Glasswrights' Test (18 page)

He cleared his throat once, and then he dipped his pen, letting the excess ink drip back into the pot. “Your name, then, Pilgrim?”

“B—Berylina.” She stuttered as she voiced her answer; never before had her name carried so much import.

“And your home, Pilgrim?”

She paused. She could not name Liantine, not the place of her birth that had abandoned her, that had thrust her forward on a bloody path to faith. Morenia, then. That was her home. She had sworn fealty to Halaravilli ben-Jair, after all. She felt Father Siritalanu stir behind her, and she knew that she could answer truthfully. “Morenia.”

“Very well, Berylina Pilgrim of Morenia. There will be five specific gods that you honor with your pilgrimage, five special deities among all the Thousand. They will watch over your steps; they will guide your words and worship. They will protect you and keep you for all the rest of your days, if you please them here in Brianta. Who is the first god that you would honor in this fashion?”

Berylina had thought about this matter, of course. She had pondered the meaning of her pilgrimage, the special gods who had spoken to her in her life. She had held some of her favorites close to her heart, knowing that they already recognized her faith, that they already knew she cared for them, that she spoke to them, that she acknowledged them as sovereign in all things. Thus, she did not need to honor Nome on this cavalcade. She did not need to reach out to Kel, or Par, or Glat.

She had spoken with Father Siritalanu many times, exploring possibilities. Gently, he had suggested that she dedicate herself to some of the more basic gods. After all, he had pointed out, she was only sixteen years old. She had demonstrated her vocation; she had proven her dedication to all the Thousand. There would surely be other pilgrimages in her future, other opportunities to show that she was devoted to the more challenging gods.

Berylina had rebelled against such thought, though. There was nothing that she was going to accomplish when she was older that she could not do now, nothing involving the Thousand Gods, at least. They had spoken to her since she was a child, since her first nurse opened her eyes and ears and heart to their majestic presences. She
knew
them already.

She had listened to Father Siritalanu, and she had nodded, creasing her brow in the way that they had agreed long ago meant that she was serious, that she was contemplating the importance of his words. She told him that she would consider the matter further, continue evaluating possibilities.

And she had made her own choices.

Change. That was what she wanted to master. That was what she wanted to explore. This pilgrimage was going to change her life, change her faith, change the world around her. Therefore, she would focus on gods of change.

She had been surprised to learn that there was no single god of change. She had thought that the concept was so basic, so inherent in the building up and tearing down of the world that there must be a deity dedicated to it and to nothing else.

But she had examined the scrolls in Morenia, the long listings of all the gods. She had read books written by some of the great philosophers; she had struggled through words and concepts well beyond her training. Finally, she had brought herself to ask Siritalanu.

He had shrugged as he answered. There were many concepts not recognized among the gods. One thousand was an awesome number; however, it could not encompass all things in men's experience. There was no god of change. Berylina had accepted that verdict with good will. Who was she to question the wisdom of First God Ait? Who was she to renumber the pantheon?

She would just have to focus on other gods. On gods who captured the notion of change, gods who would convey the essence that she craved.

The old priest glared at her and asked again, “Who is the first god that you would honor?”

Berylina clenched her fists and announced, “Ile.” The god of the moon. The god that endlessly changed his face in the sky, that presided over the ebbing and flowing of the tide, over the courses of her woman's body.

“Ile,” the priest said, and if he thought her choice was strange, he did not say so. Instead, he dipped his great pen back into his inkpot, and he inscribed the god's name onto her cavalcade.

As the priest wrote out the name, Berylina felt her nose fill with the smell of new-mown hay. Ile's aroma flooded the back of her throat as if she were drowning in a sea of green-gold grass. The priest intoned, “Go forth in the name of Ile, and learn the ways of that god. Learn to honor him and do right by him, and may he bless you for all the rest of your days.” The grassy scent grew even stronger, and Berylina longed to hold her breath forever, but she forced herself to exhale evenly, folding her fingers into a holy sign.

The priest seemed not to notice. He scarcely paused before he asked, “And your second god?”

“Mip, the god of water.” Berylina had studied the ocean on her crossing from Liantine to Morenia. She had studied the stone that sat beneath the eaves of her palace chamber; she had seen the smooth hole bored by the persistent dripping of rainwater. She had seen the banks of rivers and bluffs that rose high above meandering streams. Water had great power to modify the world around it, to shape even the hardest ground.

This time, the priest did look at her oddly. Berylina merely turned her head to the side, pinning him with one eye, making it easier for him to study her, to grant her desire. “Mip,” the priest said, and he shook his head. What child would offer up a pilgrimage in the name of Mip?

Still, the priest wrote out the name and added his holy seal. The scratching of the pen released the sound of birdsong, the delicate trilling of a nightingale that spread across the courtyard. The sound was so clear, so perfect, that Berylina looked up, glancing at Father Siritalanu, at all the assembled pilgrims, to see if they could hear the bird.

Nothing. Mip spoke to her alone. As all the gods, he presented a private face for her to worship. The priest spoke his formula quickly: “Go forth in the name of Mip and learn the ways of that god. Learn to honor him and do right by him, and may he bless you for all the rest of your days.” Berylina eagerly curled her fingers into the gesture of devotion.

The nightingale trilled once more and then fell silent. As if the priest feared another odd response, he took a deep breath before he said, “Your third god?”

“Nim, the god of wind.” The crowd murmured.

Berylina had questioned herself about this choice. After all, did wind change as much of the world as water? For a long while, Berylina had feared that she was choosing Nim only because of Queen Mareka, because of the power that the peach-flavored god had spread across her tongue at the funeral of the two little princes.

But then she had thought about changes she had seen, wrought by wind in the world around her. Once, when she was a child, a waterspout had come up out of the sea. Spinning and spinning, it had roared over her father's palace, plucking up all the rosebushes from the garden, and shattering a wall of glass in the royal receiving hall. Teheboth Thunderspear had decided not to replace the glasswork; instead, he had ordered a wooden screen. That screen was the first touch of the Horned Hind in the house of Thunderspear, the first hint that the Thousand Gods were losing their grip in Liantine. All because of Nim. . .. All because the god of wind had thrown a tantrum one morning.

The old priest cocked his head to one side, but he scrawled the name onto her cavalcade. Berylina scarcely heard him as he repeated his formula. Her mouth filled with the essence of peach, with the perfect taste of summer fruit as she signaled her gratitude. She nearly missed the priest's demand: “And your fourth god?”

Berylina hesitated. She had debated long hours before she had settled on her fourth choice. She knew that Father Siritalanu disapproved, that he thought her decision was inappropriate for a child. Well, she was hardly a child. And her choice made sense, in the context of her goals. She wanted gods of transition, and there was hardly any god who preside over more transition than this one. She forced herself to raise her voice, to speak loudly enough to be heard. “Zil. The god of gamblers.”

The priest slammed his fist against the table. “Zil! You mock me, girl!” The crowd exclaimed, and one of Berylina's four armed supporters flushed, looking as if he wished he'd never come forward.

She hastened to say, “No! I am drawn to the god of gambling, Father. He speaks to me in ways that I do not yet understand. I undertake this journey to understand him better, to know the truthfulness of his ways.”

“You make this journey to mock us here in Brianta.”

“Father, you must not believe that! I have meditated on my choices for all the long days and nights of my journey to this holy land.”

“You're a slip of a girl. Why waste your time meditating on gambling? What evil thoughts do you work inside your head?”

Berylina's response ran cold through her belly. How dare the priest—a man dedicated to
all
the Thousand Gods—insult one of them in such an offhand manner. Certainly Zil was not reliable. Certainly he played games with those who came to him for guidance. Certainly he brought great men to ruin and raised up others who scarcely seemed worthy of the honor.

But for a priest to speak against one of the Thousand? For a man to reject a god?

Berylina clutched the green fabric of her robe, trying to remember that priests were fallible, like all men. Priests were subject to mistakes, just as caloyas were, as princesses were, as ordinary sixteen-year-old girls were. Berylina would not be perfect, even when she had completed her pilgrimage and studied the gods and offered up her heart of hearts.

“Please, Father,” she tried again. “At first I thought to dedicate my pilgrimage to Wain, the god of fate. Surely he would be pleasing to you. I realized, though, that another god has walked beside me, another god has shaped the strange days of my life. I chose Zil because I have felt his force molding me, creating me. My father gambled with his faith and other things. I have tried to learn the folly of his ways, that I might avoid them and stay true to the Thousand for all the days of my life.”

She saw the lines in the priest's face relaxing, saw that he was going to yield to her. Well, she hadn't lied. Her father
had
gambled—gambled on the saving grace of a woodland goddess. Berylina's dedicating her pilgrimage to Zil might teach her a little more of what her father had hoped to gain, of how he had planned to build a kingdom on a hope and a prayer and a shaky, false foundation.

“Very well,” the priest grumbled, as he jabbed his pen back into his inkpot. “Zil.” The old man scratched away at Berylina's cavalcade. Immediately, her skin was embraced by ermine—soft, soft fur brushing against her arms, her legs, her face.

For just an instant, she was distracted by Zil's presence, lost in wondering why he would choose ermine as his worldly presence. Why did any of the gods choose their presentations, though? What made any of them think that a particular sight or sound or touch was characteristic of their essential self?

Before she could divine an answer, the priest recited the formula invoking the god. He rushed through the words, and then Berylina signaled her acceptance. She was released from the ermine touch. “And your last choice, Pilgrim?”

“Tarn.” Berylina whispered the name.

“You are a child!” the priest bellowed. The crowd exploded.

“I am acquainted with Tarn's work, Father! I know him now, as all of us must come to know him. He greeted me at my birth when he took away my mother, and I know that he will wait for me until all the end of my days.”

“Child,” the priest exclaimed, “Can't you choose a single child's god? Can't you honor Shir, the god of song? Or Purn or Shul?”

“The god of dance does not come easily to me, Father, and the god of mirth abandons me altogether.” Berylina stepped closer to the table, certain that she could convince this priest, as she had at last convinced Father Siritalanu. “Father, a pilgrimage is not meant to be easy. It is not meant to let one frolic and play. I must test myself, and so testing build my faith to all the Thousand Gods. I have prayed about this for long, long days, and even longer nights. Do not keep me from my labor, Father. Do not force me to change my cavalcade.”

As she spoke, the priest's eyes become hooded, and she wondered what memories she evoked for him, what history she spun inside his mind. For just an instant, his face softened—he was no longer an irate gatekeeper. Instead, he was a young man, a passionate man, a man who had found his faith and his profession among all the Thousand Gods.

“Tarn,” he said, and he dipped his pen back into his pot of ink. “Very well, child. If you think that the god of death is appropriate for you, I can only give you my blessing.”

“That is all that I would ask, Father. That is all that any living man can give me.” Berylina watched him complete the cavalcade. The lines of the pen summoned the familiar green-black of Tarn's cloak, the shimmer of a beetle's carapace in the corners of her mind. She moved her fingers in grateful acceptance.

Then, she smelled the crimson wax that the priest dripped onto the parchment. She heard the faint crack as he lifted free his golden seal, and when she swallowed, she tasted tears at the back of her throat. She shivered and ran her hands along her arms, trying to remember the feel of Zil's soft robes, the touch of ermine comfort.

When the priest presented the cavalcade, Berylina drew herself straight inside her caloya gown. “I dedicate my pilgrimage to all the Thousand Gods, but most particularly to Ile and Mip. To Nim and Zil. And to Tarn.”

The priest's tone was relieved as he handed her the parchment. “Go forward, Pilgrim. Go forward and find your fate within the holy precincts of Brianta, and in all the wide, wide world. Go forward in the name of Ile and in the name of Mip, in the name of Nim and in the name of Zil. Go forward, Pilgrim, in the name of Tarn.”