Glasswrights' Master

by Mindy L. Klasky

  “In no way that will cause him harm. He became agitated, and I gave him a tea to … assist his calming himself. He’s working on the words now. Once he has recognized them, he’ll be fine.”

  “Words? You cast a spell on him, then?”

  Kella laughed grimly. “No spell.” At least not in the way that Rani Trader meant. “By the Jair you northerners hold in such esteem, no spell. The Sisters would not permit that.”

  “The Sisters?”

  “Other herb witches. The ones in Riadelle who dictate what we may and may not do. They would not permit my casting a spell on an unknowing guest who did not sign a contract, a handsel. I merely gave him something that will help him find the paths he wants to travel inside his own mind.”

  “He wants to go back to Brianta.”

  She knew, then. “He wants to save your princess. What was her name? Berylina?”

  “Yes,” Rani Trader said, and her own face was grave. “Berylina. He loved her.”

  Of course he loved her. That much was obvious from his behavior. He loved her, but he was one of those priests who swore off acting on such love. Well, no wonder the man was stricken, then. No wonder he had grown mad at the mention of the dead woman.

  Rani Trader braved another few steps into the cottage, until she could see the priest’s moving lips. “What is he saying?” she asked.

  “That he did not cause the princess to die. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

  “Aye,” the woman said, her own brow creasing. She clearly had her own memories of the princess’s death.

  Kella decided to probe a little more–purely as a matter of professional curiosity, she assured herself. She should know what was being done to herb witches in distant lands, or to those identified as such. She should learn so that she could tell the Sisters. She might even use the information when she met with the Fellowship–that very evening, if the soldier man kept his promise.

  “Your priest mentioned Tarn.”

  Rani Trader reeled under the name, as if the herb-witch had struck her. Before she recovered, she looked behind herself, hunching her shoulders as if she would ward off a physical blow. Odder and odder, Kella thought. These northerners had strange relationships with their gods.

  “I’m sorry,” Rani Trader said. “I was not expecting to hear the god of death’s name here.”

  Kella stepped closer to her visitor, reminded herself to watch closely. “He mentioned others as well: Mip and Zil. Ile and Nim.”

  Yes. She definitely reacted. Each name made Rani Trader flinch: she shook her head as if she heard a distant sound, and she swallowed hard. Kella had spent a lifetime watching people process tastes and smells. Kella would stake her collection of dried mushrooms on her belief that Rani Trader tasted a flavor that she liked when she heard the last god’s name. A flavor that she liked, but that she feared. Like a child sneaking boiled sweets when a parent has denied the treats.

  Before Kella could devise a method of measuring out the oddity, the other woman shook her head and turned to the priest. “Father Siritalanu?” she asked, and then she glanced at the herb witch. “Can he hear me?”

  “Aye. He’s almost through with his thoughts. He’ll respond when he’s ready.”

  “Father?” she asked again. The priest took a long time to look at her, and his blink was very slow. Nevertheless, his eyes were focused when he opened them, and he seemed to recognize the woman.

  “Ranita?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Yet another oddity. Strangers roaming the forest who communed with their gods in mysterious ways and who answered to multiple names.

  “Ranita, I came to learn of herb-lore. I wanted to know what cost my Berylina her life.”

  “Herbs had nothing to do with it, Father.” Rani Trader’s voice was firm, as if she were explaining a difficult truth to a child. “They thought she was a witch. Not an herb witch. A darker sort. A sorceress.”

  “I had to learn. I had to see what I could know about Berylina.”

  “I understand, Father. Come with me, now. We’ll go back to the Great Clearing.”

  “Great Clearing!” Kella interrupted, remembering again that Tovin had sent the priest to her, that Tovin must know this Rani Trader.

  “Aye.” The woman was working her arm under the priest’s, helping the man to his feet.

  “Then you are with the players?”

  “What do you know of the players?” Her question was sharp, and Kella could not fail to hear the possessive note in her words.

  “Nothing, my dear.” Kella shrugged elaborately, showing her empty hands in a gesture that she knew indicated good will. “Only that they have a license from the king. I have come across them when I’ve been walking through the woods. I’ve spoken with their leader.”

  “With Tovin?”

  “Is that his name? The young one.” Kella shook her head slightly, dismissing the man, and she saw Rani Trader relax. “You travel with the players, then?”

  “Not with them, precisely. I’m with a group of … merchants; we’re from the north. We know Tovin Player from Moren. We’re staying with him in the clearing.”

  A girl of noble bearing, with a northerner’s merchant name and a guildish one, and a familiarity with players. A priest near mad from grieving. Kella would not buy the story lightly. Nevertheless, she shrugged. “Your priest should be fine for walking, now. He’ll be tired when you get to the clearing. Let him sleep through the night. He’ll wake rested, with his mind at greater peace than it has been.”

  “For that I thank you, good dame. Did the father pay you for your troubles?”

  “He did not have the chance.” Even if he had, Kella would have denied receiving her due.

  The other woman reached into a pouch hidden at her waist, and she extracted some copper coins. “Thank you. It was a mercy to ease his pain.”

  Kella took the money, not bothering to note that it was three times the price of her herbs. “It pleases me to help others,” she said with a humble bow. She stepped forward and helped the man climb to his feet. “Easy, Father. Take a few deep breaths.”

  He looked at her with guileless eyes, his round cheeks still flushed pink. “Did I sleep here?”

  “Not exactly,” Kella said, as she assisted him toward the doorway. “Come now. Rani Trader has come to see you back to the Great Clearing.”

  “The Clearing? Very well.” The priest was still enrobed in the herbs’ peace.

  “Thank you,” Rani Trader said as she came to the man’s side.

  “My pleasure.” Kella nodded her head and gestured to set them on their way. Only when the pair of northerners had reached the edge of the forest did Kella call out, “Rani Trader!” The woman stopped. “When you return to the clearing, give my best regards to Tovin Player. Tell him that Kella is brewing the black willow that he likes.”

  “Black willow?” Her voice was puzzled.

  “He’ll understand.”

  Kella turned her back and entered her cottage before the other woman could ask further questions. The player man would recognize the name of the herb. After all, he had drunk it in her cottage many times before. He had felt its heat spread through his chest. He had felt the awakening in his loins, and he had stayed awake for long hours exploring the strength of the dingy green plant.

  Tovin Player would understand the message, and he would come to her. If she were already gone for her meeting with the soldier’s Fellowship, then that would be the player’s loss. He would wait for her. He would wait for black willow.

  Chapter 6

  Hidden in a copse of trees, Hal realized that he might have laughed at the scene before him, if the circumstances had been less dire. After all, the old woman was so obviously discomfited by the mare, she might have been performing one of the players’ comic pieces. She had walked around the animal, gazing at it from all sides. She was startled when the horse snorted; she leaped back with a gasp of astonishment. Extending a tentative hand to stroke the mane, she had j
erked her fingers back when the horse twitched at the ticklish contact.

  And then, her struggle to mount the animal.… Admittedly, the old woman had eased her foot into the stirrup with more flexibility than he had thought possible, given her age. As if she’d learned the danger of her earlier hesitancy, she’d planted her hand firmly at the base of the horse’s mane, grabbing onto the saddle with her other hand and pulling herself up, even as she pushed off the ground with her stable leg.

  The mare, though, would have nothing of the odd weight on her right side. The animal had snorted a warning, and when the old woman persisted, the mare had tried to side-step away. The woman’s scolding scratched the night, and the animal pasted back her ears, clearly thinking her own condemning thoughts. The woman’s shout forced those ears forward then, and it was entirely unfortunate that the witch chose to pull the reins at that precise angle.

  Certainly, if the stakes had been lower, Hal would have been amused. Instead, he swore under his breath as Crestman shouted a warning. The soldier lurched forward, muttering his own curses. Hal was surprised to see the gentle pressure Crestman summoned into his hands as he helped the old woman; the calming manner was unexpected.

  Crestman soothed the horse before turning his attention to the herb witch. By working in that order, he spared the woman a fall. In almost no time, he had the mare settled and ready to move, with the old woman cradled gingerly in her saddle. Nevertheless, the sliver of moon had climbed noticeably higher in the sky by the time the entire operation was complete.

  Only after the witch was settled did Hal fully realize his own predicament. He was ill prepared for this spying mission. He had no horse of his own. His flight from Moren had been so precipitous that none had been taken. Since arriving in Sarmonia, there had been no opportunity to acquire good horseflesh; Hal and his men had yielded to other priorities. If Hal decided to follow Crestman and the witch, he’d be traveling by foot.

  He should have planned better. He should have mustered his meager strengths. But there had been no time.…

  Only the afternoon before, he had strolled through the woods, purposely seeking out the old woman’s cottage. He had wanted to learn more about the herb witch, to gain a better understanding of why Mareka took such comfort from her. He wanted to understand his wife’s confidence in the woman, what a queen could gain from an herb witch’s potions. He wanted to know why his own son had been subjected to the old woman’s brews.

  Sheer luck had brought Hal to the herb witch’s doorstep just as Crestman was attacking her. Hal had ducked back into the thick brush on the edge of the clearing, forcing himself to keep silent even as the rampaging soldier beat the defenseless witch, even as he threatened to end her life then and there. Hal had wrestled with his conscience, enraged panic flaring in his veins.

  Had Crestman been here before? Had he forced Kella to add something to the draught that Hal’s son had consumed? The soldier had tried to poison Hal’s family once before; what would make him hesitate here in Sarmonia’s lawless forest?

  A part of his mind warned that revealing himself would be foolish. Even wasted by his hideous scars, Crestman was more than a match for Hal. The soldier had always been a hard man, conditioned by his years with the Little Army. He could defeat Hal at swordplay, even with one withered arm, even with a dragging leg.

  By staying hidden, Hal could learn what Crestman planned. After all, whatever harm had been worked on Marekanoran was done, complete, and Hal could only measure out vengeance as a reply. For now, he listened.

  He discovered that the Fellowship was indeed established in Sarmonia. He discovered that Kella knew something of the secret organization, that she was familiar with its secret teachings. He learned that he could follow the mismatched pair the following night, that he could track them and learn still more of his enemy.

  For a fleeting moment, Hal had thought to bring Farso with him on his reconnaissance. That would have been foolish, though. The nobleman had suffered too much at the hands of the Fellowship; he had lost his treasured son. Farso could not be depended upon to stay quiet, to be shrewd.

  Rani was an even worse choice. Her past was too tangled with Crestman’s. Whatever her words of denial, Hal knew that she had once loved the man, that she had planned a life with him. She might have discarded that dream, for she knew that she had been used harshly. Nevertheless, Hal could not trust her to mind her anger, her own bitter brew of revenge.

  And so Hal hid alone in the woods and watched the woman’s comic horsemanship. He watched Crestman’s unexpected calm. And he watched the pair begin to ride down a forest path.

  Well, the old woman would not win any awards handling her mount. In fact, she would delay the pair, especially given the dim moonlight. Hal swore to himself and set off down the path they had chosen.

  It actually felt good to run, good to stretch his legs along the pounded earth track. The horses required one of the larger trails in the woods, so that Hal was not very concerned about twisted roots blocking his path, about overhanging branches. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of the pair he chased. They were making bad time; the herb witch must be having even more difficulty than he had predicted.

  Hal grimaced to himself. Crestman would be displeased. The man had no patience. His anger would flare.

  Anger would flare. How much to dare? Must chase the pair.

  Where were they going? Where would Crestman take an herb witch, take a woman who clearly had never traveled by horse anywhere in her life? Hal had been a fool to set out after them. They might be going leagues. He had acted out of frustration, out of concern for his wife and son. What did he think he was going to do, run all the way to Morenia?

  He was a fool.

  Oh what a fool. Call Crestman to duel. Fate could be cruel.

  Grimacing, Hal thrust down the chittering voices. He could not say how long he ran. When he glanced through the tangled branches, he could make out the moon-sliver, higher than he’d expected. He checked the lateness of the hour against the breathlessness in his lungs, against the ache in his legs, and he was surprised–his body seemed to accept its punishment, to embrace the chase. He was determined to succeed.

  Several times, the forest path branched, but Hal was always certain of his quarry; the pair of horses left clear marks in the damp earth. Once he found a scrap of grey cloth on a snagging branch, and he grinned grimly–the herb witch had likely fought to keep her balance against the tree’s prying fingers. The trail narrowed, spread out again, found a woodland stream to wander beside.

  Then, without warning, the path debouched into a clearing. A grassy field spread out before him, grey in the moonlight. Horses snorted in the darkness, several steaming as if their owners had run them hard and arrived late. Hal ducked back into the shelter of the woods, forcing himself to take quiet breaths, to calm his pounding heart. He closed his eyes and offered up a quick prayer to Arn, adding another to Gar for good measure. Courage and vengeance–they made good companions in the moonlight.

  Then, when he thought that he could make his way around the edge of the clearing without drawing unwelcome attention, he began to explore. He worked in the shadows, testing each step with careful feet, verifying that there were no traitor branches before him, no trailing vines to snag his tunic or briars to catch his leggings.

  There were more horses than he had thought at first, perhaps three dozen shuffling beneath the autumn sky. Hal identified three guards posted around the cottage, all men by their size. Each was cloaked in black, anonymous and nearly invisible in the darkness.

  Hal imagined striding up to them. He could make up a password, insist that he had the proper hidden words. He could invoke Jair, demand that the First Pilgrim’s fellowship accept one of its own.

  He had no cloak, though. No hood. Not a single friend in the Sarmonian enclave. His ruse would fail.

  His ruse would fail. His heart must quail. He should turn tail–

  No!

  Before Hal could succumb to the
songs in his mind, he gave himself over to another noise, a dim thunder that grew as it approached. Horsemen. Two by the sound of them. Yes. There they were, bursting into the clearing from the far side. From the east. From the direction of Riadelle.

  The men took a moment to drop blankets over their mounts before they shrugged their black cloaks into place. Even in the dim light, Hal could make out the plumes on the blankets, the single white feather that was blazoned across each man’s arms. These were electors, then, men who controlled King Hamid. These were men who proved that the Fellowship had its claws deep into Sarmonia.

  Crestman used the Fellowship. The Fellowship used the electors. The electors used Hamid.

  Hal must place himself at the head of that chain. He must defeat Crestman to guarantee that Hamid was a free man, free to aid Morenia. But how was he to best a soldier who was stronger than he, wilier, more inclined to use any means, fair or foul?

  There was another way, Hal thought as a deceptive silence settled over the clearing. He could grab the other end of the chain. He could step over Crestman and the electors, go directly to Hamid.

  It was time to reveal himself. Time to make his true birthright known in Sarmonia, to talk to Hamid as one king to another. Hal would gain nothing more by lurking in the dark, from chasing after conspirators on foot like some hero in a folktale.

  He must return to his own camp. He would gather his own advisors and tell them of his decision. He would listen to their complaints, their fears, their certainty that he was endangering himself and others. And then he would act; he would go to the king of Sarmonia.

  Hal crept away from the edge of the clearing, stepping around a handful of dried branches. His chest ached from his long run, and his legs trembled like leaves in a breeze. Nevertheless, he straightened as he struck the main path, and he forced himself into a rough trot.

  He was the king of Morenia, and he would fight to save his land.

  * * *

  Kella swallowed hard as the opening prayer faded into the silence of the rundown hut. Her thoughts chased after inconsequential details, desperate to avoid focusing on her frightening surroundings.