Glasswrights' Test by Mindy L Klasky Read Free Book Online

across the white-gleaming cicatrices of his craft. This, too, was a meditation on Jair. This, too, was worship of the Thousand Gods. Without consciously planning, he muttered a prayer to the pilgrim, words that passed his lips a hundred times a day. “May First Pilgrim Jair intercede for all my prayers in the true course of time.”
    Somehow, Brianta had converted him into a religious man. At first, he had adopted the Briantans’ complicated prayers because he wanted to prove his fitness for their society. He wanted to illustrate that he was safe, that they could trust him. He needed the security of a land where the king held little power, where the glasswrights could lick their wounds and recover. Over time, however, Parion had grown to find comfort in the prayerful words, refuge in the familiarity. His mind glided over the religious salutations like a blind man striding along a familiar path. Briantan worship had become a salve. A support. A guide.
    Parion’s reflections were interrupted as the door to his study opened yet again. No knock this time; no request for admission. One of the glasswrights, then. One who expected to be welcome in this chamber.
    He glanced up in time to see Larinda Glasswright slip into the room. She reached out automatically for the prayer bell, passed her palm across the surface with a smooth touch that set the chimes to jangling. The action was reflexive for the girl. After all, she had spent nearly one third of her life in Brianta, eight years surrounded by the paraphernalia of First Pilgrim Jair.
    Parion forced a patient smile onto his lips. “Blessings of the Pilgrim, Journeyman.”
    â€œBlessings of the Pilgrim, Master,” she responded immediately.
    â€œHow fares the guild this morning, Larinda?”
    â€œWell, Master.” She ducked her head in the traditional salute. “The apprentices are counting out the new shipment of Zarithian glass. Our silver stain arrived this morning as well; it is already placed in the treasury.”
    â€œAnd Instructor Tanilo?”
    â€œHe remains in the infirmary. He has not awoken yet. Sister Domira fears for him. She says that the Instructor’s fits had been growing worse before he was found in the garden yesterday. It is not good that he has not regained consciousness.”
    â€œMay Yor bring strength to the man.”
    â€œMay Yor bring strength,” Larinda repeated, making a gesture to summon the protective attention of the god of healing.
    Ironically, the motion was nearly impossible for the girl to complete. Her own hands had been maimed in Morenia, destroyed by the King’s Men when the Traitor worked her evil upon the guild. Larinda wore a crude Hand, one of the first that Parion had ever commissioned for his charges, but the tool was heavy and lacked both grace and ease of use. In fact, she winced as she twisted her wrist in the complicated salute to Yor.
    â€œDoes your hand pain you, Larinda?”
    â€œNo, Master,” she responded immediately, but he saw the way she cradled her right wrist with her left.
    He made a decision. Stepping over to his work table, he waved the journeyman to his side and lifted the spidersilk shroud that covered the new device. “You should see this, Larinda Glasswright. You should know that we will soon have new Hands for you and all the wounded guildsmen.”
    For just an instant, suspicion clouded the girl’s face. She glanced at the table, as if she were afraid of trickery, as if she feared that her hopes would be destroyed in a flicker of cruel fire. She could not keep from gazing on the Hand, though. She darted a look at Parion, silently asking for permission. He nodded, and she lifted the new Hand in her heavy, awkward grip.
    She ran her fingertips over the silk covering, and a look of awe spread across her face. She straightened the ribbons, twisting them so that they fell in their proper configuration. With two fingers, she manipulated the