hal regretted that he had not waited, that he had not assembled an entourage to impress Teheboth. Surely Hal should have someone at his side at this auspicious moment – Farso, at the very least.
That was ridiculous, Hal chided himself. He was only seeking a reason to delay. He was only trying to put off the inevitable bargaining. He did not need Farso. He did not need anyone. He was a man in his own right. A noble. A king.
Teheboth flicked a glance toward Hal, but he did not spare his royal visitor a word. Instead, he turned his full attention back to the nobleman kneeling before him.
“Very well, then, Hestaron. You clearly cut down trees that did not belong to you, and the lumber is already lost at sea, lost in the ship that sank. You cannot make remunerations directly for your wrong. You leave me with no choice but to order a restoration of coin.”
Hestaron bowed his head, and Hal could read jagged tension across the man’s shoulders. His rote response sounded heavy, dull, as he said, “That would be a mercy, Your Majesty.”
“You shall pay to your neighbor three times the value of the trees that you cut – three times the value, in gold coin, by no later than the first day of winter.”
Hestaron’s head shot up, and a look of incredulity crossed his face. “Your Majesty, I cannot make such payment! I lost my goods at sea! In the name of all the Thousand Gods, have mercy!”
“Silence!” Teheboth cut off the man’s protest. “The slavish Thousand Gods conduct no business here! For that sacrilegious outburst, you will make an offering to the Horned Hind. You will pay to her priests the value, once again, of all the trees that you cut down.”
Glasswrights' Journeyman Page 24