Free Glasswrights' Test by Mindy L Klasky

his notes into her morning prayers. She had heard him when she knelt at the prie-dieu in the corner of her room, and again when she passed the Children’s Fountain, in the middle of the Nobles’ Quarter. The carved toys that were suspended from the ancient font had danced in the morning breeze, their jointed arms swinging, their heads bobbing as if they moved in time to the god’s music.
    Berylina had tried to silence Nome in frustration. She had been intent on reaching out to Lor, trying to gather in the peppery scent of the god of silk. After all, she was going to honor Lor in the name of King Halaravilli. She was going to invoke the god’s blessing on the new guildish venture. She had thought that she had no time for Nome’s frivolous games.
    If only she had listened to Nome’s music . . . if she had just let the god tell her all that he had to say! She had even been drawing that morning, before she left for the guildhall. He could have folded his fingers around her own, guided her hand across the page. She might have depicted Queen Mareka’s bedchamber, the tall window that looked over the town. She might have drawn the balcony, with its raised stone bench, with the curious, steep stairs that led from the queen’s apartments to the balustrade. She might have seen the queen pacing outside her rooms, ignoring her physicians as she took the sun, as she leaned out to see the strong, proud lines of the distant silk hall.
    In the days since the disaster, Berylina had told herself that things might have been worse. The queen could have toppled over the edge of the balcony, fallen into the courtyard below. If that had happened, Queen Mareka would have lost her own life, along with those of the twins that she bore.
    Instead, the queen had yielded to her chiding ladies-in-waiting. She had agreed to
return to her curtained bed. Blinded by the brilliant sunshine as she approached the steep stairs,
the queen had turned to look over her shoulder, imagining that she could hear the silk master cry
out “Sold!” for the first lot of cloth. She had placed her foot unsteadily on the stone edge, and
she had turned her ankle, toppling on the joint that was swollen from pregnancy. She had reached out
to catch herself, but she had missed the stone upright of the window. Six stairs. Six stone steps,
and then the queen had fetched up sharply against the leg of a wooden table.
    Even now, Berylina could imagine the flurry in the queen’s chambers. She knew that the gods had been invoked: minty Zake for chirurgeons, salty Chine for mothers. Piping Nome, for children, of course.
    And for several long minutes, those prayers had seemed enough. The gods had shifted to a new balance. They had spun about in their eternal dance, touching each other, moving into patterns, embracing and protecting the people who offered up prayers to them.
    Queen Mareka had been eased into her bed, covered with woolen blankets. She had sobbed in frustration and pain, snapping at the noble lady who attempted to tend to her twisted ankle. One attendant ran for wine, another for water, to lay cool cloths upon the royal foot.
    And then the birth pangs started.
    When it was all over, Nome had come to Berylina, piping his lament. He had explained that the princes had come too soon. No god could work all miracles. Nome could not stop actions that had already begun. The queen’s womb was injured by her tumble down the stairs, by her crash against the table—Nome could not stop that. The twins were startled to wakefulness by the fall—no god could change that, either.
    If there had been one infant, Nome might have proven strong enough. But he’d needed to divide his attention between two young charges; he’d needed to breathe life into two fragile bodies. In the end, the princes were too small. There was nothing to be done.
    Tarn gathered up the royal heirs. The god of death folded them beneath his green-black cloak,