Father Dartulamino pitched his voice softly. “The gods do not ask, Your Majesty.”
“That, at least is true!” Queen Mareka cried. “They ask nothing. They take! They steal! They murder innocent babes!”
“No one was murdered, Your Majesty.”
“Tell that to my children! Tell that to the corpses that await the pyre outside. Tell that. …” The queen trailed off, her words lost in hysterical sobs as she collapsed back to the marble floor. King Halaravilli hovered over her, trying to settle a soothing hand upon her brow. The queen twisted away from him, writhing as if she were a fish caught on a line. Her sobs rose to the transept vaulting, filling the church with the raw passion of a mother denied.
“My lady. …” the king said. “Please, Mareka. Please. …”
The queen, though, did not acknowledge her husband’s whispered words. King Halaravilli glanced wildly at the Holy Father, at the caloyas who still clustered ineffectually around his wife.
They did not understand. They did not know how Mareka Octolaris’s mind worked.
All of a sudden, Berylina’s mouth filled with the taste of peach. The flavor surged across her tongue, coating her throat as if she had bitten into the ripest summer fruit. She caught her breath at the purity of the flavor, at the sheer force of the sensation. What god was this? She did not remember having felt his touch before, having swallowed his intoxicating nature.
She reached inside her thoughts, calming the still, small place inside her, as Father Siritalanu had taught her to do. Taking a deep breath, she gathered in the essence of peach once again, rolled it across the back of her tongue. There. … Almost. … Nim! The god of wind.
Berylina hastily spoke a prayer in her mind. Hail, Nim, god of wind. Greetings in this house dedicated to all the Thousand Gods.
She scarcely hesitated as the power of the god enveloped her. Nim reached inside her thoughts, gathering up her prayer with his grasping fingers. He swirled through her awareness, wrapping her in the flavor of peach, in the overwhelming essence of summer fruit.
Nim. The unbridled power of the winds that blew across the high plains of Liantine. The force that made the long, green grass lie down in rippling waves, like fold after fold of softest silk. … Nim, who had encircled the spiderguild in Liantine, who had cradled the stronghold in the grip of storm, in the flow of daily life. Nim, who would be the comfort of any member of the spiderguild, forever and always. Nim, who had watched a young apprentice grow up in the shelter of her family and her craftsmen, who had watched a young woman discover and create the meaning of her life.
Berylina was barely aware of the crowd behind her as she stepped up to the dais. She edged past the Holy Father, skirting the king of all Morenia. She scarcely saw her hands passing between those of the green-clad caloyas, only vaguely realized that she was kneeling before the altar. Kneeling beside her queen.
The flavor of peach was flooding her mouth, flowing through her body, commanding her heart and her lungs and her brain. “My lady,” she whispered. “You must take strength, Your Majesty.”
“There is no strength!”
“There is, my lady.” Berylina reached out one hand, settled her fingertips against the desperate woman’s lips. She felt the power of Nim flow through her, felt the touch of peach wash against Queen Mareka, as clearly as if nectar dripped onto the royal lips. “There is strength, my lady. Strength in Nim.”
“Nim. …”
“The god of wind, Your Majesty. He has watched you since you were a child.” Berylina heard the god inside her head, understood the words that he whispered. “He has seen you stand strong before. He knows your core. He knows that you can conquer this loss. You can rise up now. You can do what must be done.”
The queen merely cried out in agony, devastation etching her face, her hands, every fiber of her body.
Berylina closed her crossed eyes, drew her vision inside her mind. How often had she done this? How often had she closed out the distorted view of the world, the sights that passed unreliably through her skewed gaze? In the darkness of her inner sight, she could make out a child-Mareka huddled on a cot, a frightened girl, an apprentice away from her family for the first time. She saw the same child standing in the spiderguild’s riberry groves, afraid to climb a tree. She saw the girl reaching out to feed a hungry octolaris. At each of these tests, the girl-Mareka had been surrounded by the wind, bolstered by Nim, even if she had been unaware of the god’s presence.
Berylina forced her voice to be strong, let her inner conviction harden her words more than she had ever dared before. She proclaimed, “Nim has been with you, my lady. In the guild, he stood beside you, from the first day that you took your apprentice oath. Think of the wind on the high plain. Think of the god’s touch as he smiled upon you.”
Queen Mareka quieted, her sobs dying off as she listened to Berylina’s words. The queen darted her tongue across her lips, as if she were collecting the sweet nectar of Berylina’s vision. “He has,” she whispered. “He watched over my presentation to the guild.”
“He has watched over all that you have done. All the difficult choices that you ever made. He came to me just now, Your Majesty. He came to remind me, to remind you, that you can do this terrible thing. You can find the strength. You must find the strength.” The queen held out her hands to Berylina, and the princess helped the older woman to stand. “Nim will watch over you, my lady. He will not abandon you.”
Mareka raised her eyes to the altar, to the wooden plaques that represented her lost sons. She drew one shuddering breath, and for an instant, Berylina feared that the god might have played her false. She could still taste peach at the back of her throat, though. Nim was still in the cathedral. He still attended his neediest worshiper.
“Come, my lady,” Berylina said. “Let us go with the priests to the courtyard.”
“The pyre.” Mareka’s voice was dead as she spoke the two words.
“Aye, my lady. It must be done. But Nim will be there. He will carry your children to the Heavenly Fields. He will usher them in to life everlasting.”
“Nim will be there.”
“He watches over you, my lady. He loves you.”
“Nim. …” Queen Mareka turned to the Holy Father, as if she had only just discovered the religious man upon the dais. “I am sorry, Father. I meant no disrespect.”
“The Thousand Gods are understanding, Your Majesty.” Dartulamino delivered the benediction with an arched eyebrow, and he spared a long glance for Berylina.
Still hesitating, the queen turned to her husband. “My lord. I am sorry.” She seemed to be speaking of more than the service, of more than her emotional collapse.
King Halaravilli eyes filled with tears as he stepped beside his wife. He took her hands between both of his and said, “No apologies, my lady. None are necessary. Let us finish this grim business, that you may return to your chambers and get your rest.”
Queen Mareka pulled free from her husband and closed both her hands around Berylina’s arm. The bones stood out from her flesh, as if she were a starving child. “Please! Come with us, Berylina. Come into the courtyard!”
“I will not leave you, my lady.” Berylina helped the queen step down from the dais. Nim hovered nearby, filling the princess’s mouth with peach as the procession edged out of the cathedral.
Outside the building, the summer sun shone, as if the day were made for a festival. The sky was blue. Birds sang from their perches on the marble roof of the House of the Thousand Gods. Queen Mareka clutched at Berylina’s arm, almost like a blind woman, as if she needed to draw from the princess’s strength to set one foot in front of the other.
Berylina felt Nim’s touch rise, a headier flavor, a riper taste. A breeze whipped around the corner of the building, bringing with it the smell of smoke. The queen stumbled, clearly not prepared to take these final steps, but Berylina said, “Hail, Nim, god of wind. He is come to us across the ocean, across the plain. Gather in the stories of your chi
ldren, my lady, and bring them to Nim now.”
The queen appeared to take comfort in the words. At least, she managed to step forward, to move around the corner of the building. She could not keep from crying out, though, as she saw the pyre constructed in the center of the vast cathedral close.
The iron framework stood in the center of the charred circle, towering high enough for dried faggots to be placed beneath it, around it. Two linen-wrapped bundles were centered on the platform, standing out against the metal like nightmares leaping forth from sleep.
Bundles of wood were stacked against the frame, lengths of hard oak. Even across the courtyard, Berylina could smell the oil, the sacred chrism that would guarantee that the fire caught and burned hot. Two green-clad priests stood beside the pyre, each holding a flaming torch. The fire paled in the bright light of mid-day.
Holy Father Dartulamino crossed the close as if he were destined for some grim marketplace. King Halaravilli followed more slowly, his pale face falling as he neared the iron platform. Queen Mareka’s grip tightened on Berylina’s hand, cinching tighter, pulling the princess closer. Berylina wanted to protest, wanted to spare her crushed bones, but she could not abandon her country-woman.
“And so we gather beneath the eyes of all the Thousand Gods,” Father Dartulamino intoned. “We gather before this worldly representation of the gates to the Heavenly Fields, this stand of iron and wood that seems for us, if only for a moment, to be a passage into the next world, into life beyond where we will find peace and joy and life everlasting.”
The priest knelt before the iron stand, inclining his head in silent prayer for a long while. Berylina watched King Halaravilli fall to his own knees, his lips moving in some heartfelt salute. She wondered for a moment what gods the king might call upon to guide his children. Queen Mareka pulled the princess down beside her, and Berylina could just make out a single whispered word: “Nim. . . “
The Holy Father reached out to a golden plate that was embedded in the earth on the edge of the burned circle. His fingers closed upon a loaf of bread, a perfect circle that had been baked that morning in the priests’ most sacred oven. “Prince Marekivilli ben-Jair, we present you with this bread, to ease your journey to the Fields. Prince Halarameko ben-Jair, we present you with this bread, to ease your journey to the Fields.”
The Holy Father climbed to his feet and bowed deeply. Raising the perfect round above his head, he clenched his fingers, tearing the loaf into two equal parts. Turning to his king and queen, the priest offered up the funeral bread. Queen Mareka was unable to move, but the king stepped forward and took one of the pieces. He tore a morsel from the loaf and proffered it to his wife, setting it inside her open mouth when she seemed unable to handle it herself. King Halaravilli took a piece for himself, chewing slowly, as if he had never tasted bread before. Only when he had stretched his neck, swallowing audibly, did he return the loaf to Dartulamino. The priest stepped up to the iron framework, leaning bread against each shrouded bundle.
Then the Holy Father stepped back and bowed again, rising up with a golden cup. The blinding sunlight glinted off the rim of the goblet, sending a message to the heavens. “Prince Marekivilli, we present you with this wine, to ease your journey through the Gates. Prince Halamareko, we present you with this wine, to ease your journey through the Gates.”
But first, of course, the priest presented the cup to his king and queen. Again, King Halaravilli helped his wife, holding the goblet so that she could swallow. For just an instant, Berylina thought that Mareka would not be able to act, but then she closed her eyes and gulped from the cup. Wine glistened on her lips as her husband followed suit, and the royal couple watched as the priest turned back to the pyre.
He poured the wine slowly, spilling half of it on one shroud before turning to stain the other. When he stepped back, the crowd surged closer. They knew that there was only one prayer left to utter, one action left to take.
“May Nome watch over these children after they cross into the Heavenly Fields. May Gir wrap them in his robes of flame that they might reach the Gates with all possible speed. May Tarn gather them beneath his cloak and keep them safe from further harm.”
A piped air indicated that Nome accepted his charge. Gir stepped forward with his gold-white robes, so cool for the god of fire. Tarn flashed again, green-black in Berylina’s mind.
And then the Holy Father raised a hand. The two priests lowered their torches, thrusting the burning pitch into the stacks of oil-soaked wood. Flames leaped up immediately, orange and red and yellow tongues licking at the linen shrouds, the bread, the spill of wine.
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; the
y 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.
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