Glasswrights' Test (30 page)

In his place was this man who had seen terrible things, done terrible things, caused terrible things to happen. This man who could kill a harmless puppy, who could sacrifice a soldier in his command without the hesitation of a blink. This man who could torture or maim or kill, all in the service of some great cause.

Crestman held up a glass vial, turning it so that it caught the last of the dying sunlight. “For Mareka, Ranita Glasswright. Poison her by Dol's day, or Laranifarso will die. Poison the queen, or you'll never call yourself a master in any guild.”

Rani reached for the vial in reflex, and Crestman barked a command. The shadowed figures in the street melted away, folding away their metal blades, seeping into the gloaming night. Rani fell to her knees beside the prison wall and sobbed.

 

* * *

 

Parion Glasswright turned away from the intruder who stood beside his work table. He forced his voice to stay even as he said, “Must I remind you that I am the master of this guild? Glasswrights throughout the city look up to me.”

“We are aware of that,” the visitor whispered.

Parion resisted the urge to clench his fists, and he swallowed hard so that he would not snatch at the midnight hood. These damned Fellows were getting closer and closer to the business of the guild. It was one thing for them to provide the Hands—provide them for a goodly amount of gold. It was another, though, when they came to dictate his daily decisions, his daily actions as guildmaster.

After all, it wasn't as if Parion had ever been invited, had ever agreed to join the Fellowship. Once he learned of its existence, he had purposely kept his distance. He wanted to run his guild. He wanted to determine the fate of the glasswrights in Brianta. He did not want to be beholden to anyone else.

He gritted his teeth and said, “We will test Ranita Glasswright in the same way that we test each of our members.”

The Fellow laughed softly, a chortle that was almost lost inside the folds of black cloth. The sound was distinctly masculine; this was one Fellow who did not fear to reveal his gender. “Oh, aye. You'll test her. You'll put her through her paces as if she were a mare in the royal stables. But then you'll decide her fate based on what we say.”

Parion could taste the easy fruit the Fellow offered him. The guildmaster would not need to balance his emotions and the truth. He would not need to ask if he were acting fairly or unfairly, if he were judging the Traitor based upon her true abilities. He would not need to think about the glazed pottery, the special flask of water. He could sit back like a child, and merely do what he was told.

If the Fellowship dictated that the Traitor must fail, then she would be banished from the guild. Her life ambitions would be crushed. She would never plague Parion again, never remind him of all the glory the guild once had, of all the beauty and the power and the prestige. He would be free to move forward, to work as best he could in memory of Morada, in memory of the past, which he could not change.

And if the Fellowship required the cursed Traitor to pass, then Parion would manage to stomach that event. After all, he
had
trained her. He had taught her the basics of her glasswright skills.

Even as he recognized the easy path beneath his feet, he saw the folly in giving in. After all, the Fellowship was responsible for all the pain that poor Morada had suffered. The Fellowship had fanned the flames of its conflict with Morada's faction; it had fed the secret battles that had threatened to split Morenia in two.

If the Fellowship had not existed, then Morada would not have been caught up in secret battles. If the Fellowship had not existed, then Morada would still be alive, would still stand at his side. Parion and Morada together . . . they would have led the wealthiest guild in all Morenia by now. They would have been in their homeland, in power, in control of their destiny.

Without glancing at the cloaked messenger, Parion reached toward his table, toward the flawed swirl of black and clear glass that Morada had made. The surface was smooth beneath his fingertips, as smooth as her remembered flesh. He spread his palm upon the surface, and he could feel the contrast within the worked piece, the heat of absorbed sunlight from the black, black glass, the cool peace of the clear.

The Fellow interrupted Parion's memories with the guttural growl of a cleared throat. A harsh whisper cut through the room. “You will test her, then. But you will wait for us to dictate whether she passes the test. You will wait for us to determine her fate before you pronounce her future.”

“And if I do not?”

Parion should have been prepared for the Fellow to move. He should have known that any hint of rebellion would anger the cloaked figure. He should have expected that the Fellowship had ways to enforce its demands.

Nevertheless, he was surprised by the speed with which the Fellow's knife appeared. The blade flashed in the sun, blinding white as the light glinted off a sharpened edge. Parion did not have a chance to step back, a chance to reach for his own weapon, even a chance to protect his own flesh. The Fellow settled the flashing blade with perfect precision, pressing the keen edge into the taut skin of Parion's wrist. “You'll listen to the Fellowship, Glasswright. You'll listen, or you'll find that not even a Liantine Hand will be enough for you. You'll listen, or you'll pay the price.”

Before Parion could protest, the Fellow drew his blade across the glasswright's wrist, leaving behind a stripe of bloody red. The wound was so startling that Parion could only see it; he could not feel the injury. Then, the cut began to sting, as if someone had salted the very edges of his skin.

Parion sucked in his breath, catching his lower lip between his teeth. He swore at the Fellow and grabbed at a cloth, any cloth, the snowy binding that had protected Morada's medallion. The old glasswork slipped from the table, falling against the wooden floorboards and breaking along its flaw. Parion registered the two pieces and his heart contracted, seizing in his chest as if he were clamped in a glasswright's lead vise.

Even as he realized that the medallion was ruined, even as he knew that he had lost the last treasure that Morada had ever made, Parion wrapped the pure white linen around his wound. The cloth stung his cut, burning like the sudden hatred that melted across his vision. He was transported back to Morenia, back to the days before he was guildmaster. He remembered being questioned by the old king's men, commanded to give up the Traitor. He had been cut then, daily, bled out while he pledged the truthfulness of his answers.

Now, he pressed hard, trying to force the blood to stop. The fingers of his good hand grew moist, and he needed to fold the linen once again, needed to add another layer to staunch the wound. Against the stinging pain, he managed to flex his injured hand. The Fellow might be wickedly fast with a blade, he might have struck out of nowhere, but he seemed to know his business. He had worked no lasting damage.

Parion looked up from the crimson-stained linen. “We'll test her,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “We'll test Ranita Glasswright, and we'll determine if she passes.”

“Just remember, Guildmaster. Just remember what hangs in the balance, as you make your determination.” The Fellow paused on the threshold for one long moment, and Parion longed to rip away the mask, longed to see the identity of his tormentor. The figure whispered, “If you are wise, you'll wait to make your decision. If you are wise, you'll wait for us to tell you how Ranita Glasswright fares.”

And then the threat was gone. The Fellow bowed slightly and ducked out of the door. Parion's eyes narrowed as he saw the figure catch against the doorframe, as if he were in pain, as if he needed support. Parion could hear the Fellow's steps disappearing down the hallway, one leg dragging like a heavy weight, an untold loss.

Parion swore as he turned back to the worktable. In a moment of choking rage, he swept his uninjured arm across the work surface, sending his original offering to the Thousand Gods flying. Scores of glass pebbles rattled across the desk, against the windowsill, onto the floor. Parion swore again and kicked at the rubble, cursing a dozen gods.

Morada's medallion had broken cleanly, he reminded himself. Perhaps he could fuse the pieces. Perhaps he could meld them into a single round without the original flaw. He could anneal the fragments in a kiln, join them together into a new whole, a perfect whole. …

Ah, Morada, he thought. If only you were here. If only you could tell me what I should do. …

It would be so easy to fail the Traitor on her test, regardless of any instructions from the Fellowship. He could watch her face, see the eager expectation in her eyes. He could witness her excitement as she presented her masterpiece, as she set forth the culmination of all her labors. He had observed other apprentices over the years; he knew the power of their hope, their dreams.

She would suffer when she was rejected. She would collapse in self-doubt, in fear, in sorrow. She would be alone and lost. He had that power over her. He could make her pay. He could make her sacrifice, as he had sacrificed. She would lose the love of the guild, as he had lost his own love. She would ache, ache, ache. …

But what if the Fellowship demanded that the Traitor pass? Could Parion do that? Could he forfeit his own power? Could he yield the force of guildmaster, concede to the Fellowship the greatest achievement of his life? And what about the taste of revenge that he had already concocted? Could he forfeit it? Could he change what he had already wrought?

What would the Fellowship require?

Morada. … What should I do? Should I yield to them? Should I let them decide?

The broken medallion stared up at him like the empty eyes of an idiot.

What did Parion truly know of the Traitor's ability, of the likelihood of her passing the guild's test without interference? He'd had precious few hours to watch any of the journeymen in the past several days. He had relied almost entirely on other glasswrights, on Larinda in particular, to tell him how they fared.

Well that, at least, he could change. He could collect more accurate information. He could learn where all the competing journeymen stood.

He hesitated only a moment before he digging a scrap of linen from a drawer. He collected the two pieces of Morada's medallion, wrapping the broken glass carefully. When he placed it next to his chest, he could feel it slowing his heartbeat, calming his mind.

The guildhall was strangely silent as he walked through its corridors. There should have been apprentices scurrying about, journeymen intent on their labors. Instructors should have been barking out commands in the workrooms, young masters debating the rules of their craft.

Instead, the hallways seemed as deserted as a winter beach at sunset. Just as well, Parion muttered to himself, tugging on the rough bandage around his wrist. He was in no mood to chat with his fellow glasswrights. No mood to talk politely about the way the world should work, the proper manner for the guild to function.

Parion had lived in Brianta for long enough that his footsteps automatically pounded out a prayer. “Clain, bring me peace,” he thought as he walked. “Let me see the path beneath my feet. Let me know the way of truth and of justice. Guide me, Clain. Bring me peace.”

Repeating his petition to the god of glasswrights, Parion turned a corner, and he found himself in the long, low hallway where the journeymen labored at their masterpieces. He took a moment to brush his fingers against the prayer bell, speaking only Clain's name as a form of petition.

At least this chamber was not deserted. Five journeyman hunched over their tables, intent on their labor in the short time remaining before their test. Belita. Wario. Sharlithi. Cosino. Larinda.

No Traitor.

Larinda's table was closest to the door, and Parion approached it without preamble. He watched the girl take in his countenance. Her eyes moved from his face to his wrist and back again. She paled when she saw the stained cloth wrapped around his flesh; he could only imagine the memories that blood-soaked linen must summon up in her mind. He ignored his heart's momentary clench of pity. “Larinda Glasswright.”

“Guildmaster.” Her response was as steady as ever, calm, calculated. Parion resisted the urge to touch the broken medallion against his chest, to send his thoughts toward his lost Morada.

“The glasswrights' test begins two weeks hence. Are you prepared?”

She hesitated only a moment; she clearly had not anticipated such a mundane question. “Yes, Master.”

“I would like to see your drawings. I would like to see what you intend to craft, before the test commences.”

Again, she hesitated, but this time her response managed to convey a dozen questions. “Yes, Master.”

Well she might wonder what he intended. The journeymen were expressly forbidden from speaking to masters as they planned their test pieces. The journeymen's ideas should reflect their own abilities at solving problems, their own thoughts at creating designs. By asking to see Larinda's work, Parion was toppling the entire process.

Well, other things were toppling, in every direction that Parion looked. He would see Larinda's work. It would give him an idea of what to expect from the Traitor. For now, he forbade himself from looking at that one's empty table, from questioning where she had gone and why.

Larinda interrupted his thoughts with a careful question, pitching her voice so that the other glasswrights would not hear her. “Are you well, Master? Would you like assistance dressing that wound?”

Would he like assistance. … Would he like someone to stand beside him, to aid him. … Would he like to set aside the burden of the glasswrights' guild—just once, for just a day. …

But no. He could not proffer that responsibility to Larinda. Not now. Not yet. Not until she had proven herself with the test.

“I am fine, journeyman. Let me see your work.”