Pretty words, Parion thought. Pretty words that sparked obvious rebellion in the player at least. The guildmaster watched a sudden pulse beat strong in the other man’s throat. That one did not like his loyalties proclaimed by another. He did not like being committed to any particular path in the battles that were brewing here. Parion swallowed a smile. Like it or not, the player was bound by the wench he claimed to serve. Bound, but he would be helpless to assist her in the final accounting.
Before the guildmaster could craft a suitable reply, he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. There, in the darkest shadows beside the ovens. One of the Fellowship had moved.
Likely, the hooded figure had only shifted from foot to foot. After all, it was warm in the former kitchen; the air was still and heavy with the scent of ancient bread. Nevertheless, Parion suspected that the Fellow could have stayed still if he—or she—had chosen to do so. No, Parion was being sent a message. He was being ordered to move forward with this charade, to bind the Traitor back to the guild, to guarantee her presence for long enough that the Fellowship could have its way with her.
Very well, then. Parion was more than willing to play at that game.
“So,” he said, facing the Traitor squarely. “You call yourself a glasswright.”
“I am a glasswright, Master.”
“That is for the guild to determine. In this time of testing, we will set aside quarters for you here in the guildhall. You will report to one of our journeymen each morning for the next ten days. That guildsman will test your mastery of the basic concepts of working with glass. If you can demonstrate journeyman skills, you will be allowed to begin preparing for the test.”
“If it please you, Master, I cannot live at the guildhall.”
Parion let his voice freeze. “Cannot? What sort of disobedience is this?”
“Not disobedience, Master.” She answered immediately, but he saw how she swallowed hard, how she cast a quick glance toward her companions. She was not as composed as she would like him to think that she was. “I am bound to others, here in Brianta. I am not free to act entirely on my own.”
“And yet you come to us as a petitioner? A petitioner who is not prepared to follow through on her petition?”
“I come to you as a guildsman, Master. But I also come as a subject of Morenia. King Halaravilli ben-Jair himself has charged me with responsibilities here in Brianta. I must stay with Princess Berylina in our pilgrims’ accommodations. Nevertheless, I shall submit to all else that my guild requires of me.”
Halaravilli ben-Jair. The cursed king, whose own father had brought Parion to these bitter straits. The house of ben-Jair would not issue commands here in the Briantan guildhall! Morenia had forfeited that right when it destroyed the innocent guild, when it ordered the glorious old hall torn stone from stone. Parion would die before he would yield to ben-Jair. He would do whatever must be done to see the king crumple in defeat!
Patience, Parion reminded himself. He had waited for all these years; he could wait for a few more. Patience was all that he required. … Eventually, he would return to Morenia. Eventually he would be back in the land of his birth, with access and power to destroy the king.
“Very well, then,” he said, and he realized that only a few heartbeats had passed, despite the fire of his thoughts, despite the flash of fury that had pumped through his veins. “You shall stay with your princess, stay with the pilgrims. But each morning, you shall report to the guildhall, by no later than sunrise. You shall report to Journeyman Larinda, that she might test your skills.”
“Larinda!” He heard the raw surprise in the Traitor’s voice, and he resisted the urge to smile against it.
“Aye, Larinda. You knew her well, when you once worked with us. Who better to gauge your fitness to return to our midst?”
He saw the knowledge flit across the Traitor’s face. He watched her swallow hard and curl her hands into tight fists, folding her glass-scarred fingers protectively over her thumbs. She was no fool. She knew what fare Larinda had paid. She knew how harshly the former apprentice was likely to deal with the instrument of her maiming.
Before the Traitor could fashion a response, Parion looked to Larinda. Even he was surprised by the expression on the girl’s pinched face, by the open flame of hatred there. He was reminded of the look in Morada’s eyes, when she first learned that the guild would not permit her to travel about the land, to present her skills to all who wished to hire a glasswright. Morada, who had given her life in service to her guild, who had struggled as an Instructor to raise up the Traitor, to teach the girl who had only brought brutal, bloody death to her sisters, her brothers. …
Parion closed his eyes for just a moment, resisting the temptation to breathe a prayer to Gar, the god of vengeance. Gar would have his due, after all, no matter what Parion did at this juncture, no matter how he acted. Gar would make all right for Parion here in Brianta, and for Morada, wherever she walked in the Heavenly Fields.
Swallowing his thoughts as if they were a bitter draft, Parion raised one hand to summon Larinda forward. The guildmaster made certain that his sleeve fell back as he did so; he guaranteed that all who stood in the meeting hall could see the ragged scars across his own forearm. The Traitor blanched at the inflamed reminder of his blood sacrifice.
In response to the gesture, Larinda stepped away from the other journeymen. As if inspired by Clain himself, she crossed her arms over her chest, taking care not to jostle her silk and metal Hands unduly. Parion could not have crafted a finer gesture if he were sketching out a design on parchment—the girl managed to capture her loss and her power, her anger and her sorrow, all in one smooth motion. He nodded once, again regretting that Morada could not be here to witness the child that she had trained, the shrewd guildsman that she had set upon the path toward success.
He turned back to the Traitor. “Do you accept that term?” He nearly stumbled and called her by his private epithet. That he could not do. Not yet. Not publicly. “Will you report to Larinda Glasswright?”
The Traitor glanced toward her Touched companion, clearly seeking counsel. The dark-haired girl took advantage of the infant that she held, shifting the child from one arm to the other and using the motion to soften the shake of her head. So. The Touched girl thought the guild’s requirement was overly harsh. She thought that her precious friend should not submit to Larinda’s oversight.
The Traitor was not content with that advice, though. Instead, she also looked to the player, settling her gaze on the man’s face for a long moment.
The player was more aware than the Touched girl. He knew that Parion was watching him. With all the composure of a man accustomed to performing in crowds, the rogue glassworker took a step backwards, settling his gloved hands on his hips. The motion let him shrug his shoulders eloquently, disclaiming any certainty, any knowledge, any belief in what would happen if the Traitor acted or if she did not. Tacitly, he indicated that she should submit.
The Traitor was clearly displeased with such counsel; she started to protest. Before the words could rise from her throat, though, Larinda spoke.
“Ranita.” The journeyman’s words were low, whispered as if she were only just awakening from deepest sleep. “Welcome to our guildhall, sister. I look forward to sharing with you once again, as we shared the secrets of our youth.”
The Traitor had the grace to look ashamed as she turned to face Larinda. When she answered the gentle words, Parion could hear emotion behind her voice. “I think of you often, Larinda. I remember our working as sisters, in furtherance of our guild.”
“Side by side, we labored. And now, we may do so again.”
The Traitor swallowed audibly and stepped toward Larinda, extending her hand in a time-honored gesture of peace. She said, “We may do so now. I look forward to the opportunity.”
Parion saw the instant that Larinda grasped the Traitor’s hand. He saw the way the maimed journeyman flexed her wrist, the way that she closed he
r Hand more tightly. He knew enough about the mechanical contraption to understand the pain Larinda was causing, but the Traitor did not register the hurt.
Instead, she merely shifted her own wrist, tightening her own grip. She set her jaw and raised her chin, as if she were once again the defiant glasswrights’ apprentice, once again the girl who had spent untold hours on her knees before the altar to Sorn, the god of obedience, to Plad, the god of patience.
“Be welcome in our house, sister.” Larinda said.
“Many thanks for your kindness. I will do everything in my power to make you pleased with the decision you have made.”
Parion wondered if he was the only person who heard the shuffle of the Fellows in the shadows. He must complete this exercise now, before they chose to show themselves, before they elected to tear down the fragile edifice that he was constructing.
“That is settled, then. You will submit to Larinda Glasswright during all the time you visit our guildhall. That is not our only requirement, however. There is more that we expect of you.”
“More?”
Parion heard the challenge in her throat, saw the uncertainty that flashed across her eyes. He raised one hand, pointing sternly to count off the second of his rules. “You shall eat no food in Brianta but what we serve in this guildhall. I will allocate for you a plate, a bowl, and a cup for your exclusive use.”
He saw the arguments she thought to present, imagined the protests she would make—all about political obligation and duty and other excuses. He locked eyes with her, bringing to bear all the power of his position with the guild. She must agree to this. She must submit. Otherwise, all his plans would come to naught. He smothered a smiled as she lowered her head and nodded once. “I agree.”
And yet he narrowed his eyes, discovering that a part of him truly did not want her submission. He wanted her to fight him; he wanted her to misstep so that he would have an excuse for banishing her. No. She had accepted his proviso. She had opened the door to the heart of his revenge.
Setting aside the liquid thrill of that discovery, he continued, “You shall not correspond with your king while you reside in Brianta. You shall not send him any letter, by any messenger.”
“Master,” she started to protest, but she must have read the certainty in his gaze, his determination to remain inflexible on these points. She settled for casting a glance toward her colleagues, a plea, and he imagined that she would beg them to write her correspondence for her.
“Any letter,” he underscored. “One written by your own hand, or one dictated to another.”
“But if the king should write to me, I must respond, Master. He is my sovereign lord.”
“You seek reinstatement with your guild. Do you think it wrong that you should swear to the basic precepts that any apprentice promises? Do you think that you should be granted special exemption from your guildish oaths of loyalty?”
“But ordinary apprentices would have no reason to contact their king!” She must have heard the stridency in her tone, for she swallowed hard and lowered her voice. “Master.” She took a deep breath, and her exhalation was loud in the still room. “Might I write to the king once, and tell him the reason for my future silence?”
Bargaining. Always bargaining. The Traitor had started her life as a merchant, as a calculating thief, measuring out how much she could steal from hardworking souls in the marketplace. He gritted his teeth, but he said, “One letter. One sheet of parchment, with nothing enclosed. Deliver it to me by midnight tonight, and I will send it on for you.”
“I agree.” Her voice quavered on the two words, but she spoke them—aloud and before witnesses.
Parion nodded and continued with his rules. “You shall remain pure in body and in mind. Each morning, you shall complete a ritual bath in dedication to Clain, washing away the filth of your flesh and of your thoughts. Each evening, you shall complete a cycle of prayers to Clain and to the other gods that you have offended throughout the day. You shall refrain from all unclean touch, but especially from the touch of any man.”
He was not surprised to see her gaze flicker toward the player. Parion had already read the silent story of corruption between the two of them; he understood that she had sought refuge in the unholy circle of that rebel’s arms. Parion had lived in Brianta for long enough that he was scandalized by such libertine acts.
Nevertheless, the guildmaster was surprised by the player’s response to his demand. In the midst of the audience chamber, surrounded by all the members of the glasswrights’ guild, the man laughed aloud. He threw back his head, letting his chestnut hair catch the glimmer of the smoky torches. His throat rippled, and his guffaw was so rich that it brought smiles to the other glasswrights’ faces before they remembered themselves.
As if the man suddenly recalled that he was a guest in the hall, he straightened, and he ran his gloved fingers down the front of his tunic. He gave every appearance of a creature abashed, of a man who regretted having disturbed the solemnity of an event. Parion glared, but his fury was nothing compared to the Traitor’s. The girl stepped forward, deliberately turning her back on the player. “I agree, Master.”
Well. That had been more successful than Parion had hoped. Perhaps he had driven a true wedge between the Traitor and her strongest supporter. He must remember the trick.
“One last promise, and then we will be done here. You must agree to submit to me in all things. I am the master of the guild you wish to join, and I am the final arbiter of your fate here. I am the one who says, ultimately, whether you join our ranks or not. I am the one who says what you must do and when you must do it. I am the law within the walls of the guildhall. Do you agree to submit to me?”
He saw the arguments move across her face. He saw that she wanted to carve out exemptions from the absolutes. She wanted to submit on some points and not on others. She wanted to claim independence. She wanted to declare herself superior to him, in a thousand niggling ways.
He would have none of that, though. She must yield, now, from the beginning. She must understand that she would have no rights here in the guildhall, she would have no ability to destroy the fragile structure that he had built here in Brianta.
“I may not submit to you, if that would require me to foreswear other oaths that I have made.”
Parion’s anger was immediate—a red poker that flashed through his gut. “Then you do not wish to go forward with this! Your presence here has been a game.”
“I do, Master! I do!” Without his bidding, she crossed the few steps that separated them, and she collapsed onto the floor, ignoring the grime between the bricks. “Please, Master. Understand that I cannot change the past. I will submit to you on all matters in the future, but I cannot take back other oaths that I have spoken.”
He met her eyes, the green-blue eyes that seemed so much older than the young woman who knelt before him. Those eyes had witnessed death. They had witnessed destruction. They had witnessed treachery and all its costs. They had witnessed his beloved Morada’s head, severed and thrust on a post, carried about the Morenian marketplace.
Unflinching, the Traitor met his gaze. “I will submit to you, Master, but only from today forward. Only in our new endeavors. Only in the future. You cannot ask more of me—more than that no glasswright could agree.”
He heard the pleading in her voice, understood the desperation that sparked her words. For just an instant, he contemplated refusing her, imagined her devastation as all her hopes crumpled at his feet.
Before he could indulge the fantasy, though, there was a shuffle in one of the shadowed alcoves, a shift of fabric as the watching Fellows made their presence known. Parion must accept the Traitor. He must welcome her into the fold. Whatever reasons he might have for wanting her gone, wanting her destroyed, wanting her utterly ruined, the Fellowship wanted more.
The Fellowship of Jair controlled him. After all, this was Brianta, birthplace of the First Pilgrim. The Traitor might think that Parion held all the
strings; however, he knew that he was manipulated by other, greater forces.
He would accept her for now. But he would make her pay for all that she had done, for all that she had cost him, past and present and future. He had plotted out the course of his revenge, and it would prove sweeter for the delay. She would suffer more for thinking that she held the upper hand now.
“Very well, then,” he said. “I agree to your limitation. Rise, Ranita Glasswright, and be welcomed into your guild, until Clain’s feast day when your skill and dedication will be tested by your fellow guildsmen.”
She kissed his hand as he extended it to her, and he wondered if she realized that she did not first look back toward her companions, toward the player and the Touched girl. Parion saw them, though. He saw them, and he realized that both were worried for her. Both resented that she did not look to them for guidance. Both recognized that the Traitor was in danger in the guildhall.
Parion withdrew his hand, moving his fingers in the complicated Briantan gesture of paternity. “Welcome, Ranita Glasswright. Welcome to the glasswrights’ guild.”
Chapter 6
Berylina stood in the street, trying to remember to breathe, to breathe, to look up at the sheer stone walls in front of her. The birthplace of First Pilgrim Jair. Here.
A smile tweaked the corners of her lips. She had done it. She had journeyed to Brianta. Despite a father who believed that she was possessed, despite a new sovereign who was mystified by her, despite a priest who was in awe of her, she had traveled all the way over the Great Eastern Road, arriving at last at Jair’s home.
Poor Father Siritalanu. Setting aside his oft-voiced misgivings and his fears for a sixteen-year-old girl, he had completed the journey with her. He had spoken with innkeepers, making sure that Berylina had a private chamber each time they stopped. He had knelt with her in the corners of strange inns, held her hands between his, helped her to call upon the various gods to bless their days. He had spoken with Berylina long into the lonely nights, keeping her company as they listened to the Touched girl, Mair, comfort her crying child. He had cleared his throat and raised his voice to cover the noise of Ranita Glasswright and Tovin Player as they settled into their own, private chambers. …
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