Glasswrights' Master

by Mindy L. Klasky

  Hal filled his lungs to continue his exhortation, but before he could speak again, there was a tremendous crash. The cathedral doors flew back on their massive hinges, and their oaken planks shattered against the marble walls.

  Rani had expected chaos. She had thought that the Morenian soldiers would immediately unsheath their swords, that they would surge forward to slake their thirsty steel with the invaders’ blood. She had pictured tumult in the side chapels, gore flowing from altars like wax from melting candles. She had imagined the reek of battle, the sickening pall of blood and fear and worse.

  But there was none of that. There was none of the noise and the confusion, none of the heart-pounding horror. Instead, there was silence. And when Rani looked to the shattered doors of the House of the Thousand Gods, she could see why.

  Holy Father Dartulamino stood clothed in robes of deepest green, gold trimmed, ermine lined, framed in the broken remnants of the cathedral doors.

  And yet Dartulamino’s power did not come solely from the fact that he was dressed in priestly robes; rather he had alloyed that force, forged a new core of faith. As if to symbolize his new strength, he wore a helmet on his head, a massive gold-washed construction. The headpiece fit him closely; accenting his cheeks, protecting his skull with the sharpest of metal points. Even down the length of the cathedral, Rani could make out the fierce glint of his noseguard and the sturdy metal flaps that came down over his ears.

  As if the image of a warrior priest were not enough, Rani realized that the Holy Father also wore a film of black gauze over his robes. She remembered the last priests she had seen wearing such shrouds, to the curia in Brianta. Those men had used their holy office to sacrifice a woman; they had murdered Princess Berylina in service to their supposed gods. What could Dartulamino mean, donning such a garment in the House of the Thousand Gods? What evil did he think to work here?

  As if in answer to her questions, men appeared in the church’s shattered doorway–rank after rank of soldiers, all clad in dark Briantan cloaks. Rani knew those garments; she had worn one during the long summer months when she sought to complete a pilgrimage in the city of First Pilgrim Jair’s birth, when she worked to become a master in her guild. Each Briantan warrior proclaimed his religious dedication with the Thousand Pointed Star emblazoned on his chest. The brilliant gold splashes declared that the men dedicated their lives to all the Thousand Gods, to the First Pilgrim who had recognized the force of those deities. The Briantan soldiers were prepared to die to spread the fervor of their faith. They were ready to be martyrs for the Thousand.

  Dartulamino strode down the aisle, looking neither to the left nor the right as he approached the great dais at the front of the cathedral. His warriors marched behind him in precise formation, their metal-shod boots clanging on the marble floor. The Briantans were well-armed and fully rested; aside from manning the battering ram, they had spent their time on the plain outside the city recovering from their long march across Morenia.

  Hal’s soldiers shuffled as the enemy marched between them, and every hand moved closer to its weapon. Nevertheless, Rani sensed the superstitious fear that gripped the local men. They were present for the Rites; they had gathered to concentrate their power for a battle. That concentration was not complete; final blessings had not been bestowed. Hal had waited too long in summoning Father Siritalanu, and the Morenian soldiers were not fully prepared.

  Beside Rani, Mair grew tense as Dartulamino approached. The Touched woman spread her fingers over her silk square, as if she could protect the fabric from rending blades. Her breath came fast, and her eyes flashed wildly. She reached one claw toward the man that she had wed, toward the father of her dead son, and it seemed that she was trying to signal Farsobalinti, trying to alert the nobleman to the evil in their midst.

  A high keening tore at the back of her throat, a sound of terror annealed with rage. Rani remembered stallions she had heard, declaring their fury in hopeless battles, and she recognized Mair’s passion.

  Bon, Rani thought. The god of archers sounded like a stallion screaming.

  But none of the archers inside this church had his weapons ready. And even if he had, not a single man would have dared to sight down a shaft. None would have been brave enough or ruthless enough or foolish enough to draw against the Holy Father of the church of the Thousand Gods.

  Dartulamino paused on the first step of the dais, and his men fell into formation behind him. He glared at Father Siritalanu, his gaze searing beneath his helmet as if it had the power to set the younger priest on fire. Father Siritalanu stood firm, but his plump face grew as pale as the marble altar behind him. The wind tore down the cathedral aisle, unimpeded by the ragged shards of the broken doors, and the younger priest’s robes caught against him, outlining his body like a sad joke.

  Father Siritalanu was no warrior. His legs were thin beneath his gown. His belly was soft. His arms had never been shaped by the weight of a sword, by the pressure of heavy labor. Nevertheless, he raised his chin, facing down the invaders as if he thought he could win this encounter.

  Rani fought the urge to twist her hands in nervousness, to wring some confidence from her solemn gown. Why hadn’t they started the ceremony earlier that morning? Why hadn’t they completed the ritual swearing in of the soldiers the day before? Why were they unprepared in the face of this threat, in the swell of imminent danger?

  Father Siritalanu’s breath came faster, and Rani suspected that he was reciting the same catalog of failures. The poor man tried to draw himself up taller, straighter.

  Beside Rani, Mair’s lips curled back into a snarl. Dartulamino was perhaps the man Mair blamed most for the loss of her son. The priest was one of the strongest members of the Fellowship of Jair; he had long been instrumental in coordinating the cabal in Morenia. To this day, neither Mair nor Rani–nor Hal himself, for that matter–had learned who had given the actual order to steal away Laranifarso, who had commanded that the child be executed. Rani could still remember the moment when they learned of the infant’s death, though, the instant that Mair had toppled from a shrewd, spirited advisor to a mad woman bent on revenge.

  Rani reached out and grasped Mair’s wrist, the bare one, the one not wrapped in silk.

  Father Siritalanu called out, “Who are you that defiles the House of the Thousand Gods with your implements of violence and your warlike mask?” The priest’s defiance might have inspired confidence among the loyal Morenian soldiers if his voice had not quaked.

  “You know me, boy.” Holy Father Dartulamino’s voice echoed among the soldiers, as if he stood on a parade ground. “You know me, and you fear me.”

  “I f-fear no man who breaks into the House of the Thousand Gods!” Rani’s heart was wrenched as the priest’s brave defiance was hampered by his stammer, by the boyish curve of his cheeks. She pictured him kneeling beside the now-dead Berylina, speaking to the princess in reassuring tones. Siritalanu was meant to be a teacher, a guide, a peaceable man. He was not a warrior-priest.

  “Stand down, boy, or I’ll have you spitted on the dais.”

  “You would not do that, Dartulamino.” Father Siritalanu’s defiance was coated with incredulity. “Not here. Not in the House of the Thousand Gods. Not when my death would defile the church that you have worked so hard to build these many years.”

  For just an instant, Rani believed that Dartulamino might listen to reason. After all, he appeared in the church surrounded by religious warriors, by Briantans marked by the Thousand-Pointed Star. By their very costume, these men declared themselves devoted to the gods. Could they really mean to spill a priest’s blood upon the altar? Could they truly intend to destroy a man consecrated to all the Thousand?

  As if in answer to Rani’s questions, Dartulamino raised one commanding hand. His fingers were jagged pokers, and fire jutted from his eyes. “Remove that man from the dais. Remove the taint from the House of the Thousand Gods!”

  The Briantan soldiers sprang forward, but Hal’s voice
froze them in the aisle. “Halt!”

  Dartulamino turned a sneering gaze on his king. “You do not have the right to command my Briantans.”

  Hal’s voice was as bright as the edge of a sword. “I have every right, Father, for they are my men as well. I am Defender of the Faith, am I not? Was I not sanctified in that duty by your own predecessor’s hand, in this very building, by the blessing of the self-same priest who elevated you to your post?”

  At first, Rani thought that the Holy Father might be outsmarted that simply. He clearly had not anticipated Hal staking claim to any religious title; he had rallied his men around their rebellion against secular authority.

  Silently bolstering his claim, Hal shifted the heavy necklace of Js that lay upon his shoulders. “I am the heir of First Pilgrim Jair, Father.”

  A part of Rani’s mind objected to Hal granting the priest his religious title. After all, what sort of religious man would march an army into the cathedral? What sort of priest would raise angry steel in the very house of the Thousand Gods?

  But then, Rani glanced at the Morenians who stood nearby, at the soldiers assembled for the Rites. These were men sworn to preserve order, to respect their liege lord and all that he stood for. These were men who acted to maintain the world as they understood it, who–even though they would not shrink back from fear or terror or pain in battle–would cower at the destruction of their religious faith.

  Hal granted Dartulamino his proper title, but he demanded that the priest rise up to the responsibilities of that name. Hal bound the Holy Father to solemn obligation by acknowledging his strength.

  “You have forfeited that claim, rebel,” Dartulamino spat, and his Briantan fighters grew more tense. “You have deluded your people with your claims of right and wrong, with your attempts to steal diadems and gold that were not yours for the taking.”

  “What do you claim that I have stolen, Father?” Hal’s challenge was hot and immediate. When he moved his hand to rest upon the hilt of his sword, his hair flashed in the cobalt light. Rani could not help but glance up at the window, could barely keep from choking out a word of warning. No. That had been another time. That had been another threat. That had been another test that she had taken, that she had failed, all unknowing. Hal repeated, “What do you claim?”

  Dartulamino took three steady steps, mounting to the top of the dais. He pulled himself to his full height, a height made even taller by the helmet atop his head. Hal looked very young, as if he were a child playing at a game of war.

  Beside Rani, Mair writhed like a possessed creature, pulling her silken square between her fingers, tugging at the fabric as if she could make it disappear. Rani longed to reach out for her, to gather her close, to protect her from the man they knew was a murderer.

  Hal darted a glance at the Touched woman, then flicked his attention to the stone-faced Farsobalinti. Before Hal could speak, Dartulamino roared, “By Jair, you cannot claim innocence about the blood upon your hands!”

  By Jair. Dartulamino was making this Fellowship business then.

  Despite Mair’s strangled cry, Rani felt herself relax. She had not realized how difficult it was to fight a lifetime of teachings. She had not thought how hard it would be to take a stand against the highest priest in the land, against the leader of the very church that had nurtured her since infancy.

  But Dartulamino did not stand on the dais as the emblem of that church. Certainly, he bore its trappings, in his fine green robes, in his careful overgown of gauze. But he was not a priest, not today. He was a conspirator. He was a messenger from the Fellowship of Jair. He was a leader of the secret organization that was bent on ruling all the world, on taking over the kingdom of Morenia, and of Brianta as well, of Liantine and Amanthia and all the distant lands that it could reach.

  Even as Rani clapped a hand on Mair’s shoulder, she watched Hal measure out the same distinction; she sensed the certainty that settled over him as he accepted Dartulamino’s oath. Of course, the Fellowship was hidden to most of those who stood in the cathedral. Those soldiers would not recognize the secret meaning behind the traitor-priest’s words. Even Father Siritalanu, even Puladarati and Davin were ignorant of the levels of betrayal that stood inside the church.

  Rani glanced at the ranks of soldiers, Morenian and Briantan, and she knew that Hal must act quickly. His warriors were growing confused. They had been excited by Father Siritalanu’s exhortations; they had collected their strength to rise up against the invaders, against the ships that blockaded the harbor, against the forces that besieged the city’s walls. Now, though, they questioned the rightness of their fight.

  And, looking out the broken doors of the cathedral, Rani wondered if the soldiers were not wise to quail. A giant plume of smoke rose from the city walls. Odd, Rani thought dispassionately. I never noticed that the gates were framed by these cathedral doors. I never thought that the Thousand Gods watched over all the comings and the goings of fair Moren. I never realized that they cared so much.

  But the gates were indeed framed in the doorway, or what was left of the gates. Staring out, Rani wondered what the invaders had done to create such billows of smoke, how they had managed to send such an incontrovertible signal.

  She threw a quick glance to Davin, to see if the old man was working out what the Briantans had done, how they worked their war engines. The ancient advisor was nodding slowly, as if he had come to understand some secret, some arcane method of waging war that even he had not considered in his decades of military calculation.

  What did it matter, though? What did it matter if the invaders had harnessed some Briantan trick, or merely received a healthy dollop of unholy luck? The city gates were burning.

  And if the gates were burning, then the blockading vessels in the harbor would know that the end was near. The Liantines would land their boats and bolster the Briantan forces. They would force their own ships into the harbor, up to the docks. They would add their naval crossbows to the Briantans’ weapons, and poor Moren would crumple under the weight.

  Rani took a step forward, to advise Halaravilli ben-Jair of the full extent of his danger, in case he had not recognized the pattern. The king’s jaw was tight as he glared back at Dartulamino. Had only seconds passed? Was Hal still formulating a response to the secret message that his enemy had delivered?

  “Aye, Father,” the king said. “In the name of Jair, the innocent must have clean hands.”

  And then, as if he were not threatened, as if there were not enemy armies before him, as if no navy waited to wade into his stronghold, Halaravilli ben-Jair turned his back on the invading priest. He raised his hand to Father Siritalanu and commanded, “Continue, Father. My men await your final blessing.”

  “Your men will be cursed if that so-called priest speaks a single word in the name of the Thousand!” Dartulamino’s rage spattered across the cathedral floor.

  “Continue,” Hal said, refusing to grant the rebel his attention.

  Father Siritalanu glanced once from his worldly lord to his spiritual one, and then his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. He raised his hands in a shaking holy gesture, and there was a long pause while pockets of men decided whether to settle to their knees to receive his blessing. “In the name of Arn and Bon, in the name of—”

  “Will you risk your soul?” Dartulamino cried to Father Siritalanu. “Your soul and those of all the men who pray here?”

  Many of the soldiers who had knelt scrambled to their feet, and more than one fist settled back on a weapon. Father Siritalanu managed to say, “The only souls risked in the house are those that do not bow before the Thousand Gods.”

  Holy Father Dartulamino’s sallow face grew dark. Rani heard him catch his breath; the sound was amplified by his helmet. She felt the tension curl through his fingers, up his arms, into his gut. As if Mair were a mirror, the Touched woman stiffened as well, focusing all her anger and her grief upon the single man.

  “First God Ait will spit upon you,” Dar
tulamino said, and his voice quaked with fury, nearly as tremulous as poor Father Siritalanu’s had been at the beginning of the ceremony. “First Pilgrim Jair will look upon you with outraged laughter. All of the Thousand will turn from you and glory in the ways that they can cause you grief. They will reach into your slumber; they will seize you while you are awake. They will strangle your minds and your hearts and leave you gasping like tiny children, abandoned in a winter storm.”

  As if in response to the Holy Father’s exhortations, the sun moved behind a cloud bank, plunging both worshipers and invaders into shadows. At the same time, though, the cobalt light that came from the Defender’s Window seemed to intensify, pulling in upon itself so that Halaravilli ben-Jair was more captivating, more controlling, more important than he had ever been in his life.

  Hal stepped forward, raising his chin so that his necklace of Js was at the perfect angle to reflect the beam from the window. “Father Siritalanu,” he said, and his voice was so soft, so even, that he might have been speaking to a child. “Finish with your service. Complete the War Rites so that my men will best be able to defend me with the strength of their arms and the faith in their hearts.”

  Father Siritalanu appeared unable to follow his king’s command. The priest’s boyish face trembled, and he might have been a child shamed before his elders. Then, he flushed, and his cheeks reflected the crimson of Hal’s royal raiment. The priest raised his hands in a familiar holy gesture, but he seemed to have forgotten all his words; he appeared doomed to eternal silence.

  And in that instant, in that hesitation, in that pause where all the Thousand Gods seemed uncertain whether to rush in or abandon the rightful cause of Moren, Dartulamino raised his arms. He threw back his head, and he bellowed, “To me, Briantans! To all that is holy in this house of gods! To me!”