Glasswrights' Test

by Mindy L. Klasky

  She drew herself to her full height, twitching her shoulders to shake free Father Siritalanu’s hands. She crossed the few paving stones that separated her from the child, stepping around his body as if it were a great fish on the beach. She knelt beside him, ignoring the protest in her knees, her side, her arm.

  The nightingale sang to her, and she knew what she must do. She clutched the father’s hands, tightening her fingers into steely ropes. He drew back in startlement, as if no one had ever brooked his authority before. Then, before he could bellow for reinforcements, before he could make new demands, before he could guarantee the death of his son, Berylina leaned over the boy.

  The nightingale told her what to do. It sang to her of placing her lips on the child’s. It trilled about delivering the kiss of peace, the kiss of strength and love and everlasting worship. It told her that she would taste water with the kiss, that she would taste the fountain, that she would drink the very glory of Mip.

  She kissed the boy soundly, deeper than she had ever kissed another being.

  And then she sat back on her heels.

  For a moment, nothing happened. The pilgrims were startled into silence. The father was gathering his anger, collecting it in his hard fists. The mother was still keening—she had never stopped. Father Siritalanu looked upon Berylina with consternation, clearly worried about her own safety.

  And then the child coughed. One sputter at first, and then another, and another. His body curled about itself as he collapsed into spasms, deep convulsions that brought up water where his father’s fists had done no good.

  The nightingale song crested in the courtyard, resonating so loudly against the stone and water, that Berylina was certain all the pilgrims must hear it. She threw her head back in sheer joy at the music, in pure exultation at the unbridled sound.

  “The child is saved!” Father Siritalanu exclaimed.

  “Thanks be to all the Thousand Gods!” cried another pilgrim.

  “Thanks be to Mip,” Berylina said, forcing her voice past the nightingale’s perfect beauty.

  “Mip tried to kill my son!” the mother cried.

  “Mip saved him,” Berylina said.

  “The god of water drew him beneath the surface—”

  “He slipped!”

  “Mip wanted to take my son! He wanted to murder my child!”

  “Your boy brought this on himself. He got to the center of the fountain, but he slipped on the way out.”

  “And I suppose Mip himself told you these lies!”

  Berylina was shocked by the anger in the mother’s face, by the unalloyed rage that burned within her. The princess looked around the courtyard, sought out the priests, the glasswrights, anyone who would understand. “Didn’t you see? Didn’t you hear him cry for help?”

  Silence, and then one old woman stepped forward. “I saw you,” she said. Berylina recognized the voice. The old woman from Jair’s birthplace. The woman who had shaken with rage that the First Pilgrim’s plaything had come to Berylina. “I saw you. You pushed the boy beneath the surface of the pool.”

  The crowd exploded. “No!” Berylina protested. “He fell! I helped him to safety! Mip sang to me, and I saved the child!”

  The father stepped up to his son before anyone else could speak. “Tell me, Chavit. Does this woman speak the truth? Did you cross to the center of the fountain?”

  Berylina could see the man’s fingers curl back into a fist. She heard the anger in his voice, the scarce suppressed fear and fury. Chavit was no fool—he heard the emotions as well. “I— I don’t know what happened.” He paused to cough, and the crowd’s suspicions tightened while the child’s narrow shoulders shook.

  “Did you go into the water?” The father towered over the boy, his voice as sharp as the stones in the fountain.

  “No! Papa, no! I waited for you and Mama to finish making your offerings to Mip! I waited by the fountain, just like you told me to.”

  “How did you get in the water, then, boy?”

  “I don’t know!” The child started to cry, and his sobs brought on another fit of coughing. When he could speak again, he repeated, “I don’t know!”

  “Don’t lie to me, boy! Not here. Not in Brianta, before the Thousand Gods!”

  “I’m not lying! I don’t. … I—” Chavit looked about the courtyard desperately, cringing as if his father had already landed a heavy fist.

  The boy’s eyes fell on Berylina. She saw him register her roaming eye, saw him take in her rabbit teeth. All her life, she had watched people measure her differences, watched them recoil at her flaws. She had seen cruelty blossom on some faces and impotent rage on others.

  She recognized Chavit’s craftiness as the boy’s eyes narrowed. She was familiar with the shaking line of his finger as he pointed to her face. She knew the heat of the blush that reflexively stole across her features, of the shame that she was different, she was damaged, she was wrong, wrong, wrong.

  “She did it!” Chavit cried. “She pushed me! She pushed me into the pool!”

  The father snapped his head around to look at Berylina, and she struggled to meet his eyes, fought to overcome the wave of shyness, of shame, of terror as disabling as any she had ever suffered in her own father’s court. She barely heard the man say, “Don’t lie to me, boy. She jumped into the water to save you.”

  “Only after I cried for help!” The crowd murmured and stepped closer, and Chavit’s story firmed up. “Only after other people saw her. She held me under at first, before she realized that others would see.” The boy put his hand to his chest, as if he were swearing an adult’s vow. His fingers scrabbled across his Thousand-Pointed Star, and the emblem seemed to give him some new inspiration. “By Mip,” he said, and his voice was steady. “That woman meant to kill me. I swear she did! In the name of Mip!”

  Berylina wanted to explain. She wanted to tell them that they were wrong. The boy was frightened. Exhausted. Terrified.

  But the words were not there. Instead, she felt herself surrounded by the demons of her childhood, by the bloody Horned Hind that had haunted her dreams, by the lonely certainty that she was damaged, she was marked, she was wrong. …

  A priest stepped forward, his ancient face grave. “Speak, child,” he said to Berylina. “Tell us whether this boy says the truth.”

  Berylina’s throat worked, but she could say no words.

  “Speak,” the priest said again. “In the name of Mip, tell us what happened here.”

  The nightingale song rose, loud and clear, and Berylina cast her head about, seeking out the source of the music. Surely, the crowd must hear it! Surely, they must know that Mip was in their midst! She tried to form words, tried to push speech past the nightingale song, but there was nothing she could say, nothing she could do.

  “The god’s name freezes her,” Berylina heard, and she knew it was the old woman speaking again. “Mip protects us from her evil! Mip protects the faithful!”

  As Berylina’s throat worked, the crowd began to murmur. Other pilgrims joined the old woman, calling upon the god of water. Many covered their Thousand-Pointed Stars, as if her broken gaze would pollute their badges.

  “Mip save us!”

  “Mip keep us safe from harm!”

  “Mip wash away the evil!”

  “She’s a witch!” The old woman’s voice rose high above the crowd. “The girl’s a witch!”

  Father Siritalanu loomed above Berylina, as if he would enfold her in his robes, as if he would keep her safe from harm. “Nonsense, woman. She is a penitent, like all of you. She is a pilgrim who has offered up her very soul to Mip. She saved that boy.”

  “She’s a witch, I tell you! She is marked as a witch. She cannot speak the god’s name! I accuse her in the name of all the holy pilgrims in Brianta! I demand that she be brought before the curia and judged as the witch that she is! I demand justice for all the pilgrims in Brianta, for all the faithful who pray to the Thousand Gods!”

  Brianta heard Father S
iritalanu’s protests. She heard the older priest ask for clarifications, for justifications. She heard the crowd exclaim. She heard the old woman tell the story of Jair’s House.

  And then she felt a rope slip around her wrists. She felt her Thousand Pointed Star ripped from her clothes. She felt the wind rise, cutting through her soaked robes, as if she stood naked in the courtyard.

  She saw Father Siritalanu speaking to her. His lips moved. He must be telling her that she would be taken to the prisons, that she would be locked inside a cell. He would come to her, he said. He would explain to the priests. He would prove that she was a woman of faith. He would save her.

  But she had no words. She could not speak. She could not make herself heard above the trilling notes of a nightingale song. She could not move beyond Mip’s music, even when she was escorted from his temple, even when she looked back at the angry old woman who had accused her. Even when she looked back at the frightened boy, at Chavit, who shivered on the edge of the fountain that would have brought him death. …

  Berylina was silent as she was led away, as she was labeled as a witch, as she submitted to the will of the angry, frightened crowd.

  Chapter 9

  Rani caught her tongue between her teeth as she leaned over the whitewashed table. Her argument with Mair had made her late returning to the guildhall for her afternoon session. Despite her vow to her Touched friend, Rani had not dared to seek out Crestman that day—she had work that she must complete.

  She had sketched out her drawing of Lor the night before, but she found that she was more critical of the god of silk by daylight. Somehow, his face now seemed too fat, too prosperous, as if he did not need to work for his wealth. She should make him more slender, more bony. Cutting the glass pieces would be easy enough with the diamond knife that she had mastered under Tovin’s tutelage.

  Sighing, she started to rub out part of the drawing. She leaned far over the table—she wanted to preserve her carefully sketched background. It had taken her hours to draw the octolaris, and she was pleased that she had managed to hint at the spiders rather than mandate any actual depiction. After all, there were other sources of silk in the world—curious worms from distant Pelia, for example. Just because Morenia had built its silk empire on spiders’ handiwork didn’t mean that Lor relied only on octolaris for his glory.

  Rani’s fingers trembled as she rubbed out the god’s face. They had taken to tingling lately. She supposed that was a reminder of the food that she was missing, the meals that she forsook when she was not at the guildhall.

  Even those meals, when she got them were plain, served on glazed pottery that Master Parion had mandated just for her use. Her mornings were brightened with only a dollop of porridge. Lunch was likely a heel of bread, spread with thin butter. Dinner was a bowl of broth, with an occasional stub of turnip. Everything tasted odd—dull, metallic—and the warm water she was permitted did nothing to wash away the aftertaste.

  What did that matter, she tried to remind herself. She was here for the test, after all.

  Once she had rubbed out the god’s face, his shoulders seemed the wrong proportion. Then, when she corrected the shoulders, the figure’s sleeves draped too dramatically. She fixed the sleeves, but then was forced to redraft the hands. She started to reposition the fingers, and then she found that she had, in fact, leaned on the whitewashed table, obliterating the carefully drawn octolaris.

  “Burn it all!” she swore.

  “My lady!”

  Rani jumped and whirled about, even as she identified Father Siritalanu’s shocked tone. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that—”

  The priest interrupted her. “I wasn’t offended!”

  Rani set down her charcoal and brushed an errant lock of hair from her face. A few strands came away against her fingers, but she did not have time to worry about them. The young priest before her was anxious, wound so tightly that he seemed about to weep.

  “What is it, Father?”

  “Her Highness. Princess Berylina.” The man was panting hard, and Rani could barely make out his words. His face was crimson against his bright green robe, and his chest heaved as if he had run all the way from Morenia.

  Rani felt the blood drain from her own cheeks,, and she forced herself to swallow hard before she said, “Calm yourself, Father.” She wished that she had wine to offer him, something of sustenance, but she could not provide anything, bound as she was by her glasswrights’ vows. “Sit down, Father. No, I won’t hear another word. You’re useless, if you collapse here on the floor.”

  The man grimaced, but he complied, throwing himself into a low chair. When he looked up at Rani, there was something petulant in his expression. He looked like a little boy.

  No little boy, though, would deliver such a grave message: “It’s Princess Berylina,” he said, his words ratcheted down to a tone that approximated normalcy. “She’s been taken as a witch.”

  “A what?” Rani might never have heard the word, she was so astonished. A pilgrim, certainly. A self-righteous girl. A pompous religious fanatic. But a witch? Like the herb-witches of Sarmonia? Who would bother to take a woman who dried herbs and brewed tisanes? And why would anyone mistake Berylina—Berylina!—for an herb-witch? “There must be some mistake.”

  “Of course there’s a mistake!” The priest’s voice broke on the last word. “They accuse her of harnessing magic, because they cannot see that the gods actually speak to her! They did not realize the rescue was Mip’s doing. He was truly there!”

  “Mip?” Rani could not piece together what the priest was saying. What rescue? When?

  “Aye, Mip. The god of water. We were at his temple this morning.”

  The priest explained something about the princess’s cavalcade, and fountains, and a child, and an old woman, and a ball. Rani did not actually understand everything he said—his words had become fast again, and he stood to pace the chamber, twining his fingers as if he would mold his joints into a weapon. Her head began to ache, a slow steady pounding that beat behind her eyes like the Pilgrims’ Bell back home.

  “Father,” Rani finally interrupted. “Where is she now? Where is Princess Berylina?”

  He blinked, as if he had only just remembered that Rani was in the room. “She’s in jail. In the Gods’ Midden.”

  Rani caught her breath, momentarily overwhelmed by her own memories of being cast into a dungeon. Even now, in the Briantan sunlight, Rani could remember the stench of soaked straw, the foul odor of too many bodies in too little space. She could see other prisoners eyeing her with distrust, with hatred. She could feel the filth on her own flesh, the disgusting slime of another person’s spit.

  Berylina could never last in prison. She was a princess. She was more than a bit daft. She was utterly unprepared for the brutal reality of prosecution. “We have to go to her!”

  Even as Rani shut her workshop door, she knew that she should find Journeyman Larinda. She should explain why she was leaving her work undone. After all, Rani had sworn to follow the guild’s orders in all things. She was supposed to complete her drawing by nightfall; she was destined to practice cutting the glass the very next day. Time was running short, if she were to be ready for the guild’s test.

  There were obligations, and there were obligations, Rani reminded herself. It was easier to ignore the guild’s restrictions now and see to the princess. She could explain herself to Larinda later, to Master Parion if necessary. Rani was bound to Berylina—Hal had ordered her to see the princess safe on this journey.

  She started to mutter as she threw her dark pilgrim’s cloak over her shoulders. Where was Tovin? If he had stayed close at hand, she could rely on him now. She could send him to straighten out this ridiculous confusion with Berylina. He would likely enjoy the challenge—a chance to speak to soldiers and make them seem like fools.

  She had not seen Tovin, though, for nearly two full weeks. The man had taken to sulking back at the inn, muttering about her
vow to the guild. If she so much as smiled at him, he chided her, asking her if Master Parion would approve. The night before, she had come back from the guild well after dark, her belly aching, barely eased by the watery broth that had been her supper. Tovin had complained about the heat in the rooms, even so long after the sun had set, and she had growled at him, telling him that she’d give anything to warm her bones, chilled by her hours in the guild’s dark workrooms.

  Tovin had snapped at her and slammed the door, leaving behind a mystified Mair and a squalling Laranifarso. Rani had declined the implicit obligation to follow him belowstairs to the tavern, to apologize for her words. Why should she beg Tovin to come back upstairs? Why should she stand there, and breathe in the smell of fine ale and hearty grilled meat? Why, indeed?

  And yet, she wished that Tovin were beside her as she abandoned her glasswork. He would be a comfort in the crowds on the streets. He would make her feel more secure as she passed the vagabond preachers, the bearded men who cried out at women who walked in daylight, even women who wore the Thousand Pointed Star.

  But Tovin was not there, and Rani was left to help Father Siritalanu, to assist Berylina. On the way to the prison, Rani made the priest repeat his tale. She slowed his torrent of words this time, forcing him to reiterate bits of the story. Rani realized that Berylina had actually saved a boy’s life, that she had somehow called upon the Thousand to rescue a child. If the princess had that sort of power at her disposal, then what help could Rani possibly be?

  Arriving at the Midden, she repeated the question to herself. The prison was located against one dark edge of a city square. Dust puffed up in the street, swirling into vicious devils that clutched at Rani’s cloak and dried her throat. The dark blocks of stone that formed the Midden walls were red-tinged, as if they had been shaped from the blood of the prisoners inside.

  Rani shook her head. Surely, she was being overly dramatic. The prison was a prison, like any other. Less dangerous than most. After all, the vast majority of the inhabitants were pilgrims who had proffered too many coins to the gods to pay their hostelry bills. Or they were worshipers who had grown drunk on wine and the words of their special gods.