Glasswrights' Test Read Online Free

for me, Tovin. They paid a blood debt each time they were interrogated, the masters and the journeymen. The apprentices were maimed, for me.” Maimed. That word was not enough. That single sound could not capture the horror, the brutality. The apprentices had been culled methodically, one each day—for the entire time that Rani had remained loose in the city streets. Every sunrise, a child was torn from the pack, dragged to the courtyard, forced to the block.
    Was it the executioner who did the job? Or was there another master, a butcher who specialized in hands?
    Each apprentice had been forced to kneel, forced to splay trembling hands on the thirsty, frozen stone. Each was asked to confess, ordered to divulge secrets. Each was commanded to disclose Rani’s whereabouts, Rani’s allies, Rani’s plans. And each remained silent, unable to craft a reply that satisfied old King Shanoranvilli.
    The blade fell. The thumbs rolled. The blood flowed and flowed and flowed. …
    And Rani could not repay the guild for that. Even though she had been innocent—she had been a victim herself—she could not declare the balance sheet even, the debt paid. Not yet. No matter how much she longed to be free from her past. No matter how much she longed to move into the future. …
    She had forced herself to speak to Tovin in the night, to feel her words vibrate against his broad chest even as the doleful Pilgrims’ Bell counted through the night. “I cannot mark the bill paid yet. The old guild must do that. The old masters and journeymen. The apprentices. The ones who survived.”
    â€œYou do not even know where they are,” Tovin had said reasonably.
    â€œThey are not in Morenia,” she agreed. “But I have sent messengers, trackers. Some glasswrights have returned to their homelands, to their villages. Others have gathered in other lands, in courts that are kinder to the glasswrights than Morenia was.” In Brianta, she thought as she listened to the Pilgrims’ Bell. In the homeland of Jair, where there was mercy for all.
    Tovin had pulled her closer, settling her head against his throat. She could feel the steady pulse that beat there. “You are too harsh on yourself.”
    â€œI am not harsh enough.” She held out her hands in the moonlight, turning them to capture the eldritch glow. A trick of the light made her bones stand out, as if her flesh had melted away.
    â€œYou cannot undo the past,” Tovin murmured.
    She clenched her hands into fists, and her tears finally slid down her cheeks. I know, she thought. Oh, how I know. She let him fold his fingers around the knots of her own. She let him turn her toward him. She let him guide her back to the shadows of the curtained bed that they shared.
    And in the summer light of morning, she had pushed away the despair, the sorrow, the hopeless mourning. She had dressed in her finest crimson and attended the first silk auction in Morenian history.
    â€œYour Tovin will turn a profit on this one, in less than a season,” Mair crowed, completely unaware of Rani’s drifting thoughts. “By Jair, he’s a wise one!”
    â€œBy Jair. …” Rani heard an echo before she could reply, and she looked up to find Princess Berylina standing before them. There was an intensity in the girl’s face, as if she listened to voices from afar, voices that whispered above the rising bids from the dais.
    â€œYour Highness,” Rani said, automatically dropping into a polite curtsey. Beside her, Mair ducked as well, simplifying the maneuver in light of her son. She kept her head up, her eyes on the princess. Rani, too, watched the girl warily, as if she were a wild creature trapped in a stable.
    â€œRanita Glasswright. Lady Mair.” The princess managed to meet Rani’s gaze for a moment, a quick dart of her own right eye as her cast left eye roamed. Then, she inclined her head, studying her fingers