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the right response, for the serving women smiled, glancing at each other. Two took her hands, moving much more respectfully now than when they’d first rushed her from the carriage. Siri strode with them, train rustling behind her, and the other women stayed behind. Siri turned, and the women curtsied to her one at a time, heads bowed. The last two—the ones leading her—opened a door, then gently pushed her out into the hallway beyond. They closed the door, leaving her. The hallway was of the deepest black. She’d almost forgotten how dark the stone walls of the palace were. The hallway was empty, save for Bluefingers, who stood waiting for her with his ledger. He smiled, bowing his head in respect. “The God King will be pleased, Vessel,” he said. “We are exactly on time—the sun only just set.” Siri turned from Bluefingers. Directly across from her was a large, imposing door. It was plated entirely with gold. Four wall lamps shone without colored glass, and they reﬂected light off the gilded portal. She had no question as to who lay beyond such an impressive entrance. “This is the God King’s sleeping chambers,” Bluefingers said. “Rather, one of his sleeping chambers. Now, my lady, you must hear this again. Do nothing to offend the king. You are here at his sufferance, and are here to see to his needs. Not mine, not your own, and not even that of our kingdom.” “I understand,” she said quietly, heart beating faster and faster. “Thank you,” Bluefingers said. “It is time to present yourself. Enter the room, then remove your dress and underclothing. Bow yourself to the ground before the king’s bed, touching your head to the ﬂoor. When he wishes for you to approach, he will knock on the side post, and you may look up. He will then wave you forward.” She nodded. “Just...try not to touch him too much.” Siri frowned, clenching and unclenching her increasingly nervous hands. “How exactly am I going to manage that? We’re going to have sex, aren’t we?” Bluefingers ﬂushed. “Yes, I guess you are. This is new ground for me too, my lady. The God King...well, only a group of specially dedicated servants are supposed to touch him. My suggestion would be to avoid kissing him, caressing him, or doing anything else that might offend him. Simply let him do to you what he wishes, and you should be safe.” Siri took a deep breath, nodding. “When you are finished,” Bluefingers said, “the king will withdraw. Take the bed linens and burn them in the hearth. As the Vessel, you are the only one allowed to handle such things. Do you understand?” “Yes,” Siri said, growing increasingly anxious. “Very well then,” Bluefingers said, looking almost as nervous as she was. “Good luck.” With that, he reached forward and pushed the door open. Oh, Austre, God of Colors, she thought, heart pounding, hands sweating, growing numb. Bluefingers pushed her lightly on the back, and she stepped into the room. Annotations for Chapter 6 Seven Annotations for
Chapter 7 The door shut behind her. A large fire growled in a hearth to her left, bringing a shifting orange light to the large room. The black walls seemed to draw in and absorb the illumination, making deep shadows at the edges of the room. Siri stood quietly in her ornate velvet dress, heart thumping, brow sweating. To her right, she could make out a massive bed, with sheets and covers of black to match the rest of the room. The bed appeared unoccupied. Siri peered into the darkness, eyes adjusting. The fire crackled, throwing a ﬂicker of light across a large, thronelike chair sitting beside the bed. It was occupied by a figure wearing black, bathed in darkness. He watched her, eyes twinkling, unblinking in the firelight. Siri gasped, casting her eyes downward, her heartbeat surging as she remembered Bluefingers’s warnings. Vivenna should be here instead of me, Siri thought desperately. I can’t deal with this! Father was wrong to send me! She squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing coming more quickly. She worked shaking fingers and pulled nervously at the strings on the side of her dress. Her hands were slick with sweat. Was she taking too long to undress? Would he be angered? Would she be killed before even the first night was out? Would she, perhaps, prefer that? No, she thought with determination. No. I need to do this. For Idris. For the fields and the children who took ﬂowers from me. For my father and Mab and everyone else in the palace. She finally got the strings undone, and the gown fell away with surprising ease—she could now see that it had been constructed with that goal in mind. She dropped the dress to the ﬂoor, then paused, looking at her undershift. The white fabric was throwing out a spectrum of colors, like light bent by a prism. She regarded this with shock, wondering what was causing the strange effect. It didn’t matter. She was too nervous to think about that. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to pull off her undershift, leaving her naked. She quickly knelt on the cold stone ﬂoor, curling up, heart thudding in her ears as she bowed with her forehead touching the ﬂoor. The room fell silent save for the crackling hearth. The fire wasn’t necessary in the Hallandren warmth, but she was glad for it, unclothed as she was. She waited, hair pure white, arrogance and stubbornness discarded, naked in more than one way. This was where she ended up—this was where all her “independent” sense of freedom came to an end. No matter what she claimed or how she felt, in the end, she had to bow to authority. Just like anyone else. She gritted her teeth, imagining the God King sitting there, watching her be subservient and naked before him. She hadn’t seen much of him, other than to notice his size—he was a good foot taller than most other men she’d seen, and was wider of shoulders and more powerful of build as well. More significant
than other, lesser men. He was Returned. In and of itself, being Returned wasn’t a sin. After all, Returned came in Idris, too. The Hallandren people, however, kept the Returned alive, feeding them on the souls of peasants, tearing away the Breath of hundreds of people each year... Don’t think of that, Siri told herself forcefully. Yet as she tried to clear her thoughts, the God King’s eyes returned to her memory. Those black eyes, which had seemed to glow in the firelight. She could feel them on her still, watching her, as cold as the stones upon which she knelt. The fire crackled. Bluefingers had said that the king would knock for her. What if she missed it? She didn’t dare glance upward. She’d already met his gaze once, if by accident. She couldn’t risk upsetting him further. She just continued to kneel in place, elbows on the ground, back beginning to ache. Why doesn’t he do something? Was he displeased with her? Was she not as pretty as he’d desired, or was he angered that she’d met his eyes then taken too long to undress? It would be particularly ironic if she offended him when trying so hard not to be her usual ﬂippant self. Or was something else wrong? He had been promised the eldest daughter of the Idrian king, but had instead received Siri. Would he know the difference? Would he even care? The minutes passed, the room growing darker as the fire consumed its logs. He’s toying with me, Siri thought. Forcing me to wait on his whims. Making her kneel in such an uncomfortable position was probably a message— one that showed who was in power. He would take her when he willed it, and not before. Siri gritted her teeth as the time passed. How long had she been kneeling? An hour, maybe longer. And still, there wasn’t a hint of sound—no knock, no cough, not even a shufﬂe from the God King. Perhaps it was a test to see how long she would remain as she was. Perhaps she was just reading too much into things. Either way, she forced herself to remain in place, shifting only when she absolutely had to. Vivenna had the training. Vivenna had the poise and the refinement. But Siri, she had the stubbornness. One only had to look back at her history of repeatedly ignoring lessons and duties to appreciate that. With time, she’d even broken down her father. He’d started letting her do as she pleased, if only to save his own sanity. And so she continued to wait—naked in the light of the coals—as the night wore on. ~ Fireworks sprayed sparks upward in a fountain of light. Some fell close to where Lightsong was sitting, and these blazed with an extra, frenzied light until they died away. He reclined on a couch in the open air, watching the display. Servants waited around him, complete with parasols, a portable bar, steaming and chilled towels to rub his face and hands should he feel the need, and
a host of other luxuries that—to Lightsong—were simply commonplace. He watched the fireworks with mild interest. The firemasters stood in a nervous cluster near his position. Beside them were a troop of minstrels that Lightsong had called for, but hadn’t yet asked to perform. While there were always entertainers in the Court of Gods for the Returned to enjoy, this night—the wedding night of their God King—was even more extravagant. Susebron wasn’t in attendance himself, of course. Such festivities were beneath him. Lightsong glanced to the side, where the king’s palace rose soberly above the court. Eventually, Lightsong just shook his head and turned his attention back to the courtyard. The palaces of the gods formed a ring, and each building had a patio below and a balcony above, both facing the central area. Lightsong sat a short distance from his patio, out amidst the lush grass of the expansive courtyard. Another firefountain sprayed into the air, throwing shadows across the courtyard. Lightsong sighed, accepting another fruit drink from a servant. The night was cool and pleasant, fit for a god. Or gods. Lightsong could see others set up in front of their palaces. Different groups of performers cluttered the sides of the courtyard, waiting for their chance to please one of the Returned. The fountain ran low, and the firemasters looked toward him, smiling hopefully in the torchlight. Lightsong nodded with his best benevolent expression. “More fireworks,” he said. “You have pleased me.” This caused the three men to whisper in excitement and wave for their assistants. As they set up, a familiar figure wandered into Lightsong’s ring of torches. Llarimar wore his priestly robes, as always. Even when he was out in the city—which was where he should have been this night—he represented Lightsong and his priesthood. “Scoot?” Lightsong asked, sitting up. “Your Grace,” Llarimar said, bowing. “Are you enjoying the festivities?” “Certainly. You might say I’m positively infested. But what are you doing here in the court? You should be out with your family.” “I just wanted to make certain everything was to your liking.” Lightsong rubbed his forehead. “You’re giving me a headache, Scoot.” “You can’t get headaches, Your Grace.” “So you’re fond of telling me,” Lightsong said. “I assume the revelry outside the Holy Prison is nearly as amazing as what we have here inside?” Llarimar frowned at Lightsong’s dismissive reference to the divine compound. “The party in the city is fantastic, Your Grace. T’Telir hasn’t seen a festival this grand in decades.” “Then I repeat that you should be out enjoying it.” “I just—” “Scoot,” Lightsong said, giving the man a pointed look, “if there’s one thing you can trust me to do competently on my own, it’s enjoy myself. I will—I promise in all solemnity—have a ravishingly good time drinking to excess and watching these nice men light things on fire. Now go be with your family.” Llarimar paused, then stood, bowed, and withdrew. That man, Lightsong thought, sipping his fruity drink, takes his work far too seriously. The concept amused Lightsong, and he leaned
back, enjoying the fireworks. However, he was soon distracted by the approach of someone else. Or, rather, one very important someone else leading a group of far less important someone elses. Lightsong sipped his drink again. The newcomer was beautiful. She was a goddess, after all. Glossy black hair, pale skin, lushly curvaceous body. She wore far less clothing than Lightsong did, but that was typical of the court’s goddesses. Her thin gown of green and silver silk was split on both sides, showing hips and thighs, and the neckline was draped so low that very little was left to imagination. Blushweaver the Beautiful, goddess of honesty. This should be interesting, Lightsong thought, smiling to himself. She was trailed by about thirty servants, not to mention her high priestess and six lesser priests. The firemasters grew excited, realizing that they now had not one, but two divine observers. Their apprentices scurried about in a ﬂurry of motion, setting up another series of firefountains. A group of Blushweaver’s servants rushed forward, carrying an ornate couch, which they set on the grass beside Lightsong. Blushweaver lay down with customary lithe grace, crossing perfect legs and resting on her side in a seductive yet ladylike pose. The orientation left her able to watch the fireworks should she wish, but her attention was obviously focused on Lightsong. “My dear Lightsong,” she said as a servant approached with a bunch of grapes. “Aren’t you even going to greet me?” Here we go, Lightsong thought. “My dear Blushweaver,” he said, setting aside his cup and lacing his fingers before him. “Why would I go and do something rude like that?” “Rude?” she asked, amused. “Of course. You obviously make quite a determined effort to draw attention to yourself—the details are magnificent, by the way. Is that makeup on your thighs?” She smiled, biting into a grape. “It’s a kind of paint. The designs were drawn by some of the most talented artists in my priesthood.” “My compliments to them,” Lightsong said. “Regardless, you ask why I did not greet you. Well, let us assume that I had acted as you suggest I should. Upon your approach, you would have had me gush over you?” “Naturally.” “You would have me point out how stunning you appear in that gown?” “I wouldn’t complain.” “Mention how your dazzling eyes glisten in the fireworks like burning embers?” “That would be nice.” “Expound on how your lips are so perfectly red that they could leave any man breathless with wonder, yet drive him to compose the most brilliant of poetry each time he recalled the moment?” “I’d be ﬂattered for certain.” “And you claim you want these reactions from me?” “I do.” “Well blast it, woman,” Lightsong said, picking up his cup. “If I’m stunned, dazzled, and breathless, then how the hell am I supposed to greet you? By definition, won’t I be struck dumb?” She laughed. “Well, then, you’ve obviously found your tongue now.” “Surprisingly, it was in my mouth,” he said. “I always forget to check there.” “But isn’t that where
it is expected to be?” “My dear,” he said, “haven’t you known me long enough to realize that my tongue, of all things, rarely does what it is expected to do?” Blushweaver smiled as the fireworks went off again. Within the auras of two gods, the sparks’ colors grew quite powerful indeed. On the far side, some sparks fell to the ground too far from the Breath auras, and these looked dull and weak in comparison—as if their fire were so cool and insignificant that they could be picked up and tucked away. Blushweaver turned from the display. “So you do find me beautiful?” “Of course. Why, my dear, you’re positively rank with beauty. You’re literally part of the definition of the word—it’s in your title somewhere, if I’m not mistaken.” “My dear Lightsong, I do believe that you’re making sport of me.” “I never make fun of ladies, Blushweaver,” Lightsong said, picking up his drink again. “Mocking a woman is like drinking too much wine. It may be fun for a short time, but the hangover is hell.” Blushweaver paused. “But we don’t get hangovers, for we cannot get drunk.” “We can’t?” Lightsong asked. “Then why the blazes am I drinking all of this wine?” Blushweaver raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes, Lightsong,” she finally said, “I’m not certain when you are being silly and when you’re being serious.” “Well, I can help you with that one easily enough,” he said. “If you ever conclude that I’m being serious, then you can be sure that you’ve been working too hard on the problem.” “I see,” she said, twisting on her couch so that she was facedown. She leaned on her elbows with breasts pushed up between them, fireworks playing off her exposed back and throwing colorful shadows between her arched shoulder blades. “So, then. You admit that I’m stunning and beautiful. Would you then care to retire from the festivities this evening? find...other entertainments?” Lightsong hesitated. Being unable to bear children didn’t stop the gods from seeking intimacy, particularly with other Returned. In fact, from what Lightsong could guess, the impossibility of offspring only increased the laxness of the court in these matters. Many a god took mortal lovers— Blushweaver was known to have a few of her own among her priests. Dalliances with mortals were never seen as infidelity among the gods. Blushweaver lounged on her couch, supple, inviting. Lightsong opened his mouth, but in his mind, he saw...her. The woman of his vision, the one from his dreams, the face he’d mentioned to Llarimar. Who was she? Probably nothing. A ﬂash from his former life, or perhaps simply an image crafted by his subconscious. Maybe even, as the priests claimed, some kind of prophetic symbol. That face shouldn’t give him pause. Not when confronted with perfection. “I...must decline,” he found himself saying. “I need to watch the fireworks.” “Are they that much more fascinating than I?” “Not at all. They simply seem far less likely to burn me.” She laughed at that. “Well, why don’t we wait until they are through,
then retire?” “Alas,” Lightsong said. “I still must decline. I am far too lazy.” “Too lazy for sex?” Blushweaver asked, rolling back onto her side and regarding him. “I’m really quite indolent. A poor example of a god, as I keep telling my high priest. Nobody seems to listen to me, so I fear that I must continue to be diligent in proving my point. Dallying with you would, unfortunately, undermine the entire basis of my argument.” Blushweaver shook her head. “You confuse me sometimes, Lightsong. If it weren’t for your reputation, I’d simply presume you to be shy. How could you have slept with Calmseer, but consistently ignore me?” Calmseer was the last honorable Returned this city has known, Lightsong thought, sipping his drink. Nobody left has a shred of her decency. Myself included. Blushweaver fell silent, watching the latest display from the firemasters. The show had grown progressively more ornate, and Lightsong was considering calling halt, lest they use up all of their fireworks on him and not have any left should another god call upon them. Blushweaver didn’t make any move to return to her own palace grounds, and Lightsong said nothing further. He suspected that she hadn’t come simply for verbal sparring, or even to try and bed him. Blushweaver always had her plans. In Lightsong’s experience, there was more depth to the woman than her gaudy surface suggested. Eventually, his hunch paid off. She turned from the fireworks, eyeing the dark palace of the God King. “We have a new queen.” “I noticed,” Lightsong said. “Though, admittedly, only because I was reminded several times.” They fell silent. “Have you no thoughts on the matter?” Blushweaver finally asked. “I try to avoid having thoughts. They lead to other thoughts, and—if you’re not careful—those lead to actions. Actions make you tired. I have this on rather good authority from someone who once read it in a book.” Blushweaver sighed. “You avoid thinking, you avoid me, you avoid effort...is there anything you don’t avoid?” “Breakfast.” Blushweaver didn’t react to this, which Lightsong found disappointing. She was too focused on the king’s palace. Lightsong usually tried to ignore the large black building; he didn’t like how it seemed to loom over him. “Perhaps you should make an exception,” Blushweaver said, “and give some thought to this particular situation. This queen means something.” Lightsong turned his cup around in his fingers. He knew that Blushweaver’s priests were among those who called most strongly for war in the Court Assembly. He hadn’t forgotten his phantom nightmare from earlier, the vision of T’Telir on fire. That image refused to fade from his mind. He never said anything for or against the idea of war. He just didn’t want to be involved. “We’ve had queens before,” he finally said. “Never one of the royal line,” Blushweaver replied. “At least, there hasn’t been one since the days of Kalad the Usurper.” Kalad. The man who had started the Manywar, the one who had used his knowledge of BioChromatic Breath to create a vast army of Lifeless
and seize power in Hallandren. He had protected the kingdom with his armies, yet had shattered the kingdom as well by driving the royals into the highlands. Now they were back. Or, at least, one of them was. “This is a dangerous day, Lightsong,” Blushweaver said quietly. “What happens if that woman bears a child who isn’t Returned?” “Impossible,” Lightsong said. “Oh? You are that confident?” Lightsong nodded. “Of the Returned, only the God King can engender children, and they’re always stillborn.” Blushweaver shook her head. “The only word we have for that is from the palace priests themselves. Yet I’ve heard of...discrepancies in the records. Even if we don’t worry about those, there are plenty of other considerations. Why do we need a royal to ‘legitimize’ our throne? Isn’t three hundred years of rule by the Court of Gods sufficient to make the kingdom legitimate?” Lightsong didn’t respond. “This marriage implies that we still accept royal authority,” Blushweaver said. “What happens if that king up in the highlands decides to take his lands back? What happens if that queen of ours in there has a child by another man? Who is the heir? Who rules?” “The God King rules. Everyone knows that.” “He didn’t rule three hundred years ago,” Blushweaver said. “The royals did. Then, after them, Kalad did—and after him, Peacegiver. Change can happen quickly. By inviting that woman into our city, we may have initiated the end of Returned rule in Hallandren.” She fell silent, pensive. Lightsong studied the beautiful goddess. It had been fifteen years since her Return—which made her old, for a Returned. Old, wise, and incredibly crafty. Blushweaver glanced at him. “I don’t intend to find myself caught, surprised, like the royals were when Kalad seized their throne. Some of us are planning, Lightsong. You can join us, if you wish.” “Politics, my dear,” he said with a sigh. “You know how I loathe it.” “You’re the god of bravery. We could use your confidence.” “At this point, I’m only confident that I’ll be of no use to you.” Her face stiffened as she tried not to show her frustration. Eventually, she sighed and stood, stretching, showing off her perfect figure once more. “You’ll have to stand for something eventually, Lightsong,” she said. “You’re a god to these people.” “Not by choice, my dear.” She smiled, then bent down and kissed him softly. “Just consider what I said. You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for being. You think I’d offer myself to just anyone?” He hesitated, then frowned. “Actually...yes. I do.” She laughed, turning as her servants picked up her couch. “Oh, come now! There must be at least three of the other gods I wouldn’t think of letting touch me. Enjoy the party, and do try to imagine what our king is doing to our legacy up there in his chambers right now.” She glanced back at him. “Particularly if that imagining reminds you of what you just missed out on.” She winked, then glided away. Lightsong sat back on his couch,
then dismissed the firemasters with words of praise. As the minstrels began to play, he tried to empty his mind of both Blushweaver’s ominous words and the visions of war that had plagued his dreams. He failed on both counts. Annotations for Chapter 7 Eight Annotations for Chapter 8 Siri groaned, rolling over. Her back hurt, her arms hurt, and her head hurt. In fact, she was so uncomfortable that she couldn’t stay asleep, despite her fatigue. She sat up, holding her head. She’d spent the night on the ﬂoor of the God King’s bedchamber—sleeping, kind of. Sunlight poured into the room, reﬂecting off of the marble where the ﬂoor wasn’t covered with rugs. Black rugs, she thought, sitting in the middle of the rumpled blue dress, which she’d used as both blanket and pillow. Black rugs on a black ﬂoor with black furniture. These Hallandren certainly know how to run with a motif. The God King wasn’t in the room. Siri glanced toward the oversized black leather chair where he’d spent much of the night. She hadn’t noticed him leave. She yawned, then rose, pulling her shift out of the wadded mound of dress and putting it on over her head. She pulled her hair out, ﬂipping it behind her. Keeping it so long was going to take some getting used to. It fell down against her back, a contented blond in color. She’d somehow survived the night untouched. She walked on bare feet over to the leather chair, running her fingers along its smooth surface. She’d been less than respectful. She’d dozed off. She’d curled up and pulled her dress close. She’d even glanced over at the chair a few times. Not because of defiance or a disobedient heart; she’d simply been too drowsy to remember that she wasn’t supposed to look at the God King. And he hadn’t ordered her executed. Bluefingers had made her worry that the God King was volatile and quick to anger, yet if that was the case, then he had held his temper with her. What else was he going to do? The Hallandren had waited for decades to get a royal princess to marry into their line of God Kings. She smiled. I do have some power. He couldn’t kill her—not until he had what he wanted. It wasn’t much, but it did give her a bit more confidence. She walked around the chair, noting its size. Everything in the room was built to be just a little too large, skewing her perspective, making her feel shorter than she was. She rested her hand on the arm of the chair, and found herself wondering why he hadn’t decided to take her. What was wrong with her? Wasn’t she desirable? Foolish girl, she told herself, shaking her head and walking over to the still-undisturbed bed. You spent most of the trip here worrying about what would happen on your wedding night, and then when nothing happens, you complain about that too? She knew she wasn’t free. He would take her eventually—that was the point
of the entire arrangement. But it hadn’t happened last night. She smiled, yawning, then she climbed up into the bed and curled up under the covers, drifting off. ~ The next time she woke was a great deal more pleasant than the previous one had been. Siri stretched, and then noticed something. Her dress, which she’d left sitting in a heap on the ﬂoor, was gone. Also, the fire in the hearth had been rebuilt—though why that was necessary was beyond her. The day was warm, and she’d kicked off the covers as she’d slept. I’m supposed to burn the sheets, she remembered. That’s the reason they stoked the fire. She sat up in her shift, alone in the black room. The servants and priests wouldn’t know that she’d spent the entire night on the ﬂoor unless the God King had told someone. How likely would it be for a man of his power to speak with his priests about intimate details? Slowly, Siri climbed out of bed and pulled the sheets free. She wadded them up, walked over, and threw them into the large hearth. Then she watched the ﬂames. She still didn’t know why the God King had left her alone. Until she knew, it was surely better to just let everyone assume that the marriage had been consummated. After the sheets were done burning, Siri scanned the room, looking for something to wear. She found nothing. Sighing, she walked to the door, clothed only in her shift. She pulled it open, and jumped slightly. Two dozen serving women of varying ages knelt outside. God of Colors! Siri thought. How long have they been kneeling out here? Suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so indignant at being forced to wait upon the God King’s whims. The women stood up, heads bowed, and walked into the room. Siri backed up, cocking her head when she noticed that several of the women carried in large chests. They’re dressed in different colors from yesterday, Siri thought. The cut was the same—divided skirts, like ﬂowing trousers, topped with sleeveless blouses and small caps, their hair coming out the back. Instead of the blue and silver, the outfits were now yellow and copper. The women opened the trunks, removing various layers of clothing. All were of bright colors, and each was of a different cut. The women spread them out on the ﬂoor before Siri, then settled back on their knees, waiting. Siri hesitated. She’d grown up the daughter of a king, so she’d never lacked. Yet, life in Idris was austere. She’d owned five dresses, which had nearly been an extravagant number. One had been white, and the other four had been the same wan blue. Being confronted by so many colors and options felt overwhelming. She tried to imagine how each would look on her. Many of them were dangerously low-cut, even more so than the shirts the serving women wore—and those were already scandalous by Idris standards. Finally, hesitantly, Siri pointed at one outfit. It was a dress in two pieces, red skirt
and matching blouse. As Siri pointed, the serving women stood, some putting away the unchosen outfits, others walking over to carefully remove Siri’s shift. In a few minutes, Siri was dressed. She was embarrassed to find that— while the clothing fit her perfectly—the blouse was designed to reveal her midriff. Still, it wasn’t as low-cut as the others, and the skirt went all the way down to her calves. The silky red material was far lighter than the thick wools and linen she was accustomed to wearing. The skirt ﬂared and rufﬂed when she turned, and Siri couldn’t be completely certain it wasn’t sheer. Standing in it, she almost felt as naked as she’d been during the night. That appears to be a recurring theme for me here, she thought wryly as the serving women backed away. Others approached with a stool, and she sat, waiting as the women cleaned her face and arms with a pleasantly warm cloth. When that was done, they reapplied her makeup, did her hair, then sprayed her with a few puffs of perfume. When she opened her eyes—perfume misting down around her— Bluefingers was standing in the room. “Ah, excellent,” he said, servant boy standing obediently behind with ink, quill, and paper. “You’re up already.” Already? Siri thought. It has to be well past noon! Bluefingers looked her over, nodded to himself, then glanced at the bed, obviously checking to see that the linens had been destroyed. “Well,” he said. “I trust that your servants will see to your needs, Vessel.” With that, he began to walk away with the anxious tread of a man who felt he had far too much to do. “Wait!” Siri said, standing, jostling several of her serving women. Bluefingers hesitated. “Vessel?” Siri ﬂoundered, uncertain how to express what she was feeling. “Do you know...what I’m supposed to do?” “Do, Vessel?” the scribe asked. “You mean, in regards to...” He glanced at the bed. Siri ﬂushed. “No, not that. I mean with my time. What are my duties? What is expected of me?” “To provide an heir.” “Beyond that.” Bluefingers frowned. “I...well, to be honest, Vessel, I really don’t know. I must say, your arrival has certainly caused a level of disruption in the Court of Gods.” In my life, too, she thought, ﬂushing slightly, hair turning red. “Not that you’re to blame, of course,” Bluefingers said quickly. “But then...well, I certainly wish I’d had more forewarning.” “More forewarning?” Siri asked. “This marriage was arranged by treaty over twenty years ago!” “Yes, well, but nobody thought...” He trailed off. “Ahem. Well, either way, we shall do our best to accommodate you here in the king’s palace.” What was that? Siri thought. Nobody thought...that the marriage would really happen? Why not? Did they assume that Idris wouldn’t keep its part of the bargain? Regardless, he still hadn’t answered her question. “Yes, but what am I supposed to do,” she said, sitting down on the stool again. “Am I to sit here in the palace and stare at the fire all day?” Bluefingers
chuckled. “Oh, Colors no! My lady, this is the Court of Gods! You’ll find plenty to occupy you. Each day, performers are allowed to enter the court and display their talents for their deities. You may have any of these brought to you for a private performance.” “Ah,” Siri said. “Can I, maybe, go horseback riding?” Bluefingers rubbed his chin. “I suppose we could bring some horses into the court for you. Of course, we’d have to wait until the Wedding Jubilation is over.” “Wedding Jubilation?” she asked. “You...don’t know, then? Were you not prepared for any of this?” Siri ﬂushed. “No offense intended, Vessel,” Bluefingers said. “The Wedding Jubilation is a weeklong period in which we celebrate the God King’s marriage. During that time, you are not to leave this palace. At the end of it, you will officially be presented to the Court of Gods.” “Oh,” she said. “And after that, I can go out of the city?” “Out of the city!” Bluefingers said. “Vessel, you can’t leave the Court of Gods!” “What?” “You may not be a god yourself,” Bluefingers continued. “But you’re the wife of the God King. It would be far too dangerous to let you out. But do not fret—anything and everything you might request can be provided for you.” Except freedom, she thought, feeling a bit sick. “I assure you, once the Wedding Jubilation is over, you will find little to complain about. Everything you could want is here: every type of indulgence, every luxury, every diversion.” Siri nodded numbly, still feeling trapped. “Also,” Bluefingers said, holding up an ink-stained finger. “If you wish, the Court Assembly meets to provide decisions to the people. Full assembly meets once a week, though daily there are smaller judgments to be made. You aren’t to sit on the assembly itself, of course, but you will certainly be allowed to attend, once the Jubilation is over. If none of this suits you, you may request an artist of the God King’s priesthood to attend you. His priests include devout and accomplished artists from all genres: music, painting, dance, poetry, sculpture, puppetry, play performance, sandpainting, or any of the lesser genres.” Siri blinked. God of Colors! she thought. Even being idle is daunting here. “But there isn’t any of this that I’m required to attend?” “No, I shouldn’t think so,” Bluefingers said. “Vessel, you look displeased.” “I...” How could she explain? Her entire life, she’d been expected to be something—and for most of her life she’d intentionally avoided being it. Now that was gone from her. She couldn’t disobey lest she get herself killed and get Idris into a war. For once, she was willing to serve, to try and be obedient. But, ironically, there didn’t seem to be anything for her to do. Except, of course, bear a child. “Very well,” she said with a sigh. “Where are my rooms? I’ll go there and situate myself.” “Your rooms, Vessel?” “Yes. I assume I’m not to reside in this chamber itself.” “No,” Bluefingers said, chuckling. “The conception room? Of course
not.” “Then where?” Siri asked. “Vessel,” Bluefingers said. “In a way, this entire palace is yours. I don’t see why you’d need specific rooms. Ask to eat, and your servants will set up a table. If you wish to rest, they will bring you a couch or a chair. Seek entertainment, and they will fetch performers for you.” Suddenly, the strange actions of her servants—simply bringing her an array of colors to choose from, then doing her makeup and hair right there—made more sense. “I see,” she said, almost to herself. “And the soldiers I brought with me? Did they do as I commanded?” “Yes, Vessel,” Bluefingers said. “They left this morning. It was a wise decision; they are not dedicated servants of the Tones, and would not have been allowed to remain here in the court. They could do you no further Service.” Siri nodded. “Vessel, if I might be excused...?” Bluefingers asked. Siri nodded distractedly, and Bluefingers bustled away, leaving her to think about how terribly alone she was. Can’t focus on that, she thought. Instead, she turned to one of her serving women—a younger one, about Siri’s own age. “Well, that really doesn’t tell me what to spend my time on, does it?” The servant blushed quietly, bowing her head. “I mean, there seems to be a lot to do, if I want,” Siri said. “Maybe too much.” The girl bowed again. That’s going to get very annoying very quickly, Siri thought, gritting her teeth. Part of her wanted to do something shocking to get a reaction out of the servant, but she knew she was just being foolish. In fact, it seemed that many of her natural impulses and reactions wouldn’t work here in Hallandren. So, to keep herself from doing something silly, Siri stood up, determined to examine her new home. She left the overly black room, poking her head out into the hallway. She turned back to her servants, who stood obediently in a line behind her. “Is there any place I’m forbidden to go?” she asked. The one she was addressing shook her head. Fine, then, she thought. I’d better not end up stumbling upon the God King in the bath. She crossed the hallway, opened the door, then stepped into the yellow room she’d been in the day before. The chair and bench she’d used had been removed, replaced by a group of yellow couches. Siri raised an eyebrow, then walked through into the tub room beyond. The tub was gone. She started. The room was the one she remembered, with the same red colorings. Yet, the sloped tile platforms with their inset tubs were gone. The entire contraption must have been portable, brought in for her bath, then removed. They really can transform any room, she thought with amazement. They must have chambers full of furniture, tubs, and drapings, each of a different color, waiting upon the whims of their god. Curious, she left the tubless room and moved in a random direction. Each room appeared to have four doors, one on each
wall. Some rooms were larger than others. Some had windows to the outside, while others were in the middle of the palace. Each was a different color, yet it was still difficult to tell the difference between them. Endless rooms, pristine with their decorations following a single color’s theme. Soon, she was hopelessly lost—but it didn’t seem to matter. Every room was, in a way, the same as any other. She turned to her servants. “I would like breakfast.” It happened far faster than Siri would have thought possible. Several of the women ducked out and returned with a stuffed green chair to match her current room. Siri sat down, waiting as a table, chairs, and finally food were produced as if out of nowhere. In less than fifteen minutes, she had a hot meal waiting for her. Hesitantly, she picked up a fork and tried a bite. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized how hungry she was. The meal was composed primarily of a group of sausages mixed with vegetables. The ﬂavors were far stronger than she was accustomed to. However, the more she ate the spicy Hallandren food, the more she found herself liking it. Hungry or not, it was strange to eat in silence. Siri was accustomed to either eating in the kitchens with the servants or at the table with her father, his generals, and whatever local people or monks he had invited to his home that evening. It was never a silent affair, yet here in Hallandren—land of colors, sounds, and ostentation—she found herself eating alone, quietly, in a room that felt dull despite its bright decorations. Her servants watched. None of them spoke to her. Their silence was supposed to be respectful, she knew, but Siri just found it intimidating. She tried several times to draw them into conversation, but she managed to get only terse replies. She chewed on a spiced caper. Is this what my life is to be from now on? she thought. A night spent feeling half-used, half-ignored by my husband, then days spent surrounded by people, yet somehow still alone? She shivered, her appetite waning. She set down the fork, and her food slowly grew cold on the table before her. She stared at it, a part of her wishing she’d simply remained in the comfortable, oversized black bed. Annotations for Chapter 8 Nine Annotations for Chapter 9 Vivenna—firstborn child of Dedelin, king of Idris—gazed upon the grand city of T’Telir. It was the ugliest place she had ever seen. People jostled their way through the streets, draped ﬂagrantly in colors, yelling, and talking, and moving, and stinking, and coughing, and bumping. Her hair lightened to grey, she pulled her shawl close as she maintained her imitation—such that it was—of an elderly woman. She had feared that she might stand out. She needn’t have worried. Who could ever stand out in this confusion? Nevertheless, it was best to be safe. She had come—arriving in T’Telir just hours ago—to rescue her sister, not to get herself kidnapped. It was a
bold plan. Vivenna could hardly believe that she’d come up with it. Still, of the many things her tutors had taught her, one was foremost in her mind: A leader was someone who acted. Nobody else was going to help Siri, and so it was up to Vivenna. She knew that she was inexperienced. She hoped that her awareness of that would keep her from being too foolhardy, but she had the best education and political tutelage her kingdom could provide, and much of her training had focused on life in Hallandren. As a devout daughter of Austre, she’d practiced all of her life to avoid standing out. She could hide in a vast, disorganized city like T’Telir. And vast it was. She’d memorized maps, but they hadn’t prepared her for the sight, sound, scent, and colors of the city on market day. Even the livestock wore bright ribbons. Vivenna stood at the side of the road, stooped beside a building draped in ﬂapping streamers. In front of her, a herdsman drove a small ﬂock of sheep toward the market square. They had each been dyed a different color. Won’t that ruin the wool? Vivenna thought sourly. The different colors on the animals clashed so terribly that she had to look away. Poor Siri, she thought. Caught up in all of this, locked in the Court of Gods, probably so overwhelmed that she can barely think. Vivenna had been trained to deal with the terrors of Hallandren. Though the colors sickened her, she had the fortitude to withstand them. How would little Siri manage? Vivenna tapped her foot as she stood beside the building in the shadow of a large stone statue. Where is that man? she thought. Parlin had yet to return from his scouting. There was nothing to do but wait. She glanced up at the statue beside her; it was one of the famous D’Denir Celabrin. Most of the statues depicted warriors. They stood in every imaginable pose all across the entire city, armed with weapons and often dressed in colorful clothing. According to her lessons, the people of T’Telir found dressing the statues to be an amusing pastime. Lore had it that the first ones had been commissioned by Peacegiver the Blessed, the Returned who had taken command of Hallandren at the end of the Manywar. The number of statues had increased each year as new ones were paid for by the Returned—whose money, of course, came from the people themselves. Excess and waste, Vivenna thought, shaking her head. Finally, she noticed Parlin coming back down the street. She frowned as she saw that he was wearing some ridiculous frippery on his head—it looked a little like a sock, though much larger. The bright green hat ﬂopped down one side of his square face, and looked very out of place against his dull brown Idris travel clothing. Tall but not lanky, Parlin was only a few years Vivenna’s senior. She’d known him for most of her life; General Yarda’s son had practically grown up in the palace. More
recently, he’d been out in the forests, watching the Hallandren border or guarding one of the northern passes. “Parlin?” she said as he approached, carefully keeping the annoyance out of her voice and her hair. “What is that on your head?” “A hat,” he said, characteristically terse. It wasn’t that Parlin was rude; it just seemed he rarely felt he had much to say. “I can see that it’s a hat, Parlin. Where did you get it?” “The man in the market said they’re very popular.” Vivenna sighed. She’d hesitated to bring Parlin into the city. He was a good man—as solid and reliable as she’d ever known—but the life he knew was one of living in the wilderness and guarding isolated outposts. The city was probably overwhelming to him. “The hat is ridiculous, Parlin,” Vivenna said, hair controlled to keep the red out of it. “And makes you stand out.” Parlin removed the hat, tucking it in his pocket. He said nothing further, but did turn, watching the crowds of people pass. They seemed to make him as nervous as they did Vivenna. Perhaps more so. However, she was glad to have him. He was one of the few people she trusted not to go to her father; she knew that Parlin fancied her. During their youth, he’d often brought her gifts from the forest. Usually, those had taken the form of some animal he’d killed. To Parlin’s mind, nothing showed affection like a hunk of something dead and bleeding on the table. “This place is strange,” Parlin said. “People here move like herds.” His eyes followed a pretty Hallandren girl as she walked by. The hussy was—like most of the women in T’Telir—wearing practically nothing. Blouses that were open well below the neck, skirts well above the knees—some women even wore trousers, just like men. “What did you discover in the market?” she asked, drawing his attention back. “There are a lot of Idrians here,” he said. “What?” Vivenna said, forgetting herself and showing her shock. “Idrians,” Parlin said. “In the market. Some were trading goods; many looked like common laborers. I watched them.” Vivenna frowned, folding her arms. “And the restaurant?” Vivenna asked. “Did you scout it as I asked?” He nodded. “Looks clean. Feels strange to me that people eat food made by strangers.” “Did you see anyone suspicious there?” “What would be ‘suspicious’ in this city?” “I don’t know. You’re the one who insisted on scouting ahead.” “It’s always a good idea when hunting. Less likely to scare away the animals.” “Unfortunately, Parlin,” Vivenna said, “people aren’t like animals.” “I am aware of that,” Parlin said. “Animals make sense.” Vivenna sighed. However, she did notice just then that Parlin had been right on at least one count. She caught sight of a group of Idrians walking along the street nearby, one pulling a cart that had probably once held produce. They were easy to distinguish by their muted dress and the slight accent to their voices. It surprised her that they would come so far to trade.
But, admittedly, commerce hadn’t been particularly robust in Idris lately. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes and—using the shawl to hide the transformation—changed her hair from grey to brown. If there were other Idrians in town, it was unlikely that she would stand out. Trying to act like an old woman would be more suspicious. It still felt wrong to be exposed. In Bevalis, she’d have been recognized instantly. Of course, Bevalis had only a few thousand people in it. The vastly greater scale of T’Telir would require a conscious adjustment. She gestured to Parlin and—gritting her teeth—joined the crowd and began making her way toward the marketplace. The inland sea made all the difference. T’Telir was a prime port, and the dyes it sold—made from the Tears of Edgli, a local ﬂower—made it a center of trade. She could see the evidence all around her. Exotic silks and clothing. Brown-skinned traders from Tedradel with their long black beards bound with tight leather cords into cylindrical shapes. Fresh foodstuffs from cities along the coast. In Idris, the population was spread out thinly across the farms and rangelands. In Hallandren—a country that controlled a good third of the inland sea’s coast—things were different. They could burgeon. Grow. Get ﬂamboyant. In the distance, she could see the plateau that held the Court of Gods, the most profane place beneath Austre’s colorful eyes. Inside its walls, within the God King’s terrible palace, Siri was being held captive, prisoner of Susebron himself. Logically, Vivenna understood her father’s decision. In raw political terms, Vivenna was more valuable to Idris. If war was certain, it made sense to send the less useful daughter as a stalling tactic. But it was hard for Vivenna to think of Siri as “less useful.” She was gregarious, but she’d also been the one who smiled when others were down. She was the one who brought gifts when nobody was expecting them. She was infuriating, but also innocent. She was Vivenna’s baby sister, and someone had to look out for her. The God King would demand an heir. That was to have been Vivenna’s duty—her sacrifice for her people. She had been prepared and willing. It felt wrong for Siri to have to do something so terrible. Her father had made his decision; the best one for Idris. Vivenna had made her own. If there was going to be war, then Vivenna wanted to be ready to get her sister out of the city the moment it got dangerous. In fact, Vivenna felt there had to be a way to rescue Siri before the war came—a way of fooling the Hallandren, making them think that Siri had died. Something that would save Vivenna’s sister, yet not further provoke hostilities. This wasn’t something her father could condone. So she hadn’t told him. Better for him to be able to deny involvement if things went wrong. Vivenna moved down the street, eyes downcast, careful to not draw attention to herself. Getting away from Idris had been surprisingly easy. Who would suspect such a brash move from
Vivenna—she who had always been perfect? Nobody wondered when she’d asked for food and supplies, explaining that she wanted to make emergency kits. Nobody questioned when she’d proposed an expedition to the higher reaches to gather important roots, an excuse to disguise the first few weeks of her disappearance. Parlin had been easy enough to persuade. He trusted her, perhaps too much, and he had intimate knowledge of the paths and trails leading down to Hallandren. He’d been as far as the city walls on one scouting trip a year back. With his help, she’d been able to recruit a few of his friends—also woodsmen—to protect her and be part of her “expedition.” She’d sent the rest of them back earlier that morning. They would be of little use in the city, where she had already arranged for other allies to be her protection. Parlin’s friends would carry word to her father, who would already have heard of what she’d done. Before leaving, she’d arranged for her maid to deliver a letter to him. Counting off the days, she realized that her letter would be delivered that very evening. She didn’t know what her father’s reaction would be. Perhaps he would covertly send soldiers to retrieve her. Perhaps he’d leave her be. She’d warned him that if she saw Idris soldiers searching for her, she would simply go to the Court of Gods, explain that there had been a mistake, and trade herself for her sister. She sincerely hoped she wouldn’t have to do that. The God King was not to be trusted; he might take Vivenna captive and keep Siri, thereby gaining two princesses to provide pleasure instead of one. Don’t think about that, Vivenna told herself, pulling her shawl closer despite the heat. Better to find another way. The first step was to find Lemex, her father’s chief spy in Hallandren. Vivenna had corresponded with him on several occasions. Her father had wanted her to be familiar with his best intelligence agent in T’Telir, and his foresight would work against him. Lemex knew Vivenna, and had been told to take orders from her. She’d sent the spy a letter—delivered via a messenger with multiple mounts to allow quick delivery—the day she’d left Idris. Assuming the message had arrived safely, the spy would meet her in the appointed restaurant. Her plan seemed good. She was prepared. Why, then, did she feel so utterly daunted when she entered the market? She stood quietly, a rock in the stream of human traffic ﬂooding down the street. It was such an enormous expanse, covered in tents, pens, buildings, and people. There were no cobblestones here, only sand and dirt with the occasional patch of grass, and there didn’t appear to be much reason or direction to the arrangement of buildings. The arbitrary streets had simply been made where people felt like going. Merchants yelled out what they sold, banners waved in the wind, and entertainers vied for attention. It was an orgy of color and motion. “Wow,” Parlin said quietly. Vivenna turned, shaking off
her stupor. “Weren’t you just here?” “Yeah,” Parlin said, eyes a little glazed over. “Wow again.” Vivenna shook her head. “Let’s go to the restaurant.” Parlin nodded. “This way.” Vivenna followed him, annoyed. This was Hallandren—she shouldn’t be awed by it. She should be disgusted. Yet she was so overwhelmed that it was hard to feel anything beyond a slight sense of sickness. She’d never realized how much she took Idris’s beautiful simplicity for granted. Parlin’s familiar presence was welcome as the powerful wave of scents, sounds, and sights tried to drown her. In some places the crowds grew so thick that they had to shove their way through. On occasion, Vivenna found herself on the edge of panic, pressed in by dirty, repulsively colored bodies. Blessedly, the restaurant wasn’t too far in, and they arrived just when she thought the sheer excess of the place would make her scream. On its signboard out front, the restaurant had a picture of a boat sailing merrily. If the scents coming from inside were any indication, then the ship represented the restaurant’s cuisine: fish. Vivenna barely kept herself from gagging. She’d eaten fish several times in preparation for her life in Hallandren. She’d never grown to like it. Parlin walked in, immediately stepping to the side and crouching, almost like a wolf, as he let his eyes adjust to the dimness. Vivenna gave the restaurant keeper the fake name Lemex knew to call her by. The restaurant keeper eyed Parlin, then shrugged and led the two of them to one of the tables on the far side of the room. Vivenna sat down; despite her training, she was a little uncertain what one did at a restaurant. It seemed significant to her that places like restaurants could exist in Hallandren—places meant to feed not travelers, but the locals who couldn’t be bothered to prepare their own food and dine at their own homes. Parlin didn’t sit, but remained standing beside her chair, watching the room. He looked as tense as she felt. “Vivenna,” he said softly, leaning down. “Your hair.” She started, realizing that her hair had lightened from the trauma of pushing her way through the crowd. It hadn’t bleached completely white— she was far too well trained for that—but it had grown whiter, as if it had been powdered. Feeling a jolt of paranoia, Vivenna replaced the shawl on her head, looking away as the restaurant owner approached to take their order. A short list of meals was scratched into the table, and Parlin finally sat down, drawing the restaurant owner’s attention away from Vivenna. You’re better than this, she told herself sternly. You’ve studied Hallandren for most of your life. Her hair darkened, returning to its brown. The change was subtle enough that if someone had been watching, they would have probably thought it to be a trick of the light. She kept the shawl up, feeling ashamed. One walk through the market, and she lost control? Think of Siri, she told herself. That gave her strength. Her mission was impromptu,
even reckless, but it was important. Calm once again, she put the shawl back down and waited while Parlin chose a dish—a seafood stew—and the innkeeper walked away. “Now what?” Parlin asked. “We wait,” Vivenna said. “In my letter, I told Lemex to check the restaurant each day at noon. We will sit here until he arrives.” Parlin nodded, fidgeting. “What is it?” Vivenna asked calmly. He glanced toward the door. “I don’t trust this place, Vivenna. I can’t smell anything but bodies and spices, can’t hear anything but the chatter of people. There’s no wind, no trees, no rivers, just...people.” “I know.” “I want to go back outside,” he said. “What?” she said. “Why?” “If you aren’t familiar with a place,” he said awkwardly, “you need to become familiar with it.” He gave no other explanation. Vivenna felt a stab of fear at the thought of being left alone. However, it wasn’t proper to demand Parlin stay and attend her. “Do you promise to stay close?” He nodded. “Then go.” He did, walking from the room. He didn’t move like one of the Hallandren—his motions were too ﬂuid, too much like a prowling beast. Perhaps I should have sent him back with the others. But the thought of being completely alone had been too much. She needed someone to help her find Lemex. As it was, she felt that she was probably taking too great a risk at entering the city with only one guard, even one as skilled as Parlin. But it was done. No use worrying now. She sat, arms folded on the table, thinking. Back in Idris, her plan to save Siri had seemed simpler. Now the true nature of it lay before her. Somehow, she had to get into the Court of Gods and sneak her sister out. How would one accomplish something so audacious? Surely the Court of Gods would be well guarded. Lemex will have ideas, she told herself. We don’t have to do anything yet. I’m— A man sat down at her table. Less colorfully dressed than most Hallandren, he wore an outfit made mostly of brown leather, though he did have a token red cloth vest thrown over the top. This was not Lemex. The spy was an older man in his fifties. This stranger had a long face and styled hair, and couldn’t have been older than thirty-five. “I hate being a mercenary,” the man said. “You know why?” Shocked, Vivenna sat frozen, mouth opened slightly. “The prejudice,” the man said. “Everyone else, they work, they ask for recompense, and they are respected for it. Not mercenaries. We get a bad name just for doing our job. How many minstrels get spat on for accepting payment from the highest bidder? How many bakers feel guilty for selling more of pastries to one man, then selling those same pastries to the man’s enemies?” He eyed her. “No. Only the mercenary. Unfair, wouldn’t you say?” “W...who are you?” Vivenna finally managed to ask. She jumped as another man sat down on her other side.
Large of girth, this man had a cudgel strapped to his back. A colorful bird was sitting on the end of it. “I’m Denth,” the first man said, taking her hand and shaking it. “That’s Tonk Fah.” “Pleased,” Tonk Fah said, taking her hand once Denth was through with it. “Unfortunately, Princess,” Denth said, “we’re here to kill you.” Annotations for Chapter 9 Ten Annotations for Chapter 10 Vivenna’s hair instantly bleached to a stark white. Think! she told herself. You’ve been trained in politics! You studied hostage negotiation. But...what do you do when you are the hostage? Suddenly, the two men burst out laughing. The larger man thumped the table several times with his hand, causing his bird to squawk. “Sorry, Princess,” Denth—the thinner man—said, shaking his head. “Just a bit of mercenary humor.” “We kill sometimes, but we don’t murder,” Tonk Fah said. “That’s assassin work.” “Assassins,” Denth said, holding up a finger. “Now, they get respect. Why do you suppose that is? They’re really just mercenaries with fancier names.” Vivenna blinked, struggling to get control of her nerves. “You’re not here to kill me,” she said, voice stiff. “So you’re just going to kidnap me?” “Gods, no,” Denth said. “Bad business, that. How do you make money at it? Every time you kidnap someone worth the ransom, you upset people a whole lot more powerful than you are.” “Don’t make important people angry,” Tonk Fah said, yawning. “Unless you’re getting paid by people who are even more powerful.” Denth nodded. “And that isn’t even considering the feeding and care of captives, the exchanging of ransom notes, and the arranging of drop-offs. It’s a headache, I tell you. Terrible way to make money.” The table fell silent. Vivenna placed her hands ﬂat on its top to keep them from quivering. They know who I am, she thought, forcing herself to think logically. Either they recognize me, or... “You work for Lemex,” she said. Denth smiled widely. “See, Tonk? He said she was a clever one.” “Guess that’s why she’s a princess and we’re just mercenaries,” Tonk Fah said. Vivenna frowned. Are they mocking me or not? “Where is Lemex? Why didn’t he come himself?” Denth smiled again, nodding toward the restaurant owner as the man brought a large pot of steaming stew to the table. It smelled of hot spices, and had what appeared to be crab claws ﬂoating in it. The owner dropped a group of wooden spoons to the table, then retreated. Denth and Tonk Fah didn’t wait for permission to eat her meal. “Your friend,” Denth said, grabbing a spoon, “Lemex—our employer—isn’t doing so well.” “Fevers,” Tonk Fah said between slurps. “He requested that we bring you to him,” Denth said. He handed her a folded piece of paper with one hand, while cracking a claw between three fingers of the other. Vivenna cringed as he slurped the contents out. Princess, the paper read. Please trust these men. Denth has served me well for some measure now, and he is loyal—if any mercenary can be called loyal.
He and his men have been paid, and I am confident he will stay true to us for the duration of his contract. I offer proof of authenticity by virtue of this password: bluemask. The writing was in Lemex’s hand. More than that, he had given the proper password. Not “bluemask”—that was misdirection. The true password was using the word “measure” instead of time. She glanced at Denth, who slurped out the insides of another claw. “Ah, now,” he said, tossing aside the shell. “This is the tricky part; she has to make a decision. Are we telling her the truth, or are we fooling her? Have we fabricated that letter? Or maybe we took the old spy captive and tortured him, forcing him to write the words.” “We could bring you his fingers as proof of our good faith,” Tonk Fah said. “Would that help? Vivenna raised an eyebrow. “Mercenary humor?” “Such that it is,” Denth said with a sigh. “We’re not generally a clever lot. Otherwise, we’d probably have selected a profession without such a high mortality rate.” “Like your profession, Princess,” Tonks said. “Good lifespans, usually. I’ve often wondered if I should apprentice myself to one.” Vivenna frowned as the two men chuckled. Lemex wouldn’t have broken under torture, she thought. He’s too well trained. Even if he had broken, he wouldn’t have included both the real password and the false one. “Let’s go,” she said, standing. “Wait,” Tonk Fah said, spoon to lips, “we’re skipping the rest of our meal?” Vivenna eyed the red-colored soup and its bobbing crustacean limbs. “Definitely.” ~ Lemex coughed quietly. His aged face was streaked with sweat, his skin clammy and pale, and he occasionally gave a whispered mumble of delirious ramblings. Vivenna sat on a stool beside his bed, hands in her lap. The two mercenaries waited with Parlin at the back of the room. The only other person present was a solemn nurse—the same woman who had informed Vivenna in a quiet voice that nothing more could be done. Lemex was dying. It was unlikely that he would last the day. This was the first Vivenna had seen Lemex’s face, though she’d often corresponded with him. The face looked...wrong. She knew that Lemex was growing old; that made him a better spy, for few looked for spies among the elderly. Yet he wasn’t supposed to be this frail stick of a person, shaking and coughing. He was supposed to be a spry, quick-tongued old gentleman. That was what she had imagined. She felt like she was losing one of her dearest friends, though she had never really known him. With him went her refuge in Hallandren, her secret advantage. He was the one she had supposed would make this insane plan of hers work. The skilled, crafty mentor she had counted on having at her side. He coughed again. The nurse glanced at Vivenna. “He goes in and out of lucidity, my lady. Just this morning, he spoke of you, but now he’s getting worse and worse....” “Thank you,” Vivenna said
quietly. “You are excused.” The woman bowed and left. Now it is time to be a princess, Vivenna thought, rising and leaning over Lemex’s bed. “Lemex,” she said. “I need you to pass on your knowledge. How do I contact your spy networks? Where are the other Idris agents in the city? What are the passcodes that will get them to listen to me?” He coughed, staring unseeingly, whispering something. She leaned closer. “...never say it,” he said. “You can torture me all that you want. I won’t give in.” Vivenna sat back. By design, the Idrian spy network in Hallandren was loosely organized. Her father knew all of their agents, but Vivenna had only ever communicated with Lemex, the leader and coordinator of the network. She gritted her teeth, leaning forward again. She felt like a grave robber as she shook Lemex’s head slightly. “Lemex, look at me. I’m not here to torture you. I’m the princess. You received a letter from me earlier. Now I’ve come to you.” “Can’t fool me,” the old man whispered. “Your torture is nothing. I won’t give it up. Not to you.” Vivenna sighed, looking away. Suddenly, Lemex shuddered, and a wave of color washed across the bed, over Vivenna, and pulsed along the ﬂoor before fading. Despite herself, Vivenna stepped back in shock. Another pulse came. It wasn’t color itself. It was a wave of enhanced color—a ripple that made the hues in the room stand out more as it passed. The ﬂoor, the sheets, her own dress—it all ﬂared to vibrant vividness for a second, then faded back to the original hues. “What in Austre’s name was that?” Vivenna asked. “BioChromatic Breath, Princess,” Denth said as he stood, leaning against the doorframe. “Old Lemex has a lot of it. Couple hundred Breaths, I’d guess.” “That’s impossible,” Vivenna said. “He’s Idrian. He’d never accept Breath.” Denth shot a look at Tonk Fah, who was scratching his parrot’s neck. The bulky soldier just shrugged. Another wave of color came from Lemex. “He’s dying, Princess,” Denth said. “His Breath is going irregular.” Vivenna glared at Denth. “He doesn’t have—” Something grabbed her arm. She jumped, looking down at Lemex, who had managed to reach up and take hold of her. He was focused on her face. “Princess Vivenna,” he said, eyes showing some lucidity at least. “Lemex,” she said. “Your contacts. You have to give them to me!” “I’ve done something bad, Princess.” She froze. “Breath, Princess,” he said. “I inherited it from my predecessor, and I’ve bought more. A lot more...” God of Colors...Vivenna thought with a sick feeling in her stomach. “I know it was wrong,” Lemex whispered. “But...I felt so powerful. I could make the very dust of the earth obey my command. It was for the good of Idris! Men with Breath are respected here in Hallandren. I could get into parties where I normally would have been excluded. I could go to the Court of Gods when I wished and hear the Court Assembly. The Breath extended my life, made me
spry despite my age. I...” He blinked, eyes unfocusing. “Oh, Austre,” he whispered. “I’ve damned myself. I’ve gained notoriety through abusing the souls of others. And now I’m dying.” “Lemex!” Vivenna said. “Don’t think about that now. Names! I need names and passcodes. Don’t leave me alone!” “Damned,” he whispered. “Someone take it. Please take it away from me!” Vivenna tried to pull back, but he still held on to her arm. She shuddered, thinking about the Breath he held. “You know, Princess,” Denth said from behind. “Nobody really tells mercenaries anything. It’s an unfortunate—but very realistic—drawback of our profession. Never trusted. Never looked to for advice.” She glanced back at him. He leaned against the door, Tonk Fah a short distance away. Parlin stood there as well, holding that ridiculous green hat in his fingers. “Now, if someone were to ask my opinion,” Denth continued, “I’d point out how much those Breaths are worth. Sell them, and you’d have enough money to buy your own spy network—or pretty much anything else you wanted.” Vivenna looked back at the dying man. He was mumbling to himself. “If he dies,” Denth said, “that Breath dies with him. All of it.” “A shame,” Tonk Fah said. Vivenna paled. “I will not traffic in the souls of men! I don’t care how much they’re worth.” “Suit yourself,” Denth said. “Hope nobody suffers when your mission fails, though.” Siri... “No,” Vivenna said, partially to herself. “I couldn’t take them.” It was true. Even the thought of letting someone else’s Breath mingle with her own—the idea of drawing another person’s soul into her own body—made her sick. Vivenna turned back to the dying spy. His BioChroma was burning brightly now, and his sheets practically glowed. It was better to let that Breath die with him. Yet without Lemex, she would have no help in the city, no one to guide her and provide refuge for her. She’d barely brought along enough money to cover lodging and meals, let alone bribes or supplies. She told herself that taking the Breath would be like using goods one had found in a bandit’s cavern. Did you throw it away just because it had originally been acquired through crime? Her training and lessons whispered that she needed resources badly, and that the damage had already been done... No! she thought again. It just isn’t right! I can’t hold it. I couldn’t. Of course, perhaps it would be wise to let someone else hold the Breaths for a time. Then she could think about what to do with them at her leisure. Maybe...maybe even find the people they had been taken from and give them back. She turned back, glancing at Denth and Tonk Fah. “Don’t look at me like that, Princess,” Denth said, chuckling. “I see the glint in your eyes. I’m not going to keep that Breath for you. Having that much BioChroma makes a man far too important.” Tonk Fah nodded. “It’d be like hiking about the city with a bag of gold on your back.” “I like my
Breath the way it is,” Denth said. “I only need one, and it’s functioning just fine. Keeps me alive, doesn’t draw attention to me, and sits there waiting to be sold if I need it.” Vivenna glanced at Parlin. But...no, she couldn’t force the Breath on him. She turned back to Denth. “What kind of things does your agreement with Lemex provide for?” Denth glanced at Tonk Fah, then glanced back at her. The look in his eyes was enough. He was paid to obey. He’d take the Breath if she commanded it. “Come here,” she said, nodding to a stool beside her. Denth approached reluctantly. “You know, Princess,” he said, sitting. “If you give me that Breath, then I could just run off with it. I’d be a wealthy man. You wouldn’t want to put that kind of temptation into the hands of an unscrupulous mercenary, now, would you?” She hesitated. If he runs off with it, then what do I lose? That would solve a lot of problems for her. “Take it,” she ordered. He shook his head. “That’s not the way it works. Our friend there has to give it to me.” She looked at the old man. “I...” She began to command Lemex to do just that, but she had second thoughts. Austre wouldn’t want her to take the Breath, no matter what the circumstances—a man who took Breath from others was worse than a slaver. “No,” she said. “No, I’ve changed my mind. We won’t take the Breath.” At that moment, Lemex stopped his mumbling. He looked up, meeting Vivenna’s eyes. His hand was still on her arm. “My life to yours,” he said in an eerily clear voice, his grip tight on her arm as she jumped back. “My Breath become yours!” A vibrant cloud of shifting, iridescent air burst from his mouth, puffing toward her. Vivenna closed her mouth, eyes wide, hair white. She ripped her arm free from Lemex’s grip, even as his face grew dull, his eyes losing their luster, the colors around him fading. The Breath shot toward her. Her closed mouth had no effect; the Breath struck, hitting her like a physical force, washing across her body. She gasped, falling to her knees, body quivering with a perverse pleasure. She could suddenly feel the other people in the room. She could sense them watching her. And—as if a light had been lit—everything around her became more vibrant, more real, and more alive. She gasped, shaking in awe. She vaguely heard Parlin rushing to her side, speaking her name. But, oddly, the only thing she could think of was the melodic quality of his voice. She could pick out each tone in every word he spoke. She knew them instinctively. Austre, God of Colors! she thought, steadying herself with one hand against the wooden ﬂoor as the shakes subsided. What have I done? Annotations for Chapter 10 Eleven Annotations for Chapter 11 “But surely we can bend the rules a little bit,” Siri said, walking quickly beside Treledees. Treledees eyed her. The
priest—high priest of the God King—would have been tall even without the elaborate miter on his head. With it, he seemed to tower over her almost like one of the Returned. Well, a spindly, obnoxious, disdainful Returned. “An exception?” he asked with his leisurely Hallandren accent. “No, I do not think that will be possible, Vessel.” “I don’t see why not,” Siri said as a servant pulled open the door in front of them, allowing them to leave a green-colored room and pass into a blue one. Treledees respectfully let her pass through the doorway first, though she sensed that he was displeased he had to do so. Siri ground her teeth, trying to think of another avenue of attack. Vivenna would be calm and logical, she thought. She’d explain why she should be allowed to leave the palace in a way that made sense so that the priest listened to her. Siri took a deep breath, trying to ease the red from her hair and the frustration from her attitude. “Look. Couldn’t I, maybe, go on one trip outside? Just into the court itself?” “Impossible,” Treledees said. “If you lack for entertainment, why not have your servants send for minstrels or jugglers? I’m sure they could keep you occupied.” And out of my hair, his tone seemed to imply. Couldn’t he understand? It wasn’t lack of something to do that frustrated her. It was that she couldn’t see the sky. Couldn’t run away from walls and locks and rules. Barring that, she would have settled for someone to talk to. “At least let me meet with one of the gods. I mean, really—what is accomplished by keeping me locked up like this?” “You’re not ‘locked up,’ Vessel,” Treledees said. “You are observing a period of isolation in which you can dedicate yourself to contemplating your new place in life. It is an ancient and worthy practice, one that shows respect for the God King and his divine monarchy.” “Yes, but this is Hallandren,” Siri said. “It’s the land of laxness and frivolity! Surely you can see your way to making an exception.” Treledees stopped short. “We do not make exceptions in matters of religion, Vessel. I must assume that you are testing me in some way, for I find it hard to believe that anyone worthy of touching our God King could harbor such vulgar thoughts.” Siri cringed. Less than a week in the city, she thought, and I’ve already started letting my tongue get me into trouble. Siri didn’t dislike people—she loved to talk to them, spend time with them, laugh with them. However, she couldn’t make them do what she wanted, not in the way that a politician was supposed to be able to do. That was something she should have learned from Vivenna. She and Treledees continued walking. Siri wore a long, ﬂowing brown skirt that covered her feet and had a train that trailed behind her. The priest was wearing golds and maroons—colors matched by the servants. It still amazed her that everyone in the palace had
so many costumes, even if they were identical save for color. She knew that she shouldn’t let herself get annoyed with the priests. They already didn’t seem to like her, and getting snappish wouldn’t help. It was just that the last few days had been so dull. Trapped in the palace, unable to leave, unable to find anyone to talk to, she felt herself nearly going mad. But there would be no exceptions. Apparently. “Will that be all, Vessel?” Treledees asked, pausing beside a door. It almost seemed like he found it a chore to remain civil toward her. Siri sighed, but nodded. The priest bowed, then opened the door and quickly rushed away. Siri watched him go, tapping her foot, arms folded. Her servants stood arrayed behind her, silent as always. She considered finding Bluefingers, but...no. He always had so much to do, and she felt bad distracting him. Sighing again, she motioned for her servants to prepare the evening meal. Two fetched a chair from the side of the room. Siri sat, resting as food was gathered. The chair was plush, but it was still difficult to sit in a way that didn’t aggravate one of her aches or cramps. Each of the last six nights, she had been forced to kneel, naked, until she finally grew so drowsy that she drifted off. Sleeping on the hard stone had left a dull, persistent pain in her back and neck. Each morning, once the God King was gone, she moved to the bed. When she awoke the second time, she burned the sheets. After that, she chose her clothing. There was a new array each time, with no repeated outfits. She wasn’t sure where the servants got such a steady supply of clothing in Siri’s size, but it made her hesitant about choosing her daily costume. She knew that she’d likely never see any of the options again. After dressing, she was free to do as she wished, assuming she didn’t leave the palace. When night came, she was bathed, then given a choice of luxurious gowns to wear into the bedchamber. As a matter of comfort, she had started requesting more and more ornate gowns, with more fabric to use in sleeping. She often wondered what the dressmakers would think if they knew that their gowns were only worn for a few brief moments before being discarded to the ﬂoor, then eventually used as blankets. She didn’t own anything, yet could have whatever she wanted. Exotic foods, furniture, entertainers, books, art...she only needed ask. And yet, when she was finished, it was removed. She had everything and nothing at the same time. She yawned. The interrupted sleep schedule left her bleary-eyed and tired. The completely empty days didn’t help either. If only there were someone to talk to. But servants, priests, and scribes were all locked into their formal roles. That accounted for everyone she interacted with. Well, except him. Could she even call that interacting? The God King appeared to enjoy looking at her body, but he’d never given
her any indication that he wanted more. He simply let her kneel, those eyes of his watching and dissecting her. That was the sum total of their marriage. The servants finished putting out her dinner then lined up by the wall. It was getting late—almost time for her nightly bathing. I’ll have to eat quickly, she thought, sitting at the table. After all, I wouldn’t want to be late for the evening’s ogling. ~ A few hours later, Siri stood bathed, perfumed, and dressed before the massive golden door that led into the God King’s bedchamber. She breathed deeply, calming herself, anxiety bringing her hair to a pale brown. She still hadn’t gotten used to this part. It was silly. She knew what would happen. And yet, the anticipation—the fear—was still there. The God King’s actions proved the power he had over her. One day he would take her, and it could come at any time. Part of her wished he’d just be done with it. The extended dread was even worse than that first single evening of terror. She shivered. Bluefingers eyed her. Perhaps eventually he’d trust her to arrive at the bedchamber on time. Each night so far, he’d come to escort her. At least he hasn’t shown up while I’m bathing again. The warm water and pleasant scents should have made her relax—unfortunately, she tended to spend each bath worrying about either her impending visit to the God King or some male servant walking in on her. She glanced at Bluefingers. “A few more minutes, Vessel,” he said. How does he know? she thought. The man seemed to have a supernatural sense of time. She hadn’t seen any form of timepiece in the palace—neither sundial, metered candle, nor water clock. In Hallandren, apparently, gods and queens didn’t worry about such things. They had servants to remind them of appointments. Bluefingers glanced at the door, then at her. When he saw that she was watching him, he immediately turned away. As he stood, he started shufﬂing his weight from foot to foot. What does he have to be nervous about? she thought with annoyance, turning to stare at the door’s intricate gold designs. He’s not the one who has to go through this every night. “Do...things go well with the God King, then?” Bluefingers asked suddenly. Siri frowned. “I can see that you’re tired a lot of the time,” Bluefingers said. “I...guess that means you are very...active at night.” “That’s good, right? Everyone wants an heir as soon as possible.” “Yes, of course,” Bluefingers said, wringing his hands. “It’s just that...” He trailed off, then glanced at her, meeting her eyes. “You just might want to be careful, Vessel. Keep your wits about you. Try to stay alert.” Her hair bleached the rest of the way white. “You make it sound as if I’m in danger,” she said softly. “What? Danger?” Bluefingers said, glancing to the side. “Nonsense. What would you have to fear? I was simply suggesting that you remain alert, should the God King have needs you should
fulfill. Ah, see, now it’s time. Enjoy your evening, Vessel.” With that, he pushed open the door, placed a hand on her back, and guided her into the room. At the last moment, he moved his head up next to hers. “You should watch yourself, child,” he whispered. “Not all here in the palace is as it seems.” Siri frowned, turning, but Bluefingers plastered on a false smile and pushed the door shut. What in Austre’s name was that? she thought, pausing for what was probably too long a time as she stared at the door. finally, she sighed, turning away. The usual fire crackled in the hearth, but it was smaller than previously. He was there. Siri didn’t need to look to see him. As her eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, she could notice that the fire’s colors—blue, orange, even black—were far too true, far too vibrant. Her gown, a brilliant golden satin, seemed to burn with its own inner color. Anything that was white—some of the lace on her dress, for instance—bent slightly, giving off a rainbow of colors as if seen through a prism. Part of her wished for a well-lit room, where she could experience the full beauty of BioChroma. But, of course, that was not right. The God King’s Breath was a perversion. He was fed on the souls of his people, and the colors he evoked came at their expense. Shivering, Siri undid the side of her dress then let the garment fall to pieces around her—the long sleeves slipping free, bodice falling forward, skirt and gown rustling as they dropped to the ﬂoor. She completed the ritual, sliding the straps of her shift off her shoulders, then dropping the garment to the ﬂoor beside the gown. She stepped free of both, then bowed herself down into her customary posture. Her back complained, and she ruefully contemplated another uncomfortable night. The least they could do, she thought, is make certain the fire is large enough. At night in the large stone palace, it got chilly despite the Hallandren tropical climate. Particularly if one were naked. Focus on Bluefingers, she thought, trying to distract herself. What did he mean? Things are not what they seem in the palace? Was he referring to the God King and his ability to have her killed? She was well aware of the God King’s power. How could she forget it, with him sitting not fifteen feet away, watching from the shadows? No, that wasn’t it. He’d felt he’d needed to give this warning quietly, without others hearing. Watch yourself... It smelled of politics. She gritted her teeth. If she’d paid more attention to her tutors, might she have been able to pick out a more subtle meaning in Bluefingers’s warning? As if I needed something else to be confused about, she thought. If Bluefingers had something to tell her, why hadn’t he just said it? As the minutes passed, his words turned over and over in her mind like a restless sleeper, but she was too uncomfortable and cold
to come to any conclusions. That only left her feeling more annoyed. Vivenna would have figured it out. Vivenna probably would have known instinctively why the God King hadn’t chosen to sleep with her. She would have fixed it the first night. But Siri was incompetent. She tried so hard to do as Vivenna would have—to be the best wife she could, to serve Idris. To be the woman that everyone expected her to be. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t just keep doing this. She felt trapped in the palace. She couldn’t get the priests to do more than roll their eyes at her. She couldn’t even tempt the God King to bed her. On top of that, she could very well be in danger, and she couldn’t even understand why or how. In simpler terms, she was just plain frustrated. Groaning at her aching limbs, Siri sat up in the dark room and looked at the shadowy form in the corner. “Will you please just get on with it?” she blurted out. Silence. Siri felt her hair bleach a terrible bone white as she realized what she’d just done. She stiffened, casting her eyes down, weariness ﬂeeing in the face of sudden anxiety. What had she been thinking? The God King could call servants to execute her. In fact, he didn’t even need that. He could bring her own dress to life, Awakening it to strangle her. He could make the rug rise up and smother her. He could probably bring the ceiling down on her, all without moving from his chair. Siri waited, breathing with shallow anxiety, anticipating the fury and retribution. But...nothing happened. Minutes passed. Finally, Siri glanced up. The God King had moved, sitting up straighter, regarding her from his darkened chair beside the bed. She could see his eyes reﬂecting the firelight. She couldn’t make out much of his face, but he didn’t seem angry. He just seemed cold and distant. She almost cast her eyes down again, but hesitated. If snapping at him wouldn’t provoke a reaction, then looking at him wasn’t likely to either. So she turned her chin up and met his eyes, knowing full well that she was being foolish. Vivenna would never have provoked the man. She would have remained quiet and demure, either solving the problem or—if there was no solution—kneeling every night until her patience impressed even the God King of Hallandren. But Siri was not Vivenna. She was just going to have to accept that fact. The God King continued to look at her, and Siri found herself blushing. She’d knelt before him naked six nights in a row, but facing him unclothed was more embarrassing. Still, she didn’t back down. She continued to kneel, watching him, forcing herself to stay awake. It was difficult. She was tired, and the position was actually less comfortable than bowing had been. She watched anyway, waiting, the hours passing. Eventually—at about the same time that he left the room every night— the God King stood up. Siri stiffened, shocked alert. However, he
simply walked to the door. He tapped quietly, and it opened for him, servants waiting on the other side. He stepped out and the door closed. Siri waited tensely. No soldiers came to arrest her; no priests came to chastise her. Eventually, she just walked over to the bed and burrowed into its covers, savoring the warmth. The God King’s wrath, she thought drowsily, is decidedly less wrathful than reported. With that, she fell asleep. Annotations for Chapter 11 Twelve Annotations for Chapter 12 Eventually, Lightsong had to hear petitions. It was annoying, since the Wedding Jubilation wouldn’t even be over for another few days. The people, however, needed their gods. He knew he shouldn’t feel annoyed. He’d gotten most of a week off for the wedding fete—conspicuously unattended by either the bride or groom—and that was enough. All he had to do was spend a few hours each day looking at art and listening to the woes of the people. It wasn’t much. Even if it did wear away at his sanity. He sighed, sitting back in his throne. He wore an embroidered cap on his head, matched by a loose robe of gold and red. The garment wrapped over both shoulders, twisted about his body, and was hung with golden tassels. Like all of his clothing, it was even more complicated to put on than it looked. If my servants were to suddenly leave me, he thought with amusement, I’d be totally incapable of getting dressed. He leaned his head on one fist, elbow on the throne’s armrest. This room of his palace opened directly out onto the lawn—harsh weather was rare in Hallandren, and a cool breeze blew in off of the sea, smelling of brine. He closed his eyes, breathing in. He’d dreamed of war again last night. Llarimar had found that particularly meaningful. Lightsong was just disturbed. Everyone said that if war did come, Hallandren would easily win. But if that were the case, then why did he always dream of T’Telir burning? Not some distant Idrian city, but his own home. It means nothing, he told himself. Just a manifestation of my own worries. “Next petition, Your Grace,” Llarimar whispered from his side. Lightsong sighed, opening his eyes. Both edges of the room were lined with priests in their coifs and robes. Where had he gotten so many? Did any god need that much attention? He could see a line of people extending outside onto the lawn. They were a sorry, forlorn lot, several coughing from some malady or another. So many, he thought as a woman was led into the room. He’d been seeing petitioners for over an hour already. I guess I should have expected this. It’s been almost a week. “Scoot,” he said, turning to his priest. “Go tell those waiting people to sit down in the grass. There’s no reason for them to all stand there like that. This could take some time.” Llarimar hesitated. Standing was, of course, a sign of respect. However, he nodded, waving over a lesser priest to
carry the message. Such a crowd, waiting to see me, Lightsong thought. What will it take to convince the people that I’m useless? What would it take to get them to stop coming to him? After five years of petitions, he honestly wasn’t certain if he could take another five. The newest petitioner approached his throne. She carried a child in her arms. Not a child...Lightsong thought, cringing mentally. “Great One,” the woman said, falling to her knees on the carpet. “Lord of Bravery.” Lightsong didn’t speak. “This is my child, Halan,” the woman said, holding out the baby. As it got close enough to Lightsong’s aura, the blanket burst with a sharp blue color two and half steps from pure. He could easily see that the child was suffering from a terrible sickness. It had lost so much weight that its skin was shriveled. The baby’s Breath was so weak that it ﬂickered like a candle running out of wick. It would be dead before the day was out. Perhaps before the hour was out. “The healers, they say he has deathfever,” the woman said. “I know that he’s going to die.” The baby made a sound—a kind of half-cough, perhaps the closest it could get to a cry. “Please, Great One,” the woman said. She snifﬂed, then bowed her head. “Oh, please. He was brave, like you. My Breath, it would be yours. The Breaths of my entire family. Service for a hundred years, anything. Please, just heal him.” Lightsong closed his eyes. “Please,” the woman whispered. “I cannot,” Lightsong said. Silence. “I cannot,” Lightsong said. “Thank you, my lord,” the woman finally whispered. Lightsong opened his eyes to see the woman being led away, weeping quietly, child clutched close to her breast. The line of people watched her go, looking miserable yet hopeful at the same time. One more petitioner had failed. That meant they would get a chance. A chance to beg Lightsong to kill himself. Lightsong stood suddenly, grabbing the cap off his head and tossing it aside. He rushed away, throwing open a door at the back of the room. It slammed against the wall as he stumbled through. Servants and priests immediately followed after him. He turned on them. “Go!” he said, waving them away. Many of them showed looks of surprise, unaccustomed to any kind of forcefulness on their master’s part. “Leave me be!” he shouted, towering over them. Colors in the room ﬂared brighter in response to his emotion, and the servants backed down, confused, stumbling back out into the petition hall and pulling the door closed. Lightsong stood alone. He placed one hand against the wall, breathing in and out, other hand against his forehead. Why was he sweating so? He’d been through thousands of petitions, and many had been worse than the one he’d just seen. He’d sent pregnant women to their deaths, doomed children and parents, consigned the innocent and the faithful to misery. There was no reason to overreact. He could take it. It was a little thing, really.
Just like absorbing the Breath of a new person every week. A small price to pay... The door opened and a figure stepped in. Lightsong didn’t turn. “What do they want of me, Llarimar?” he demanded. “Do they really think I’ll do it? Lightsong, the selfish? Do they really think I’d give my life for one of them?” Llarimar was quiet for a few moments. “You offer hope, Your Grace,” he finally said. “A last, unlikely hope. Hope is part of faith—part of the knowledge that someday, one of your followers will receive a miracle.” “And if they’re wrong?” Lightsong asked. “I have no desire to die. I’m an idle man, fond of luxury. People like me don’t give up their lives, even if they do happen to be gods.” Llarimar didn’t reply. “The good ones are all already dead, Scoot,” Lightsong said. “Calmseer, Brighthue: those were gods who would give themselves away. The rest of us are selfish. There hasn’t been a petition granted in what, three years?” “About that, Your Grace,” Llarimar said quietly. “And why should it be otherwise?” Lightsong said, laughing a bit. “I mean, we have to die to heal one of them. Doesn’t that strike you as ridiculous? What kind of religion encourages its members to come and petition for their god’s life?” Lightsong shook his head. “It’s ironic. We’re gods to them only until they kill us. And I think I might know why the gods give in. It’s those petitions, being forced to sit day after day, knowing that you could save one of them—that you probably should, since your life isn’t really worth anything. That’s enough to drive a man mad. Enough to drive him to kill himself!” He smiled, glancing at his high priest. “Suicide by divine manifestation. Very dramatic.” “Shall I call off the rest of the petitions, Your Grace?” Llarimar gave no sign of being annoyed by the outburst. “Sure, why not,” Lightsong said, waving a hand. “They really need a lesson in theology. They should already know what a useless god I am. Send them away, tell them to come back tomorrow—assuming that they are foolish enough to do so.” “Yes, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, bowing. Doesn’t that man ever get mad at me? Lightsong thought. He, more than any, should know that I’m not a person to rely upon! Lightsong turned, walking away as Llarimar went back into the petition room. No servants tried to follow him. Lightsong pushed his way through red-hued room after red-hued room, eventually finding his way to a stairwell and climbing up to the second story. This ﬂoor was open on all sides, really nothing more than a large covered patio. He walked to the far side— the one opposite the line of people. The breeze was strong here. He felt it plucking at his robes, bringing with it scents that had traveled hundreds of miles, crossed the ocean, twisting around palm trees and finally entering the Court of Gods. He stood there for a long time, looking out over the city, toward
the sea beyond. He had no desire, despite what he sometimes said, to leave his comfortable home in the court. He was not a man of jungles; he was a man of parties. But sometimes he wished that he could at least want to be something else. Blushweaver’s words still weighed upon him. You’ll have to stand for something eventually, Lightsong. You’re a god to these people... He was. Whether he wanted to be or not. That was the frustrating part. He’d tried his best to be useless and vain. And still they came. We could use your confidence...you’re a better man than you give yourself credit for being. Why did it seem that the more he demonstrated himself to be an idiot, the more convinced people became that he had some kind of hidden depths? By implication, they called him a liar in the same breath that they complimented his presumed inner virtue. Did no one understand that a man could be both likable and useless? Not every quick-tongued fool was a hero in disguise. His life sense alerted him of Llarimar’s return long before footsteps did. The priest walked up to join Lightsong alongside the wall. Llarimar rested his arms on the railing—which, being built for a god, was about a foot too high for the priest. “They’re gone,” Llarimar said. “Ah, very good,” Lightsong said. “I do believe that we’ve accomplished something today. I’ve ﬂed from my responsibilities, screamed at my servants, and sat about pouting. Undoubtedly, this will convince everyone that I’m even more noble and honorable than they previously assumed. Tomorrow, there will be twice as many petitions, and I shall continue my inexorable march toward utter madness.” “You can’t go mad,” Llarimar said softly. “It’s impossible.” “Sure I can,” Lightsong said. “I just have to concentrate long enough. You see, the great thing about madness is that it’s all in your head.” Llarimar shook his head. “I see you’ve been restored to your normal humor.” “Scoot, you wound me. My humor is anything but normal.” They stood silently for a few more minutes, Llarimar offering no chastisement or commentary on his god’s actions. Just like a good little priest. That made Lightsong think of something. “Scoot, you’re my high priest.” “Yes, Your Grace.” Lightsong sighed. “You really need to pay attention to the lines I’m feeding you, Scoot. You really should have said something pithy there.” “I apologize, Your Grace.” “Just try harder next time. Anyway, you know about theology and that sort of thing, correct?” “I’ve studied my share, Your Grace.” “Well then, what is the point—religiously—of having gods that can only heal one person, then die? It seems counterproductive to me. Easy way to depopulate your pantheon.” Llarimar leaned forward, staring out over the city. “It’s complicated, Your Grace. Returned aren’t just gods—they’re men who died, but who decided to come back and offer blessings and knowledge. After all, only one who has died can have anything useful to say about the other side.” “True, I suppose.” “The thing is, Your Grace, Returned aren’t
meant to stay. We extend their lives, giving them extra time to bless us. But they’re really only supposed to remain alive as long as it takes them to do what they need to.” “Need to?” Lightsong said. “That seems rather vague.” Llarimar shrugged. “Returned have...goals. Objectives which are their own. You knew of yours before you decided to come back, but the process of leaping across the Iridescent Wave leaves the memory fragmented. Stay long enough, and you’ll remember what you came to accomplish. The petitions...they’re a way of helping you to remember.” “So I’ve come back to save one person’s life?” Lightsong said, frowning, but feeling embarrassed. In five years, he’d spent little time studying his own theology. But, well, that was the sort of thing priests were for. “Not necessarily, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “You may have come back to save one person. But, more likely, there is information about the future or the afterlife that you felt you needed to share. Or perhaps some great event in which you felt you needed to participate. Remember, it was the heroic way in which you died that gave you the power to Return in the first place. What you are to do might relate to that, somehow.” Llarimar trailed off slightly, his eyes growing unfocused. “You saw something, Lightsong. On the other side, the future is visible, like a scroll that stretches into the eternal harmonics of the cosmos. Something you saw—something about the future—worried you. Rather than remaining at peace, you took the opportunity that your brave death afforded you, and you Returned to the world. Determined to fix a problem, share information, or otherwise help those who continued to live. “Someday, once you feel that you’ve accomplished your task, you can use the petitions to find someone who deserves your Breath. Then you can continue your journey across the Iridescent Wave. Our job, as your followers, is to provide Breath for you and keep you alive until you can accomplish your goal, whatever it may be. In the meantime, we pry for auguries and blessings, which can be gleaned only from one who has touched the future as you have.” Lightsong didn’t respond immediately. “And if I don’t believe?” “In what, Your Grace?” “In any of it,” Lightsong said. “That Returned are gods, that these visions are anything more than random inventions of my brain. What if I don’t believe that I had any purpose or plan in Returning?” “Then maybe that’s what you came back to discover.” “So...wait. You’re saying that on the other side—where I obviously believed in the other side—I realized that if I Returned I wouldn’t believe in the other side, so I came back with the purpose of discovering faith in the other side, which I only lost because I Returned in the first place?” Llarimar paused. Then he smiled. “That last one breaks down a little bit in the face of logic, doesn’t it?” “Yeah, a little bit,” Lightsong said, smiling back. He turned, eyes falling on the God King’s palace, standing
like a monument above the other court structures. “What do you think of her?” “The new queen?” Llarimar asked. “I haven’t met her, Your Grace. She won’t be presented for another few days.” “Not the person. The implications.” Llarimar glanced at him. “Your Grace. That smells of an interest in politics!” “Blah blah, yes, I know. Lightsong is a hypocrite. I’ll do penance for it later. Now answer the blasted question.” Llarimar smiled. “I don’t know what to think of her, Your Grace. The court of twenty years ago thought bringing a royal daughter here was a good idea.” Yes, Lightsong thought. But that court is gone. The gods had thought melding the royal line back into Hallandren would be a good idea. But those gods—the ones who believed they knew how to deal with the Idrian girl’s arrival—were now dead. They’d left inferior replacements. If what Llarimar said was true, then there was something important about the things Lightsong saw. Those visions of war, and the terrible sense of foreboding. For reasons he couldn’t explain, it felt to him like his people were barreling headfirst down a mountain slope, completely ignorant of a bottomless chasm hidden in the cleft of the lands before them. “The full Court Assembly meets in judgment tomorrow, doesn’t it?” Lightsong said, still looking at the black palace. “Yes, Your Grace.” “Contact Blushweaver. See if I can share a box with her during the judgments. Perhaps she will distract me. You know what a headache politics gives me.” “You can’t get headaches, Your Grace.” In the distance, Lightsong could see the rejected petitioners trailing out of the gates, returning to the city, leaving their gods behind. “Could have fooled me,” he said quietly. ~ Siri stood in the dark black bedroom, wearing her shift, looking out the window. The God King’s palace was higher than the surrounding wall, and the bedroom faced east. Out over the sea. She watched the distant waves, feeling the heat of the afternoon sun. While she was wearing the thin shift, the warmth was actually pleasant, and it was tempered by a cool breeze blowing in off the ocean. The wind teased her long hair, rufﬂing the fabric of her shift. She should be dead. She had spoken directly to the God King, had sat up and made a demand of him. She’d waited all morning for punishment. There had been none. She leaned down against the windowsill, arms crossed on the stone, closing her eyes and feeling the sea breeze. A part of her was still aghast at the way she had acted. That part was growing smaller and smaller. I’ve been going about things wrong here, she thought. I’ve let myself be pushed about by my fears and worries. She didn’t usually take time to bother with fears and worries. She just did what seemed right. She was beginning to feel that she should have stood up to the God King days ago. Perhaps she wasn’t being cautious enough. Perhaps punishment would still come. However, for the moment, she felt
as if she’d accomplished something. She smiled, opening her eyes, and let her hair change to a determined golden yellow. It was time to stop being afraid. Annotations for Chapter 12 Thirteen Annotations for Chapter 13 “I’ll give it away,” Vivenna said firmly. She sat with the mercenaries in Lemex’s home. It was the day after the Breaths had been forced upon her, and she had spent a restless night, letting the mercenaries and the nurse see to the disposal of Lemex’s body. She didn’t remember falling asleep from the exhaustion and stress of the day, but she did remember lying down to rest for a short time in the other upstairs bedroom. When she’d awoken, she’d been surprised to find that the mercenaries were still there. Apparently, they and Parlin had slept downstairs. A night’s perspective hadn’t helped her much with her problems. She still had all of that filthy Breath, and she still had no idea what she was going to do in Hallandren without Lemex. At least with the Breath, she had an idea of what to do. It could be given away. They were in Lemex’s sitting room. Like most places in Hallandren, the room was swollen with colors; the walls were made from thin strips of reedlike wood, stained in bright yellows and greens. Vivenna couldn’t help but notice that she saw each color more vibrantly now. She had a strangely precise sense of color—she could divide its shades and hues, understanding instinctively how close each color was to the ideal. It was like perfect pitch for the eyes. It was very, very difficult not to see beauty in the colors. Denth leaned against the far wall. Tonk Fah lounged on a couch, yawning periodically, his colorful bird perched on his foot. Parlin had gone to stand watch outside. “Give it away, Princess?” Denth asked. “The Breath,” Vivenna said. She sat on a kitchen stool instead of one of the overly plush chairs or couches. “We will go out and find unfortunate people who have been raped by your culture, their Breath stolen, and I will give each one a Breath.” Denth shot a glace at Tonk Fah, who simply yawned. “Princess,” Denth said, “you can’t give Breath away one at a time. You have to give it all away at once.” “Including your own Breath,” Tonk Fah said. Denth nodded. “That would leave you as a Drab.” Vivenna’s stomach churned at that. The thought of not only losing the new beauty and color, but her own Breath, her soul...well, it was almost enough to turn her hair white. “No,” she said. “That’s not an option, then.” The room fell silent. “She could Awaken stuff,” Tonk Fah noted, wiggling his foot, making his bird squawk. “Stick the Breath inside of a pair of pants or something.” “That’s a good point,” Denth said. “What...does that entail?” Vivenna asked. “You bring something to life, Princess,” Denth said. “An inanimate object. That’ll draw out some of your Breath and leave the object kind of alive. Most Awakeners do it temporarily,
but I don’t see why you couldn’t just leave the Breath there.” Awakening. Taking the souls of men and using them to create unliving monstrosities. Somehow, Vivenna felt that Austre would find that an even greater sin than simply bearing the Breath. She sighed, shaking her head. The problem with the Breath was, in a way, just a distraction—one she feared she was using to keep herself from dwelling on the lack of Lemex. What was she going to do? Denth sat down in a chair beside her, resting his feet on the sitting table. He kept himself better groomed than Tonk Fah, his dark hair pulled back into a neat tail, his face clean-shaven. “I hate being a mercenary,” he said. “You know why?” She raised an eyebrow. “No job security,” Denth said, leaning back in his chair. “The kinds of things we do, they tend to be dangerous and unpredictable. Our employers have a habit of dying off on us.” “Though usually not from the chills,” Tonk Fah noted. “Swords tend to be the method of choice.” “Take our current predicament,” Denth said. “No more employer. That leaves us without any real direction.” Vivenna froze. Does that mean their contract is over? They know I’m a princess of Idris. What will they do with that information? Is that why they stayed here last night, rather than leaving? Are they planning to blackmail me? Denth eyed her. “You see that?” he asked, turning to Tonk Fah. “Yeah,” Tonk Fah said. “She’s thinking it.” Denth leaned back further in his chair. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Why does everyone assume that when a mercenary’s contract is over, he’ll betray them? You think we go around stabbing people for the fun of it? Do you think a surgeon has this problem? Do people worry that the moment they’re done paying him, he’ll laugh maniacally and cut off their toes?” “I like cutting off toes,” Tonk Fah noted. “That’s different,” Denth said. “You wouldn’t do it simply because your contract ran out, would you?” “Nah,” Tonk Fah said. “Toes is toes.” Vivenna rolled her eyes. “Is there a point to this?” “The point is, Princess,” Denth said, “you were just thinking that we were going to betray you. Maybe rob you blind or sell you to slavery or something.” “Nonsense,” Vivenna said. “I was thinking nothing of the sort.” “I’m sure,” Denth replied. “Mercenary work is very respectable—it’s legal in almost every kingdom I know. We’re just as much a part of the community as the baker or the fishmonger.” “Not that we pay the tax collectors,” Tonk Fah added. “We tend to stab them for the fun of it.” Vivenna just shook her head. Denth leaned forward, speaking in a more serious tone. “What I’m trying to say, Princess, is that we’re not criminals. We’re employees. Your friend Lemex was our boss. Now he’s dead. I figure that our contract transfers to you now, if you want it.” Vivenna felt a slight glimmer of hope. But could she trust them? Despite
Denth’s speech, she found it hard to have faith in the motives and altruism of a pair of men who fought for money. However, they hadn’t taken advantage of Lemex’s sickness, and they had stayed around even after they could have robbed the place and left while she was asleep. “All right,” she said. “How much is left on your contract?” “No idea,” Denth said. “Jewels handles that kind of thing.” “Jewels?” Vivenna asked. “Third member of the group,” Tonk Fah said. “She’s off doing Jewels stuff.” Vivenna frowned. “How many of you are there?” “Just three,” Denth said. “Unless you count pets,” Tonk Fah said, balancing his bird on his foot. “She’ll be back in a while,” Denth said. “She stopped in last night, but you were asleep. Anyway, I know we’ve got at least a few months left on our contract, and we were paid half up front. Even if you decide not to pay the rest, we probably owe you a few more weeks.” Tonk Fah nodded. “So if there’s anyone you want killed, now would be the time.” Vivenna stared, and Tonk Fah chuckled. “You’re really going to have to get used to our terrible senses of humor, Princess,” Denth said. “Assuming, of course, you’re going to keep us around.” “I’ve already implied that I’ll keep you,” Vivenna said. “All right,” Denth replied. “But what are you going to do with us? Why did you even come to the city?” Vivenna didn’t answer immediately. No point in holding back, she thought. They know the most dangerous secret—my identity—already. “I’m here to rescue my sister,” she said. “To sneak her out of the God King’s palace and see her returned to Idris unharmed.” The mercenaries fell silent. finally, Tonk Fah whistled. “Ambitious,” he noted as his parrot mimicked the whistle. “She is a princess,” Denth said. “They tend to be ambitious sorts.” “Siri isn’t ready to deal with Hallandren,” Vivenna said, leaning forward. “My father sent her in my place, but I cannot stand the thought of her serving as the God King’s wife. Unfortunately, if we simply grab her and go, Hallandren will likely attack my homeland. We need to make her disappear in a way that isn’t traceable to my people. If necessary, we can substitute me for my sister.” Denth scratched his head. “Well?” Vivenna asked. “Little bit out of our realm of expertise,” Denth said. “We usually hit things,” Tonk Fah said. Denth nodded. “Or, at least, keep things from getting hit. Lemex kept us on partially just as bodyguards.” “Why wouldn’t he just send for a couple of Idris soldiers to protect him?” Denth and Tonk Fah exchanged a look. “How can I put this delicately?” Denth said. “Princess, your Lemex was embezzling money from the king and spending it on Breath.” “Lemex was a patriot!” Vivenna said immediately. “That may have been the case,” Denth said. “But even a good priest isn’t above slipping himself a few coins out of the coffer, so to speak. I think your Lemex figured it would be
better to have outside muscle, rather than inside loyalists, protecting him.” Vivenna fell silent. It was still hard to imagine the thoughtful, clever, and passionate man represented in Lemex’s letters as a thief. Yet it was also hard to imagine Lemex holding as much Breath as he obviously had. But embezzling? Stealing from Idris itself? “You learn things as a mercenary,” Denth said, resting back with hands behind his head. “You fight enough people, and you figure you start to understand them. You stay alive by anticipating them. The thing is, people aren’t simple. Even Idrians.” “Boring, yes,” Tonk Fah added. “But not simple.” “Your Lemex, he was involved in some big plans,” Denth said. “I honestly think he was a patriot. There are many intrigues going on in this city, Princess—some of the projects Lemex had us working on had a grand scope, and were for the good of Idris, as near as I can tell. I guess he just thought he should be compensated a little for his patriotism.” “Quite an amiable fellow, actually,” Tonk Fah said. “Didn’t want to bother your father. So he just did the figures on his own, gave himself a raise, and indicated in his reports that his costs were far greater than they really were.” Vivenna fell silent, letting herself digest the words. How could anyone who stole money from Idris also be a patriot? How could a person faithful to Austre end up with several hundred BioChromatic Breaths? She shook her head wryly. I saw men who placed themselves above others, and I saw them cast down, she quoted to herself. It was one of the five Visions. She shouldn’t judge Lemex, particularly now that he was dead. “Wait,” she said, eyeing the mercenaries. “You said that you were just bodyguards. What, then, were you doing helping Lemex with ‘projects’?” The two men shared a look. “Told you she was smart,” Tonk Fah said. “Comes from not being a mercenary.” “We are bodyguards, Princess,” Denth said. “However, we’re not without certain...skills. We can make things happen.” “Things?” Vivenna asked. Denth shrugged. “We know people. That’s part of what makes us useful. Let me think about this issue with your sister. Maybe I’ll be able to come up with some ideas. It’s a little like kidnapping...” “Which,” Tonk Fah said, “we’re not too fond of. Did we mention that?” “Yes,” Vivenna said. “Bad business. No money. What were these ‘projects’ Lemex was working on?” “I’m not exactly sure of the whole of them,” Denth admitted. “We only saw pieces—running errands, arranging meetings, intimidating people. It had something to do with work for your father. We can find out for you, if you want.” Vivenna nodded. “I do.” Denth stood. “All right,” he said. He walked past Tonk Fah’s couch, smacking the larger man’s leg, causing the bird to squawk. “Tonk. Come on. Time to ransack the house.” Tonk Fah yawned and sat up. “Wait!” Vivenna said. “Ransack the house?” “Sure,” Denth said, heading up the stairs. “Break out any hidden safes. Search through papers
and files. figure out what old Lemex was up to.” “He won’t care much,” Tonk Fah said, standing. “Being dead and all.” Vivenna shivered. She still wished she’d been able to see that Lemex got a proper Idrian burial, rather than sending him off to the Hallandren charnel house. Having a pair of toughs search his belongings felt unseemly. Denth must have noticed her discomfort. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want us to.” “Sure,” Tonk Fah said. “We’ll never know what Lemex was up to, though.” “Continue,” Vivenna said. “But I’m going to supervise.” “Actually, I doubt that you will,” Denth said. “And why is that?” “Because,” Denth said. “Now, I know nobody ever asks mercenaries for their opinion. You see—” “Oh, just get on with it,” Vivenna said with annoyance, though she immediately chastised herself for her snappishness. What was wrong with her? The last few days must be wearing on her. Denth just smiled, as if he found her outburst incredibly amusing. “Today’s the day when the Returned hold their Court Assembly, Princess.” “So?” Vivenna asked with forced calmness. “So,” Denth replied, “it’s also the day when your sister will be presented to the gods. I suspect that you’ll want to go get a good look at her, see how she’s holding up. If you’re going to do that, you’ll want to get moving. Court Assembly will begin pretty soon.” Vivenna folded her arms, not moving. “I’ve been tutored all about these things, Denth. Regular people can’t just walk into the Court of Gods. If you want to watch the judgments at the Court Assembly, you either have to be favored of one of the gods, be extremely inﬂuential, or you have to draw and win the lottery.” “True,” Denth said, leaning against the banister. “If only we knew someone with enough BioChromatic Breaths to instantly be considered important, and therefore gain entrance to the court without being questioned.” “Ah, Denth,” Tonk Fah said. “Someone has to have at least fifty Breaths to be considered worthy! That’s a terribly high number.” Vivenna paused. “And...how many Breaths do I have?” “Oh, around five hundred or so,” Denth said. “At least, that’s what Lemex claimed. I’m inclined to believe him. You are, after all, making the carpet shine.” She glanced down, noticing for the first time that she was creating a pocket of enhanced color around her. It wasn’t very distinct, but it was noticeable. “You’d better get going, Princess,” Denth said, continuing to clomp up the stairs. “You’ll be late.” ~ Siri sat nervously, blond with excitement, trying to contain herself as the serving women did her hair. Her Wedding Jubilation—something she found rather inappropriately named—was finally over, and it was time for her formal presentation before the Hallandren gods. She was probably too excited. It hadn’t really been that long. Yet the prospect of finally leaving—if only to attend court—made her almost giddy. She would finally get to interact with someone other than priests, scribes, and servants. She’d finally get to meet some of those gods that she’d
heard so much about. Plus, he’d be there at the presentation. The only times she’d been able to see the God King had been during their nightly staring matches, when he was shrouded in shadow. Today, she would at last see him in the light. She smiled, inspecting herself in a large mirror. The servants had done her hair in an amazingly intricate style, part of it braided, the rest allowed to ﬂow free. They’d tied several ribbons into the braids and also woven them into her free-ﬂowing hair. The ribbons shimmered as she turned her head. Her family would have been mortified at the ostentatious colors. Siri grinned mischievously, making her hair turn a brighter shade of golden blond to better contrast with the ribbons. The serving women smiled approvingly, a couple letting out quiet “ooo”s at the transformation. Siri sat back, hands in her lap as she inspected her clothing choices for the court appearance. The garments were ornate— not as complex as the ones she wore to the bedchambers, but far more formal than her everyday choices. Red was the theme for the serving women and priests today. That made Siri want to choose something else. Eventually, she decided on gold, and she pointed at the two golden gowns, having the women bring them forward so she could look at them more closely. Unfortunately, as she did so, the women fetched three more golden dresses from a rolling wardrobe out in the hallway. Siri sighed. It was as if they were determined to keep her from having a reasonably simple choice. She just hated seeing so many options disappear each day. If only... She paused. “Could I try them all on?” The serving women glanced at each other, a little confused. They nodded toward her, their expressions conveying a simple message. Of course you can. Siri felt foolish, but in Idris she’d never had a choice before. She smiled, standing and letting them take off her robe and then dress her in the first of the gowns, careful not to mess up her hair. Siri inspected herself, noting that the neckline was rather low. She was willing to splurge on color, but the amount of ﬂesh Hallandren showed still felt scandalous. She nodded, letting them take off the gown. Then they dressed her in the next one—a two-piece garment with a separate corset. Once they were finished, Siri eyed this new outfit in the mirror. She liked it, but she wanted to try the others as well. So, after spinning about and inspecting the back, she nodded and moved on. It was frivolous. But why was she so worried about being frivolous? Her father wasn’t around to regard her with that stern, disapproving face of his. Vivenna was an entire kingdom away. Siri was queen of the Hallandren people. Shouldn’t she try to learn their ways? She smiled at the ridiculous justification, but went on to the next gown anyway. Annotations for Chapter 13 Fourteen Annotations for Chapter 14 “It’s raining,” Lightsong noted. “Very astute, Your Grace,” Llarimar said,
walking beside his god. “I’m not fond of rain.” “So you have often noted, Your Grace.” “I’m a god,” Lightsong said. “Shouldn’t I have power over the weather? How can it rain if I don’t want it to?” “There are currently twenty–five gods in the court, Your Grace. Perhaps there are more who desire rain than those who don’t.” Lightsong’s robes of gold and red rustled as he walked. The grass was cool and damp beneath his sandaled toes, but a group of servants carried a wide canopy over him. Rain fell softly on the cloth. In T’Telir, rainfalls were common, but they were never very strong. Lightsong would have liked to have seen a true rainstorm, like people said occurred out in the jungles. “I’ll take a poll then,” Lightsong said. “Of the other gods. See how many of them wanted it to rain today.” “If you wish, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “It won’t prove much.” “It’ll prove whose fault this is,” Lightsong said. “And...if it turns out that most of us want it to stop raining, perhaps that will start a theological crisis.” Llarimar, of course, didn’t seem bothered by the concept of a god trying to undermine his own religion. “Your Grace,” he said, “our doctrine is quite sound, I assure you.” “And if the gods don’t want it to rain, yet it still does?” “Would you like it to be sunny all the time, Your Grace?” Lightsong shrugged. “Sure.” “And the farmers?” Llarimar said. “Their crops would die without the rain.” “It can rain on the crops,” Lightsong said, “just not in the city. A few selective weather patterns shouldn’t be too much for a god to accomplish.” “The people need water to drink, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “The streets need to be washed clean. And what of the plants in the city? The beautiful trees—even this grass that you enjoy walking across—would die if the rain did not fall.” “Well,” Lightsong said, “I could just will them to continue living.” “And that is what you do, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “Your soul knows that rain is best for the city, and so it rains. Despite what your consciousness thinks.” Lightsong frowned. “By that argument, you could claim that anyone was a god, Llarimar.” “Not just anyone comes back from the dead, Your Grace. Nor do they have the power to heal the sick, and they certainly don’t have your ability to foresee the future.” Good points, those, Lightsong thought as they approached the arena. The large, circular structure was at the back of the Court of Gods, outside of the ring of palaces that surrounded the courtyard. Lightsong’s entourage moved inside—red canopy still held above him—and entered the sand–covered arena yard. Then they moved up a ramp toward the seating area. The arena had four rows of seats for ordinary people—stone benches, accommodating T’Telir citizens who were favored, lucky, or rich enough to get themselves into an assembly session. The upper reaches of the arena were reserved for the Returned. Here—close enough to hear what was said
on the arena ﬂoor, yet far enough back to remain stately—were the boxes. Ornately carved in stone, they were large enough to hold a god’s entire entourage. Lightsong could see that several of his colleagues had arrived, marked by the colorful canopies that sat above their boxes. Lifeblesser was there, as was Mercystar. They passed by the empty box usually reserved for Lightsong and made their way around the ring and approached a box topped by a green pavilion. Blushweaver lounged inside. Her green and silver dress was lavish and revealing, as always. Despite its rich trim and embroidery, it was little more than a long swath of cloth with a hole in the center for her head and some ties. That left it completely open on both sides from shoulder to calf, and Blushweaver’s thighs curved out lusciously on either side. She sat up, smiling. Lightsong took a deep breath. Blushweaver always treated him kindly and she certainly did have a high opinion of him, but he felt like he had to be on guard at all times when he was around her. A man could be taken in by a woman such as she. Taken in, then never released. “Lightsong, dear,” she said, smiling more deeply as Lightsong’s servants scuttled forward, setting up his chair, footrest, and snack table. “Blushweaver,” Lightsong replied. “My high priest tells me that you’re to blame for this dreary weather.” Blushweaver raised an eyebrow, and to the side—standing with the other priests—Llarimar ﬂushed. “I like the rain,” Blushweaver finally said, lounging back on her couch. “It’s...different. I like things that are different.” “Then you should be thoroughly bored by me, my dear,” Lightsong said, seating himself and taking a handful of grapes—already peeled—from the bowl on his snack table. “Bored?” Blushweaver asked. “I strive for nothing if not mediocrity, and mediocrity is hardly different. In fact, I should say that it’s highly in fashion in court these days.” “You shouldn’t say such things,” Blushweaver said. “The people might start to believe you.” “You mistake me. That’s why I say them. I figure if I can’t do properly deific miracles like control the weather, then I might as well settle for the lesser miracle of being the one who tells the truth.” “Hum,” she replied, stretching back, the tips of her fingers wiggling as she sighed in contentment. “Our priests say that the purpose of the gods is not to play with weather or prevent disasters, but to provide visions and Service to the people. Perhaps this attitude of yours is not the best way to see to their interests.” “You’re right, of course,” Lightsong said. “I’ve just had a revelation. Mediocrity isn’t the best way to serve our people.” “What is, then?” “Medium rare on a bed of sweet–potato medallions,” he said, popping a grape in his mouth. “With a slight garnish of garlic and a light white wine sauce.” “You’re incorrigible,” she said, finishing her stretch. “I am what the universe made me to be, my dear.” “You bow before the whims of the
universe, then?” “What else would I do?” “Fight it,” Blushweaver said. She narrowed her eyes, absently reaching to take one of the grapes from Lightsong’s hand. “fight with everything, force the universe to bow to you instead.” “That’s a charming concept, Blushweaver. But I believe that the universe and I are in slightly different weight categories.” “I think you’re wrong.” “Are you saying I’m fat?” She regarded him with a ﬂat glance. “I’m saying that you needn’t be so humble, Lightsong. You’re a god.” “A god who can’t even make it stop raining.” “I want it to storm and tempest. Maybe this drizzle is the compromise between us.” Lightsong popped another grape in his mouth, squishing it between his teeth, feeling the sweet juice leak onto his palate. He thought for a moment, chewing. “Blushweaver, dear,” he finally said. “Is there some kind of subtext to our current conversation? Because, as you might know, I am absolutely terrible with subtext. It gives me a headache.” “You can’t get headaches,” Blushweaver said. “Well I can’t get subtext either. Far too subtle for me. It takes effort to understand, and effort is—unfortunately—against my religion.” Blushweaver raised an eyebrow. “A new tenet for those who worship you?” “Oh, not that religion,” Lightsong said. “I’m secretly a worshipper of Austre. His is such a delightfully blunt theology—black, white, no bothering with complications. Faith without any bothersome thinking.” Blushweaver stole another grape. “You just don’t know Austrism well enough. It’s complex. If you’re looking for something really simple, you should try the Pahn Kahl faith.” Lightsong frowned. “Don’t they just worship the Returned, like the rest of us?” “No. They have their own religion.” “But everyone knows the Pahn Kahl are practically Hallandren.” Blushweaver shrugged, watching the stadium ﬂoor below. “And how exactly did we get onto this tangent, anyway?” Lightsong said. “I swear, my dear. Sometimes our conversations remind me of a broken sword.” She raised an eyebrow. “Sharp as hell,” Lightsong said, “but lacking a point.” Blushweaver snorted quietly. “You’re the one who asked to meet with me, Lightsong.” “Yes, but we both know that you wanted me to. What are you planning, Blushweaver?” Blushweaver rolled her grape between her fingers. “Wait,” she said. Lightsong sighed, waving for a servant to bring him some nuts. One placed a bowl on the table; then another came forward and began to crack them for him. “first you imply that I should join with you, now you won’t tell me what you want me to do? I swear, woman. Someday, your ridiculous sense of drama is going to cause cataclysmic problems—like, for instance, boredom in your companions.” “It’s not drama,” she said. “It’s respect.” She nodded directly across the arena, where the God King’s box still stood empty, golden throne sitting on a pedestal above the box itself. “Ah. Feeling patriotic today, are we?” “It’s more that I’m curious.” “About?” “Her.” “The queen?” Blushweaver gave him a ﬂat stare. “Of course, her. Who else would I be speaking about?” Lightsong counted off the days. It had been a
week. “Huh,” he said to himself. “Her period of isolation is over, then?” “You really should pay more attention, Lightsong.” He shrugged. “Time tends to pass you by more quickly when you take no notice of it, my dear. In that, it’s remarkably similar to most women I know.” With that, he accepted a handful of nuts, then settled back to wait. ~ Apparently, the people of T’Telir weren’t fond of carriages—not even to carry gods. Siri sat, somewhat bemused, as a group of servants carried her chair across the grass toward a large, circular structure at the back of the Court of Gods. It was raining. She didn’t care. She’d been cooped up for far too long. She turned, twisting in her chair, looking back over a group of serving women who carried her dress’s long golden train, keeping it off the wet grass. Around them all walked more women, who held a large canopy to shield Siri from the rain. “Could you...move that aside?” Siri asked. “Let the rain fall on me?” The serving women glanced at one another. “Just for a little bit,” Siri said. “I promise.” The women shared frowns, but slowed, allowing Siri’s porters to pull ahead and expose her to the rain. She looked up, smiling as the drizzle fell on her face. Seven days is far too long to spend indoors, she decided. She basked for a long moment, enjoying the cool wetness on her skin and clothing. The grass looked inviting. She glanced back again. “I could walk, you know.” Feel my toes on those green blades... The serving women looked very, very uncomfortable about that concept. “Or not,” Siri said, turning around as the women sped up, again covering the sky with their canopy. Walking was probably a bad idea, considering her dress’s long train. She’d eventually chosen a gown far more daring than anything she’d ever worn before. The neckline was a touch low, and it had no sleeves. It also had a curious design that covered the front of her legs with a short skirt, yet was ﬂoor–length in back. She’d picked it partially for the novelty, though she blushed every time she thought of how much leg it showed. They soon arrived at the arena and her porters carried her up into it. Siri was interested to see that it had no ceiling and had a sand–covered ﬂoor. Just above the ﬂoor, a colorful group of people were gathering on ranks of benches. Though some of them carried umbrellas, many ignored the light rain, chatting amiably among themselves. Siri smiled at the crowd; a hundred different colors and as many different clothing styles were represented. It was good to see some variety again, even if that variety was somewhat garish. Her porters carried her up to a large stone cleft built into the side of the building. Here, her women slid the canopy’s poles into holes in the stone, allowing it to stand freely to cover the entire box. Servants scuttled about, getting things ready, and her porters lowered her
chair. She stood, frowning. She was finally free of the palace. And yet it appeared she was going to have to sit above everyone else. Even the other gods—whom she assumed were in the other canopied boxes—were far away and separated from her by walls. How is it that they can make me feel alone, even when surrounded by hundreds of people? She turned to one of her serving women. “The God King. Where is he?” The woman gestured toward the other boxes like Siri’s. “He’s in one of them?” Siri asked. “No, Vessel,” the woman said, eyes downcast. “He will not arrive until the gods are all here.” Ah, Siri thought. Makes sense, I guess. She sat back in her chair as several servants prepared food. To the side, a minstrel began to play a ﬂute, as if to drown out the sounds of the people below. She would rather have heard the people. Still, she decided not to let herself get into a bad mood. At least she was outside, and she could see other people, even if she couldn’t interact with them. She smiled to herself, leaning forward, elbows on knees, as she studied the exotic colors below. What was she to make of T’Telir people? They were just so remarkably diverse. Some had dark skin, which meant they were from the edges of the Hallandren kingdom. Others had yellow hair, or even strange hair colors— blue and green—that came, Siri assumed, from dyes. All wore brilliant clothing, as if there were no other option. Ornate hats were popular, both on men and women. Clothing ranged from vests and shorts to long robes and gowns. How much time must they spend shopping! It was difficult enough for her to choose what to wear, and she had only about a dozen choices each day—and no hats. After she’d refused the first few, the servants had stopped offering them. Entourage after entourage arrived bearing a different set of colors—a hue and a metallic, usually. She counted the boxes. There was room for about fifty gods, but the court had only a couple of dozen. Twenty–five, wasn’t it? In each procession, she saw a figure standing taller than the others. Some— mostly the women—were carried on chairs or couches. The men generally walked, some wearing intricate robes, others wearing nothing more than sandals and skirt. Siri leaned forward, studying one god as he walked right by her box. His bare chest made her blush, but it let her see his well–muscled body and toned ﬂesh. He glanced at her, then nodded his head slightly in respect. His servants and priests bowed almost to the ground. The god passed on, having said nothing. She sat back in her chair, shaking her head as one of the servants offered her food. There were still four or five gods left to arrive. Apparently, the Hallandren deities weren’t as punctual as Bluefingers’s schedule–keeping had led her to believe. ~ Vivenna stepped through the gates, passing into the Hallandren Court of Gods, which was dominated by a
group of large palaces. She hesitated, and small groups of people passed through on either side of her, though there wasn’t much of a crowd. Denth had been right; it had been easy for her to get into the court. The priests at the gate had waved Vivenna through without even asking her identity. They had even let Parlin pass, assuming him to be her attendant. She turned back, glancing at the priests in their blue robes. She could see bubbles of colorfulness around them, indications of their strong BioChroma. She’d been tutored about this. The priests guarding the gates had enough Breath to get them to the first Heightening, the state at which a person gained the ability to distinguish levels of Breath in other people. Vivenna had it too. It wasn’t that auras or colors looked different to her. In fact, the ability to distinguish Breath was similar to the perfect pitch she had gained. Other people heard the same sounds she did, she just had the ability to pick them apart. She saw how close a person had to get to one of the priests before the colors increased, and she saw exactly how much more colorful those hues became. This information let her know instinctively that each of the priests was of the first Heightening. Parlin had one Breath. The ordinary citizens, who had to present papers to gain entrance to the court, also each had only one Breath. She could tell how strong that Breath was, and if the person was sick or not. The priests each had exactly fifty Breaths, as did the majority of the wealthier individuals entering through the gates. A fair number had at least two hundred Breaths, enough for the Second Heightening and the perfect pitch it granted. Only a couple had more Breaths than Vivenna, who had reached all the way to the Third Heightening and the perfect color perception it granted. She turned away from her study of the crowd. She’d been tutored about the Heightenings, but she’d never expected to experience one firsthand. She felt dirty. Perverse. Particularly because the colors were just so beautiful. Her tutors had explained how the court was composed of a wide circle of palaces, but they had not mentioned how each palace was so harmoniously balanced in color. Each was a work of art, utilizing subtle color gradients that normal people just wouldn’t be able to appreciate. These sat on a perfect, uniformly green lawn. It was trimmed carefully, and it was marred by neither road nor walkway. Vivenna stepped onto it, Parlin at her side, and she felt an urge to kick off her shoes and walk barefoot in the dew–moistened grass. That wouldn’t be appropriate at all, and she stiﬂed the impulse. The drizzle was finally starting to let up, and Parlin lowered the umbrella he’d bought to keep them both dry. “So, this is it,” he said, shaking off the umbrella. “The Court of Gods.” Vivenna nodded. “Good place to graze sheep.” “I doubt that,” she said quietly. Parlin frowned.
“Goats, then?” he said finally. Vivenna sighed, and they joined the small procession walking across the grass toward a large structure outside the circle of palaces. She’d been worried about standing out—after all, she still wore her simple Idrian dress, with its high neck, practical fabric, and muted colors. She was beginning to realize that there just wasn’t a way to stand out in T’Telir. The people around her wore such a stunning variety of costumes that she wondered who had the imagination to design them all. Some were as modest as Vivenna’s and others even had muted colors—though these were usually accented by bright scarves or hats. Modesty in both design and color was obviously unfashionable, but not nonexistent. It’s all about drawing attention, she realized. The whites and faded colors are a reaction against the bright colors. But because everyone tries so hard to look distinctive, nobody does! Feeling a little more secure, she glanced at Parlin, who seemed more at peace now that they were away from the larger crowds in the city below. “Interesting buildings,” he said. “The people wear so much color, but that palace is just one color. Wonder why that is.” “It’s not one color. It’s many different shades of the same color.” Parlin shrugged. “Red is red.” How could she explain? Each red was different, like notes on a musical scale. The walls were of pure red. The roof tiles, side columns, and other ornamentations were of slightly different shades, each distinct and intentional. The columns, for instance, formed stepping fifths of color, harmonizing with the base tint of the walls. It was like a symphony of hues. The building had obviously been constructed for a person who had achieved the Third Heightening, as only such a person would be able to see the ideal resonance. To others...well, it was just a bunch of red. They passed the red palace, approaching the arena. Entertainment was central to the lives of the Hallandren gods. After all, one couldn’t expect gods to do anything useful with their time. Often they were diverted in their palaces or on the courtyard lawn, but for particularly large events, there was the arena—which also served as the location of Hallandren legislative debates. Today, the priests would argue for the sport of their deities. Vivenna and Parlin waited their turn as the people crowded around the arena entrance. Vivenna glanced toward another gateway, wondering why nobody used it. The answer was made manifest as a figure approached. He was surrounded by servants, some carrying a canopy. All were dressed in blue and silver, matching their leader, who stood a good head taller than the others. He gave off a BioChromatic aura such as Vivenna had never seen— though, admittedly, she’d been able to see them for only a few hours. His bubble of enhanced color was enormous; it extended nearly thirty feet. To her first Heightening senses, the god’s Breath registered as infinite. Immeasurable. For the first time, Vivenna could see that there was something different about the Returned. They weren’t
just Awakeners with more power; it was like they had only a single Breath, but that Breath was so immensely powerful that it single–handedly propelled them to the upper Heightenings. The god entered the arena through the open gateway. As she watched him, Vivenna’s sense of awe dissipated. There was an arrogance in this man’s posture, a dismissiveness to the way he entered freely while others waited their turn at an overcrowded entrance. To keep him alive, Vivenna thought, he has to absorb a person’s Breath each week. She’d let herself become too relaxed, and she felt her revulsion return. Color and beauty couldn’t cover up such enormous conceit, nor could it hide the sin of being a parasite living on the common people. The god disappeared into the arena. Vivenna waited, thinking for a time about her own BioChroma and what it meant. She was completely shocked when a man beside her suddenly lifted off the ground. The man rose into the air, lifted by his unusually long cloak. The cloth had stiffened, looking a little like a hand as it held the man up high so he could see over the crowd. How does it do that? She’d been told that Breath could give life to objects, but what did “life” mean? It seemed as if the fibers in the cloak were taut, like muscles, but how did it lift something so much heavier than it was? The man descended to the ground. He muttered something Vivenna couldn’t hear, and his BioChromatic aura grew stronger as he recovered his Breath from the cloak. “We should be moving again soon,” the man said to his friends. “The crowd is thinning up ahead.” Indeed, soon the crowd started to progress. It wasn’t long before Vivenna and Parlin entered the arena itself. They moved through the stone benches, choosing a place that wasn’t too crowded, and Vivenna looked urgently through the boxes set above. The building was ornate, but not really very big, and so it didn’t take her long to locate Siri. When she did, her heart sank. My...sister, Vivenna thought with a chill. My poor sister. Siri was dressed in a scandalous golden dress that didn’t even come down to her knees. It also had a plunging neckline. Siri’s hair, which even she should have been able to keep a dark brown, was instead the golden yellow of enjoyment, and there were deep red ribbons woven through it. She was being attended by dozens of servants. “Look what they’ve done to her,” Vivenna said. “She must be frightened senseless, forced to wear something like that, forced to keep her hair a color that matches her clothing...” Forced to be slave to the God King. Parlin’s square–jawed face grew hard. He didn’t often get angry, but Vivenna could see it in him now. She agreed. Siri was being exploited; they were carrying her around and displaying her like some kind of trophy. It seemed to Vivenna a statement. They were saying they could take a chaste, innocent Idris woman and do whatever
they wished with her. What I’m doing is right, Vivenna thought with growing determination. Coming to Hallandren was the best thing to do. Lemex might be dead, but I have to press onward. I have to find a way. I have to save my sister. “Vivenna?” Parlin said. “Hum?” Vivenna asked, distracted. “Why is everyone starting to bow?” ~ Siri played idly with one of the tassels on her dress. The final god was seating himself in his box. That’s twenty–five, she thought. That should be all of them. Suddenly, out in the audience, people began to rise, then kneel to the ground. Siri stood, searching anxiously. What was she missing? Had the God King arrived, or was this something else? Even the gods had gone down on their knees, though they didn’t prostrate themselves as the mortals did. They all seemed to be bowing toward Siri. Some sort of ritual greeting for their new queen? Then she saw it. Her dress exploded with color, the stone at her feet gained luster, and her very skin became more vibrant. In front of her, a white serving bowl began to shine; then it seemed to stretch, the white color splitting into the colors of the rainbow. A serving woman tugged on Siri’s sleeve from where she knelt below. “Vessel,” the woman whispered, “behind you!” Annotations for Chapter 14 Fifteen Annotations for Chapter 15 Breath catching in her chest, Siri turned. She found him standing behind her, though she had no idea how he had arrived. There was no entrance back there, just the stone wall. He wore white. She hadn’t expected that. Something about his Bio Chroma made the pure white split as she’d seen before, breaking up like light passed through a prism. Now, in daylight, she could finally see this properly. His clothing seemed to stretch, forming a robe-shaped rainbow in a colorful aura around him. And he was young. Far younger than her shadowed meetings had suggested. He had supposedly reigned in Hallandren for decades, yet the man standing behind her appeared to be no more than twenty. She stared at him, awed, mouth opening slightly, and any words she had planned to say escaped her. This man was a god. The very air distorted around him. How could she have not seen it? How could she possibly have treated him as she had? She felt like a fool. He regarded her, expression blank and unreadable, face so controlled that he reminded Siri of Vivenna. Vivenna. She wouldn’t have been so belligerent. She would have deserved marriage to such a majestic creature. The serving woman hissed quietly, tugging again at Siri’s dress. Belatedly, Siri dropped to her knees on the stone, the long train of her dress ﬂapping slightly in the wind behind her. ~ Blushweaver knelt obediently on her cushion. Lightsong, however, remained standing, looking across the stadium toward a man he could barely see. The God King wore white, as he often did, for dramatic effect. As the only being to have achieved the Tenth Heightening, the God
King had such a strong aura that he could draw color even from something colorless. Blushweaver glanced up at Lightsong. “Why do we kneel?” Lightsong asked. “That’s our king!” Blushweaver hissed. “Drop down, fool.” “What will happen if I don’t?” Lightsong said. “They can’t execute me. I’m a god.” “You could hurt our cause!” “Our cause”? Lightsong thought. One meeting and I’m already part of her plans? However, he wasn’t so foolish that he would needlessly earn the God King’s ire. Why risk his perfect life, full of people who would carry his chair through the rain and shell his nuts for him? He knelt down on his cushion. The God King’s superiority was arbitrary, much like Lightsong’s divinity— both part of a grand game of make-believe. But he’d found that imaginary things were often the only items of real substance in people’s lives. ~ Siri breathed quickly, kneeling on the stone before her husband. The entire arena was hushed and still. Eyes downcast, she could still see Susebron’s white-clothed feet in front of her. Even they gave off an aura of color, the white straps of his sandals bending out colorful ribbons. Two coils of colorful rope hit the ground on either side of the God King. Siri watched as the ropes twisted with a life of their own, carefully wrapping around Susebron and pulling him into the air. His white robes ﬂuttered as he was towed up through the space between the canopy and the back wall. Siri leaned forward, watching the ropes deliver her husband to a stone outcropping above. He sat back into a golden throne. Beside him, a pair of Awakener priests commanded their living ropes to roll up around their arms and shoulders. The God King stretched out his hand. The people stood up—their chatter beginning again—and reseated themselves. So...he’s not going to sit with me, she thought as she rose. A part of her was relieved, though another was just as frustrated. She’d been getting over her awe of being in Hallandren and being married to a god. Now he’d gone and impressed her all over again. Troubled, she sat and stared out over the crowds, barely watching as a group of priests entered the arena below. What was she to make of Susebron? He couldn’t be a god. Not really. Could he? Austre was the true God of men, the one who sent the Returned. The Hallandren had worshipped him too, before the Manywar and the exile of the royal family. Only after that had they fallen, becoming pagans, worshipping the Iridescent Tones: BioChromatic Breath, the Returned, and art in general. And yet, Siri had never seen Austre. She’d been taught about him, but what was one to make of a creature like the God King? That divine halo of color wasn’t something that she could ignore. She began to understand just how the people of Hallandren—after nearly being destroyed by their enemies, then being saved by the diplomatic skills of Peacegiver the Blessed— could look to the Returned for divine guidance. She sighed,
glancing to the side as a figure walked up the steps toward her box. It was Bluefingers—hands stained with ink, characteristically scribbling away on a ledger even as he entered her pavilion. He glanced up at the God King, nodded to himself, then made another annotation on his ledger. “I see that His Immortal Majesty is positioned and that you are properly displayed, Vessel.” “Displayed?” “Of course,” Bluefingers said. “That is the main purpose of your visit here. The Returned didn’t get much of a chance to see you when you first came to us.” Siri shivered, trying to maintain a better posture. “Shouldn’t they be paying attention to the priests down there? Instead of studying me, I mean.” “Probably,” Bluefingers said, not looking up from his ledger. “In my experience, they rarely do what they’re supposed to.” He didn’t seem particularly reverent toward them. Siri let the conversation lapse, thinking. Bluefingers had never explained his odd warning the other night. Things are not what they seem. “Bluefingers,” she said. “About the thing you told me the other night. The—” He immediately shot her a look—eyes wide and insistent—cutting her off. He turned back to his ledger. The message was obvious. Not right now. Siri sighed, resisting the urge to slump down. Below, priests of various colors stood on short platforms, debating despite the drizzling rain. She could hear them quite well, yet little of what they said made sense to her—the current debate appeared to have something to do with the way refuse and sewage was handled in the city. “Bluefingers,” she asked. “Are they really gods?” The scribe hesitated, then finally looked up from his ledger. “Vessel?” “The Returned. Do you really think that they’re divine? That they can see the future?” “I...don’t think I’m the right one to ask, Vessel. Let me fetch one of the priests. He can answer your questions. Just give me a—” “No,” Siri said, causing him to stop. “I don’t want a priest’s opinion—I want the opinion of a regular person, like you. A typical follower.” Bluefingers frowned. “All apologies, Vessel, but I’m not a follower of the Returned.” “But you work in the palace.” “And you live there, Vessel. Yet neither of us worship the Iridescent Tones. You are from Idris. I am from Pahn Kahl.” “Pahn Kahl is the same as Hallandren.” Bluefingers raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips. “Actually, Vessel, it’s quite different.” “But you’re ruled by the God King.” “We can accept him as king without worshipping him as our god,” Bluefingers said. “That is one of the reasons why I’m a steward in the palace instead of a priest.” His robes, Siri thought. Maybe that’s why he always wears brown. She turned, glancing down at the priests upon their pedestals in the sand. Each wore a different set of colors, each representing—she assumed—a different one of the Returned. “So what do you think of them?” “Good people,” Bluefingers said, “but misguided. A little like I think of you, Vessel.” She glanced at him. He, however, had already turned back
to his ledgers. He wasn’t the easiest man with whom to have a conversation. “But how do you explain the God King’s radiance?” “BioChroma,” Bluefingers said, still scribbling, not sounding at all annoyed by her questions. He was obviously a man accustomed to dealing with interruption. “The rest of the Returned don’t bend white into colors like he does, do they?” “No,” Bluefingers said, “indeed they do not. They, however, don’t hold the wealth of Breaths that he does.” “So he is different,” Siri said. “Why was he born with more?” “He wasn’t, Vessel. The God King’s power does not derive from the inherent BioChroma of being a Returned—in that, he is identical to the others. However, he holds something else. The Light of Peace, they call it. A fancy word for a treasure trove of Breath that numbers somewhere in the tens of thousands.” Tens of thousands? Siri thought. “That much?” Bluefingers nodded distractedly. “The God Kings are said to be the only ones to ever achieve the Tenth Heightening. That is what makes light fracture around him, as well as gives him other abilities. The ability to break Lifeless Commands, for instance, or the ability to Awaken objects without touching them, using only the sound of his voice. These powers are less a function of divinity, and more a simple matter of holding so much Breath.” “But where did he get it?” “The majority of it was originally gathered by Peacegiver the Blessed,” Bluefingers said. “He collected thousands of Breaths during the days of the Manywar. He passed those on to the first Hallandren God King. That inheritance has been transferred from father to son for centuries—and has been enlarged, since each God King is given two Breaths a week, instead of the one that the other Returned receive.” “Oh,” Siri said, sitting back, finding herself oddly disappointed by the news. Susebron was not a god, he was simply a man with far more BioChroma than normal. But...what of the Returned themselves? Siri folded her arms again, still troubled. She’d never been forced to look objectively at what she believed. Austre was simply...well, God. You didn’t question people when they talked about God. The Returned were usurpers, who had cast the followers of Austre out of Hallandren, not true deities themselves. Yet they were so majestic. Why had the royal family been cast out of Hallandren? She knew the official story taught in Idris—that the royals hadn’t supported the conﬂicts that led up to the Manywar. For that, the people had revolted against them. That revolt had been led by Kalad the Usurper. Kalad. Though Siri had avoided most of her tutorial sessions, even she knew the stories of that man. He was the one who had led the people of Hallandren in the heresy of building Lifeless. He had created a powerful army of the creatures, one the likes of which had never been seen in the land. The stories said Kalad’s Lifeless had been more dangerous, new and distinctive. Terrible and destructive. He’d eventually been defeated by Peacegiver,
who had then ended the Manywar through diplomacy. The stories said that Kalad’s armies were still out there, somewhere. Waiting to sweep down and destroy again. She knew that story was just a legend told by hearthlight, but it still gave her shivers to consider. Regardless, Peacegiver had seized control and stopped the Manywar. However, he had not restored Hallandren to its rightful rulers. Idris’s histories claimed betrayal and treachery. The monks spoke of heresies that were too deeply ingrained in Hallandren. Surely the Hallandren people had their own version of the story. Watching the Returned in their boxes made Siri wonder. One fact was obvious: Things in Hallandren were a whole lot less terrible than she had been taught. ~ Vivenna shivered, cringing as the people in their colorful outfits crowded around her. Things here are worse, even, than my tutors said, she decided, wriggling in her seat. Parlin seemed to have lost much of his nervousness about being in such a crowd. He was focused on the debating priests on the ﬂoor of the arena. She still couldn’t decide if she thought the Breath she held was horrible or wonderful. Gradually, she was coming to appreciate that it was horrible because of how wonderful it felt. The more people that surged around her, the more overwhelmed she felt by her Breath-heightened perception of them. Surely if Parlin only could sense the sheer scope of all those colors, he wouldn’t gawk so dumbly at the costumes. Surely if he could feel the people, he would feel boxed in as she did, unable to breathe. That’s it, she thought. I’ve seen Siri, and I know what they’ve done with her. It’s time to go. Turning, she stood. And froze. A man was standing two rows back, and he was staring directly at Vivenna. She normally wouldn’t have paid him any attention. He was wearing ragged brown clothing, ripped in places, his loose trousers tied at the waist by a simple rope. His facial hair was halfway between being a beard and just scruff. His hair was unkempt and came down to his shoulders. And he created a bubble of color around him so bright that he had to be of the fifth Heightening. He stared at her, meeting her eyes, and she had a sudden and awful panicked sense that he knew exactly who she was. She stumbled back. The strange man didn’t take his eyes off of her. He shifted, pushing back his cloak and exposing a large, black-hilted sword at his belt. Few people in Hallandren wore weapons. This man didn’t seem to care. How had he gotten that thing into the court? The people to the sides gave him a wide berth, and Vivenna swore she could sense something about that sword. It seemed to darken colors. Deepen them. Make tans into browns, reds into maroons, blues into navies. As if it had its own BioChroma... “Parlin,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. “We’re leaving.” “But—” “Now,” Vivenna said, turning and rushing away. Her newfound BioChromatic senses informed
her that the man’s eyes were still on her. Now that she realized it, she understood that his eyes on her were probably what had made her so uncomfortable in the first place. The tutors spoke of this, she thought as she and Parlin made their way to one of the stone exit passages. Life sense, the ability to tell when there are people nearby, and to tell when they’re watching you. Everyone has it to a small degree. BioChroma enhances that. As soon as they entered the passage, the sense of being watched vanished, and Vivenna let out a relieved breath. “I don’t see why you wanted to leave,” Parlin said. “We’ve seen what we needed to,” Vivenna said. “I guess,” Parlin said. “I thought you might want to listen to what the priests were saying about Idris.” Vivenna froze. “What?” Parlin frowned, looking distraught. “I think they might be declaring war. Don’t we have a treaty?” Lord God of Colors! Vivenna thought, turning and scrambling back up into the open arena. Annotations for Chapter 15 Sixteen Annotations for Chapter 16 “...still say that we cannot possibly justify military action against Idris!” a priest shouted. The man wore blue and gold. It was Stillmark’s high priest—Lightsong couldn’t quite remember the man’s name. Nanrovah? The argument was not unexpected. Lightsong leaned forward. Nanrovah and his master, Stillmark, were both staunch traditionalists. They tended to argue against pretty much every proposal, but were well respected. Stillmark was nearly as old as Blushweaver, and was considered wise. Lightsong rubbed his chin. Opposing Nanrovah was Blushweaver’s own high priestess, Inhanna. “Oh, come now,” the woman said from the sands down below. “Do we really need to have this argument again? Idris is nothing more than a rebel enclave set up inside the borders of our own kingdom!” “They keep to themselves,” Nanrovah said. “Holding lands we don’t want anyway.” “Lands we don’t want?” Blushweaver’s priestess said, sputtering. “They hold every single pass to the northern kingdoms! Every workable copper mine! They have military garrisons within striking distance of T’Telir! And they still claim to be ruled by the rightful kings of Hallandren!” Nanrovah fell silent, and there was a surprisingly large rumble of assent from the watching priests. Lightsong eyed them. “You’ve seeded the group with people sympathetic to your cause?” he asked. “Of course,” Blushweaver said. “So did the others. I just did a better job.” The debate continued, other priests stepping up to argue for and against an assault on Idris. The priests spoke the concerns of the people of the nation; part of their duty was to listen to the people and study issues of national import, then discuss them here so that the gods—who didn’t have the opportunity to go out among the people—could be kept informed. If an issue came to a head, the gods would make their judgments. They were divided into subgroups, each having responsibility for a certain area. Some gods were in charge of civic issues; others governed agreements and treaties. Idris was not a new topic
for the assembly. However, Lightsong had never seen the discussion become so explicit and extreme. Sanctions had been discussed. Blockades. Even some military pressure. But war? Nobody had said the word yet, but they all knew what the priests were discussing. He could not dispel the images from his dreams—visions of death and pain. He did not accept them as prophetic, but he did acknowledge that they must have something to do with the worries inside his subconscious. He feared what war would do to them. Perhaps he was just a coward. It did seem that suppressing Idris would solve so much. “You’re behind this debate, aren’t you,” he said, turning to Blushweaver. “Behind it?” Blushweaver said sweetly. “Dear Lightsong, the priests decide the issues to be discussed. Gods don’t bother with such mundanity.” “I’m sure,” Lightsong said, reclining. “You want my Lifeless Commands.” “I wouldn’t say that,” Blushweaver said, “I just want you to be informed should you...” She trailed off as Lightsong gave her a ﬂat look. “Aw, Colors,” she swore. “Of course I need your Commands, Lightsong. Why else would I go to all the trouble to get you up here? You’re a very difficult person to manipulate, you know.” “Nonsense,” he said. “You just have to promise me that I won’t have to do a thing, and then I’ll do anything you want.” “Anything?” “Anything that doesn’t require doing anything.” “That’s nothing, then.” “Is it?” “Yes.” “Well, that’s something!” Blushweaver rolled her eyes. Lightsong was more troubled than he let on. The arguments for attack had never been so strong. There was proof of a military buildup in Idris and the highlanders had been particularly stingy with the northern passes lately. Beyond that, there was a growing belief that the Returned were weaker than they’d been in previous generations. Not less powerful in BioChroma, just less...divine. Less benevolent, less wise. Lightsong happened to agree. It had been three years since a Returned had given up his or her life to heal someone. The people were growing impatient with their gods. “There’s more, isn’t there?” he said, glancing at Blushweaver, who was still lounging back, delicately eating cherries. “What aren’t they saying?” “Lightsong, dear,” she said. “You were right. Bring you to government proceedings, and it absolutely corrupts you.” “I just don’t like secrets,” he said. “They make my brain itch, keep me awake at nights. Engaging in politics is like pulling off a bandage—best to get the pain over with quickly.” Blushweaver pursed her lips. “Forced simile, dear.” “Best I can do at the moment, I’m afraid. Nothing dulls the wit more quickly than politics. Now, you were saying...” She snorted. “I’ve told you already. The focus of all this is that woman.” “The queen,” he said, glancing at the God King’s box. “They sent the wrong one,” Blushweaver said. “The younger instead of the elder.” “I know,” Lightsong said. “Clever of them.” “Clever?” Blushweaver said. “It’s downright brilliant. Do you know what a fortune we paid these last twenty years to spy upon, study, and learn about
the eldest daughter? Those of us who thought to be careful even studied the second daughter, the one they’ve made a monk. But the youngest? Nobody gave her half a thought.” And so the Idrians send a random element into court, Lightsong thought. One that upsets plans and conniving that our politicians have been working on for decades. It was brilliant. “Nobody knows anything about her,” Blushweaver said, frowning deeply. She obviously did not like being taken by surprise. “My spies in Idris insist the girl is of little consequence—which makes me worry that she is even more dangerous than I’d feared.” Lightsong raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t think, maybe, that you might be overreacting a tad?” “Oh?” Blushweaver asked. “And tell me, what would you do if you wanted to inject an agent into the court? Would you, perhaps, set up a decoy that you could display, drawing attention away from the real agent, whom you could train secretly with a clandestine agenda?” Lightsong rubbed his chin. She has a point. Maybe. Living among so many scheming people tended to make one see plots everywhere. However, the plot that Blushweaver suggested had a very serious chance of being dangerous. What better way to get an assassin close to the God King than to send someone to marry him? No, that wouldn’t be it. Killing the God King would just cause Hallandren to go on the rampage. But if they’d sent a woman skilled in the art of manipulation—a woman who could secretly poison the mind of the God King... “We need to be ready to act,” Blushweaver said. “I won’t sit and let my kingdom be pulled out from under me—I won’t idly be cast out as the royals once were. You control a fourth of our Lifeless. That’s ten thousand soldiers who don’t need to eat, who can march tirelessly. If we convince the other three with Commands to join us...” Lightsong thought for a moment, then nodded and stood. “What are you doing?” Blushweaver asked, sitting up. “I think I’ll go for a stroll,” Lightsong said. “Where?” Lightsong glanced over at the queen. “Oh, blessed Colors,” Blushweaver said with a sigh. “Lightsong, do not ruin this. We walk a very delicate line, here.” “I’ll do my best.” “I don’t suppose I can talk you out of interacting with her?” “My dear,” Lightsong said, glancing backward. “I at least have to chat with her. Nothing would be more intolerable than being overthrown by a person with whom I’d never even had a nice conversation.” ~ Bluefingers wandered off sometime during the court proceedings. Siri didn’t notice—she was too busy watching the priests debate. She had to be misunderstanding. Surely they couldn’t be thinking about attacking Idris. What would be the point? What would Hallandren gain? As the priests finished their discussion on that topic, Siri turned to one of her serving women. “What was that about?” The woman glanced down, not answering. “They sounded like they were discussing war,” Siri said. “They wouldn’t really invade, would they?” The woman
shufﬂed uncomfortably, then glanced at one of her companions. That woman rushed away. A few moments later, the servant returned with Treledees. Siri frowned slightly. She did not like speaking with the man. “Yes, Vessel?” the tall man said, eyeing her with his usual air of disdain. She swallowed, refusing to be intimidated. “The priests,” she said. “What were they just discussing?” “Your homeland of Idris, Vessel.” “I know that much,” Siri said. “What do they want with Idris?” “It seemed to me, Vessel, that they were arguing about whether or not to attack the rebel province and bring it back under proper royal control.” “Rebel province?” “Yes, Vessel. Your people are in a state of rebellion against the rest of the kingdom.” “But you rebelled against us!” Treledees raised an eyebrow. Different viewpoints on history indeed, Siri thought. “I can see how somebody might think as you do,” she said. “But...you wouldn’t really attack us, would you? We sent you a queen, just as you demanded. Because of that, the next God King will have royal blood.” Assuming the current God King ever decides to consummate our marriage... Treledees simply shrugged. “It is likely nothing, Vessel. The gods simply needed to be apprised of the current political climate of T’Telir.” His words didn’t offer Siri much comfort. She shivered. Should she be doing something? Trying to politic in Idris’s defense? “Vessel,” Treledees said. She glanced at him. His peaked hat was so tall it brushed the top of the canopy. In a city full of colors and beauty, for some reason Treledees’s long face seemed even bleaker for the contrast. “Yes?” she asked. “There is a matter of some delicacy I fear that I must discuss with you.” “What is that?” “You are familiar with monarchies,” he said. “Indeed, you are the daughter of a king. I assume that you know how important it is to a government that there be a secure, stable plan for succession.” “I guess.” “Therefore,” Treledees said, “you realize that it is of no small importance that an heir be provided as quickly as possible.” Siri blushed. “We’re working on that.” “With all due respect, Vessel,” Treledees said. “There is some degree of disagreement upon whether or not you actually are.” Siri blushed further, hair reddening as she glanced away from those callous eyes. “Such arguments, of course, are limited to those inside the palace,” Treledees said. “You can trust in the discretion of our staff and priests.” “How do you know?” Siri said, looking up. “I mean, about us. Maybe we are...working on it. Maybe you’ll have your heir before you know it.” Treledees blinked once, slowly, regarding her as if she were a ledger to be added up and accounted. “Vessel,” he said. “Do you honestly think that we would take an unfamiliar, foreign woman and place her in close proximity to our most holy of gods without keeping watch?” Siri felt her breath catch, and she had a moment of horror. Of course! she thought. Of course they were watching. To make sure
I didn’t hurt the God King, to make certain things went according to plan. Being naked before her husband was bad enough. To be so exposed before men like Treledees—men who saw her not as a woman, but as an annoyance—felt even worse, somehow. She found herself slouching, arms wrapping around her chest and its revealing neckline. “Now,” Treledees said, leaning in. “We understand that the God King may not be what you expected. He may even be...difficult to work with. You are a woman, however, and should know how to use your charms to motivate.” “How can I ‘motivate’ if I can’t talk to him or look at him?” she snapped. “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Treledees said. “You only have one task in this palace. You want to make certain Idris is protected? Well, give the God King’s priesthood what we desire, and your rebels will earn our appreciation. My colleagues and I have no small inﬂuence in the court, and we can do much to safeguard your homeland. All we ask is that you perform this single duty. Give us an heir. Give the kingdom stability. Not everything in Hallandren is as...cohesive as it may appear to you at first.” Siri remained slouched down, not looking at Treledees. “I see that you understand,” he said. “I feel that...” He trailed off, turning to the side. A procession was approaching Siri’s box. Its members wore gold and red, and a tall figure at the front caused them to shine with vibrant color. Treledees frowned, then glanced at her. “We will speak further, if it becomes necessary. Do your duty, Vessel. Or there will be consequences.” With that, the priest withdrew. ~ She didn’t look dangerous. That, more than anything else, made Lightsong inclined to believe Blushweaver’s concerns. I’ve been in the court for far too long, he thought to himself as he smiled pleasantly at the queen. All my life, actually. She was a small thing, much younger than he had expected. Barely a woman. She looked intimidated as he nodded to her, waiting while his priests arranged furniture for him. Then he sat, accepting some grapes from the queen’s serving women, even though he wasn’t hungry. “Your Majesty,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.” The girl hesitated. “You’re sure?” “Figure of speech, my dear,” Lightsong said. “A rather redundant one—which is quite appropriate, since I am a rather redundant person.” The girl cocked her head. Colors, Lightsong thought, remembering that she’d just finished with her period of isolation. I’m probably the only Returned that she’s met besides the God King. What a bad first impression. Still, there was nothing to be done about it. Lightsong was who he was. Whoever that was. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” the queen said slowly. She turned as a serving woman whispered his name to her. “Lightsong the Brave, Lord of Heroes,” she said, smiling at him. There was a hesitancy about her. Either she had not been trained for formal situations—which Lightsong found
difficult to believe, since she’d been raised in a palace—or she was a quite a good actress. He frowned inwardly. The woman’s arrival should have put an end to the discussions of war, but instead she had only exacerbated them. He kept his eyes open, for he feared the images of destruction he would see ﬂashing inside his mind’s eye if he so much as blinked. They waited like Kalad’s Phantoms, hovering just beyond his vision. He couldn’t accept those dreams as foretellings. If he did, it meant that he was a god. And if that were the case, then he feared greatly for them all. On the outside, he simply gave the queen his third most charming smile and popped a grape into his mouth. “No need to be so formal, Your Majesty. You will soon realize that among Returned, I am by far the least. If cows could Return, they’d undoubtedly be ranked higher than I.” She wavered again, obviously uncertain how to deal with him. It was a common reaction. “Might I inquire as to the nature of your visitation?” she asked. Too formal. Not at ease. Uncomfortable around those of high rank. Could it be possible that she was genuine? No. It was likely an act to put him at ease. To make him underestimate her. Or was he just thinking too much? Colors take you, Blushweaver! he thought. I really don’t want to be part of this. He almost withdrew. But, then, that wouldn’t be very pleasant of him—and contrary to some of the things he said, Lightsong did like being pleasant. Best to be kind, he thought, smiling idly to himself. That way, if she ever does take over the kingdom, perhaps she’ll behead me last. “You ask after the nature of my visitation?” he said. “I believe it has no nature, Your Majesty, other than to appear natural—at which I have already failed by staring at you for far too long while thinking to myself about your place in this mess.” The queen frowned again. Lightsong popped a grape in his mouth. “Wonderful things,” he said, holding up another one. “Delightfully sweet, wrapped in their own little package. Deceptive, really. So hard and dry on the outside, but so delectable on the inside. Don’t you think?” “We...don’t have many grapes in Idris, Your Grace.” “I’m rather the opposite, you know,” he said. “Fluffy and pretty on the outside, without much of import on the inside. But I guess that is beside the point. You, my dear, are a very welcome sight. Much more so than a grape.” “I...How is that, Your Grace?” “We haven’t had a queen in such a long time,” Lightsong said. “Since before my Return, in fact. And old Susebron up there really has been moping about the palace lately. Looking forlorn. It’s good he has a woman in his life.” “Thank you for the compliment, Your Grace,” the queen said. “You’re welcome. I’ll make up a few more, if you like.” She fell silent. Well, then, that’s it, he thought, sighing.
Blushweaver was right. I probably shouldn’t have come. “All right,” the queen said, hair suddenly turning red as she threw her hands up in the air. “What is going on here?” He hesitated. “Your Majesty?” “Are you making fun of me?” “Probably.” “But you’re supposed to be a god!” she said, leaning back, staring up at the canopy. “Just when I thought things in this city were starting to make sense, the priests start yelling at me, then you come along! What am I supposed to do with you? You seem more like a schoolboy than a god!” Lightsong paused, then settled back into his seat, smiling. “You have me found out,” he said, opening his hands. “I killed the real god and took his place. I’ve come to hold you ransom for your sweets.” “There,” the queen said, pointing. “Aren’t you supposed to be...I don’t know, distinguished or something?” He spread his hands out. “My dear, this is what passes for being distinguished in Hallandren.” She didn’t seem convinced. “I am, of course, lying through my teeth,” he said, eating another grape. “You shouldn’t base your opinion of the others upon what you think of me. They’re all much more deific than I am.” The queen sat back. “I thought you were the god of bravery.” “Technically.” “You seem more like the god of jesters to me.” “I’ve applied for the position and been turned down,” he said. “You should see the person they have doing the job. Dull as a rock and twice as ugly.” Siri paused. “I wasn’t lying that time,” Lightsong said. “Mirthgiver, god of laughter. If ever there was a god more poorly suited to his position than I, it’s he.” “I don’t understand you,” she said. “It appears there’s a lot I don’t understand in this city.” This woman is no fake, Lightsong thought, staring into her youthful, confused eyes. Or, if she is, then she’s the best actress I’ve ever met. That meant something. Something important. It was possible there were mundane reasons this girl had been sent instead of her sister. Sickness on the part of the elder daughter, perhaps. But Lightsong didn’t buy that. She was part of something. A plot, or perhaps several. And whatever those plots were, she didn’t know about them. Kalad’s Phantoms! Lightsong cursed mentally. This child is going to get ripped apart and fed to the wolves! But what could he really do about it? He sighed, standing, causing his priests to begin packing his things. The girl watched with confusion as he nodded to her, giving her a wan smile of farewell. She stood and curtsied slightly, though she probably didn’t need to. She was his queen, even if she wasn’t herself Returned. Lightsong turned to go, then stopped, recalling his own first few months in the court, and the confusion he’d known. He reached over, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Don’t let them get to you, child,” he whispered. And with that, he withdrew. Annotations for Chapter 16 Seventeen Annotations for Chapter 17 Vivenna
walked back toward Lemex’s house, dissecting the argument she’d heard at the Court of Gods. Her tutors had instructed her that discussions in the Court Assembly didn’t always lead to action; just because they talked of war didn’t mean it would happen. This discussion, however, seemed to mean more. It was too passionate, with too many voices for one side. It indicated that her father was right, and that war was inevitable. She walked with her head down on a nearly deserted street. She was beginning to learn that she could avoid the roiling masses by walking through more residential sections of the city. It appeared that people in T’Telir liked to be where everybody else was. The street was in a wealthy neighborhood, had a slate stone sidewalk running along the side of it. It made for pleasant walking. Parlin walked beside her, occasionally pausing to study ferns or palm trees. The Hallandren liked plants; most of the homes were shaded by trees, vines, and exotic blooming shrubs. In Idris, each of the large homes along the street would have been considered a mansion, but here they were only of average size—probably the homes of merchants. I need to stay focused, she thought. Is Hallandren going to attack soon? Or is this just a prelude to something still months, perhaps years, away? Real action wouldn’t occur until the gods voted, and Vivenna wasn’t sure what it would take to get them to that point. She shook her head. Only one day in T’Telir, and already she knew that her training and tutorials hadn’t prepared her half as well as she’d assumed. She felt as if she knew nothing. And that left her feeling very lost. She was not the confident, competent woman she’d assumed herself to be. The frightening truth was, should she have been sent to become the God King’s bride, she would have been nearly as ineffective and confused as poor Siri undoubtedly was. They turned a corner, Vivenna trusting in Parlin’s amazing sense of direction to get them back to Lemex’s house, and they passed under the gaze of one of the silent D’Denir statues. The proud warrior stood with sword raised above his stone head, his armor—carved into the statue—augmented by a red scarf tied and ﬂapping around his neck. He looked dramatic, as if he were going gloriously to war. It wasn’t long before they approached the steps to Lemex’s house. Vivenna froze, however, when she saw that the door was hanging from one hinge. The lower part was cracked, as if it had been kicked very hard. Parlin pulled up beside her, then hissed, holding up a hand for her to be silent. His hand went to the long hunting knife at his belt and he glanced around. Vivenna stepped back, nerves itching to ﬂee. And yet, where would she go? The mercenaries were her only connection in the city. Denth and Tonk Fah could have handled an attack, right? Someone approached from the other side of the door. Her BioChromatic senses warned her of
the proximity. She laid a hand on Parlin’s arm, preparing to bolt. Denth pushed the broken door open, sticking his head out. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.” “What happened?” she asked. “Were you attacked?” Denth glanced at the door and chuckled to himself. “Nah,” he said, pushing the door open and waving her in. Through the broken door she could see that furniture had been ripped apart, there were holes in the walls, and pictures were slashed and broken. Denth wandered back inside, kicking aside some stuffing from a cushion, making his way toward the stairs. Several of the steps had been broken. He glanced back, noting her confusion. “Well, we did say we were going to search the house, Princess. figured we might as well do a good job of it.” ~ Vivenna sat down very carefully, half-expecting the chair to collapse beneath her. Tonk Fah and Denth had been very thorough in their search—they had broken every bit of wood in the house, it seemed, including chair legs. Fortunately, her current chair had been propped up reasonably well, and it held her weight. The desk in front of her—Lemex’s desk—was splintered. The drawers had been removed, and a false back had been revealed, the compartment emptied. A group of papers and several bags sat on the desktop. “That’s everything,” Denth said, leaning against the room’s doorframe. Tonk Fah lounged on a broken couch, its stuffing sticking out awkwardly. “Did you have to break so much?” Vivenna asked. “Had to be certain,” Denth said, shrugging. “You’d be surprised where people hide things.” “Inside the front door?” Vivenna asked ﬂatly. “Would you have thought to look there?” “Of course not.” “Sounds like a pretty good hiding place to me, then. We knocked, and thought we found a hollow space. Just turned out to be a section of different wood, but it was important to check.” “People get really clever when it comes to hiding important stuff,” Tonk Fah said with a yawn. “You know the thing I hate most about being a mercenary?” Denth asked, holding up a hand. Vivenna raised an eyebrow. “Splinters,” he said, wiggling several red fingers. “No hazard pay for those,” Tonk Fah added. “Oh, now you’re just being silly,” Vivenna said, sorting through the items on the table. One of the bags clinked suggestively. Vivenna undid the drawstring and pulled open the top. Gold glistened inside. A lot of it. “Little over five thousand marks in there,” Denth said lazily. “Lemex had it stashed all over the house. Found one bar of it in the leg of your chair.” “Got easier when we discovered the paper he’d used to remind himself of where he hid it all,” Tonk Fah noted. “Five thousand marks?” Vivenna said, feeling her hair lighten slightly in shock. “Seems like old Lemex was storing up quite the little nest egg,” Denth said, chuckling. “That, mixed with the amount of Breath he held...he must have extorted even more from Idris than I assumed.” Vivenna stared at the bag. Then, she looked up at Denth.
“You...gave it to me,” she said. “You could have taken it and spent it!” “Actually, we did,” Denth said. “Took about ten bits for lunch. Should be here any minute.” Vivenna met his eyes. “Now there’s what I’m talking about, eh, Tonks?” Denth said, glancing down at the larger man. “If I’d been, say, a butler, would she be looking at me like that? Just because I didn’t take the money and run? Why does everyone expect a mercenary to rob them?” Tonk Fah grunted, stretching again. “Look through those papers, Princess,” Denth said, kicking Tonk Fah’s couch, then nodding toward the door. “We’ll wait for you downstairs.” Vivenna watched them retreat, Tonk Fah grumbling as he had to rise, bits of stuffing sticking to the back of his clothing. They thumped their way down the stairs, and soon she heard dishes rattling. They’d likely sent one of the street boys—who passed periodically yelling that they would bring food from a local restaurant—for the meal. Vivenna didn’t move. She was increasingly uncertain of her purpose in the city. Yet she still had Denth and Tonk Fah, and—surprisingly—she was finding herself growing attached to them. How many soldiers in her father’s army—good men, all of them—would have been able to resist running off with five thousand marks? There was more to these mercenaries than they let on. She turned her attention to the books, letters, and papers on the desk. ~ Several hours later, Vivenna still sat alone, a solitary candle burning and dripping wax onto the splintered desk corner. She had long since stopped reading. A plate of food sat uneaten by the door, brought by Parlin some time before. Letters lay spread out on the desk before her. It had taken time to put them in order. Most were penned in her father’s familiar hand. Not the hand of her father’s scribe. Her father’s own hand. That had been her first clue. He only wrote his most personal, or most secret, communications on his own. Vivenna kept her hair under control. She deliberately breathed in and out. She didn’t look out the darkened window at the lights of a city that should have been asleep. She simply sat. Numb. The final letter—the last before Lemex’s death—sat on top of the pile. It was only a few weeks old. My friend, her father’s script read. Our conversations have worried me more than I care to admit. I have spoken with Yarda at length. We can see no solution. War is coming. We all know that now. The continued—and increasingly vigorous—arguments in the Court of Gods show a disturbing trend. The money we sent to buy you enough Breath to attend those meetings is some of the best I have ever spent. All signs point to the inevitability of Hallandren Lifeless marching to our mountains. Therefore, I give you leave to do as we have discussed. Any disruptions you can cause in the city—any delays you can earn us—will be extremely valuable. The additional funds you requested should have arrived by now. My
friend, I must admit a weakness in myself. I will never be able to send Vivenna to be a hostage in that dragon’s nest of a city. To send her would be to kill her, and I cannot do that. Even though I know it would be best for Idris if I did. I’m not yet sure what I will do. I will not send her, for I love her too much. However, breaking the treaty would bring the Hallandren wrath against my people even more quickly. I fear I may have to make a very difficult decision in the days to come. But that is the essence of a king’s duty. Until we correspond again, Dedelin, your liege and your friend. Vivenna looked away from the letter. The room was too perfectly silent. She wanted to scream at the letter and her father, who was now so far away. And yet, she could not. She had been trained for better. Tantrums were useless displays of arrogance. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t set yourself above others. He who makes himself high will be cast down low. But what of the man who murders one of his daughters to save the other? What of the man who claims—to your face—that the switch was for other reasons? That it was for the good of Idris? That it wasn’t about favoritism at all? What of the king who betrayed the highest tenets of his religion by purchasing Breath for one of his spies? Vivenna blinked at a tear in her eye, then gritted her teeth, angry at herself and the world. Her father was supposed to be a good man. The perfect king. Wise and knowing, always sure of himself and always right. The man she saw in these letters was far more human. Why should she be so shocked to learn that? It doesn’t matter, she told herself. None of that matters. Factions in the Hallandren government were rallying the nation for war. Reading her father’s candid words, she finally believed him completely. Hallandren troops would likely march on her homeland before the year was out. And then, the Hallandren—so colorful yet so deceptive—would hold Siri hostage and threaten to kill her unless Dedelin surrendered. Her father would not give up his kingdom. Siri would be executed. And that is what I’m here to stop, Vivenna thought. Her hands grew tighter, gripping the edges of the desktop, jaw set. She brushed away the traitorous tear. She had been trained to be strong even when surrounded by an unfamiliar city and its people. She had work to do. She rose, leaving the letters on the table with the bag of coins and Lemex’s journal. She made her way down the stairs, avoiding the broken steps, to where the mercenaries were teaching Parlin how to play a game with wooden cards. The three men looked up as Vivenna approached. She settled herself carefully on the ﬂoor, sitting with her legs beneath her in an unassuming posture. She met their eyes as she spoke. “I know
where some of Lemex’s money came from,” she said. “Idris and Hallandren will soon go to war. Because of this threat, my father gave much greater resources to Lemex than I’d realized. He sent enough money for Lemex to buy fifty Breaths, allowing him to enter the court and report on its proceedings. Obviously, my father didn’t know that Lemex already had a sizable amount of Breath.” The three men were silent. Tonk Fah shot a glance at Denth, who sat back, resting against an overturned, broken chair. “I believe that Lemex was still loyal to Idris,” she said. “His personal writings make that relatively clear. He was not a traitor; he was simply greedy. He wanted as much Breath as possible because he had heard that it extended a person’s life. Lemex and my father had planned to hinder the war preparations from inside Hallandren. Lemex promised he would find a way to sabotage the Lifeless armies, damage the city’s supplies, and generally undermine their ability to wage war. For him to accomplish this, my father sent him a large sum of money.” “About five thousand marks’ worth?” Denth asked, rubbing his chin. “Less than that,” Vivenna said. “But a large chunk nonetheless. I believe that you are right about Lemex, Denth—he has been stealing from the Crown for some time.” She fell silent. Parlin looked confused. That wasn’t uncommon. The mercenaries, however, didn’t look surprised. “I don’t know if Lemex intended to do as my father asked,” Vivenna said, keeping her voice even. “The way he hid the money, some of the things he wrote...well, maybe he was finally planning to turn traitor and run. We can’t know what he would eventually have decided. We do, however, have a vague list of things he planned to accomplish. Those plans were convincing enough to persuade my father, and the urgency of his letters has convinced me. We are going to continue Lemex’s work and undermine Hallandren’s ability to wage war.” The room fell silent. “And...your sister?” Parlin finally asked. “We will get her out,” Vivenna said firmly. “Her rescue and safety is our first priority.” “That is all easier discussed than accomplished, Princess,” Denth said. “I know.” The mercenaries shared a look. “Well,” Denth finally said, standing up. “Better get back to work, then.” He nodded at Tonk Fah, who sighed and grumbled, standing. “Wait,” Vivenna said, frowning. “What?” “I figured once you saw those papers that you’d want to continue,” Denth said, stretching. “Now that I’ve seen what he was up to, I can piece together why he had us do some of the things we were involved in. One of those was to contact and support some rebellious factions here in the city, including one that was stamped out just a few weeks back. Cult of disaffection centered on a guy named Vahr.” “Always wondered why Lemex gave him support,” Tonk Fah said. “That faction’s dead,” Denth said, “along with Vahr himself. But a lot of his followers are still around. Waiting for trouble to come their way. We
can contact them. There are a few other leads I think we can look into, things Lemex didn’t explain completely, but which I might be able to figure out.” “And...you can handle something like this?” Vivenna asked. “You just said it wouldn’t be easy.” Denth shrugged. “Won’t be. But if you haven’t realized it yet, this kind of thing is why Lemex hired us. A team of three high-priced, specialist mercenaries isn’t exactly the type of thing you keep around to serve your tea.” “Unless you want the tea rammed up someplace uncomfortable,” Tonk Fah noted. Three mercenaries? Vivenna thought. That’s right. There’s another one. A woman. “Where’s the other member of your team?” “Jewels?” Denth asked. “You’ll meet her soon enough.” “Unfortunately,” Tonk Fah said under his breath. Denth elbowed his friend. “For now, let us go back out and see how things stand on our projects. Gather what you want from this house. We’ll move out tomorrow.” “Move out?” Vivenna said. “Unless you want to sleep on a mattress Tonk Fah ripped into five pieces,” Denth noted. “He has a thing about mattresses.” “And chairs,” Tonk Fah said cheerfully, “and tables, and doors, and walls, actually. Oh, and people.” “Either way, Princess,” Denth said, “this building was well known to people who worked with Lemex. As you’ve discovered, he wasn’t exactly the most honest fellow around. I doubt you want the baggage that comes with being associated with him.” “Best to move to another house,” Tonk Fah agreed. “We’ll try not to break up the next one quite so badly,” Denth said. “No promises though,” Tonk Fah said with a wink. And then the two left. Annotations for Chapter 17 Eighteen Annotations for Chapter 18 Siri stood before the door to her husband’s bedchamber, shufﬂing nervously. As usual, Bluefingers stood beside her, and he was the only other one in the hallway. He scribbled on his pad, giving no indication of how he always knew when it was time for her to enter. For once, she didn’t mind the delay, nervous though she was. It gave her more time to think about what she was going to do. The day’s events still buzzed about in her head: Treledees, telling her that she needed to provide an heir. Lightsong the Bold, talking in circles, then leaving her with what had seemed like a heartfelt farewell. Her king and husband, sitting on his tower above, bending light around him. The priests below, arguing about whether or not to invade her homeland. A lot of people wanted to push her in different directions, yet none of them were really willing to tell her how to do what they wanted—and some didn’t even bother to tell her what they wanted. The only thing they were accomplishing was annoying her. She was not a seductress. She had no idea how to make the God King desire her—particularly since she was terrified of him doing just that. High Priest Treledees had given her a command. Therefore, she intended to show him how she responded to commands,
particularly when they had threats attached to them. Tonight, she would go into the king’s bedchamber, sit down on the ﬂoor, and refuse to strip. She’d confront the God King. He didn’t want her. Well, she was tired of being ogled every night. She intended to explain all this to him in no uncertain terms. If he wanted to see her naked again, he’d have to order servants to strip her. She doubted that he’d do that. He’d made no move toward her, and when he presided over the arena debates, he’d actually done no more than sit and watch. She was getting a new impression of this God King. He was a man with so much power, he had grown lazy. He was a man who had everything, and so he bothered with nothing. He was a man who expected others to do everything for him. People like him annoyed her. She was reminded of a guard captain in Idris who had insisted on making his men work hard, while he spent his afternoons playing cards. It was time the God King was defied. More than that, it was time that his priests learned that they couldn’t bully her. She was tired of being used. Tonight, she would react. That was her decision. And it made her nervous as all Colors. She glanced at Bluefingers. Eventually, she caught his eye. “Do they really watch me each night?” she asked, leaning in and whispering. He paused, paling slightly. He glanced to either side, then shook his head. She frowned. But Treledees knew that I hadn’t been bedded by the God King. Bluefingers raised a finger, pointing to his eyes, then shook his head. Then he pointed to his ears and nodded. He pointed to a doorway down the hall. They listen, Siri thought. Bluefingers leaned in closer. “They would never watch, Vessel,” he whispered. “Remember, the God King is their holiest of deities. Seeing him nude, watching him with his wife...no, they wouldn’t dare. However, they aren’t above listening.” She nodded. “They are very concerned about an heir.” Bluefingers glanced about nervously. “Am I really in danger from them?” she asked. He met her eyes, then nodded sharply. “More danger than you know, Vessel.” Then he backed away, gesturing at the doorway. You have to help me! she mouthed at him. He shook his head, holding up his hands. I cannot. Not now. With that, he pushed open the door, bowed, and scuttled away, glancing nervously over his shoulder. Siri glared at him. The time was swiftly approaching when she’d need to corner him and find out what he really knew. Until then, she had other people to annoy. She turned and glanced into the dark room. Her nervousness returned. Is this wise? Being belligerent had never bothered her before. And yet...her life wasn’t like it had been before. Bluefingers’s fear had left her even more on edge. Defiance. It had always been her way to get attention. She hadn’t been obstinate out of spite. She’d simply been unable to measure up
to Vivenna, so she’d just done the opposite of what was expected of her. Her defiance had worked in the past. Or had it? Her father had been perpetually angry at her, and Vivenna had always treated her like a child. The city’s people had loved her, but sufferingly. No, Siri thought suddenly. No, I can’t go back to that. The people in this palace—this court—they aren’t the types you can defy just because you’re annoyed. Spurn the palace priests, and they wouldn’t grumble at her like her father had. They’d show her what it really meant to be in their power. But what to do then? She couldn’t keep throwing off her clothing and kneeling on the ﬂoor, naked, could she? Feeling confused, and a little angry at herself, she stepped into the dark room and pulled the door closed. The God King waited in his corner, shadowed as always. Siri looked at him, staring at that too-calm face. She knew that she should disrobe and kneel, but she didn’t. Not because she felt defiant. Not even because she felt angry or petulant. Because she was tired of wondering. Who was this man who could rule gods and bend light with the force of his BioChroma? Was he really just spoiled and indolent? He stared back at her. As before, he didn’t grow angry at her insolence. Watching him, Siri pulled at the strings on her dress, dropping the bulky garment to the ﬂoor. She reached for the shoulders of her shift, but hesitated. No, she thought. This isn’t right either. She glanced down at the shift; the edges of the white garment fuzzed, the white bending into color. She looked up at the God King’s impassive face. Then—gritting her teeth against her nervousness—Siri took a step forward. He tensed. She could see it in the edges of his eyes and around his lips. She took another step forward, the white of her garment bending further into prismatic colors. The God King didn’t do anything. He just watched as she drew closer and closer. She stopped right in front of him. Then she turned from him and climbed up onto the bed, feeling the deep softness beneath her as she crawled to the middle of its mattress. She sat up on her knees, regarding the black marble wall with its obsidian sheen. The God King’s priests waited just beyond, listening carefully to hear things that were really none of their business. This, she thought, taking a deep breath, is going to be exceptionally embarrassing. But she’d been forced to lie prostrate, naked, before the God King for over a week. Was now really the time to start feeling self-conscious? She began to bounce up and down on the bed, making its springs creak. Then, cringing slightly, she started to moan. She hoped it was convincing. She didn’t really know what it was supposed to sound like. And how long did it usually continue? She tried to make her moans get louder and louder, her bouncing more furious, for what she assumed
was a proper amount of time. Then she stopped sharply, let out a final moan, and fell back onto the bed. All was still. She glanced up, eyeing the God King. Some of his emotional mask had softened, and he displayed a very human look of confusion. She almost laughed out loud at how perplexed he seemed. She just met his eyes and shook her head. Then—her heart beating, her skin a bit sweaty—she lay back on the bed to rest. Tired from the day’s events and intrigues, it wasn’t long after that she found herself rolled up in the luxurious comforter and relaxing. The God King left her alone. In fact, he’d grown tense at her approach, almost as if he were worried. Even frightened of her. That couldn’t be. He was the God and King of Hallandren, and she was just a silly girl, swimming in waters that were far over her head. No, he wasn’t frightened. The concept was enough to again make her feel like laughing. She restrained herself, maintaining the illusion for the listening priests as she drifted off in the luxurious comfort of the bed. ~ The next morning, Lightsong did not get out of bed. His servants stood around the perimeter of his room like a ﬂock of birds waiting for seed. As noon approached, they began to shufﬂe uncomfortably, shooting glances at one another. He remained in bed, staring up at the ornate red canopy. Some servants approached tentatively, placing a tray of food atop a small table beside him. Lightsong did not reach for it. He had dreamed of war again. Finally, a figure walked up to the bed. Large of girth and draped in his priestly robes, Llarimar looked down at his god, betraying none of the annoyance that Lightsong was sure that he felt. “Leave us, please,” Llarimar said to the servants. They hesitated, uncertain. When was a god without his servants? “Please,” Llarimar repeated, though somehow his tone indicated that it was not a request. Slowly, the servants filed from the room. Llarimar moved the tray of food, then sat down on the edge of the low table. He studied Lightsong, expression thoughtful. What did I ever do to earn a priest like him? Lightsong thought. He knew many of the high priests of other Returned, and most of them were various levels of insufferable. Some were quick to anger, others quick to point out fault, and still others were so fulsomely effusive toward their gods that it was downright maddening. Treledees, the God King’s own high priest, was so stuck-up that he made even gods feel inferior. And then there was Llarimar. Patient, understanding. He deserved a better god. “All right, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “What is it this time?” “I’m sick,” Lightsong said. “You can’t get sick, Your Grace.” Lightsong gave a few weak coughs, to which Llarimar just rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, Scoot,” Lightsong said. “Can’t you just play along a little?” “Play along that you are sick?” Llarimar asked, showing a hint of amusement.
“Your Grace, to do that would be to pretend that you’re not a god. I do not believe that’s a good precedent for your high priest to set.” “It’s the truth,” Lightsong whispered. “I’m no god.” Again, there was no sign of annoyance or anger from Llarimar. He just leaned down. “Please don’t say such things, Your Grace. Even if you yourself do not believe, you should not say so.” “Why not?” “For the sake of the many who do believe.” “And I should continue to deceive them?” Llarimar shook his head. “It is no deception. It’s not so uncommon for others to have more faith in someone than he has in himself.” “And that doesn’t strike you as a little odd in my case?” Llarimar smiled. “Not knowing your temperament, it doesn’t. Now, what brought this on?” Lightsong turned, looking up at the ceiling again. “Blushweaver wants my Commands for the Lifeless.” “Yes.” “She’ll destroy that new queen of ours,” Lightsong said. “Blushweaver worries that the Idrian royals are making a play for the Hallandren throne.” “Do you disagree?” Lightsong shook his head. “No. They probably are. But the thing is, I don’t think the girl—the queen—knows that she’s part of anything. I’m worried that Blushweaver will crush the child out of fear. I’m worried that she’ll be too aggressive and get us all into a war, when I don’t know yet if that’s the right thing to do.” “It seems that you already have a good handle on all this, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “I don’t want to be part of it, Scoot,” Lightsong said. “I feel myself getting sucked in.” “It is your duty to be involved so that you can lead your kingdom. You can’t avoid politics.” “I can if I don’t get out of bed.” Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “You don’t honestly believe that, do you, Your Grace?” Lightsong sighed. “You’re not going to give me a lecture about how even my inaction has political effects, are you?” Llarimar hesitated. “Perhaps. Like it or not, you are a part of the workings of this kingdom—and you produce effects even if you stay in bed. If you do nothing, then the problems are as much your fault as if you had instigated them.” “No,” Lightsong said. “No, I think you’re wrong. If I don’t do anything, then at least I can’t ruin things. Sure, I can let them go wrong, but that’s not the same thing. It really isn’t, no matter what people say.” “And if, by acting, you could make things better?” Lightsong shook his head. “Not going to happen. You know me better than that.” “I do, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “I know you better, perhaps, than you think I do. You’ve always been one of the best men I have known.” Lightsong rolled his eyes, but then stopped, noting the expression on Llarimar’s face. Best men I have known... Lightsong sat up. “You knew me!” he accused. “That’s why you chose to be my priest. You did know me before! Before I died!” Llarimar said
nothing. “Who was I?” Lightsong asked. “A good man, you claim. What was it about me that made me a good man?” “I can say nothing, Your Grace.” “You’ve already said something,” Lightsong said, raising a finger. “You might as well go on. No turning back.” “I’ve said too much already.” “Come on,” Lightsong said. “Just a little bit. Was I from T’Telir, then? How did I die?” Who is she, the woman I see in my dreams? Llarimar said nothing further. “I could command you to speak...” “No you couldn’t,” Llarimar said, smiling as he stood up. “It’s like the rain, Your Grace. You can say you want to command the weather to change, but you don’t believe it, deep down. It doesn’t obey, and neither would I.” Convenient bit of theology, that, Lightsong thought. Particularly when you want to hide things from your gods. Llarimar turned to go. “You have paintings waiting to be judged, Your Grace. I suggest that you let your servants bathe and dress you so that you can get through the day’s work.” Lightsong sighed, stretching. How exactly did he just do that to me? he thought. Llarimar hadn’t even really revealed anything, yet Lightsong had overcome his bout of melancholy. He eyed Llarimar as the priest reached the door and waved for the servants to return. Perhaps dealing with sullen deities was part of his job description. But...he knew me before, Lightsong thought. And now he’s my priest. How did that happen? “Scoot,” Lightsong said, drawing the priest’s attention. Llarimar turned, guarded, obviously expecting Lightsong to pry further into his past. “What should I do?” Lightsong asked. “About Blushweaver and the queen?” “I cannot tell you, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “You see, it is from what you do that we learn. If I guide you, then we gain nothing.” “Except perhaps the life of a young girl who is being used as a pawn.” Llarimar paused. “Do your best, Your Grace,” he said. “That is all I can suggest.” Great, Lightsong thought as he stood. He didn’t know what his “best” was. The truth was, he’d never bothered to find out. Annotations for Chapter 18 Nineteen Annotations for Chapter 19 “This is nice,” Denth said, looking over the house. “Strong wood paneling. Will break very cleanly.” “Yeah,” Tonk Fah added, peeking into a closet. “And it has plenty of storage. Bet we could fit a good half-dozen bodies in here alone.” Vivenna shot the two mercenaries a look, causing them to chuckle to themselves. The house wasn’t as nice as Lemex’s had been; she didn’t want to be ostentatious. It was one of many that were built in a row along a well-maintained street. Deeper than it was wide, the building was bordered on either side with large palm trees, obscuring the view should someone try to spy from the neighboring buildings. She was pleased. Part of her balked at living in a home that was—despite being modest by Hallandren standards—nearly as large as the king’s palace back in Idris. However, she and Parlin had
looked at and rejected cheaper sections of town. She didn’t want to live in a place where she was afraid to go out at night, particularly since she worried that her Breath might make her a target. She trailed down the stairs, the mercenaries following. The house had three stories—a small upper story with sleeping chambers, the main ﬂoor with a kitchen and sitting room, and a cellar for storage. The building was sparsely furnished, and Parlin had gone to the market to shop for more. She hadn’t wanted to spend the money, but Denth had pointed out that they must at least try to keep up appearances, lest they end up drawing even more attention. “Old Lemex’s house will be taken care of soon,” Denth said. “We left some hints in the underground, mentioning that the old man was dead. Whatever we didn’t ransack, a gang of burglars will take care of tonight. By tomorrow, the city guard will be there, and they’ll assume that the place was burgled. The nurse has been paid off, and she never knew who Lemex really was anyway. When nobody comes to pay for the funeral Services, the authorities will take the house in forfeit and have the body burned with other debtors.” Vivenna stopped at the bottom of the stairs, paling. “That doesn’t sound very respectful.” Denth shrugged. “What do you want to do? Go claim him at the charnel house yourself? Give him an Idrian ceremony?” “Good way to get people asking questions, that,” Tonk Fah said. “Better to just let others deal with it,” Denth said. “I suppose,” Vivenna said, turning away from the stairs and walking into the sitting room. “It just bothers me, letting his body be cared for by...” “By what?” Denth said, amused. “Pagans?” Vivenna didn’t look at him. “The old man didn’t seem to care much about heathen ways,” Tonk Fah noted. “Not with the number of Breaths he held. Of course, didn’t your daddy give him the money to buy them?” Vivenna closed her eyes. You hold those same Breaths, she told herself. You’re not innocent in all of this. She hadn’t been given a choice. She could only hope and assume that her father had felt he was in a similar position—no choice but to do what seemed wrong. Lacking furniture, Vivenna arranged her dress and knelt on the wooden ﬂoor, hands in her lap. Denth and Tonk Fah sat back against the wall, looking just as comfortable sitting on a hardwood ﬂoor as they were when lounging in plush chairs. “All right, Princess,” Denth said, unfolding a paper from his pocket. “We’ve got some plans for you.” “Please continue, then.” “First,” Denth said, “we can get you a meeting with some of Vahr’s allies.” “Who exactly was this man?” Vivenna said, frowning. She didn’t like the idea of working with revolutionaries. “Vahr was a worker in the dye fields,” Denth said. “Things can get bad out in those fields—long hours, little more than food for pay. About five years back, Vahr got the bright
idea that if he could convince enough of the other workers to give him their Breath, he might be able to use the power to start a revolt against the overseers. Became enough of a hero to the people in the outer ﬂower plantations that he actually drew the attention of the Court of Gods.” “Never truly had a chance of starting a real rebellion,” Tonk Fah said. “So what good are his men to us?” Vivenna asked. “If they never had a chance of succeeding.” “Well,” Denth said, “you didn’t say anything about a rebellion or anything like that. You just want to make it tough for the Hallandren when they go to war.” “Revolts in the fields would sure be a pain during war,” Tonk Fah added. Vivenna nodded. “All right,” she said. “Let’s meet with them.” “Just so you know, Princess,” Denth said. “These aren’t particularly...sophisticated kinds of folks.” “I am not offended by poverty or people of small means. Austre regards all people equally.” “I didn’t mean that,” Denth said, rubbing his chin. “It’s not that they’re peasants, it’s that...well, when Vahr’s little insurrection went bad, these are the people who were smart enough to get out quickly. That means they weren’t all that committed to him in the first place.” “In other words,” Tonk Fah said, “they were really just a bunch of thugs and crime lords who thought Vahr might be the source of some easy inﬂuence or money.” Great, Vivenna thought. “And do we want to associate with people like that?” Denth shrugged. “We have to start somewhere.” “The other things on the list are a bit more fun,” Tonk Fah said. “And they are?” Vivenna asked. “Raid the Lifeless storage warehouse, for one,” Denth said, smiling. “We won’t be able to kill the things—not without drawing the rest of them down on us. But we might be able to muck up the way the creatures work.” “That sounds dangerous,” Vivenna said. Denth glanced at Tonk Fah, who opened his eyes. They shared a smile. “What?” Vivenna asked. “Hazard pay,” Tonk Fah said. “We may not steal your money, but we have nothing against overcharging you for extremely dangerous stunts!” Vivenna rolled her eyes. “Beyond that,” Denth added, “from what I can tell, Lemex wanted to undermine the city’s food supply. It’s a good idea, I suppose. Lifeless don’t need to eat, but the humans who form the support structure of the army do. Disrupt supply, and perhaps people here will begin to worry if they can afford a long term war.” “That sounds more reasonable,” Vivenna said. “What did you come up with?” “We raid merchant caravans,” Denth said. “Burn things up, cost them a bunch. We make it look like bandits or maybe even remnants of Vahr’s supporters. That ought to confuse people in T’Telir and maybe make it more difficult for the priests to go to war.” “Priests run a lot of the trade in the city,” Tonk Fah added. “They have all the money so they tend to own the supplies.
Burn away the stuff they intended to use for the war, and they’ll be more hesitant to attack. It’ll buy your people more time.” Vivenna swallowed. “Your plans are a bit more...violent than I had anticipated.” The mercenaries shared a look. “You see,” Denth said. “This is where we get our bad reputation. People hire us to do difficult things—like undermine a country’s ability to wage war—then complain that we’re too violent.” “Very unfair,” Tonk Fah agreed. “Perhaps she’d rather we buy puppies for all of her enemies, then send them with nice apologetic notes, asking them to stop being so mean.” “And then,” Tonk Fah said, “when they don’t stop, we could kill the puppies!” “All right,” Vivenna said. “I understand that we’ll have to use a firm hand, but...really. I don’t want the Hallandren to starve because of what we do.” “Princess,” Denth said, sounding more serious. “These people want to attack your homeland. They see your family as the greatest existing threat to their power—and they’re going to make certain that nobody of the royal blood lives to challenge them.” “They get a child by your sister to be the next God King,” Tonk Fah said, “then they kill every other person of royal blood. They never have to worry about you again.” Denth nodded. “Your father and Lemex were right. The Hallandren have everything to lose by not attacking you. And, from what I can see, your people are going to need every bit of help you can give them. That means doing everything we can—scaring the priests, breaking their supply reserves, weakening their armies—to help out.” “We can’t stop the war,” Tonk Fah added. “We can just make the fight a little more fair.” Vivenna took a deep breath, then nodded. “All right, then, we’ll—” At that moment, the door to the building ﬂew open, slamming against the other side of the wall. Vivenna looked up. A figure stood in the doorway—a tall, bulky man with unusually large muscles and ﬂat features. It took her a moment to register the other oddity about him. His skin was grey. His eyes too. There was no color to him at all, and her Heightenings told her that he didn’t have a single Breath. A Lifeless soldier. Vivenna scrambled to her feet, barely keeping in a cry of distress. She backed away from the large soldier. It just stood there, immobile, not even breathing. Its eyes tracked her—they didn’t just stare ahead like those of a dead man. For some reason, she found that the most unnerving. “Denth!” Vivenna said. “What are you doing? Attack!” The mercenaries remained where they were, lounging on the ﬂoor. Tonk Fah barely cracked an eye open. “Ah well,” Denth said. “Looks like we’ve been discovered by the city watch.” “Pity,” Tonk Fah said. “This was looking like it would be a fun job.” “Nothing but execution for us now,” Denth said. “Attack!” Vivenna cried. “You’re my bodyguards, you’re...” She trailed off, noticing as the two men began to chuckle. Oh, Colors, not again, she
thought. “What?” she said. “Some kind of joke? Did you paint that man grey? What’s going on?” “Move it, you rock on legs,” a voice said from behind the Lifeless. The creature walked into the room, carrying a couple of canvas bags over its shoulders. As it entered, it revealed a shorter woman standing behind. Thick through the thighs and through the bust, she had light brown hair that came down to her shoulders. She stood with hands on hips, looking upset. “Denth,” she snapped, “he’s here. In the city.” “Good,” Denth said, lounging back. “I owe that man a sword through the gut.” The woman snorted. “He killed Arsteel. What makes you think you can beat him?” “I’ve always been the better swordsman,” Denth said calmly. “Arsteel was good too. Now he’s dead. Who’s the woman?” “New employer.” “Hope she lives longer than the last one,” the woman grumbled. “Clod, put those down and go get the other bag.” The Lifeless responded, setting down its bags then walking back out. Vivenna watched, by now having figured out that the short woman must be Jewels, the third member of Denth’s team. What was she doing with a Lifeless? And how had she found the new house? Denth must have sent her a message. “What’s wrong with you?” Jewels said, glancing at Vivenna. “Some Awakener come by and steal your colors?” Vivenna paused. “What?” “She means,” Denth said, “why do you look so surprised?” “That, and her hair is white,” Jewels said, walking over to the canvas bags. Vivenna ﬂushed, realizing that her shock had gotten the better of her. She returned her hair to its proper dark color. The Lifeless was returning, carrying another bag. “Where did that creature come from?” Vivenna asked. “What?” Jewels asked. “Clod? Made him from a dead body, obviously. I didn’t do it myself—I just paid money for someone else to.” “Too much money,” Tonk Fah added. The creature clomped back into the room. It wasn’t unnaturally tall—not like a Returned. It could have been a normal, if well-muscled, man. Only the skin coloring, mixed with the emotionless face, was different. “She bought him?” Vivenna asked. “When? Just now?” “Nah,” Tonk Fah said, “we’ve had Clod for months.” “It’s useful to have a Lifeless around,” Denth said. “And you didn’t tell me about this?” Vivenna asked, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice. first she’d had to deal with the city and all of its colors and people. Then she was given a dose of unwanted Breath. Now she was confronted by the most unholy of abominations. “The topic didn’t come up,” Denth said, shrugging. “They’re pretty common in T’Telir.” “We were just talking about defeating these things,” Vivenna said. “Not embracing them!” “We talked about defeating some of them,” Denth said. “Princess, Lifeless are like swords. They’re tools. We can’t destroy all of them in the city, nor would we want to. Just the ones being used by your enemies.” Vivenna slid down, sitting on the wooden ﬂoor. The Lifeless set down its final
bag, then Jewels pointed toward the corner. It walked over and stood there, patiently waiting for further orders. “Here,” Jewels said to the other two, untying the final large bag. “You wanted these.” She turned it on its side, exposing glittering metal shining within. Denth smiled, rising. He kicked Tonk Fah back awake—the large man had an uncanny ability to fall asleep at a moment’s notice—and walked over to the bag. He pulled out several swords, shiny and new-looking with long, thin blades. Denth made a few practice swings while Tonk Fah wandered over, pulling out wicked-looking daggers, some shorter swords, and then some leather jerkins. Vivenna sat, back against the wall, using her breathing to calm herself. She tried not to feel threatened by the Lifeless in the corner. How could they just go about, ignoring it like that? It was so unnatural that it made her itch and squirm. Eventually, Denth noticed her. He told Tonk Fah to oil the blades, then walked over and sat down in front of Vivenna, leaning back with hands against the ﬂoor behind him. “That Lifeless is going to be a problem, Princess?” he asked. “Yes,” she said curtly. “Then we’ll need to work it out,” he said, meeting her eyes. “My team can’t function if you tie our hands. Jewels has invested a lot of effort into learning the proper Commands to use a Lifeless, not to mention learning to maintain the thing.” “We don’t need her.” “Yes,” Denth said. “Yes we do. Princess, you’ve brought a lot of biases into this city. It’s not my place to tell you what to do with them. I’m just your employee. But I will tell you that you don’t know half the things you think you do.” “It’s not about what I ‘think I know,’ Denth,” Vivenna said. “It’s what I believe. A person’s body shouldn’t be abused by making it come back to life and serve you.” “Why not?” he asked. “Your own theology says a soul leaves when the body dies. The corpse is just recycled dirt. Why not use it?” “It’s wrong,” Vivenna said. “The family of the corpse was well paid for the body.” “Doesn’t matter,” Vivenna said. Denth leaned forward. “Well, fine then. But if you order Jewels away, you order us all away. I’ll give your money back, then we’ll go hire you another team of bodyguards. You can use them instead.” “I thought you were my employee,” Vivenna snapped. “I am,” Denth said. “But I can quit whenever I want.” She sat quietly, stomach unsettled. “Your father was willing to use means that he didn’t agree with,” Denth said. “Judge him if you must, but tell me this. If using a Lifeless could save your kingdom, who are you to ignore the opportunity?” “Why do you care?” Vivenna asked. “I just don’t like leaving things unfinished.” Vivenna glanced away. “Look at it this way, Princess,” he said. “You can work with us—which will give you chances to explain your views, maybe change our minds on things like Lifeless
and BioChroma. Or you can send us away. But if you reject us because of our sins, aren’t you being ostentatious? Don’t the five Visions say something about that?” Vivenna frowned. How does he know so much about Austrism? “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Why did Jewels bring all those swords?” “We’ll need weapons,” Denth said. “You know, has to do with that violence thing we mentioned earlier.” “You don’t have any already?” Denth shrugged. “Tonk usually has a cudgel or knife on him, but a full sword draws attention in T’Telir. It’s best not to stand out, sometimes. Your people have some interesting wisdom in that area.” “But now...” “Now we don’t really have a choice,” he said. “If we keep moving forward with Lemex’s plans, things are going to get dangerous.” He eyed her. “Which reminds me. I have something else for you to think about.” “What?” “Those Breaths you hold,” Denth said. “They’re a tool. Just like the Lifeless. Now, I know you don’t agree with how they were obtained. But the fact is, you have them. If a dozen slaves die to forge a sword, does it do any good to melt down the sword and refuse to use it? Or is it better to use that sword and try to stop the men who did such evil in the first place?” “What are you saying?” Vivenna said, feeling that she probably already knew. “You should learn to use the Breaths,” Denth said. “Tonks and I could sure use an Awakener backing us up.” Vivenna closed her eyes. Did he have to hit her with that now, right after twisting around her concerns about the Lifeless? She had expected to find uncertainties and obstacles in T’Telir. She just hadn’t expected so many difficult decisions. And she hadn’t expected them to endanger her soul. “I’m not going to become an Awakener, Denth,” Vivenna said quietly. “I might turn a blind eye toward that Lifeless, for now. But I will not Awaken. I expect to take these Breaths to my death so that nobody else can benefit from harvesting them. No matter what you say, if you buy that sword forged by overworked slaves, then you’ll just encourage the evil merchants.” Denth fell silent. Then he nodded, standing. “You’re the boss, and it’s your kingdom. If we fail, the only thing I lose is an employer.” “Denth,” Jewels said, approaching. She barely gave Vivenna a glance. “I don’t like this. I don’t like the fact that he got here first. He has Breath— reports say he looked to have reached at least the Fourth Heightening. Maybe the fifth. I’ll bet he got it from that rebel, Vahr.” “How do you even know it’s him?” Denth asked. Jewels snorted. “Word’s all over. People being found slaughtered in alleyways, the wounds corrupt and black. Sightings of a new, powerful Awakener roaming the city carrying a black-handled sword in a silver sheath. It’s Tax, all right. Goes by a different name now.” Denth nodded. “Vasher. He’s used it for a while. It’s
a joke on his part.” Vivenna frowned. Black-handled sword. Silver sheath. The man at the arena? “Who are we talking about?” Jewels shot her an annoyed look, but Denth just shrugged. “Old...friend of ours.” “He’s bad trouble,” Tonk Fah said, walking up. “Tax tends to leave a lot of bodies in his wake. Has strange motivations—doesn’t think like other people.” “He’s interested in the war for some reason, Denth,” Jewels said. “Let him be,” Denth snapped. “That will just bring him across my path all the sooner.” He turned away, waving a hand indifferently. Vivenna watched him go, noting the frustration in his step, the curtness of his motions. “What is wrong with him?” she asked Tonk Fah. “Tax—or, I guess, Vasher—” Tonk Fah said. “He killed a good friend of ours over in Yarn Dred a couple months back. Denth used to have four people in this team.” “It shouldn’t have happened,” Jewels said. “Arsteel was a brilliant duelist—almost as good as Denth. Vasher’s never been able to beat either of them.” “He used that...sword of his,” Tonk Fah grumbled. “There was no blackness around the wound,” Jewels said. “Then he cut the blackness out,” Tonk Fah snapped, watching Denth belt a sword to his waist. “There’s no way Vasher beat Arsteel in a fair duel. No way.” “This Vasher,” Vivenna found herself saying. “I saw him.” Jewels and Tonk Fah turned sharply. “He was at the court yesterday,” Vivenna said. “Tall man, carrying a sword when nobody else did. It had a black hilt and a silver sheath. He looked ragged. Hair unkempt, beard scraggly, clothing ripped in places. Only a rope for a belt. He was watching me from behind. He looked...dangerous.” Tonk Fah cursed quietly. “That’s him,” Jewels said. “Denth!” “What?” Denth asked. Jewels gestured at Vivenna. “He’s a step ahead of us. Been tailing your princess here. She saw him watching her at the court.” “Colors!” Denth swore, snapping a dueling blade into the sheath at his waist. “Colors, Colors, Colors!” “What?” Vivenna asked, paling. “Maybe it was just a coincidence. He could have just come to watch the court.” Denth shook his head. “There are no coincidences where that man is concerned, Princess. If he was watching you, then you can bet on the Colors that he knows exactly who you are and where you came from.” He met her eyes. “And he’s probably planning to kill you.” Vivenna fell silent. Tonk Fah laid a hand on her shoulder. “Ah, don’t worry, Vivenna. He wants to kill us too. At least you’re in good company.” Annotations for Chapter 19 Twenty Annotations for Chapter 20 For the first time in her several weeks at the palace, Siri stood before the God King’s door and felt neither worried nor tired. Bluefingers, oddly, wasn’t scribbling on his pad. He watched her silently, expression unreadable. Siri almost smiled to herself. Gone were the days when she’d had to lie on the ﬂoor, awkwardly trying to kneel while her back complained. Gone were the days when she had to fall asleep
on the marble, her discarded dress her only comfort. Ever since she’d grown daring enough to climb into the bed the previous week, she’d slept well each night, comfortable and warm. And not once had she been touched by the God King. It was a nice arrangement. The priests—apparently satisfied that she was doing her wifely duty—left her alone. She didn’t have to be naked in front of anyone, and she was beginning to learn the social dynamic of the palace. She’d even gone to a few more sessions of the Court Assembly, though she hadn’t mingled with the Returned. “Vessel,” Bluefingers said quietly. She turned toward him, raising an eyebrow. He shufﬂed uncomfortably. “You...have found a way to make the king respond to your advances, then?” “That got out, did it?” she asked, looking back at the door. Inside, her smile deepened. “Indeed it did, Vessel,” Bluefingers said, tapping his ledger from beneath. “Only those in the palace know about any of this, of course.” Good, Siri thought. She glanced to the side. Bluefingers did not look pleased. “What?” she asked. “I’m out of danger. The priests can stop worrying about an heir.” For a few months, at least. They’ll get suspicious eventually. “Vessel,” Bluefingers said with a harsh whisper. “Doing your duty as the Vessel was the danger!” She frowned, looking at Bluefingers as the little scribe tapped his board. “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods...” he whispered to himself. “What?” she asked. “I shouldn’t say.” “Then what is the point of bringing it up in the first place! Honestly, Bluefingers, you’re getting frustrating. Leave me too confused, and I might just start asking questions—” “No!” Bluefingers said sharply, then immediately glanced behind him, cringing slightly. “Vessel, you must not speak to others of my fears. They’re silly, really, nothing to bother anyone else with. Just...” “What?” she asked. “You must not bear him a child,” Bluefingers said. “That is the danger, both to yourself and to the God King himself. This all...everything here in the palace...it is not what it appears to be.” “That’s what everyone says,” she snapped. “If it’s not what it seems, then tell me what it is.” “There is no need,” Bluefingers said. “And I will not speak of this again. After tonight, you will conduct yourself to the bedchamber—you obviously have the pattern down well enough. Just wait a hundred heartbeats or so after the women let you out of the dressing room.” “You have to tell me something!” Siri said. “Vessel,” Bluefingers said, leaning in. “I advise you to please keep your voice down. You don’t know how many factions shift and move inside the palace. I am a member of many of them, and a stray word on your part could...no, would...mean my death. Do you understand that? Can you understand that?” She hesitated. “I should not be putting my life in danger because of you,” he said. “But there are things about this arrangement with which I do not agree. And so, I give my warning. Avoid giving the God King
a child. If you want to know more than that, read your histories. Honestly, I would think that you’d have come to all this a little more prepared.” And with that, the little man left. Siri shook her head, then sighed and pushed open the door and entered the God King’s chamber. She closed the door, then eyed the God King— who watched her, as always—and pulled off her dress, leaving her shift on. She went to the bed and sat down, waiting a few minutes before climbing up on her knees to do her bouncing, moaning act. She varied it sometimes, doing several different rhythms, getting creative. Once she was done, she snuggled down in the blankets and lay back in the pillows to think. Could Bluefingers have been any more obscure? she thought with frustration. What little Siri knew of political intrigue told her that people preferred to be subtle—obscure, even—to protect themselves from implication. Read your histories... It seemed an odd suggestion. If the secrets were that visible, then why would they be dangerous? Still, as she thought, she did find herself feeling grateful for Bluefingers. She couldn’t really blame him for his hesitation. He’d probably already endangered himself far more than he should have. Without him, she wouldn’t have known she was in danger. In a way, he was the only friend she had in the city—a person like herself, a person drawn in from another country. A country that was overshadowed by beautiful, bold Hallandren. A man who... Her thoughts trailed off; she felt something odd. She opened her eyes. Someone loomed over her in the darkness. Despite herself, Siri screamed in surprise. The God King jumped back, stumbling. Heart thumping, Siri shufﬂed backward on the bed, pulling the covers up over her chest—though, of course, he had seen her unclothed so often that it was a ridiculous gesture. The God King stood in his dark black clothing, looking uncertain in the hearth’s wavering light. She’d never asked her servants why he wore black. One would think that he would prefer white, which he could affect so dramatically with his BioChroma. For a few moments, Siri sat with the blankets clutched before her, then forced herself to relax. Stop being so silly, she told herself. He’s never so much as threatened you. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “You just startled me.” He glanced at her. And—with a jolt of surprise—she realized this was the first time she’d addressed him since her outburst the previous week. Now that he stood, she could see even better how...heroic he looked. Tall, broad-shouldered, like a statue. Human, but of more dramatic proportions. Carefully, showing more uncertainty than she’d ever expected from a man who had the title of God King, he moved back to the bed. He sat down on its edge. Then he reached to his shirt, pulling it up. Oh, Austre, she thought with sudden shock. Oh, God, Lord of Colors! This is it! He’s finally coming for me! She couldn’t fight off the trembles. She’d convinced herself
that she was safe, comfortable. She shouldn’t have to go through this. Not again! I can’t do it! I can’t! I— The God King pulled something out from underneath his shirt, then let the garment drape back down. Siri sat, breath coming in gasps, slowly realizing that he was making no further moves toward her. She calmed herself, forcing the color back into her hair. The God King laid the object on the bed, and the firelight revealed it to be...a book. Siri immediately thought of the histories Bluefingers had mentioned, but she quickly discarded the idea. This book, from the title on the spine, was a book of stories for children. The God King let his fingers rest on it, then he delicately opened to the first page. The white parchment bent in the force of his BioChroma, shooting out prismatic colors. This didn’t distort the text, and Siri carefully inched forward, looking at the words. She looked up at the God King. His face seemed less stiff than usual. He nodded down at the page, then pointed at the first word. “You want me to read this?” Siri asked in a low whisper, mindful of the priests who might be listening. The God King nodded. “It says ‘Stories for Children,’ ” Siri said, confused. He turned the book around, looking at it himself. He rubbed his chin in thought. What’s going on? she thought. It didn’t seem like he was going to bed her. Did he, instead, expect her to read a story to him? She couldn’t imagine him asking for something that childish. She looked up at him again. He turned the book around, pointing at the first word. He nodded toward it. “Stories?” Siri asked. He pointed at the word. She looked closely, trying to discern some hidden meaning or mysterious text. She sighed, looking up at him. “Why don’t you just tell me?” He paused, cocking his head. Then he opened his mouth. By the waning light of the hearth’s fire, Siri saw something shocking. The God King of Hallandren had no tongue. There was a scar. She could just barely see it if she squinted closely. Something had happened to him, some terrible accident had ripped it free. Or...had it been taken purposefully? Why would anyone remove the tongue of the king himself? The answer came to her almost immediately. BioChromatic Breath, she realized, thinking back to a half-remembered lesson from her childhood. To Awaken objects, a person must give a Command. Words spoken in a crisp, clear voice. No slurring or mumbling allowed, or the Breath will not function. The God King looked away, suddenly, seeming ashamed. He picked up the book, holding it to his chest, and moved to stand. “No, please,” Siri said, edging forward. She reached her hand forward and touched his arm. The God King froze. She immediately pulled her hand back. “I didn’t mean to look so disgusted,” Siri said in her whispered voice. “That wasn’t because of...your mouth. It was because I was realizing why it must have been
done to you.” The God King studied her, then slowly seated himself again. He held himself back far enough that they were not touching, and she did not reach for him again. However, he did carefully—almost reverently—put his book back down on the bed. He opened to the first page again, then looked at her, his eyes pleading. “You can’t read, can you?” Siri asked. He shook his head. “That’s the secret,” she whispered. “The thing that scares Bluefingers so much. You’re not king, you’re a puppet! A figurehead. You’re paraded around by your priests, given a BioChromatic aura so strong that it makes people fall to their knees in wonder. Yet they took your tongue so that you couldn’t ever use it, and they never taught you to read, lest you learn too much or manage to communicate with others.” He sat and looked away. “All so that they could control you.” No wonder Bluefingers is so scared. If they would do that to their own god...then the rest of us are nothing to them. It made sense, now, why they had been so adamant about her not talking to—or even kissing—the king. It made sense why they would dislike her so much. They were worried about someone spending time alone with the God King. Someone who might discover the truth. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. He shook his head, then met her eyes. There was a strength in them she wouldn’t have expected of a man who had been sheltered and isolated as he must have been. finally, he looked down, pointing back at the words on the page. The first word. The first letter, actually. “That is the letter ‘shash,’ ” Siri said, smiling. “I can teach you them all, if you wish.” The priests were right to be worried. Annotations for Chapter 20 Twenty-One Annotations for Chapter 21 Vasher stood atop the palace of the God King, watching the sun drop above the western rain forest. The sunset was vibrant amidst the clouds, colors ﬂaring, beautiful reds and oranges painting the trees. Then the sun disappeared and the colors faded. Some said that before a man died, his BioChromatic aura ﬂared with sudden brightness. Like a heart giving its last beat, like the final surge of a wave before the tide retreats. Vasher had seen it happen, but not with every death. The event was rare, much like a perfect sunset. Dramatic, Nightblood noted. The sunset? Vasher asked. Yes. You can’t see it, he said to the sword. But I can feel you seeing it. Crimson. Like blood in the air. Vasher didn’t respond. The sword couldn’t see. But with its powerful, twisted BioChroma, it could sense life and people. Both were things Nightblood had been created to protect. It was strange, how easily and quickly protection could cause destruction. Sometimes, Vasher wondered if the two weren’t really the same thing. Protect a ﬂower, destroy the pests who wanted to feed on it. Protect a building, destroy the plants that could have grown in the soil. Protect a man.
Live with the destruction he creates. Although it was dark, Vasher’s life sense was strong. He could just faintly feel the grass growing below and knew how far away it was. With more Breath, he might even have been able to sense the lichen growing on the palace stones. He knelt down, laying one hand on his trouser leg and one on the stone of the palace. “Strengthen me,” he Commanded, Breathing. His trouser legs stiffened, and a patch of color bled from the black stone beside him. Black was a color. He’d never considered that before he’d become an Awakener. Tassels hanging at his cuffs stiffened, wrapping around his ankle. With him kneeling as he was, they could also twist around the bottoms of his feet. Vasher placed a hand on the shoulder of his shirt, touching another patch of marble as he formed an image in his mind. “Upon call, become my fingers and grip,” he Commanded. The shirt quivered and a group of tassels curled up around his hand. five of them, like fingers. It was a difficult Command. It required far more Breath to Awaken than he would have liked—his remaining Breath barely allowed him the Second Heightening—and the visualization of the Command had taken practice to perfect. The finger tassels were worth it; they had proven very useful, and he was loath to engage in the night’s activities without them. He stood up straight, noting the scar of grey marble on the otherwise perfectly black palace surface. He smiled to think of the indignation the priests would feel when they discovered it. He tested the strength in his legs, gripping Nightblood, then took a careful step off the side of the palace. He fell some ten feet; the palace was constructed from massive stone blocks in a steep pyramidal shape. He landed hard on the next block, but his Awakened clothing absorbed some of the shock, acting like a second, external set of bones. He stood up, nodding to himself, then jumped down the other pyramid steps. Eventually, he landed on the soft grass north of the palace, close to the wall that surrounded the entire plateau. He crouched, watching quietly. Sneaking, Vasher? Nightblood said. You’re terrible at sneaking. Vasher didn’t respond. You should attack, Nightblood said. You’re good at that. You just want to prove how strong you are, Vasher thought. Well, yes, the sword replied. But you do have to admit that you’re bad at sneaking. Vasher ignored the sword. A lone man in ragged clothing carrying a sword across the grounds would be conspicuous. So he surveyed. He had picked a night when the gods hadn’t planned any grand celebrations out in the courtyard, but there were still small groups of priests, minstrels, or servants moving between palaces. How sure are you about this information of yours? Nightblood said. Because, honestly, I don’t trust priests. He isn’t a priest, Vasher thought. He moved carefully, creeping through the dark starlit shadow of the wall’s overhang. His contact had warned him to stay away from the
palaces of inﬂuential gods like Blushweaver and Stillmark. But he had also said that the palace of a lesser god—like Giftbeacon or Peaceyearning—wouldn’t work for Vasher’s purpose. Instead, Vasher sought out the home of Mercystar, a Returned known for her involvement in politics, yet who wasn’t all that inﬂuential. Her palace looked relatively dark this evening, but there would still be guards. Hallandren Returned all had servants to spare. Sure enough, Vasher located two men watching the door he wanted. They wore the extravagant costumes of court servants, colored yellow and gold after the pattern of their mistress. The men weren’t armed. Who would attack the home of a Returned? They were simply there to keep anyone from wandering in and bothering their lady while she slept. They stood by their lanterns, alert and attentive, but more for the sake of appearances than anything else. Vasher obscured Nightblood beneath his cloak, then walked out of the darkness, looking from side to side anxiously, mumbling to himself. He hunched his body to help hide the oversized hidden sword. Oh, please, Nightblood said ﬂatly. The crazy disguise? You’re cleverer than that. It’ll work, Vasher thought. This is the Court of Gods. Nothing attracts the unbalanced more than the prospect of meeting deities. The two guards looked up when they saw him approaching, but they didn’t seem surprised. They had probably dealt with marginally insane people every day of their professional careers. Vasher had seen the types who ended up in the lines for Returned petitions. “Here now,” one of the men said as Vasher approached. “How’d you get in here?” Vasher stepped up to them, mumbling to himself about talking to the goddess. The second man put a hand on Vasher’s shoulder. “Come on, friend. Let’s get you back to the gates and see if there’s a shelter that’s still taking people in for the night.” Vasher hesitated. Kindness. He hadn’t expected that, for some reason. The emotion made him feel a tad guilty for what he had to do next. He snapped his arm to the side, twitching his thumb twice to make the long finger tassels on his shirt sleeve begin mimicking the motions of his real fingers. He formed a fist. The tassels snapped forward, wrapping around the first guard’s neck. The man choked out a soft gasp of surprise. Before the second guard could react, Vasher brought Nightblood up, ramming the hilt into the guard’s stomach. The man stumbled, and Vasher swept his feet out from beneath him. Vasher’s boot followed, coming down slowly but firmly on the man’s neck. He wiggled, but Vasher’s legs bore Awakened strength. Vasher stood for a long moment, both men struggling, neither managing to escape their strangulation. A short time later, Vasher stepped off the second guard’s neck, then lowered the first guard to the grass, twitching his thumb twice and releasing the finger tassels. You didn’t use me much, Nightblood said, sounding hurt. You could have used me. I’m better than a shirt. I’m a sword. Vasher ignored the comments, scanning the darkness
to see if he had been spotted. I really am better than a shirt. I would have killed them. Look, they’re still breathing. Stupid shirt. That was the point, Vasher thought. Corpses cause more trouble than men who get knocked out. I could knock people out, Nightblood said immediately. Vasher shook his head, ducking into the building. Returned palaces—this one included—were generally just collections of open rooms with colorful sheets on the doorways. The weather was so temperate in Hallandren that the building could be open to the air at all times. He didn’t go through the central rooms, but instead stayed in the peripheral servant hallway. If Vasher’s informant had been truthful, then what he wanted could be found on the northeast side of the building. As he walked, he unraveled the rope from his waist. Belts are stupid too, Nightblood said. They— At that moment, a group of four servants rounded the corner directly ahead of Vasher. Vasher looked up, startled but not really surprised. The servants’ shock lasted a second longer than his own. Within a heartbeat, Vasher snapped the rope forward. “Hold things,” he Commanded, giving up most of his remaining Breath. The rope wrapped around the arm of one of the servants, though Vasher had been aiming for the neck. Vasher cursed, yanking the person forward. The man cried out as Vasher knocked him against the angle of the corner. The others moved to run. Vasher whipped out Nightblood with his other hand. Yes! the sword thought. Vasher didn’t draw the sword. He simply tossed it forward. The blade skidded against the ﬂoor, then came to rest before the three men. One of the group froze, looking down at the sword, transfixed. He reached out tentatively, eyes awed. The other two took off running, yelling about an intruder. Blast! Vasher thought. He yanked the rope, knocking the entangled servant off of his feet again. As the servant tried to stumble to his feet, Vasher dashed forward and wrapped the rope around the man’s hands and body. To his side, the remaining servant ignored both Vasher and his friend. This man picked up Nightblood, eyes alight. He undid the snap on the hilt, moving to pull the sword. When he had barely gotten a thin sliver of blade free, a dark, ﬂuidlike smoke began to stream out. Some dripped to the ground; other tendrils of it snaked out and wrapped around the man’s arm, drawing the color from his skin. Vasher kicked out with an Awakened leg, knocking the man down, forcing him to drop Nightblood. Vasher left the first man squirming, tied up, then grabbed the man who had held the sword and rammed his head against the wall. Breathing hard, Vasher grabbed Nightblood, closed the sheath, and did up the clasp. Then he reached over, touching the rope that tied the dazed servant. “Your Breath to mine,” he said, recovering the Breath from the rope, leaving the man bound. You didn’t let me kill him, Nightblood said, annoyed. No, Vasher said. Corpses, remember? And...two ran away
from me. That’s not right. You cannot tempt the hearts of men who are pure, Nightblood. No matter how much he explained that concept, it seemed beyond the sword’s ability to comprehend. Vasher moved quickly, dashing down the hallway. He had only a little farther to go, but there were already cries of alarm and calls for help. He had no desire to fight an army of servants and soldiers. He stopped, uncertain, in the unadorned hallway. He noticed, idly, that Awakening the rope had inadvertently stolen the color from his boots and cloak—the only pieces of clothing he wore that weren’t themselves Awakened. The grey clothing would instantly brand him for what he was. But the thought of backing down made him cringe. He gritted his teeth in frustration, punching the wall. This was supposed to have gone a lot more smoothly. I told you, you aren’t sneaky, Nightblood said. Shut up, Vasher thought, determined not to run. He reached into a pouch at his belt, pulling out the object within: a dead squirrel. Yuck, Nightblood said with a sniff. Vasher knelt, putting a hand on the creature. “Awaken to my Breath,” he Commanded, “serve my needs, live at my Command and my word. Fallen Rope.” Those last words, “fallen rope,” formed the security phrase. Vasher could have chosen anything, but he picked the first thing that came to mind. One Breath was leached from his body, going down into the small rodent’s corpse. The thing began to twitch. That was a Breath Vasher would never be able to recover, for creating a Lifeless was a permanent act. The squirrel lost all color, bleeding to grey, the Awakening feeding off the body’s own colors to help fuel the transformation. The squirrel had been grey in the first place, so the difference was tough to see. That’s why Vasher liked to use them. “Fallen Rope,” he said to the creature, its grey eyes looking up at him. The security phrase pronounced, Vasher could now imprint the creature with an order, much as he did when performing a standard Awakening. “Make noise. Run around. Bite people who are not me. Fallen Rope.” The second use of the words closed its impressionability, so it could no longer be Commanded. The squirrel hopped up to its feet then scampered down the hallway, heading for the open doorway the ﬂeeing servants had disappeared into. Vasher stood and began to run again, hoping that this distraction would earn him time. Indeed, a few moments later he heard cries coming from the doorway. Clangs and screams followed. Lifeless could be difficult to stop, particularly a fresh one with orders to bite. Vasher smiled. We could have taken them, Nightblood said. Vasher rushed to the place his information had indicated. The location was marked by a splintered board in the wall, ostensibly just normal wear of the building. Vasher crouched, hoping that his informant had not lied. He searched around on the ﬂoor, then froze as he found the hidden latch. He pulled it open, revealing a trapdoor. Returned
palaces were only supposed to be one story. He smiled. What if this tunnel doesn’t have another way out? Nightblood asked as Vasher dropped into the hole, trusting his Awakened clothing to absorb the fall. Then you’ll probably get to kill a lot of people, Vasher thought. However, his information had been good so far. He suspected that the rest was good as well. The priests of the Iridescent Tones, it appeared, were hiding things from the rest of the kingdom. And from their gods. Annotations for Chapter 21 Twenty-Two Annotations for Chapter 22 Weatherlove, god of storms, selected one of the wooden spheres from the rack, then hefted it in his hand. It had been built to fill the palm of a god, and was weighted in the middle with lead. Carved with rings across the surface, it was painted a deep blue. “A doubling sphere?” asked Lifeblesser. “A bold move.” Weatherlove eyed the small group of gods behind him. Lightsong was among them, sipping on a sweet orange fruited drink with some kind of alcohol enhancement. It had been several days since he’d allowed Llarimar to talk him out of bed, but he still had come to no conclusion on how to proceed. “A bold move indeed,” Weatherlove said, tossing the sphere up into the air, then catching it. “Tell me, Lightsong the Bold. Do you favor this throw?” The other gods chuckled. There were four of them playing. As usual, Weatherlove wore a green and gold robe that hung from only one shoulder with a wrap around his waist that came down to mid-thigh. The outfit— patterned after the ancient dress of the Returned from paintings centuries past—revealed his sculpted muscles and divine figure. He stood at the edge of the balcony, as it was his turn to throw. Seated behind him were the three others. Lightsong on the left and Lifeblesser—god of healing—in the middle. Truthcall, god of nature, sat on the far right, wearing his ornate cloak and uniform of maroon and white. The three gods were variations on a theme. If Lightsong hadn’t known them well, he would have had trouble telling them apart. Each stood almost exactly seven feet tall, with bulging muscles that any mortal would have envied. True, Lifeblesser had brown hair, while Weatherlove had blond and Truthcall had black. But all three had that same set of square-jawed features, perfect coiffure, and innate seamless grace that marked them as Returned divinities. Only their costumes really offered any variety. Lightsong sipped his drink. “Do I bless your throw, Weatherlove?” he asked. “Are we not in competition against one another?” “I suppose,” the god said, tossing the wooden ball up and down. “Then why would I bless you when you throw against me?” Weatherlove just smirked, then pulled back his arm and launched the ball out across the pitch. It bounced, then rolled over the grass, eventually coming to rest. This section of the courtyard had been divided into an expansive game board with ropes and stakes. Priests and servants scurried about on the
sides, making notations and keeping track of the score so that the gods wouldn’t have to. Tarachin was a complex game, played only by the wealthy. Lightsong had never bothered to learn the rules. He found it more amusing to play when he had no idea what he was doing. It was his throw next. He stood up, selecting one of the wooden spheres from the rack because it matched the color of his drink. He tossed the orange sphere up and down; then—not paying attention to where he was throwing— he tossed it out onto the field. The sphere ﬂew much farther than it probably should have; he had the strength of a perfect body. That was part of the reason the field was so vast; it had to be built to the scale of gods, and so when they played, they required the elevated perspective of a balcony to view their game. Tarachin was supposed to be one of the most difficult games in the world; it required strength to throw the spheres correctly, keen wit to understand where to place them, coordination to do so with the necessary precision, and a great understanding of strategy to pick the proper sphere and dominate the game field. “Four hundred and thirteen points,” a servant announced after being fed the number by scribes working below. “Another magnificent throw,” Truthcall said, perking up in his wooden lounging chair. “How do you do it? I’d never have thought to use a reversal sphere for that throw.” Is that what the orange ones are called? Lightsong thought, returning to his seat. “You just have to understand the playing field,” he said, “and learn to get inside the mind of the sphere. Think like it does, reason as it might.” “Reason like a sphere?” Lifeblesser said, standing up. He wore ﬂowing robes of his colors, blue and silver. He selected a green sphere off the rack, then stared at it. “What type of reasoning does a wooden sphere do?” “The circular type, I should think,” Lightsong said lightly. “And, by coincidence, it is my favorite type as well. Perhaps that’s why I’m so good at the game.” Lifeblesser frowned, opening his mouth to reply. He finally shut it, looking confused by Lightsong’s comment. Becoming a god did not, unfortunately, increase one’s mental capacity along with one’s physical attributes. Lightsong didn’t mind. For him, the real sport of a game of Tarachin never involved where the spheres landed. Lifeblesser made his throw, then sat down. “I do say, Lightsong,” he said, smiling. “I mean this as a compliment, but having you around can be draining!” “Yes,” Lightsong said, sipping his drink, “I’m remarkably like a mosquito in that regard. Truthcall, isn’t it your throw?” “Actually, it’s yours again,” Weatherlove said. “You achieved the crown pairing during your last toss, remember?” “Ah yes, how could I forget,” Lightsong said, rising. He took another sphere, tossed it over his shoulder out onto the green, then sat down. “Five hundred and seven points,” the priest announced. “Now you’re just showing
off,” Truthcall said. Lightsong said nothing. In his opinion, it revealed an inherent ﬂaw in the game that the one who knew least about it tended to do the best. He doubted, however, that the others would take it that way. All three were very dedicated to their sport, and they played every week. There was blessed little else for them to do with their time. Lightsong suspected that they kept inviting him only because they wanted to prove, at last, that they could defeat him. If he’d fathomed the rules, he’d have tried to lose on purpose to keep them from insisting that he come play with them. Still, he liked the way his victories annoyed them—though, of course, they never showed him anything other than perfect decorum. Either way, under the circumstances, he suspected that he couldn’t lose if he wanted to. It was rather difficult to throw a game when you had no idea what you were doing to win it in the first place. Truthcall finally stepped up to throw. He always wore clothing of a martial style, and the colors maroon and white were very handsome on him. Lightsong suspected that he’d always been jealous that instead of being given Lifeless Commands as his duty to the court, he’d been given a vote over issues of trade with other kingdoms. “I hear that you spoke with the queen a few days back, Lightsong,” Truth-call said as he threw. “Yes, indeed,” Lightsong said, sipping his drink. “She was extraordinarily pleasant, I must say.” Weatherlove gave a quiet laugh, obviously thinking that last comment to be sarcasm—which was a little annoying, since Lightsong had meant it sincerely. “The entire court is abuzz,” Truthcall said, turning and ﬂipping back his cape, then leaning against the balcony railing as he waited for the points from his throw to be tabulated. “The Idrians betrayed the treaty, one could say.” “The wrong princess,” Weatherlove agreed. “It gives us an opening.” “Yes,” Truthcall said musingly, “but an opening for what?” “To attack!” Lifeblesser said in his usual, dense way. The other two regarded him wincingly. “There is so much more to be gained than that, Lifeblesser.” “Yes,” Weatherlove said, idly spinning the last bit of wine in his cup. “My plans are already in motion, of course.” “And what plans would those be, divine brother?” Truthcall said. Weatherlove smiled. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, now, would I?” “That depends,” Truthcall said evenly. “Will it keep me from demanding the Idrians give us more access to the passes? I’m willing to bet that some...pressures could be placed on the new queen to gain her favor for such a proposal. She’s said to be rather naive.” Lightsong felt a slight nausea as they spoke. He knew how they plotted, always scheming. They played their game with spheres, but just as much of their reason for seeing one another at these events was to posture and make deals. “Her ignorance must be an act,” Lifeblesser said in a rare moment of thoughtfulness. “They wouldn’t have
sent her if she was really that inexperienced.” “She’s Idrian,” Truthcall said dismissively. “Their most important city has fewer people than a small T’Telir neighborhood. They barely understand the concept of politics, I’ll warrant. They are more used to talking to sheep than humans.” Weatherlove nodded. “Even if she’s ‘well trained’ by their standards, she’ll be easy to manipulate here. The real trick is going to be to make certain others don’t get to her first. Lightsong, what was your impression? Will she be quick to do as the gods tell her?” “I really wouldn’t know,” he said, waving for more juice. “As you know, I’m not much interested in political games.” Weatherlove and Truthcall shared a smirking look; like most in the court, they considered Lightsong hopeless when it came to practical matters. And by their definition, “practical” meant “taking advantage of others.” “Lightsong,” Lifeblesser said with his tactlessly honest voice. “You really need to take more of an interest in politics. It can be very diverting. Why, if you only knew the secrets to which I’m privy!” “My dear Lifeblesser,” Lightsong replied, “please trust me when I say that I have no desire to know any secrets which involve you and a privy.” Lifeblesser frowned, obviously trying to work through that one. The other two began to discuss the queen again as the priests reported the score from the last throw. Oddly, Lightsong found himself increasingly troubled. As Lifeblesser stood up to take his next toss, Lightsong found himself rising as well. “My divine brothers,” he said, “I suddenly feel quite weary. Perhaps it was something I ingested.” “Not something I served, I hope?” Truthcall said. It was his palace. “Food, no,” Lightsong said. “The other things you’re serving today, perhaps. I really must be on my way.” “But you’re in the lead!” Truthcall said. “If you leave now, we’ll have to play again next week!” “Your threats roll off of me like water, my divine brother,” Lightsong said, nodding respectfully to each in turn. “I bid you farewell until such time as you drag me up here again to play this tragic game of yours.” They laughed. He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or insulted that they so often confused his jokes for serious statements and the other way around. He collected his priests—Llarimar included—from the room just inside the balcony, but didn’t feel like speaking with any of them. He just made his way through the palace of deep reds and whites, still troubled. The men on the balcony were rank amateurs compared to the real political masters, like Blushweaver. They were so blunt and obvious with their plans. But even men who were blunt and obvious could be dangerous, particularly to a woman like the queen, who obviously had little experience with such things. I’ve already determined that I can’t help her, Lightsong thought, leaving the palace and entering the green outside. To the right, a complex network of rope squares and patterns marked the Tarachin pitch. A sphere bounced with a distant thud in the
grass. Lightsong walked the other direction on the springy lawn, not even waiting for his priests to erect a canopy to shade him from the afternoon sun. He still worried that if he tried to help, he’d just make things worse. But then there were the dreams. War and violence. Over and over again, he saw the fall of T’Telir itself, the destruction of his homeland. He couldn’t continue to ignore the dreams, even if he didn’t accept them as prophetic. Blushweaver thought that war was important. Or, at least, that it was important to prepare for. He trusted her more than any other god or goddess, but he also worried about how aggressive she was. She had come to him, asking him to be a part of her plans. Had she done it, perhaps, because she knew he would be more temperate than she? Was she intentionally balancing herself? He heard petitions, even though he didn’t intend to ever give up his Breath and die. He interpreted paintings, even though he didn’t think he was seeing anything prophetic in them. Couldn’t he help secure power in the court in order to be prepared when he didn’t believe that his visions meant anything? Particularly if those preparations helped protect a young woman who, undoubtedly, would have no other allies? Llarimar had told him to do his best. That sounded like an awful lot of work. Unfortunately, doing nothing was beginning to seem like even more work. Sometimes, when you stepped in something foul, the only thing to do was to stop walking and make the effort to clean it off. He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m probably going to regret this,” he muttered to himself. Then he went looking for Blushweaver. ~ The man was slight, almost skeletal, and each shellfish he slurped made Vivenna cringe for two reasons. Not only did she have trouble believing that anyone would enjoy such slimy, sluglike food, but the mussels were also of a very rare and expensive variety. And she was paying. The afternoon restaurant crowd was large—people usually ate out at midday, when it made more sense to buy food than return home for a meal. The entire concept of restaurants still seemed strange to her. Didn’t these men have wives or servants to make them meals? Didn’t they feel uncomfortable eating in such a public place? It was so...impersonal. Denth and Tonk Fah sat on either side of her. And, of course, they helped themselves to the plate of mussels as well. Vivenna wasn’t certain— she’d pointedly not asked—but she thought that the shellfish were raw. The thin man across from her slurped down another one. He didn’t seem to be enjoying himself much despite the expensive surroundings and free food. He had a sneer on his lips and while he didn’t appear nervous, she did notice that he kept an eye on the restaurant entrance. “So,” Denth said, setting another empty shell on the table, then wiping his fingers on the tablecloth—a common practice in T’Telir. “Can you help us or
not?” The little man—he called himself Fob—shrugged. “You tell a wild tale, mercenary.” “You know me, Fob. When have I lied to you?” “Whenever you’ve been paid to do it,” Fob said with a snort. “I’ve just never been able to catch you.” Tonk Fah chuckled, reaching for another mussel. It slipped free of the shell as he brought it to his lips; Vivenna had to steel herself to keep from gagging at the slimy plop it made when it hit the table. “You don’t disagree that war is coming, though,” Denth said. “Of course not,” Fob said. “But it’s been coming for decades now. What makes you think that it will finally happen this year?” “Can you afford to ignore the chance that it might?” Denth asked. Fob squirmed a bit, then began eating mussels again. Tonk Fah began stacking the shells, seeing how many he could get balanced on top of one another. Vivenna said nothing for the moment. Her minor part in the meetings didn’t bother her. She watched, she learned, and she thought. Fob was a landowner. He cleared forests, then rented the land to growers. He often relied on Lifeless to help with his clearing—workers loaned to him through the government. There was only one stipulation upon the lending. Should war come, all of the food produced on his holdings during war time immediately became the property of the Returned. It was a good deal. The government would probably seize his lands during a war anyway, so he didn’t really lose anything save for his right to complain. He ate another mussel. How does he keep packing them down? she thought. Fob had managed to slurp away nearly twice as many of the disgusting little creatures as Tonk Fah. “That harvest won’t come in, Fob,” Denth said. “You will lose quite a bit this year, should we prove right.” “But,” Tonk Fah said, adding another shell to his stack, “harvest early, sell your stockpiles, and you stand to get ahead of your competitors.” “And what do you gain?” Fob asked. “How do I know those same competitors haven’t hired you to convince me a war is coming?” The table fell silent, making noticeable the other diners clattering at their own meals. Denth finally turned, eyeing Vivenna, and nodded. She pulled up her shawl—not the matronly one she’d brought from Idris, but a silken, gossamer one that Denth had found for her. She met Fob’s eyes, then changed her hair to a deep red. With the shawl up, only those at the table and watching closely would be able to see the change. He froze. “Do that again,” he said. She changed it to blond. Fob sat back, letting his mussel fall free of its shell. It splatted against the table near the one Tonk Fah had dropped. “The queen?” he asked with shock. “No,” Vivenna said. “Her sister.” “What’s going on here?” Fob asked. Denth smiled. “She’s here to organize a resistance against the Returned gods and to prepare Idrian interests here in T’Telir for the coming
war.” “You don’t think that old royal up in the highlands would send his daughter for nothing?” Tonk Fah said. “War. It’s the only thing that would call for such desperation.” “Your sister,” Fob said, eyeing Vivenna. “They sent the younger one into the court. Why?” “The king’s plans are his own, Fob,” Denth said. Fob looked thoughtful. finally, he ﬂipped the fallen mussel onto the plate of shells and reached for a fresh one. “I knew there was more behind that girl’s arrival than simple chance.” “So you’ll harvest?” Denth asked. “I’ll think about it,” Fob said. Denth nodded. “Good enough, I guess.” He nodded to Vivenna and Tonk Fah, and the three of them left Fob eating his shellfish. Vivenna settled the tab—which was even higher than she’d feared—and then they joined Parlin, Jewels, and Clod the Lifeless waiting outside. The group moved away from the restaurant, pushing through the crowd easily, if only because of the massive Lifeless that walked before them. “Where now?” Vivenna asked. Denth eyed her. “Not tired even a little?” Vivenna didn’t acknowledge her sore feet or her drowsiness. “We’re working for the good of my people, Denth. A little weariness is a small price.” Denth shot a glance toward Tonk Fah, but the overweight mercenary had split off into the crowd toward a merchant’s stand, Parlin tagging along behind. Parlin, Vivenna noticed, had gone back to wearing his ridiculous green hat despite her disapproval. What was wrong with that man? He wasn’t terribly bright, true, but he had always been levelheaded. “Jewels,” Denth called up ahead. “Take us to the Raymar place.” Jewels nodded, giving instructions to Clod that Vivenna couldn’t hear. The group turned in another direction through the crowd. “It only responds to her?” Vivenna said. Denth shrugged. “It has basic instructions to do what Tonks and I say and I’ve got a security phrase I can use if I need more control.” Vivenna frowned. “Security phrase?” Denth eyed her. “This is a rather heretical discussion we’re getting into. You sure you want to continue?” Vivenna ignored the amusement in his tone. “I still do not like the idea of that thing being with us, particularly if I don’t have any way to control it.” “All Awakening works by way of the Command, Princess,” Denth said. “You infuse something with life, then give it an order. Lifeless are valuable because you can give them Commands after you create them, unlike regular Awakened objects, which you can only Command once in advance. Plus, Lifeless can remember a long list of complicated orders and are generally good about not misunderstanding them. They retain a bit of their humanity, I guess.” Vivenna shivered. That made them seem far too sentient for her liking. “However, that means pretty much anyone can control a Lifeless,” Denth said. “Not just the person who created them. So we give them security phrases. A couple words you can say that will let you imprint the creature with new Commands.” “So what’s the security phrase for Clod?” “I’ll have to ask
Jewels if you can have it.” Vivenna opened her mouth to complain, but thought better of it. Denth obviously didn’t like interfering with Jewels or her work. Vivenna would simply have to make a point of it later, once they were in a more private location. Instead, she just eyed Clod. He was dressed in simple clothing. Grey trousers and grey shirt, with a leather jerkin that had been drained of color. He carried a large blade at his waist. Not a dueling sword—a more brutal, broad-bladed weapon. All in grey, Vivenna thought. Is that because they want everyone to recognize Clod for a Lifeless? Despite what Denth said about Lifeless being common, many people gave the thing a wide berth. Snakes might be common in the jungle, she thought, but that doesn’t mean that people are pleased to see them. Jewels chatted quietly at the Lifeless, though it never responded. It simply walked, face forward, inhuman in the steady rhythm of its steps. “Does she always...talk to it like that?” Vivenna asked, shivering. “Yeah,” Denth said. “That doesn’t seem very healthy.” Denth looked troubled, though he said nothing. A few moments later, Tonk Fah and Parlin returned. Tonk Fah, Vivenna was displeased to see, had a small monkey on his shoulder. It chittered a bit, then ran behind Tonk Fah’s neck, moving to the other shoulder. “A new pet?” Vivenna asked. “What happened to that parrot of yours, anyway?” Tonk Fah looked ashamed, and Denth just shook his head. “Tonks isn’t very good with pets.” “That parrot was boring anyway,” Tonk Fah said. “Monkeys are much more interesting.” Vivenna shook her head. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the next restaurant, one far less lavish than the previous one. Jewels, Parlin, and the Lifeless took up places outside, as usual, and Vivenna and the two male mercenaries walked in. The meetings were becoming routine. During the last couple of weeks, they’d met with at least a dozen people of varying usefulness. Some were underground leaders Denth thought might be capable of making a ruckus. Others were merchants, like Fob. All in all, Vivenna was impressed with the variety of covert ways Denth had come up with to disrupt things in T’Telir. Most of the schemes did, however, require a display of Vivenna’s Royal Locks as a clincher. Most people instantly grasped the importance of a royal daughter being in the city, and she was left wondering just how Lemex had intended to achieve results without such convincing proof. Denth led them to a table in the corner, and Vivenna frowned at how dirty the restaurant was. The only light came in the form of slim slatlike windows shining beams of sunlight through the ceiling, but even that was enough to show the grime. Despite her hunger, she quickly determined that she would not be eating anything at this establishment. “Why do we keep switching restaurants, anyway?” she said, sitting down—but only after wiping off the stool with her handkerchief. “Harder to spy on us that way,” Denth said. “I keep
warning you, Princess. This is more dangerous than it seems. Don’t let the simple meetings over food throw you off. In any other city, we’d be meeting in lairs, gambling parlors, or alleyways. Best to keep moving.” They settled down, and as if they hadn’t just come from their second lunch of the day, Denth and Tonk Fah ordered food. Vivenna sat quietly in her chair, preparing for the meeting. Gods Feast was something of a holy day in Hallandren—though, from what she’d seen, the people of the pagan city had no real concept of what a “holy day” should be. Instead of helping the monks in their fields or caring for the needy, the people took the evening off and splurged on meals—as if the gods wanted them to be extravagant. And perhaps they did. From what she’d heard, the Returned were profligate beings. It made sense for their followers to spend their “holy day” being idle and gluttonous. Their contact arrived before the food did. He walked in with two bodyguards of his own. He wore nice clothing—which meant bright clothing, in T’Telir—but his beard was long and greasy, and he appeared to be short several teeth. He pointed, and his bodyguards pulled a second table over next to Vivenna’s, then arranged three chairs by it. The man took a seat, careful to keep his distance from Denth and Tonk Fah. “A little paranoid, aren’t we?” Denth said. The man raised his hands. “Caution never hurt a man.” “More food for us, then,” Tonk Fah said as the plate arrived. It was covered with bits of...something that had been battered and fried. The monkey immediately scrambled down Tonk Fah’s arm and snatched a few pieces. “So,” the man said, “you’re the infamous Denth.” “I am. I assume you’re Grable?” The man nodded. One of the city’s less reputable thieving lords, Vivenna thought. A strong ally of Vahr’s rebellion. They had been waiting weeks to set up this meeting. “Good,” Denth said. “We have some interest in making certain supply carts disappear on the way to the city.” He said it so openly. Vivenna glanced about, making certain no other tables were close. “Grable owns this restaurant, Princess,” Tonk Fah whispered. “Every second man in this room is probably a bodyguard.” Great, she thought, annoyed they hadn’t told her before they entered. She glanced around again, feeling far more jumpy this time. “Is that so?” Grable asked, bringing Vivenna’s attention back to the conversation. “You want to make things disappear? Caravans of food?” “It’s a difficult job we’re asking for,” Denth said grimly. “These aren’t long-distance caravans. Most of them will simply be coming into the city from the outlying farms.” He nodded to Vivenna, and she pulled out a small pouch of coins. She handed them to him, and he tossed them to a nearby table. One of the bodyguards investigated. “For your trouble in coming today,” Denth said. Vivenna watched the money go with a crimp in her stomach. It felt downright wrong to be using royal funds to
bribe men like Grable. What she had just given away wasn’t even a real bribe—it was simply “grease money,” as Denth put it. “Now,” Denth said, “the carts we’re talking about—” “Wait,” Grable said. “Let’s see the hair first.” Vivenna sighed, moving to put up the shawl. “No shawl,” Grable said. “No tricks. The men in this room are loyal.” Vivenna shot a glance at Denth, and he nodded. So she shifted colors a couple of times. Grable watched intently, scratching at his beard. “Nice,” he finally said. “Nice indeed. Where’d you find her?” Denth frowned. “What?” “A person with enough royal blood to imitate one of the princesses.” “She’s no impostor,” Denth said as Tonk Fah continued to work on the plate of fried somethings. “Come now,” Grable said, smiling with a wide, uneven smile. “You can tell me.” “It’s true,” Vivenna said. “Being royal is about more than just blood. It’s about lineage and the holy calling of Austre. My children will not have the Royal Locks unless I become queen of Idris. Only potential heirs have the ability to change their hair color.” “Superstitious nonsense,” Grable said. He leaned forward, ignoring her and focusing on Denth. “I don’t care about your caravans, Denth. I want to buy the girl from you. How much?” Denth was silent. “Word of her is spreading about town,” Grable said. “I see what you’re doing. You could move a lot of people, make a lot of noise, with a person who seemed to be of the royal family. I don’t know where you found her, or how you trained her so well, but I want her.” Denth stood up slowly. “We’re leaving,” he said. Grable’s bodyguards stood up too. Denth moved. There were ﬂashes—reﬂections of sunlight, and bodies moving too fast for Vivenna’s shocked mind to follow. Then the motion stopped. Grable remained in his chair. Denth stood poised, his dueling blade sticking through the neck of one of the bodyguards. The bodyguard looked surprised, his hand still on his sword. Vivenna hadn’t even seen Denth draw his weapon. The other bodyguard stumbled, blood staining the front of his jerkin from where—shockingly—Denth seemed to have managed to stab him as well. He slipped to the ground, bumping Grable’s table in his death throes. Lord of Colors...Vivenna thought. So fast! “So, you are as good as they say,” Grable said, still looking unconcerned. Around the room, other men had stood. Some twenty of them. Tonk Fah grabbed another handful of fried things, then nudged Vivenna. “We might want to get up,” he whispered. Denth pulled his sword free of the bodyguard’s neck, and the man joined his friend, bleeding and dying on the ﬂoor. Denth slammed his sword into its sheath without wiping it, never breaking Grable’s gaze. “People speak of you,” Grable said. “Say you appeared out of nowhere a decade or so back. Gathered yourself a team of the best—stole them from important men. Or important prisons. Nobody knows much about you, other than the fact that you’re fast. Some say inhumanly so.”
Denth nodded toward the doorway. Vivenna stood nervously, then let Tonk Fah pull her through the room. The guards stood with their hands on their swords, but nobody attacked. “It’s a pity we couldn’t do business,” Grable said, sighing. “I hope you’ll think of me for future dealings.” Denth finally turned away, joining Vivenna and Tonk Fah as they left the restaurant and moved out onto the sunny street. Parlin and Jewels hurried to catch up. “He’s letting us go?” Vivenna asked, heart thumping. “He just wanted to see my blade,” Denth said. He still seemed tense. “It happens sometimes.” “Barring that, he wanted to steal himself a princess,” Tonk Fah added. “He either got to verify Denth’s skill or he got you.” “But...you could have killed him!” Vivenna said. Tonk Fah snorted. “And bring down the wrath of half the thieves, assassins, and burglars in the city? No, Grable knew he wasn’t ever in any danger from us.” Denth looked back at her. “I’m sorry for wasting your time—I thought he’d be more useful.” She frowned, noting for the first time the careful mask that Denth kept on his emotions. She’d always thought of him as carefree, like Tonk Fah, but now she saw hints of something else. Control. Control that was, for the first time since they’d met, in danger of cracking. “Well, no harm done,” she said. “Except for those slobs that Denth poked,” Tonk Fah added, happily feeding another morsel to his monkey. “We need to—” “Princess?” a voice asked from the crowd. Denth and Tonk Fah both spun. Once again, Denth’s sword was out before Vivenna could track. This time, however, he didn’t strike. The man behind them didn’t seem much of a threat. He wore ragged brown clothing, and had a leathery suntanned face. He had the look of a farmer. “Oh, Princess,” the man said, hurrying forward, ignoring the blades. “It is you. I heard rumors, but...oh, you’re here!” Denth shot a look at Tonk Fah, and the larger mercenary reached out, putting a hand in front of the newcomer before he got too close to Vivenna. She would have thought the caution unnecessary had she just not seen Denth kill two men in an eyeblink. The danger Denth always talked about was slowly seeping into her mind. If this man had a hidden weapon and a little skill, he could kill her before she knew what was happening. It was a chilling realization. “Princess,” the man said, falling to his knees. “I am your servant.” “Please,” she said. “Do not put me above others.” “Oh,” the man said, looking up. “I’m sorry. It’s been so long since I left Idris! But, it is you!” “How did you know I was here?” “The Idrians in T’Telir,” the man said. “They say you’ve come to take the throne back. We’ve been oppressed here for so long that I thought people were just making up stories. But it’s true! You’re here!” Denth glanced at her, then at Grable’s restaurant, which was still close behind them. He nodded
to Tonk Fah. “Grab him, search him, and we’ll talk somewhere else.” ~ The “somewhere else” turned out to be a ragged dump of a building in a poor section of town about fifteen minutes from the restaurant. Vivenna found the slums of T’Telir to be very interesting, on an intellectual level at least. Even here, there was color. People wore faded clothing. Bright strips of cloth hung from windows, stretched across overhangs, and even sat in puddles on the street. Colors, muted or dirty. Like a carnival that had been hit by a mudslide. Vivenna stood outside the shack with Jewels, Parlin, and the Idrian, waiting as Denth and Tonk Fah made sure the building wasn’t hiding any unseen threats. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling an odd sense of despair. The faded colors in the alley felt wrong. They were dead things. Like a beautiful bird that had fallen motionless to the ground, its shape intact, but the magic gone. Ruined reds, stained yellows, broken greens. In T’Telir, even simple things—like chair legs and storage sacks—were dyed bright colors. How much must the people of the city spend on dyes and inks? If it hadn’t been for the Tears of Edgli, the vibrant ﬂowers that grew only in the T’Telir climate, it would have been impossible. Hallandren had made an entire economy out of growing, harvesting, and producing dyes from the special ﬂowers. Vivenna wrinkled her nose at the smell of refuse. Scents were more vibrant to her now, too, much like colors. It wasn’t that her ability to smell was any better, the things that she smelled just seemed rich. She shivered. Even now, weeks after the infusion of Breath, she didn’t feel normal. She could sense the teeming people of the city, could sense Parlin beside her, watching the nearby alleys with suspicion. She could sense Denth and Tonk Fah inside—one of them appeared to be inspecting the basement. She could... She froze. She couldn’t feel Jewels. She glanced to the side, but the shorter woman was there, hands on hips, muttering to herself about being left with the “kids.” Her Lifeless abomination was beside her; Vivenna hadn’t expected to be able to feel it. Why couldn’t she feel Jewels? Vivenna had a sharp moment of panic, thinking that Jewels might be some twisted Lifeless creation. Then, however, she realized that there was a simple explanation. Jewels had no Breath. She was a Drab. Now that Vivenna knew what to look for, it was obvious. Even without her wealth of Breath, Vivenna thought she might have been able to tell. There was less of a sparkle of life in Jewels’s eyes. She seemed more grumpy, less pleasant. She seemed to put others on edge. Plus Jewels never noticed when Vivenna was watching her. Whatever sense made others glance about if they were watched for too long, Jewels didn’t have it. Vivenna turned away, and found herself blushing. Seeing a person without Breath...it felt like spying on someone when they were changing. Seeing them exposed. Poor woman, she

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