Glasswrights' Master

by Mindy L. Klasky

  What was the name of the old man who had lived here? He had been ancient when she was a child; he must have been dead for three score years. And, from the smell of mildew emanating from the walls around her, no one had paid any great attention to this croft since his passing.

  Well, someone must have, or the walls would have fallen well before this. Someone must have trimmed the grass back from the lintel, kept the woods from reclaiming the structure. Someone had kept the clearing from yielding to the forest, from giving itself back to the encroaching darkness of trees.

  Kella shuddered as she thought of those trees grasping her cloak. She’d spent her entire life walking through the forest; she was well-accustomed to the feel of branches catching at her clothes, tangling in her hair. In a strong wind, they could whip by her face with a frightening speed. But she had never felt the forest assault her with the energy it had mustered as she sat upon the horse’s back. She had never been subjected to the forest’s prying fingers with so much vehemence.

  Riding on horseback might be fine for some, but she saw no reason to repeat the experience after this strange night ended. There was no place that she needed to reach in such a hurry, no reason to rush about so. After all, when she was mounted up on a horse, she couldn’t see the herbs growing by the path. She couldn’t interpret the scents of the night flowers unfolding in the darkness. She might have missed any number of perfect herbs as the soldier led them pell-mell through the woods.

  No. Once the soldier-man got her home, she’d be through with horses.

  As Kella shook her head, determination hardened her jaw, and her hood started to slip backwards. The soldier had given it to her when they dismounted in front of the cottage–the hood, and a mask. He had waited in silence as she sorted out the silk garments, nodding in blunt approval when her face was completely hidden. Then he had set a firm hand upon her arm, pulling her forward with an urgency that brooked no protest.

  She knew that if she could see his face, she would recognize the same determination that had planted his knee in her kidney the day before. He was a soldier on a mission, and he was not about to be put off by any details of decency or common politeness. “Stone,” he said, and she barely heard the word against the forest night. “Bone. Moonlight.”

  What? Had he been driven mad by their night-time flight among the trees? Was he babbling random words? A dose of feverfew might cure him, but what was she to do here?

  As they approached the cottage, two hooded figures materialized from the darkness. Kella caught a glint of sharpened steel, and her breath snagged as the soldier pushed her forward.

  She staggered to a stop in front of the cloaked pair. “Speak, Fellow,” one of them whispered, and Kella wondered what she should say. She started to turn back to the soldier, started to demand that he negotiate for her, but then she thought of his whisper. “Stone,” she said, and her voice sounded strange in her own ears. “Bone. Moonlight.”

  She could imagine eyes upon her, glaring through the midnight hoods. She pictured steel flashing in the darkness, brilliant white beneath the moon, then shimmering red with her blood. She started to turn, gathered her breath to run, but then the shorter of the pair gestured with one hand, summoning her forward.

  The soldier pushed behind her as he said to the pair, “Stones bleach pale as bone in the moonlight.” The passwords worked more easily for him. The shadowed watchers eased back a breath. Kella was not certain that she was relieved to step inside the rotting cottage.

  Certainly she was no safer with the mad soldier by her side. She was no more likely to survive the night surrounded by his colleagues. Nevertheless, she felt a little thrill of victory that she had passed some test, that she had been cleared for the secret convocation.

  And convocation it was. A cloaked person stepped forward, an old man by his gait. His voice confirmed Kella’s suspicion as it quavered a greeting. “Let us be joined in the name of Jair.”

  “Let us be joined in the name of Jair,” the group repeated, and Kella was surprised by the volume of the assembly. They might hide in the woods. They might wear disguises in the night. But they were not afraid to state their unity, to proclaim their bonds in the night. She shivered and wondered about the identity of her secret neighbors.

  “I will not waste your time, Fellows,” the old man said. Kella heard his voice and realized that he did not live in the forest. Of that she was certain. She would have known him, if he did. She would have known his querulous voice, recognized the fragile set of his shoulders. “We are gathered this evening because of a visitor, one of our number who has ridden far, with momentous news. He was the one who demanded our coming together. He was the one who asked to speak to all of you tonight.”

  Kella heard the old man’s irritation. He wanted to be the one to make decisions for this group. He wanted to be the one to say when they would ride their horses through the forest, when they would make their journeys beneath the moonlit sky. He had been used by this mysterious visitor, forced to call a meeting, and he did not like it one jot.

  Neither did the soldier beside her, Kella realized, as the young man’s grip tightened on her arm. She started to pull away from him, to ease the pressure as his fingers bit almost to her bone, but her resistance only heightened his control. His breath came short and sharp; if they’d been back at her cottage, she would have suggested a tisane of heartsease.

  They were not in her cottage, though. She was at a secret gathering in an abandoned croft, meeting the Fellowship of Jair under the light of a freshening moon. Others stepped aside to let a hooded stranger walk to the front of the room. “Greetings, in the name of Jair,” the newcomer said, and his words were thick with a northern accent.

  “Greetings, in the name of Jair,” the assembly responded, but Kella did not join in, even when the soldier pulled her closer to his side.

  “I come to you from the north,” the stranger said. “From Morenia. I come to report upon our progress as we search for the Royal Pilgrim, as we seek the one who will join together all the lands and give us power to rule them all as one.”

  Kella’s own breath quickened. The Royal Pilgrim. Just as the Sisters had reported years ago. Who might join together people as diverse as all those around the world? Who might pull together northerners with folk from across the sea? Who could bring the prayerful Briantans into a group of godless Liantines?

  Kella could well remember the gatherings of her own little coven, the endless nights when the Sisters had discussed the Fellowship, even as they worried about the best poultices and teas and healing herbs. The Sisters had decided that the Royal Pilgrim was only a dream, a wish, the Fellowship’s fantasy.

  If so, though, the fantasy had lasted for long years. The Sisters had tired of the Fellowship long ago, but the cabal’s obsession clearly continued.

  The northerner continued in a cultured, well-educated tone. “The kingdom of Morenia is in chaos. The gates of its capital are broken, and its king is fled. Its king, of course, was one of us.”

  Kella felt the soldier beside her grow even tenser at that statement. There was some bond, then, between him and the northern king. Was he a loyal fighting man, sworn to protect his liege lord against murderous attackers? Kella could not believe that. She could not believe that the brute who had assaulted her belonged by any king’s side.

  What, then? Why did his heartbeat pound down his arm and into his gripping fingers? Why did his blood boil at mention of the Morenian monarch?

  “Tell us, then,” the soldier said, and he might have been involved in a private conversation with the northerner. “What steps have been taken to bring Morenia under our control?”

  The visitor looked about the room, pinning the soldier with a gaze that managed to be steely despite the intervening silk. “Morenia’s army has been broken. Its men have been tamed by public execution–one out of every ten soldiers was selected by lot and staked out on the high road leading from the city gates to the palace. Any citizen caught aiding suc
h a soldier was executed on the spot as a traitor. Traitors were then drawn and quartered, and their heads were placed on pikes beside the public wells. Legs, arms, those were posted at the intersections of the city’s greater roads. So far, only seven wells have been marked. Fewer than thirty roads are posted.”

  Kella’s belly turned at the grim recitation. She was not so disturbed by the words; she knew that men were harsh in times of war. Rather, she rebelled against the northerner’s cold tone, his utter dismissiveness for the people his accent proclaimed to be his own. Did he not care that his countrymen had been routed? Did he not care that his homeland was crushed?

  “And the Liantines?” a woman called from the group. “Have they taken back their spiders?”

  “They liberated the Morenian octolaris, at least the ones within the palace. Some nobles had spiders in their own courts; we work to regain those. The Liantine silk monopoly has not regained its perfection, but it is stronger than it was before the breaking of Moren.”

  Again, Kella was appalled by the man’s tone. Did he not realize that he spoke of men and women and children, suffering in times of war? Did he not recognize that a city was more than stone and wood, more than trade goods, that it was the people who lived within it?

  And yet, Kella could sense the assembly’s overwhelming satisfaction with his response; she heard approval in their sighs and muttered prayers. They were pleased that this northern city, this Moren, was broken. They clearly desired it to be destroyed, no matter what the cost to any individual people.

  Then Kella realized the true import of the story she was hearing. The northerner was willing to break his own homeland; he was willing to murder soldiers, to execute citizens, to put into danger the lives of innocent children and women. For his own goals, for the goals of the Fellowship, he was willing to hand over an entire kingdom to the invading Liantines.

  And if he would aid them, there was nothing to keep him from helping the Briantans, the fervent worshipers who–at least according to the green-robed priest who had come to her cottage the day before–put witches to death.

  Witches like Kella. Witches like all the Sisters.

  Kella must do something. She must keep the northern conflict from spilling over into the Sarmonian forest. She must do anything in her power to keep the Fellowship from opening the gates to Sarmonia, from letting Briantans come to her. Briantans who would kill her, kill her Sisters. She must save the herb witches, whatever the cost.

  She scarcely remembered to shutter her own excitement. The soldier beside her must not realize that she now had a plan, that she had recognized at last the full threat that he represented, him and his assembly. If he detected that she was more interested in the Fellowship than she had been, that she cared more, then he would cut her down on the spot.

  Kella forced herself to draw three calming breaths, exhaling her tension as she emptied her lungs. She would listen to the Fellowship with new ears. She would learn all that she could, and then she would share her knowledge with the Sisters. Together, the herb witches would figure out a way to protect themselves, to keep Sarmonia clean of the Briantan scourge.

  Listening sharply now, Kella heard how the Sarmonian fellows deferred to the northerner, how they asked tentative questions, how they nodded obsequiously at his answers. All of the discussion centered around the Royal Pilgrim. The entire assembly agreed that the time for the Royal Pilgrim was drawing nigh; each had a vision of who that person might be, of what they might discover.

  Kella could not care one root or petal about the Royal Pilgrim. She must speak with the northerner, collect other information. She must learn what the Briantans planned, if they intended to move south. She must ingratiate herself with the Fellowship to secure her safety and the safety of those she loved and honored.

  Her teeth were grating by the time the Fellowship bowed its head in a final prayer. She barely made herself whisper with the congregation as First Pilgrim Jair was invoked. She waited, silent, as the group began to disperse, as first one, then groups of two or three drifted out the door. Kella heard their horses whinny in the night; she knew that all too soon, she must mount the mare that the soldier had brought for her.

  And, sure enough, the cottage emptied out until there was only the soldier and the northerner, standing with her, listening to the last of their colleagues ride away. Kella was surprised as the soldier limped a step closer to his companion and then raised a hand to tug away his own dark hood.

  “Ah, Crestman.” Crestman! The soldier had a name at last! In fact, he–Crestman– turned to glare at her, as if she had somehow disclosed his identity. The northerner glanced quickly in her direction; she could see hawk’s eyes darting behind his black mask. He declined to reveal himself, though.

  “Well met, Dartulamino.” Crestman delivered the name coldly, precisely. He knew full well that he was endangering his fellow, that he was violating a confidence. Well, then. Crestman would risk angering his companion, if only to even the score. Kella nearly shook her head. Like blackbirds squabbling over territory, they were. Likely to damage their own plumage, just to save a spot of earth they thought their own.

  Dartulamino sighed and cast back his own hood, peeling his mask from his face. The man’s hair was rumpled, as if he had just risen from bed. His skin was sallow; if Kella had not heard the strength of his voice, she might have recommended a healthy dose of ginger tea as a tonic. His lips were steady, though, thin and dry within his sparse black beard. She could make out the hint of a green robe about the neck of his black outer garment, and it reminded her of the other priest she had met, the fragile man who had come to her the day before. The woods were full of mysterious newcomers, and she was losing her capacity to be surprised.

  Crestman was speaking. She’d best pay attention, if she was going to turn anything about this situation to her own advantage, to hers and her Sisters. “I tell you, Dartulamino, we can trust her. She knew about us already. She knew about the Fellowship before I said anything.”

  “Aye, good lord,” Kella said, dipping into as much of a curtsey as her tired legs and Crestman’s clutching hand would allow.

  The visiting priest pinned her with a gaze that seemed too dark, too intense for his face. “And how do you know of us?”

  “I have many ways of learning, good lord.” The soldier’s fingers dug deep, and she realized that she must elaborate. Elaborate, or risk her muscle being pulled from her bone. “I serve many people in the forest. My handsels are grateful for what I give them. They pay me with coin when they can, with goods when they must. And always, they pay me with news of what goes on in this land of Sarmonia.”

  There. She would not reveal the Sisters’ existence. She would let the men believe that some desperate soul had divulged the existence of their cabal, trading it for herbal cures.

  Dartulamino’s eyes were shrewd, as if he were accustomed to prying apart men’s souls and studying the dark spaces inside their thoughts. “So. One of your … handsels decided to tell you about the Fellowship.”

  “Aye. The Fellowship of Jair.” She paused before deciding to cast her last die. “And the Royal Pilgrim that you wait for, the one who will rule over all the kingdoms and place the Fellowship in true power.”

  “You know too much, woman!” The northerner’s anger was immediate.

  “He came to trust me, my handsel did,” Kella said, working hard to make her voice seem simple, to make herself appear as trustworthy as the ever-rising sun. “He came to me for many months, and he was grateful for the treatments I provided. His lumbago was cured, and he walked like a young man. Walked and rode and indulged in … other mannish sport.” She smiled crookedly, shrugging her shoulders as if she were not truly aware of such worldly things.

  “And where is this man now?” The northerner’s liver-colored lips pursed into a suspicious pout.

  “I cannot say.”

  Dartulamino gazed at her for several heartbeats before he nodded. “Very well, then. You come to us with kno
wledge of the Fellowship. You speak of the Royal Pilgrim. You can be permitted to live with this knowledge.”

  Kella’s relief was swallowed by her astonishment. She had not realized the terms of the test she had just passed; she had not known that she bargained for her life. A great weight descended upon her shoulders, a burden that she had not imagined only a moment before. She thought again of the people who had been executed in the north, of brave soldiers staked out on cold city streets, merely because they had fought for their king. What was she doing here? Why was she playing with fire?

  Because fire brews the strongest tinctures. Because fire warms the blood against the winter’s ice. Because fire is strength in the woods.

  Kella needed the Fellowship. She needed to work with these men to guarantee that she and her Sisters would be free for the future, to guarantee that Briantan fanatics would never march through Sarmonia. She cleared her throat and spoke with a young woman’s confidence. “I can serve you.”

  Dartulamino nodded as if she had completed some traditional formula. “Oh, that you will. Our fellows all share their knowledge, pouring it into a common pool. You have observed our meeting, and we expect nothing less than your complete devotion.”

  She forbade herself to swallow hard, knowing that these men would see that reaction as a sign of weakness. “Aye.”

  “Then it is time for you to offer your knowledge. All of it.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Kella thought of the dista bark drying on her rafters. She remembered the sweetvine that she had harvested only a few days before. She thought of her calumus root, and catmint, and sweet euphrasia. But she knew that these men were not interested in her herb knowledge. They did not care about potions and tinctures, poultices and tisanes, no matter the strength of the herb witch who brewed them.

  These men wanted to know about Jalina.