Free Glasswrights' Test by Mindy L Klasky Page B

deepest black, stiffened with somber embroidery that made each step seem like a rigid military march. King Halaravilli had placed a pounded iron crown upon his head, its heavy band his sole concession to royal status in the House of the Thousand Gods. He moved like a man defeated, like an ancient warrior bowed beneath a conquering army. His face was haggard, and Berylina wondered if he had slept in the fortnight since the silk sale. He should not be burning more babes; he should not be offering up more fallen heirs on funeral pyres.
    Queen Mareka leaned heavily on her husband’s arm. Her slight body nearly disappeared in her stiff mourning gown; the fabric swallowed up her slender limbs. Her face was pale as whey in the afternoon light, and her flesh took on an unhealthy glow as she passed through the jeweled tones of the stained glass windows set high in the cathedral walls. Queen Mareka moved like a broken woman, like a grandmother tottering toward an unclean grave. She limped as she walked beside her husband, clearly favoring the ankle that had turned so cruelly, that had betrayed her so completely.
    Holy Father Dartulamino waited until his king and queen stood before him. “Greetings to all in the name of the Thousand Gods.”
    â€œMay all the gods bless you,” Berylina responded with the crowd.
    â€œI come before you with a heavy heart,” the priest said. “Throughout our lives, we all must witness the work of Tarn. We all must greet the god of death and recognize the dominion that he holds over us, for Tarn will gather each of us beneath his cloak when our course is done.”
    Each time the priest spoke the name of the god of death, Berylina saw a flash of green-black, the iridescence of an insect wing, hovering above King Halaravilli. Her heart went out to the man, and she wished that she could spare him, that she could shield him from Tarn’s cold attentions.
    After all, the king had tried to be kind to her. Even when he courted her. Even when he intended to marry her, beneath the hateful eyes of the Horned Hind. She could understand that now. She had grown so much since she left her father’s court. Before, when King Halaravilli had wooed her, she had been so afraid. She had thought that he meant to have her only to bolster his own treasury, only to add to his store of gold.
    Now, she knew that Halaravilli was a religious man. He took his obligations as Defender of the Faith seriously. He extended his protection to her, even though she had no gold left to give. He made sure that Berylina had parchment for her drawings, and chalk and ink and whatever else she required.
    Holy Father Dartulamino continued with the funeral service. Perhaps it was easier for the king and queen, knowing that the prayers they spoke aloud were the standard prayers of death, the same words that had been choked out by grieving parents for centuries. In the eyes of the Thousand Gods, there was nothing special about the loss of the princes, no special failure on the part of Queen Mareka or the king. Standing in the cathedral, they were not required to act as royalty; they did not need to lead all of Morenia. Rather, they could be parents—simple, grieving parents.
    It was customary to display possessions of the dead upon the altar during a funeral service. The royal princes, though, had not yet owned a thing. They had been birthed so soon that they had not received a single gift from any lord or lady, from any distant land.
    Berylina sighed. Ordinarily, eager nobles would have sent treasures to commemorate Queen Mareka’s pregnancy. People had waited this time. They must have been uncertain, after the losses of the other babes. They had not wanted to waste their gold, their ivory, their gifts of greeting.
    Nevertheless, two plaques sat upon the altar, hurried emblems that had been crafted to honor the children. One was carved with the arms of ben-Jair, the king’s proud lion twisting in low relief.