Glasswrights' Master Read Free Page A

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,