Glasswrights' Test

by Mindy L. Klasky

  She would just have to focus on other gods. On gods who captured the notion of change, gods who would convey the essence that she craved.

  The old priest glared at her and asked again, “Who is the first god that you would honor?”

  Berylina clenched her fists and announced, “Ile.” The god of the moon. The god that endlessly changed his face in the sky, that presided over the ebbing and flowing of the tide, over the courses of her woman’s body.

  “Ile,” the priest said, and if he thought her choice was strange, he did not say so. Instead, he dipped his great pen back into his inkpot, and he inscribed the god’s name onto her cavalcade.

  As the priest wrote out the name, Berylina felt her nose fill with the smell of new-mown hay. Ile’s aroma flooded the back of her throat as if she were drowning in a sea of green-gold grass. The priest intoned, “Go forth in the name of Ile, and learn the ways of that god. Learn to honor him and do right by him, and may he bless you for all the rest of your days.” The grassy scent grew even stronger, and Berylina longed to hold her breath forever, but she forced herself to exhale evenly, folding her fingers into a holy sign.

  The priest seemed not to notice. He scarcely paused before he asked, “And your second god?”

  “Mip, the god of water.” Berylina had studied the ocean on her crossing from Liantine to Morenia. She had studied the stone that sat beneath the eaves of her palace chamber; she had seen the smooth hole bored by the persistent dripping of rainwater. She had seen the banks of rivers and bluffs that rose high above meandering streams. Water had great power to modify the world around it, to shape even the hardest ground.

  This time, the priest did look at her oddly. Berylina merely turned her head to the side, pinning him with one eye, making it easier for him to study her, to grant her desire. “Mip,” the priest said, and he shook his head. What child would offer up a pilgrimage in the name of Mip?

  Still, the priest wrote out the name and added his holy seal. The scratching of the pen released the sound of birdsong, the delicate trilling of a nightingale that spread across the courtyard. The sound was so clear, so perfect, that Berylina looked up, glancing at Father Siritalanu, at all the assembled pilgrims, to see if they could hear the bird.

  Nothing. Mip spoke to her alone. As all the gods, he presented a private face for her to worship. The priest spoke his formula quickly: “Go forth in the name of Mip and learn the ways of that god. Learn to honor him and do right by him, and may he bless you for all the rest of your days.” Berylina eagerly curled her fingers into the gesture of devotion.

  The nightingale trilled once more and then fell silent. As if the priest feared another odd response, he took a deep breath before he said, “Your third god?”

  “Nim, the god of wind.” The crowd murmured.

  Berylina had questioned herself about this choice. After all, did wind change as much of the world as water? For a long while, Berylina had feared that she was choosing Nim only because of Queen Mareka, because of the power that the peach-flavored god had spread across her tongue at the funeral of the two little princes.

  But then she had thought about changes she had seen, wrought by wind in the world around her. Once, when she was a child, a waterspout had come up out of the sea. Spinning and spinning, it had roared over her father’s palace, plucking up all the rosebushes from the garden, and shattering a wall of glass in the royal receiving hall. Teheboth Thunderspear had decided not to replace the glasswork; instead, he had ordered a wooden screen. That screen was the first touch of the Horned Hind in the house of Thunderspear, the first hint that the Thousand Gods were losing their grip in Liantine. All because of Nim. . .. All because the god of wind had thrown a tantrum one morning.

  The old priest cocked his head to one side, but he scrawled the name onto her cavalcade. Berylina scarcely heard him as he repeated his formula. Her mouth filled with the essence of peach, with the perfect taste of summer fruit as she signaled her gratitude. She nearly missed the priest’s demand: “And your fourth god?”

  Berylina hesitated. She had debated long hours before she had settled on her fourth choice. She knew that Father Siritalanu disapproved, that he thought her decision was inappropriate for a child. Well, she was hardly a child. And her choice made sense, in the context of her goals. She wanted gods of transition, and there was hardly any god who preside over more transition than this one. She forced herself to raise her voice, to speak loudly enough to be heard. “Zil. The god of gamblers.”

  The priest slammed his fist against the table. “Zil! You mock me, girl!” The crowd exclaimed, and one of Berylina’s four armed supporters flushed, looking as if he wished he’d never come forward.

  She hastened to say, “No! I am drawn to the god of gambling, Father. He speaks to me in ways that I do not yet understand. I undertake this journey to understand him better, to know the truthfulness of his ways.”

  “You make this journey to mock us here in Brianta.”

  “Father, you must not believe that! I have meditated on my choices for all the long days and nights of my journey to this holy land.”

  “You’re a slip of a girl. Why waste your time meditating on gambling? What evil thoughts do you work inside your head?”

  Berylina’s response ran cold through her belly. How dare the priest—a man dedicated to all the Thousand Gods—insult one of them in such an offhand manner. Certainly Zil was not reliable. Certainly he played games with those who came to him for guidance. Certainly he brought great men to ruin and raised up others who scarcely seemed worthy of the honor.

  But for a priest to speak against one of the Thousand? For a man to reject a god?

  Berylina clutched the green fabric of her robe, trying to remember that priests were fallible, like all men. Priests were subject to mistakes, just as caloyas were, as princesses were, as ordinary sixteen-year-old girls were. Berylina would not be perfect, even when she had completed her pilgrimage and studied the gods and offered up her heart of hearts.

  “Please, Father,” she tried again. “At first I thought to dedicate my pilgrimage to Wain, the god of fate. Surely he would be pleasing to you. I realized, though, that another god has walked beside me, another god has shaped the strange days of my life. I chose Zil because I have felt his force molding me, creating me. My father gambled with his faith and other things. I have tried to learn the folly of his ways, that I might avoid them and stay true to the Thousand for all the days of my life.”

  She saw the lines in the priest’s face relaxing, saw that he was going to yield to her. Well, she hadn’t lied. Her father had gambled—gambled on the saving grace of a woodland goddess. Berylina’s dedicating her pilgrimage to Zil might teach her a little more of what her father had hoped to gain, of how he had planned to build a kingdom on a hope and a prayer and a shaky, false foundation.

  “Very well,” the priest grumbled, as he jabbed his pen back into his inkpot. “Zil.” The old man scratched away at Berylina’s cavalcade. Immediately, her skin was embraced by ermine—soft, soft fur brushing against her arms, her legs, her face.

  For just an instant, she was distracted by Zil’s presence, lost in wondering why he would choose ermine as his worldly presence. Why did any of the gods choose their presentations, though? What made any of them think that a particular sight or sound or touch was characteristic of their essential self?

  Before she could divine an answer, the priest recited the formula invoking the god. He rushed through the words, and then Berylina signaled her acceptance. She was released from the ermine touch. “And your last choice, Pilgrim?”

  “Tarn.” Berylina whispered the name.

  “You are a child!” the priest bellowed. The crowd exploded.

  “I am acquainted with Tarn’s work, Father! I know him now, as all of us must come to know him. He greeted me at my birth when he took away my mother, and I know that he will wait for me until all the end of my days.”

  “Child,” the priest exclaimed, “Can’t you c
hoose a single child’s god? Can’t you honor Shir, the god of song? Or Purn or Shul?”

  “The god of dance does not come easily to me, Father, and the god of mirth abandons me altogether.” Berylina stepped closer to the table, certain that she could convince this priest, as she had at last convinced Father Siritalanu. “Father, a pilgrimage is not meant to be easy. It is not meant to let one frolic and play. I must test myself, and so testing build my faith to all the Thousand Gods. I have prayed about this for long, long days, and even longer nights. Do not keep me from my labor, Father. Do not force me to change my cavalcade.”

  As she spoke, the priest’s eyes become hooded, and she wondered what memories she evoked for him, what history she spun inside his mind. For just an instant, his face softened—he was no longer an irate gatekeeper. Instead, he was a young man, a passionate man, a man who had found his faith and his profession among all the Thousand Gods.

  “Tarn,” he said, and he dipped his pen back into his pot of ink. “Very well, child. If you think that the god of death is appropriate for you, I can only give you my blessing.”

  “That is all that I would ask, Father. That is all that any living man can give me.” Berylina watched him complete the cavalcade. The lines of the pen summoned the familiar green-black of Tarn’s cloak, the shimmer of a beetle’s carapace in the corners of her mind. She moved her fingers in grateful acceptance.

  Then, she smelled the crimson wax that the priest dripped onto the parchment. She heard the faint crack as he lifted free his golden seal, and when she swallowed, she tasted tears at the back of her throat. She shivered and ran her hands along her arms, trying to remember the feel of Zil’s soft robes, the touch of ermine comfort.

  When the priest presented the cavalcade, Berylina drew herself straight inside her caloya gown. “I dedicate my pilgrimage to all the Thousand Gods, but most particularly to Ile and Mip. To Nim and Zil. And to Tarn.”

  The priest’s tone was relieved as he handed her the parchment. “Go forward, Pilgrim. Go forward and find your fate within the holy precincts of Brianta, and in all the wide, wide world. Go forward in the name of Ile and in the name of Mip, in the name of Nim and in the name of Zil. Go forward, Pilgrim, in the name of Tarn.”

  Berylina took the parchment with a bow. She stepped back and gazed at the four soldiers who had supported her—the two who had most pressured the priest, the one who had stood fast, the one who had wavered. She nodded, and each man’s hands flew in some Briantan signal. Berylina did not know the proper response, and so she only nodded.

  The she walked through the murmuring crowd, trying to ignore the strange combination of awe and fear and wrath. She gained strength from Father Siritalanu behind her, strength to stand tall as the heat shimmered up from the stones beneath her feet. She tried to ignore the victorious flutter of Tarn’s black-green wings as she left the holy courtyard.

  Chapter 7

  Rani watched as Mair looked up from Laranifarso, who had fallen asleep at her breast. The Touched woman pitched her voice low, obviously trying not to disturb her son, but there was an urgency behind her words. “You have to sleep some time, Rai.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “You were bathing before the sun came up, and I heard you grind those colors until late into the night.”

  “I’m sorry. I never meant to disturb you with my work. I’ll try to be more quiet tonight.”

  “You weren’t disturbing me!” Mair lowered her voice when Laranifarso fussed. “You weren’t disturbing me. It’s just that you worry me. You need to sleep. You can’t serve the guild, and the princess, and yourself, if you can’t even keep your eyes open.”

  Rani stifled a yawn as she set down the glass pestle she had been using. She stretched her fingers and tried not to grimace as the tendons and ligaments eased back into place. She could not remember how long she had been gripping the tool, how long she had scraped the glass over her smooth stone tray. Lapis, cinnabar, ochre—she had ground the colors for hours, processing each from stone to powder to dust.

  She had not started, though, until after sunset. She had finished the day’s labors at the guildhall, and washed the grime from her face and her arms at the ritual glasswright’s bath. She had choked down a few bites of the dry bread that Master Parion permitted her, swallowed two glasses of murky water from the plain glazed mug that he had given her.

  On the way back to the hostelry, she had stopped at the temple of Hern, the god of merchants. She had not been surprised by the gold and ivory and enamel trappings. Any merchant able to make a pilgrimage would have donated handsomely to the place.

  Bardo would have offered up riches. Rani purchased a candle as thick as her wrist and lit it from another. She sank to her knees and tried to form words appropriate to Hern. She gave up after a few tries, though, deciding to offer cherished memories instead.

  Bardo flashing a grin at their mother and father as he carried new stock into the shop. Bardo laughing as he presented her with a sweet roll. Bardo insisting that he could do better than the Merchants’ Council, that he could set market policies that would foster greater profits.

  Bardo arguing with their father. Bardo slamming the shop door in rage over a stolen buckle. Bardo begging her in Morenia’s House of the Thousand Gods, pleading with her to join his subversive Brotherhood. Bardo looking up from the executioner’s block, alone and afraid.

  Rani reduced her prayer to Hern to a few repeated words: “Watch over the lost. Watch over the fallen.”

  She’d slipped a handful of gold coins into a slatted wooden box as she left the temple. Her pilgrim’s cloak had stifled her as she made her way through the dusty streets, past a preacher who demanded that the immodest be cast out from Brianta. She nearly ran past a wild-haired woman who shouted that witches stalked the city.

  Mair sighed, bringing her mind back to their shared room. “I don’t understand, Rai. You can’t use lapis to paint on glass. You told me that yourself.”

  Rani shook her head and caught another yawn against the back of her teeth. “It’s the same skill. We glasswrights grind lampblack and lead white for our colors. The painting guild uses the other colors. Here in Brianta, there’s trade between the guilds, much more than in Morenia. Master Parion has structured an arrangement with the painters. We grind colors for them. The labor teaches us what we need to know about grinding and pigments, and it puts them in our debt.”

  “Puts them in your debt,” Mair repeated. “Why should the guild profit from your labor like that?”

  “I’m a member of the guild.” Rani’s voice heated in warning, but Mair did not seem to recognize the dangerous ground that she trod.

  “If they choose to let you in. Why are you doing this, Rai? Why are you letting them force you back into jobs that you should have been shed of years ago? You said yourself that grinding colors was an apprentice’s job. You’re a journeyman, ready to rise to master. They should at least let you do a journeyman’s work.”

  “They must learn to trust me,” Rani said. Her voice was soft as she spoke, as she said all the things that she’d been thinking for so long. “We’re like a family, Mair. A family that knows it must stay together, must stand against the rest of the outside world. And yet, we do not truly trust each other. Love each other, yes, because we must. But like each other, no. Not at all.” She pictured Bardo, smiling and shaking his head as he left her at the guildhall gates, years ago, in Moren.

  “Well, Rai, I couldn’t work with a group of people who all despise me.”

  “They don’t all despise me.” Mair merely cocked her head. “They don’t! I’ve already become quite friendly with two of the journeymen—Belita and Cosino. They come from Zarithia; they’ve worked in the great glass workshops there. They were the ones who showed me how to grind the ochre fine enough.”

  “Well, then. Two friends out of four score. All hail Belita and Cosino!”

  “Why are you being so stubborn?”

  “I don’t like to see you
hurt yourself for these people. I don’t like to see you working for them, when they don’t appreciate you.”

  Rani managed a smile. “It was all well and good when I worked for your Touched troop, years ago in Moren.”

  Mair snorted, and the sound was enough to wake her son. Laranifarso opened his pink mouth to wail, and the Touched mother shifted him to her other arm, taking the opportunity to suckle him at her other breast. He quickly settled down, filling the room with his greedy sucking noises.

  Before Mair could fashion a reply, there was a sharp rap at the door. “Come,” Rani called, reluctant to set aside the fine ochre dust that she was working. It was close to finished. So close. …

  But would not be done for some time, she realized as the door swung open and Tovin stalked in. The player declined to brush his fingers against the prayer bell just inside the door. In fact, he glared at it for a moment before making a transparent decision not to comply with Briantan tradition. Already, Rani missed the jangle—she had been in Jair’s homeland for long enough that she expected the chimes; she expected such tangible dedication to the gods. “Where have you been?” she asked, noting that he was carrying his pilgrim’s cloak.

  “Downstairs. Eating a meat pie and enjoying what passes for ale in these parts. I tired of waiting for you, and I was hungry. I knew you would not join me.” He swallowed, then said, “At the table.”

  Rani felt a blush rise on her cheeks, and she flashed a look to Mair. The Touched girl became engrossed with her son’s blankets, but a smile twitched her lips.

  Tovin said, “While I sat belowstairs, a messenger arrived.”

  “A messenger?” Rani kept her voice neutral, but acid fear leached into her empty belly. A dull ache pounded behind her eyes.