Parion heard the pride in Larinda’s voice, and he knew that she must have devised the plan. “You think, then, that all will be pleased, if we follow this path.”
“Of course not. We will never find a design that pleases everyone.” Her disdain was palpable. “I think, though, that this is a good plan.”
Parion nodded. “Very well, then. I will look at the designs. We’ll see what works.”
“The guild is honored by the Master’s attention.”
“Noon, then? I’ll come to the hall and view the drawings.”
“Noon, Master.” She nodded and returned her attention to the Hand. This time, however, she slipped her fingers out of the silken ribbons. She wriggled her wrist through the cloth-covered band and returned the treasure to his work table. “That is a good tool, Master. A great tool for your humble glasswrights.”
He heard the longing in her voice. Curse the Traitor! Why should a glasswright as good and loyal as Larinda be reduced to pining after a twisted pile of silk and iron?
“Two weeks, Larinda,” he said. “Two weeks, and it shall be yours.”
“Clain smiles upon us, Master.”
“Aye. Clain smiles upon us.”
He waited for Larinda to take her leave, to let him return to his work. She did not make any motion toward the door, though, and she did not mutter one of the standard prayers to end conversation. “Is there something else, Larinda?”
“One thing more. We have completed our survey of the cavalcade points.”
The cavalcade points. In the midst of all his other plans, Parion had nearly forgotten the basis for the upcoming glasswrights’ test, for the journeymen’s ascension within the guild.
The points were scattered throughout the capital of Brianta—one thousand of them. Each was dedicated to a different god, forming the start for pilgrims’ journeys. A priest was stationed at each point, offering a parchment scroll and an ornate wax seal. Pilgrims planned carefully before beginning their travels, plotting a course through Brianta so that a personal series of gods watched over their journeys.
The lucky pilgrims, the ones who had both money and time, would leave Brianta then. They would travel to distant shrines made sacred to their chosen gods, or to places holy to the First Pilgrim. At each stage of their journey, they would add to their cavalcade, to the scroll that recorded their worship.
The most faithful of the pilgrims would make their way to Morenia, tracing Jair’s own path. Jair had lived out the final decades of his life in Moren, and he had died in that city. Each year, hundreds of pilgrims arranged to be in Moren for the annual recreation of Jair’s arrival in the city, for the presentation of the First Pilgrim.
“So, the survey is finished,” Parion repeated.
“Yes, Master. I have instructed one of the younger journeymen to copy over the figures. I’ll deliver them to you before the end of the day.”
“And what do they tell us?”
“Much as we expected. There are only forty-three cavalcade points that boast full churches.”
Forty-three. That left hundreds of opportunities. Parion forced himself not to leap ahead too far in his plans. “And are there windows in each of those churches?”
“Certainly. Some of them are quite good, in fact. We need not direct our attentions to them for a while.”
“And the ones that are not churches?”
“There are four hundred and twenty-two buildings. Mostly single rooms, in priests’ houses, or in shops that are sacred to a particular god.”
“Windows?”
“In a handful. Not many. The owners of the rooms would likely be grateful for anything that we offer.”
“And the others? What about the other gods? It’s what—more than five hundred?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“They have altars. Small shelters for priests, little more than single walls to protect a candle flame. The priests don’t stay there on a daily basis; they visit only occasionally. Once a week, perhaps, to attend to pilgrims’ needs, to stamp their cavalcades and send the faithful on their way.”
“And those altars, are they decorated?”
“They have cloths. The faithful bring flowers in season, or other devotional offerings.”
“And glass?”
“At none of them.”
“None.” Parion repeated the word, breathing in as if he spoke a prayer. None. The gods were being neglected. Eighty glasswrights, here in Brianta. More than five hundred altars. They could craft symbols for the abandoned gods, Larinda and the other journeymen who were ready to rise to master status. They could recognize the power and the glory of each deity. Parion said, “I’ll need the list.”
“It will be done by this afternoon.”
“Very good.” Already, he could see the whitewashed tables, could imagine his people hard at work. The emblems they would create would be fine work, worthy of the accolade “master.”
The neglected third tier gods would exalt in the attention. The priests would be grateful, eager to recompense such a pious guild. They would use the glasswrights’ devotion to inspire activity by other guildsmen, more concrete examples of craft offered up in honor of faith. The priests would preach about the glory of the glasswrights who offered up their art and skill in service of the gods.
And even if the priests didn’t pay for the new altarpieces outright, the pilgrims would. They would make offerings at the cavalcade points. They would seek out glasswrights to create replicas of the insignias, reproductions of the masterpieces. The guild could create a formbook, a description of each piece and how it should be made. Apprentices could learn their craft by practicing on those forms. Journeymen could set the pieces, stain them, solder them. A master could certify them—yes, a stamp would be necessary. Each medallion would have a lead tag, an official designation, proving that it was issued by a master glasswright.
The guild could sell them at the larger cavalcade points—the more senior apprentices could work the transactions. The complete set would be available to interested pilgrims who visited the guildhall itself.
Would anyone want all of the medallions? Was there a nobleman in all the world devoted enough—and wealthy enough—to want one thousand emblems? One thousand and one, Parion quickly remonstrated with himself. He mustn’t forget Jair. The guild would create a separate symbol for the Pilgrim, for the man who defined true faith in all the Thousand Gods.
“Very good, Larinda,” Parion forced himself to say. “Send me the list as soon as it is complete, and we will begin to plot our course among the points. You’ll be working on your masterpiece by the end of summer.”
“Thank you, Master.” The gratitude in her voice was palpable. “I look forward to serving the guild.” Like a good journeyman, she bowed her head as she left his study, nearly managing to avoid a last longing glance at the Hand on Parion’s work table.
He waited until the door closed before he turned back to the window, to the view of all Brianta that spread before him. His fingers automatically pushed aside the piece of parchment, and he cradled the medallion that Morada had made so long ago, in simpler days.
“We’ll have our vengeance yet, my love. We’ll raise the glasswrights up. We’ll turn our guild into an instrument of power. And when we have the money, when we have the dedication, when we have the zeal of hundreds of glasswrights, educated and true, then all will rue the day that our Morenian guild was destroyed!”
Parion bent his head and muttered a few formulaic prayers to Clain. It was a good thing that he had mastered the words as a young apprentice, for he would never have been able to repeat them otherwise, with his mind flying from topic to topic, from plan to plan.
“In the name of Clain, amen,” he concluded, and he set Morada’s gift upon the table.
It took him only a minute to find a bottle of ink. He tested his glass pen against his fingertip, then held it up to the golden sunlight that streamed through the window. It would do. He watched t
he ink drip from its smooth edge, leaving behind a perfect film. His hand was firm as he started to write to the Traitor: “From Parion, master of the Glasswrights’ Guild, to Ranita, who once counted herself among our number. …”
Chapter 3
Berylina Thunderspear ran her tongue over her lips, knowing that the motion only emphasized the thrust of her jaw, drawing attention to the rabbit teeth that had plagued her for her entire life. She could not help herself. She licked her lips when she was nervous, when she fought for the courage to make an argument. And the current argument was worth fighting for.
She lifted her chin and said, “Father, we have discussed this many times. You agreed before. What made you change your mind?”
Siritalanu sighed and shook his head. A frown creased his brow, adding unexpected age to the priest’s round face. The familiar lines around his mouth were pulled down into an uncharacteristic frown, and beads of sweat greased his flesh. He refused to meet her eyes, directing his own gaze to his hands, which clenched and unclenched in his lap.
Berylina rarely argued with her mentor. Generally, they both understood the importance of worshiping the Thousand Gods. They both knew the actions they must take to preserve their piety, to honor the gods. All the more reason for her to push him this time—she was certain that she was right, even if Siritalanu now thought otherwise.
“Your Highness,” he began, but she cut him off before he could press his argument.
“I am not speaking to you as a princess. You may not put me off like that.” The firmness in her voice astonished her. Nevertheless, if she allowed Siritalanu to address her as royalty, then he could claim moral superiority. He could claim greater knowledge of the gods, of their expectations. If the priest considered her a penitent, though, a loyal caloya. … She had to swallow hard before she could say, “Father, I am speaking to you as one of the faithful.”
“But no woman of faith would ever make your demand!”
Berylina shook her head. “Are you saying that none of the players have faith, Father? That is not the lesson that you’ve taught me in the past. The church says that all men and women have faith if they come to the Thousand Gods with open hearts and uplifted souls.”
“You twist my words, my lady.”
“Perhaps it is your thoughts that are twisted!” Berylina said bitterly, before she could stop herself. What was she doing? She must watch her tongue! She was speaking to a priest, after all, even if he was Siritalanu, the one man she trusted most in the entire world. What was she saying? “I’m sorry, Father,” she whispered. “I did not mean that.”
Shame washed over her, painting her cheeks with all-too-familiar heat. Why could she not speak to people properly? She was of the house of Thunderspear, after all. Any other princess would not hesitate to order a common priest to do her will! Any other princess would speak with command, with authority. She would stand tall and gaze coldly. She would keep her voice firm.
But Berylina had never been like any other princess.
Whenever she spoke, her voice broke against her rabbit teeth. Strangers looked away from her cast eyes, unable to stomach her shattered gaze. Her brittle hair stood out from her scalp, as if she had been caught in a windstorm. Everyone who saw her knew that she was flawed, knew that she was broken. People with the best of intentions believed that she was an idiot. Others claimed that she was evil, stricken at birth as vengeance for her parents’ sins. No one believed that Berylina could have anything important to say or think or do.
“My lady. …” But Father Siritalanu was different. He saw past Berylina’s physical self. He looked beyond her face, beyond her hair. He understood the shape of her soul, the perfection that she offered up in her heart in service to all the Thousand Gods. He knew her perfect passion, the faith that burned inside her. “My lady, you must know that I do not mean to cause you displeasure.”
“But it would please me beyond telling to offer up this worship to the Thousand Gods.”
“My lady, what you propose may be heresy!”
“Is it heresy to find the depths of the gods within you? To travel the paths of our minds—minds that the gods themselves created—to find the way that they wish to be worshiped? Is it heresy to Speak to the Thousand Gods?”
“But you would not be Speaking with the gods, my lady.” The priest answered her emotional outburst with quiet anguish. “You would be Speaking with me.”
“And you are the messenger of the gods in this world!”
“A messenger, my lady! Not the gods themselves! What if I am flawed? What if I am not worthy to guide you on that path!”
Berylina heard the despair in the priest’s voice, the raw fear behind his words. Father Siritalanu—the man who had rescued her from the shame of living in her father’s home, the priest who had saved her from a kingdom that worshiped an unholy goddess of blood and death, who had kept her from being traded off as a chattel to Halaravilli ben-Jair—Father Siritalanu was afraid.
“Father!” Berylina exclaimed. “You cannot doubt yourself in this!”
“I doubt myself in all aspects of your spiritual life, my lady. Every morning when I rise, I ask if I am wise enough to guide your worship. Every evening, I question if I have kept you on the proper path.”
“But you are a priest, Father Siritalanu. You are my priest.”
“Nothing has trained me for such an honor, my lady. When I came to the priesthood as a boy, they trained me in the ways of ritual. They taught me formulas to honor the gods. They taught me traditions.”
“But when the gods guide us, we create new traditions, Father.”
“How am I to know, though? How am I to know if what you ask is guidance from the gods, or merely the voice of your pride?” She caught her breath at the accusation, and he hastened to add, “Pride most deservedly taken, my lady! In all my studies, in all my speaking to my fellow priests, I have never heard of a penitent who receives such inspiration as you. The gods speak to you in ways that most men only dream. Who am I to measure that? Who am I to direct it?”
“You trusted me enough to talk to the players when I asked, to learn how they go about their Speaking.”
“My lady, I would talk to anyone, if you but asked me. You know that I am devoted to you.”
“Then what has changed? Why are you now afraid to guide me down the players’ path?”
“No one has ever done such a thing before, in service to the Thousand Gods.”
Berylina took a deep breath, and her nose was filled with the perfume of lilac, the familiar signal of Hin, the god of rhetoric. She fought the urge to stretch her lips into a rabbity smile. With Hin guiding her, she knew that she would win this debate. She placed her words carefully, setting them between two lilac-scented breaths. “And if Speaking is new, then you think it must be evil?”
“I do not know, my lady!”
The fragrance grew even more intense. “What if the first priests had feared to raise up altars to the gods?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, my lady.”
“What if the first priests had feared to light candles for the gods?” The aroma was so intense that it seemed a physical structure in the air around her.
“My lady—”
“What if the first priests had feared to speak their prayers aloud?” Hin was beside her, inside her, crafting her arguments for her.
“That’s absurd, my lady!”
“Is it? Can you say, in the name of Hin, that those arguments are absurd?”
Father Siritalanu sighed and shrugged, clasping and unclasping his hands. The motion seemed to free Hin, to let the god wander away, but the priest seemed unaware of the departure. “No, my lady. By Hin, I cannot answer those arguments with rhetoric.”
Berylina pressed her advantage, silently sending a prayer of gratitude to the departed deity. “Then perhaps Speaking is merely the next form of worship that the gods desire. Perhaps it is like the prayers that people spoke within their minds, before they were moved to pray aloud.”
“Perhaps. …” The priest sighed.
Berylina sensed that he was nearly ready to concede. She pushed: “When you met with the players, did you feel that the gods were displeased?”
“No, my lady.”
“Did the skies grow dark? Did the day grow chill?”
“Of course not.”
“Did your body cramp up with pain? Did your mind seize so that you could not think of the words you wanted to say?”
“No.”
“Then, Father, the gods were not disturbed by your learning to Speak.”
“They have not shown their displeasure. Yet.”
“Then we should try. We should attempt to add Speaking to the ways in which we honor the gods. Give yourself up to the Thousand, Father. If they want to change our actions, they have the power.”
“Yes, my lady,” the priest whispered, and Berylina swallowed a smile.
She was so certain that she was right. She had often heard Ranita Glasswright tell of Speaking; she understood the power of that state, the force of the mind. To harness that energy in service to the Thousand Gods. …
Before Berylina could say anything else, though, a bell began to toll. Deep and steady, the tone sent a long shiver down her spine. Tarn’s Knell. The largest of the cathedral’s bronze bells rang only to summon the faithful to funerals, to the trying services before bodies of the faithful were committed to their pyres.
More time had passed in argument than Berylina had realized. Convincing Siritalanu had taken the entire morning. She should have been at the cathedral long ago. She had planned to offer up extra prayers before the day’s service. Now, she would be hard-pressed to summon even one of the gods.
“Come, Father,” Berylina said. “We’ll continue this later. We’ll see what the gods think of Speaking after the funeral.”
Berylina threw a cloak over her simple gown, taking only a moment to tuck her wiry hair beneath a veil. She still reveled in her green garments, in the bright declaration of her faith. She had not yet spoken her formal vows to the church—she was waiting to do that in Brianta, in the very homeland of First Pilgrim Jair—but Siritalanu had agreed that she might dress as a caloya, a woman sworn to give her life in service to the church. She had earned that much with her faith and devotion. She had been granted that much by the gods who came to her, presenting themselves with their wonderful and unpredictable presences, their scents and tastes and sights.
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