Free Glasswrights' Test by Mindy L Klasky Page A

hiding the light of their souls under silk that shimmered like a beetle’s wings. He carried them off before they ever tasted life in the palace, before they ever had a chance to live their royal lives. Nome had relinquished his hold with a sad shrug, a skirling of pipes that was almost lost on the summer breeze.
    So why was Berylina lighting a candle to him now? Why was she trying to summon his music, to bring forth the god? She could not settle her reasoning into words. Nome would understand, though. He would know that she would not ignore his warnings again. She would not overlook his piping for thoughts of another god, even for Lor, the silk god.
    She stayed on her knees until Tarn’s Knell ceased its tolling, the heavy clang trailing off into murmur-dusted silence. Usually, Berylina loved the sound of a fading campanile—the cathedral bells summoned worshipers each week, ushering all the faithful into the House of the Thousand Gods. Hidden in the notes, Berylina could hear an entire symphony of gods, a thousand voices singing out amid the metal tones.
    Tarn’s Knell was different, though. It was lonely. Sad.
    Berylina pulled herself to her feet, casting one last glance at the candle she had lit. Wax had melted around the wick, a clear pool that shimmered in the chapel’s heat. She imagined submerging herself in the circle, searing away her human flesh until she was nothing but devotion to the gods, nothing but pure, unformed worship.
    There was no time, though, for such fantasies of faith. She must attend King Halaravilli. She must offer up her prayers, that the newest royal twins might be received beyond the Heavenly Gates.
    Siritalanu was waiting for her, of course. He took her arm as she left Nome’s chapel, and he eased her through the throng that filled the cathedral. The tall nave was crowded with folk who came to honor their king, to mourn with him, yet again, for lost heirs.
    This time was the worst. Two sons, gone. Two perfect boys—ten fingers each, ten toes. Flawless rosebud lips, and ears that folded against their tiny skulls like wisps of parchment. They were so small. …
    Berylina wished that she had not seen the children. She knew that the memory would haunt her dreams for months; the dead twins would hover in front of her eyes when she should be seeing the gods. She would smell the ladanum upon their tiny bodies when she should be breathing the fragrance of one of the Thousand. She would hear their tiny cries, the pitiful mews that they had managed before their chests fell still in the summer afternoon.
    Now that they had lost their battle, Berylina must bear witness to their struggle. That was her fate, after all—to bear witness for the house of ben-Jair. The Thousand Gods had had a reason to raise her up from her own home, to carry her forth from her land of infidels. She had journeyed across the sea to this new home so that she could attest to the power of the Thousand Gods in the lives of men, in the lives of the royal family.
    Father Siritalanu understood. That was why he brought her to the front ranks of the nobles. That was why he guided her to stand with the priests and the caloyas of the king’s own household. She had a clear view of Holy Father Dartulamino when he stepped onto the dais in the middle of the transept.
    The Holy Father’s face was drawn, dark, as if the children he mourned were his own. Cloth of gold draped across his shoulders, weighing down his green robes. The priest’s dark eyes were hooded, and his handsome face was grave. He raised a commanding hand, and all eyes followed the arch of his fingers, turning to look down the nave of the church.
    The crowd parted slowly, as if people were reluctant to look upon unbridled grief. From Berylina’s vantage point, she could see anxious faces; she could make out anger and sorrow and more than a little fear.
    The king and queen were dressed in full mourning attire. Their robes were dyed