Glasswrights' Test by Mindy L Klasky

The other captured the queen’s arms—or those of her former guild, at least. An octolaris spider rose from the wooden surface, its eight legs arched high above its back. A web traced across the wooden surface, symbol of the silk that Mareka had brought to Morenia.
    Raising his hands above the plaques, Father Dartulamino intoned: “Hail Nome, god of children, guide of Jair the Pilgrim. Look upon these Pilgrims with mercy in your heart and justice in your soul. Guide the feet of these Pilgrims on righteous paths of glory that all may be done to honor you and yours among the Thousand Gods. These Pilgrims ask for the grace of your blessing, Nome, god of children.”
    Once again, Berylina heard Nome’s high pipes, but his tune was mournful now, fleeting. She could not help but look about the cathedral, to examine the other worshipers, to see if any of them heard the notes.
    Apparently, none did.
    After Holy Father Dartulamino completed the traditional death prayer to Nome, he moved on to summon other gods. There was Tak, of course, the god of spiders, in honor of the grieving mother. Berylina heard a clarion call, like a hunter’s horn in the woods. There was Fen, the god of mercy. Berylina smelled fresh-baked bread, hot from the oven. The priest invoked Ote, the god of peace, and Berylina blinked against the shimmering gold of a summer sunset.
    And then, of course, the priest summoned Tarn. Berylina fell to her knees with the other worshipers, buffeted by waves of green and black. She knew that she knelt on marble; she knew that she wore a dress of plain green silk. Yet everything before her eyes seemed different, shimmering, empowered by the god.
    Berylina recited the familiar prayer, rolling the individual words over her tongue without paying attention to them. The final phrase echoed in the cathedral, breathed by hundreds of worshipers: “These Pilgrims ask for the grace of your blessing, Tarn, god of death.”
    Through her shimmering fog, Berylina saw Queen Mareka topple to one side, overcome by great sobs. King Halaravilli tried to slip an arm around his lady, to ease her back onto her knees, but the queen was too distraught. The Holy Father set his jaw and made a subtle hand gesture for a pair of green-clad caloyas to step forward and assist.
    â€œIt is not fair!” the queen wailed from the marble floor. “Tarn takes too much! He has enough of my children! The Heavenly Gates are dripping with my children’s blood!” The religious women gathered around the queen, patting her black-clad arms with their soft hands. The queen, though, recoiled from their green garments as if the women burned her. She struggled to her knees and raised a defiant fist to the Holy Father. “This is not fair, Priest! No god should ask this of a mother!”
    Father Dartulamino pitched his voice softly. “The gods do not ask, Your Majesty.”
    â€œThat, at least is true!” Queen Mareka cried. “They ask nothing. They take! They steal! They murder innocent babes!”
    â€œNo one was murdered, Your Majesty.”
    â€œTell that to my children! Tell that to the corpses that await the pyre outside. Tell that. …” The queen trailed off, her words lost in hysterical sobs as she collapsed back to the marble floor. King Halaravilli hovered over her, trying to settle a soothing hand upon her brow. The queen twisted away from him, writhing as if she were a fish caught on a line. Her sobs rose to the transept vaulting, filling the church with the raw passion of a mother denied.
    â€œMy lady. …” the king said. “Please, Mareka. Please. …”
    The queen, though, did not acknowledge her husband’s whispered words. King Halaravilli glanced wildly at the Holy Father, at the caloyas who still clustered ineffectually around his wife.
    They did not understand. They did not know how Mareka Octolaris’s mind worked.
    All of a sudden, Berylina’s mouth