Her work was not flawless. The first time that she cut Lor’s eyes, she pressed too hard, trying to make the orbits perfect. The grey glass crumbled to dust beneath her heavy hand, and she bit back an oath. The crimson for the god’s robes was flashed; a piece of deep crimson glass was melded to clear, so that the color was not overwhelming. Rani forgot that the melding might be flawed, and she was rewarded with shattered fragments on her first attempt. Her initial cut for the bolt of silk left a broad orange streak down the center of the piece; it looked as if the cloth were stained.
Nevertheless, she worked quickly, efficiently. She stacked the good pieces on her white-washed table, layering them carefully. Twice, edges of glass nicked her fingers, leaving tiny trails of blood. Once, Rani’s prickling fingers slipped on the iron handle of the diamond knife, and she was rewarded with a stinging cut. She scarcely noticed the wounds, though—they were part of the glasswright life, part of the guild that Rani ached to join. She wiped her hands against her robes and went back to her labor.
At last, she was through with the cutting. By long custom within the guild, she must return her unused glass to the bin—there were always other glasswrights who might need her remnants. She collected the pieces quickly, ferrying them across the room with careful hands.
Her fingers tingled as she placed the partial sheets back in their bins. She felt as if she had been panting for hours; she needed to remind herself to fill her lungs with one complete breath. When she turned back to her table, it seemed that her head followed too late after her body.
She saw that other journeymen were through cutting their glass. Several gathered at the far end of the hall. The tray of bread had been replaced by bowls of fruit. Belita and Cosino were actually chatting with each other; Belita coasted her hand over Cosino’s arm, and the pair laughed. The sound of amusement wafted across the room, carrying with it the aroma of the peaches in the bowl between the journeymen. Rani’s mouth started to water.
Nim, the god of wind—he tasted of peach.
No, she remonstrated with herself. Not yet. She would worry about Berylina’s demise after her test.
She ignored the food and returned to her table. Parion was standing over her cut pieces, examining them with a master’s eye. Her first reaction was to cry out, to order him away. She remembered herself in time, though, and she settled for hovering anxiously as he fingered the glass.
He lifted the diamond knife as well, tested it with a well-scarred thumb. Then, as she watched balefully, he reached toward her, letting his sleeve fall back along his arm. The crossing scars were plain in the torchlight; the raised flesh was livid, as if it had only just been carved by Morenian King’s Men. Parion set the diamond knife against his own dead flesh, as if he could measure the blade more exactly that way.
Rani held his gaze, refusing to remember how he had acquired those scars, refusing to admit how she had contributed to them. At last, Parion nodded and returned the diamond knife to the table.
Her hands moved as if they were guided by another. It was time to wrap metal foil about the edges of her pieces, pressing it smooth with one of Tovin’s tools. In the interest of the timed test, she was not required to create the foil herself, pounding it thin between felt-wrapped blocks of iron. Each of the journeymen was permitted to take completed foil from the guild’s stock.
Rani arrived at the table just after Larinda. She had to remind herself that the test was not a race; Rani was not trying to complete her work faster than any other journeyman. Rather, she only needed to compete against the sun, to finish before the end of the day.
Larinda was fumbling with the fine foil, trying to pry away a single sheet of the clinging stuff. Her Hands did not readily give her the dexterity to lift the foil, and on her first attempt, she came away with three. Her second try netted no metal at all. Rani watched the other woman set her jaw; she imagined the muttered curses that she could not hear.
When Larinda’s third attempt resulted in thin sheets splayed across the table, Rani stepped forward. “May I help you?”
“I don’t need your help!” Larinda snapped. As if in reflex, she curved her wrist, and the Hand’s thumb snapped close to her forefinger. Rani was reminded of a brutal crab, and she leaped back, looking away until she heard Larinda stalk back to her work table.
By the time Rani returned to her own table, her headache pulsed inside her skull, sending shafts of nausea down her throat, into her belly. More bells started tolling outside, and she whipped her head toward the doorway, fearing that the sound marked sunset. Of course, it did not. The other journeyman were still hard at work; every guildsman watched in eager anticipation.
She blinked hard to clear a swarm of black spots from her vision, and then she forced herself to move slowly, carefully. If the foil buckled after it was applied, it would take the lead with it, rendering the finished panel unstable.
The long pieces of Lor’s robe were simple to prepare, but the round sections caused more trouble. Twice, she needed to rework the god’s eyes, and the bolt of silk required four attempts before it passed her critical inspection.
By the time she wrapped the edges of the last piece of glass, her eyes stung, dry as the Briantan streets. She did not have time to rest, though, did not have time to ease her aching head by rubbing at the nape of her neck. Instead, she collected her lead stripping from across the room, hefting its simple weight on her palm. The metal was coiled tight, and Rani needed to coax it into a straight line back at her work table. She heated it over her brazier, taking care not to breathe too much of the acrid fumes. Nevertheless, the stink of the molten metal made her belly clench.
She turned her head to one side, swallowing hard, and she saw that Larinda was just finishing the foil on her own creation. Several of the pieces were large—understandable, since they had been cut with a standard grozing iron. Larger pieces were easier to cut, easier to foil, easier to solder. They required less dexterity.
Rani started to gloat over her fellow’s inferior effort, but she stopped herself before she could complete the thought. Larinda simplified her design, it was only because of her past in the guildhall. It was only because of the past that she and Rani shared, the injuries that Larinda had suffered when Rani called down the wrath of the King’s Men.
Rani’s lungs hurt as she bent over her lead stripping. She was exhausted now, and she had to blink her eyes rapidly to make herself focus. She wondered if she should take a moment, close her eyes, let them rest. She could not afford to ruin her piece now. She could not afford to drop the work from clumsy fingers.
How much time remained? How long before Parion snapped out a command? Were other journeymen finished already? Had other guildsmen left for afternoon prayers?
Concentrate. Forget about the others.
Rani heard Tovin’s voice, smooth, calm. She let his words flow over her like water, like the river that he had guided her down years ago, when she first Spoke with him. He had taught her the secrets of glass then, on the Liantine plain, and in her workshop in Morenia. He had told her all she needed to know.
And she had abandoned him here in Brianta. She had set him aside at the guild’s first order. She had thrown him into the arms of the tavern-wench.
Tovin must understand, though. He knew what the glass meant to her; he knew how she longed to advance within the guild. That was why he had come to Brianta with her, after all. That was why he had accompanied her. He wanted her to succeed. He wanted her to become a master.
Rani turned away from her brazier and filled her lungs, breathing as deeply as she was able. When she exhaled, she did so slowly, edging her chin toward her chest, emptying her body.
Berylina had been emptied. Berylina had been crushed.
No. Concentrate.
She remembered the flowing river, remembered the power of Speaking. Tovin had given her that. It was a tool, like the diamond knife, like the fine jeweler’s tongs that he used to fashion lead chain. She needed to find her core. She needed to f
ind her strength. She needed to reach into her Speaking and find the power of her past.
She inhaled again, remembering all the lessons that Tovin had ever taught her. She exhaled, and she released her guilt, her fear, her memories of Tovin and Berylina and Mair and Laranifarso. She breathed in again, filling her lungs, raising her chest, breathing, breathing, breathing.
When she opened her eyes, the black spots were gone. The ache behind her brow had receded to an echo. She picked up her tongs, and she soldered the lead joins for the god of silk, using the foil to anchor the joining compound.
Each seam was unique. Each required her attention, as she discovered imperfections in the foil, limits in the glass. Each demanded that she check her work, that she smooth it completely, that she let it cool, hoping, praying that nothing went wrong. She completed the first join, and the second. The third, the fourth, the fifth.
She stopped counting, reaching for the glass as if she were one of Davin’s machines back in Moren. She understood what she was creating; she knew what she must do next. She dropped a piece of glass and retrieved it unbroken, settled back immediately into her rhythm. She ran out of lead stripping, and she retrieved more from across the room, gliding past her colleagues as if she were invisible.
Then, the leading was done, and she had completed the body of the window. One more step remained—painting on the design. She ground the lead black pigment with instinctive fingers. Gone were the days when she needed to test the powder, to sample its fineness. She knew when she had ground enough, when the particles were small enough to soak up water. She mixed the paint on a jagged pane of extra glass, and then she selected a brush.
Her wrist was steady as she filled the bristles, rolling them about on the glass so that they absorbed an even amount of pigment. She squeezed out the extra, pressing the bristles between fingers that were beyond aching, beyond exhaustion.
She did the fine work first, the lines of Lor’s face, the ray of wrinkles beside his eyes. She drew in gullies on either side of his mouth, deep troughs carved from his habitual frown. She added texture to the bolt of cloth, making it clear to any viewer that the fabric curved about its wooden form.
And then, she drew the octolaris. She remembered the great glasswork spider that she had seen in Liantine, the delicate design that had taken her breath away in the spiderguild. Crestman had stood beside her then, before she had approached the master of the guildhall, before she had bartered for Morenia’s salvation.
Crestman had stood beside her before she betrayed him.
Even that thought was not enough to shake her hand. She knew the design that she must complete, she knew it with the certainty of all the Speaking she had ever done. One line there, another, another. The silk web stood out against the clear glass, called into being by the steady pigment.
And still Rani was not through. One last thing. … She turned her head to the side, catching the panel at an angle. What was wrong? What was missing? She had not drawn anything else in all her preparatory sketches.
And then she knew. She dipped the brush, filled the bristles, squeezed them almost dry. She levered her wrist against the table, steadying her hand. She stretched the brush toward the pane of glass, barely touching. There. In the distance. Beyond Lor’s vision, over his shoulder, away from his conscious thought.
A single riberry tree.
Rani hinted at the smooth silver bark, at the intricate branches. She ghosted in the leaves. She imagined the markin grubs that would feed the octolaris, that would fuel the growth of silk.
And then, Parion called, “Time, journeymen!”
Rani was pushed back to the guildhall, tugged from the depths of her trance. She had not intended to use her Speaking powers; after Berylina, she had vowed that she would never harness that strange art again. Nevertheless, in the heat of the contest, she had drawn on Tovin’s lessons, relied on the player’s strength.
Several journeymen protested Parion’s announcement, and instructors moved through their ranks, seizing brushes, taking away coils of lead stripping. Rani realized that one of her peers had abandoned his work quite early in the day, leaving shattered glass in the center of his white-washed table. Belita and Cosino had apparently finished before the sun had set; their tables stood empty, with some completed work centered, presented. Three other journeyman had also finished and left.
Parion said, “Thank you, journeymen, for your attempts. You may leave the hall now. We masters will collect your projects, and we will confer upon their merits. Go forth, and eat and drink and sleep. We will tell you, in the coming days, if you have passed the test.”
That was all. There was no fanfare. There was no slam of an executioner’s axe. Nothing more.
Rani knew that she was beyond exhaustion. She was half-starved. She was parched like a traveler who had ranged for days in a desert.
She was also freed from her vows to the guild. She could eat what she chose, drink what she desired. She could be with Tovin.
She set her hands against her table, using the sturdy wooden edge to help her rise. Her legs refused to hold her; her knees wobbled as if she were a newborn foal. She acted as if she planned to turn around, as if she actually meant to look at Larinda’s table next to her.
The Morenian guildhall.
Rani cried out when she saw it—tall, airy. She remembered the awe that had blinded her when her brother first took her past its gates, when she had first entered the building that was to be her home for far too short a time. Larinda had captured it perfectly, adding just the right amount of delicate tracery on her glass panel.
“It’s beautiful,” Rani breathed. “Larinda, it’s perfect!”
Larinda, though, ignored Rani completely, as if she had not heard a word. Instead, the other journeyman rested her head against her table. She splayed her Hands to either side, as if she lacked the knowledge to remove them.
Rani saw the creamy white glass, the pane that she had thought to use for silk. It was better in Larinda’s work. Better as a stone wall. Better as a reminder of a building that had been leveled, destroyed, so that it now existed only in a handful of tortured memories. “Larinda. …” she said again, but this time she did not expect a response.
She did not realize that she was sobbing until she felt strong hands on her shoulders. She turned about, yielding to the pressure. Tovin’s arms folded around her, gathering her in, collecting her as if she were a little child.
“I’m sorry!” she gasped, forcing the words through her tears. She was apologizing to Larinda, to Parion, to all of the glasswrights. She was apologizing to Mair and Laranifarso, to Berylina. “I’m sorry!”
“Hush,” Tovin said. He pulled her away from her table, away from her fragile masterpiece.
I should not have called out to Tuvashanoran, she wanted to say. Long ago, I should have come forward in the guildhall and protected my fellow guild members. I should have spared poor Dalarati. I should have stood up for Berylina before the curia. I should have bartered with Crestman for Laranifarso. I should not have accepted the Fellowship’s charge; I should not have taken the poison for Mareka. “I’m sorry. …”
And then Tovin guided her from the guildhall. He walked her past Larinda, past Parion, past all the apprentices, and journeymen, and masters. She felt his firm touch direct her through the streets, back to her room, back to her bed. His hands shone in the lamplight as he placed cheese on bread; his knuckles caught the light as he poured wine into a goblet, mixed it with water. He smoothed her hair as he urged her to swallow. His fingers were deft with her Thousand Pointed Star; he set aside her pilgrim’s robe.
She clutched at him then, pulling him toward her, down to the mattress, down to her side. “Sleep, Ranita,” he said, and she started to apologize again. “Close your eyes and sleep. We’ve work enough in the morning.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sleep.”
And she did.
Chapter 13
Halaravilli ben-Jair paced his tower
room, staring at the parchment in his hand. He had read the words a dozen times, and they refused to change, refused to become any safer, any gentler, any more bearable. “Beware the serpent in your midst. She let the princess die, and she seeks to harm you further. She once slew your protector; do not let her act again. Look to your wife, the queen.”
The message was absurd. It clearly implicated Rani, but Hal knew that Rani would never harm Mareka. Throughout all of his struggle for peace, for prosperity in Morenia, Rani had been the one person he could count on. She could be trusted amid all of the shaky alliances that he had forged. She was dedicated to him. She was devoted.
She had gone to Brianta to beg admission to a guild that his father had destroyed.
Hal had feared that Rani’s journey would test her loyalty, but he had never imagined that she would reach her breaking point. What poison had the glasswrights’ guild harbored? What carefully nurtured resentments about being torn apart, all by a royal mistake?
In an attempt to keep Rani in the fold—and because he had missed her—Hal had sent Rani missives while she was away. He had taken time with the long letters, explaining how the kingdom fared, asking for her advice. He had asked what progress she made at the guild, questioned Berylina’s pilgrimage. He had his correspondence delivered to the glasswrights’ guild so that she would be certain to receive them, certain to know that he honored and respected her work.
And he had heard nothing. Not one letter. Not one single reply.
Even as he cursed the glasswrights’ vengeful nature, he thought that he could understand the longing that Rani felt for status in the guild. He knew that she ached to belong to a family, to a mother and father, to brothers and sisters. To all that Hal’s father had stolen from her years before.
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