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thought. I wonder how it happened. Had she sold it herself? Or had it been taken from her? Suddenly, Vivenna felt awkward. Why should I have so much, when she has nothing? It was the worst kind of ostentation. She felt Denth approach before he actually pushed the door open. It looked ready to fall off its hinges. “Safe,” he said. Then he eyed Vivenna. “You don’t have to be involved with this, if you don’t want to waste your time, Princess. Jewels can take you back to the house. We’ll question the man and bring you word.” She shook her head. “No. I want to hear what he has to say.” “I figured as much,” Denth said. “We’ll want to cancel our next appointment, though. Jewels, you—” “I’ll do it,” Parlin said. Denth paused, glancing at Vivenna. “Look, I may not understand everything going on in this city,” Parlin said, “but I can deliver a simple message. I’m not an idiot.” “Let him go,” Vivenna said. “I trust him.” Denth shrugged. “All right. Head straight down this alley until you find the square with the broken statue of a horseman, then turn east and follow that road through its curves. That’ll take you out of the slum. The next appointment was to happen at a restaurant called the Armsman’s Way; you’ll find it in the market on the west side.” Parlin nodded and took off. Denth waved for Vivenna and the others to enter the building. The nervous Idrian man—Thame—went first. Vivenna followed him in, and was surprised to find that the inside of the building looked quite a bit sturdier than the outside had indicated. Tonk Fah found a stool, and he put it down in the center of the room. “Have a seat, friend,” Denth said, gesturing. Thame nervously settled on the stool. “Now,” Denth said, “why don’t you tell us how you found out that the princess was going to be in that particular restaurant today?” Thame glanced from side to side. “I just happened to be walking in the area and I—” Tonk Fah cracked his knuckles. Vivenna glanced at him, suddenly noticing that Tonk Fah seemed more...dangerous. The idle, overweight man who liked to nap had vanished. In his place was a thug with sleeves rolled up, showing off muscles that bulged impressively. Thame was sweating. To the side, Clod the Lifeless stepped into the room, his inhuman eyes falling into shadow, his face looking like something molded in wax. A simulacrum of a human. “I...run jobs for one of the bosses in the city,” Thame said. “Little things. Nothing big. When you’re one of us, you take the jobs you can get.” “One of us?” Denth asked, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Idrian.” “I’ve seen Idrians in good positions in the city, friend,” Denth said. “Merchants. Moneylenders.” “The lucky ones, sir,” Thame said, gulping. “They have their own money. People will work with anyone who has money. If you’re just an ordinary man, things are different. People look at your clothing,
listen to your accent, and they find others to do their work. They say we’re not trustworthy. Or that we’re boring. Or that we steal.” “And do you?” Vivenna found herself asking. Thame looked at her, then glanced down at the building’s dirt ﬂoor. “Sometimes,” he said. “But not at first. I only do it now, when my boss asks me to.” “That still doesn’t answer how you knew where to find us, friend,” Denth said quietly. His pointed use of the word “friend,” when contrasted with Tonk Fah on one side and the Lifeless on the other, made Vivenna shiver. “My boss talks too much,” Thame said. “He knew what was happening at that restaurant—he sold the information to a couple of people. I heard for free.” Denth glanced at Tonk Fah. “Everyone knows she’s in the city,” Thame said quickly. “We’ve all heard the rumors. It’s no coincidence. Things are bad for us. Worse than they’ve ever been. The princess came to help, right?” “Friend,” Denth said. “I think it’s best that you forget this entire meeting. I realize that there will be the temptation to sell information. But I promise you, we can find out if you do that. And we can—” “Denth, that’s enough,” Vivenna said. “Stop scaring the man.” The mercenary glanced at her, causing Thame to jump. “Oh, for the Colors’ sake,” she said walking forward, crouching beside Thame’s stool. “No harm will come to you, Thame. You have done well in seeking me out, and I trust you to keep news of our meeting quiet. But, tell me, if things are so bad in T’Telir, why not return to Idris?” “Travel costs money, Your Highness,” he said. “I can’t afford it—most of us can’t.” “Are there many of you here?” Vivenna asked. “Yes, Your Highness.” Vivenna nodded. “I want to meet with the others.” “Princess—” Denth said, but she silenced him with a glance. “I can gather some together,” Thame said, nodding eagerly. “I promise. I’m known to a lot of the Idrians.” “Good,” Vivenna said. “Because I have come to help. How shall we contact you?” “Ask around for Rira,” he said. “That’s my boss.” Vivenna rose and then gestured toward the doorway. Thame ﬂed without further prompting. Jewels, who stood guarding the doorway, reluctantly stepped aside and let the man scuttle away. The room was silent for a moment. “Jewels,” Denth said. “Follow him.” She nodded and was gone. Vivenna glanced back at the two mercenaries, expecting to find them angry at her. “Aw, did you have to let him go so fast?” Tonk Fah said, sitting down on the ﬂoor, looking morose. Whatever he’d done to look dangerous was gone, evaporating faster than water on metal in the sun. “Now you’ve done it,” Denth said. “He’ll be sullen for the rest of the day.” “I never get to be the bad guy anymore,” Tonk Fah said, falling back and staring up at the ceiling. His monkey wandered over and sat atop his ample stomach. “You’ll get over it,” Vivenna said, rolling her
eyes. “Why were you so hard on him, anyway?” Denth shrugged. “You know what I like least about being a mercenary?” “I suspect that you’re going to tell me,” Vivenna said, folding her arms. “People are always trying to fool you,” he said, sitting down on the ﬂoor beside Tonk Fah. “They all think that because you’re hired muscle, you’re an idiot.” He paused, as if expecting Tonk Fah to give his usual counterpoint. Instead, however, the bulky mercenary just continued to stare at the ceiling. “Arsteel always got to be the mean one,” he said. Denth sighed, giving Vivenna a “This is your fault” look. “Anyway,” he continued. “I couldn’t be sure that our friend there wasn’t a plant arranged by Grable. He could have pretended to be a loyal subject, gotten inside our defenses, then knifed you in the back. Best to be safe.” She sat down on the stool, and was tempted to say that he was overreacting, but...well, she had just seen him kill two men in her defense. I’m paying them, she thought. I should probably just let them do their job. “Tonk Fah,” she said. “You can be the mean one next time.” He looked up. “You promise?” “Yes,” she said. “Can I yell at the person we are interrogating?” “Sure,” she said. “Can I growl at him?” he asked. “I guess,” she said. “Can I break his fingers?” She frowned. “No!” “Not even the unimportant ones?” Tonk Fah asked. “I mean, people have five after all. The little ones don’t even do that much.” Vivenna paused, then Tonk Fah and Denth started laughing. “Oh, honestly,” she said, turning away. “I can never tell when you shift from being serious to being ridiculous.” “That’s what makes it so funny,” Tonk Fah said, still chuckling. “Are we leaving, then?” Vivenna said, rising. “Nah,” Denth said. “Let’s wait a bit. I’m still not sure that Grable isn’t looking for us. Best to lay low for a few hours.” She frowned, glancing at Denth. Tonk Fah, amazingly, was already snoring softly. “I thought you said that Grable would let us go,” she said. “That he was just testing us—that he wanted to see how good you were.” “It’s likely,” Denth said. “But I’ve been known to be wrong. He might have let us go because he was worried about my sword being so close to him. He could be having second thoughts. We’ll give it a few hours, then head back and ask my watchers if anyone has been poking around the house.” “Watchers?” Vivenna asked. “You have people watching our house?” “Of course,” Denth said. “Kids work cheap in the city. Worth the coin, even when you’re not protecting a princess from a rival kingdom.” She folded her arms, standing. She didn’t feel like sitting, so she began to pace. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Grable,” Denth said, eyes closed as he sat back, leaning against the wall. “This is just a precaution.” She shook her head. “It makes sense that he’d want revenge, Denth,” she said.
“You killed two of his men.” “Men can be cheap in this city too, Princess.” “You say he was testing you,” Vivenna said. “But what would be the point of that? Provoking you to action just to let you go?” “To see how much of a threat I was,” Denth said, shrugging, eyes still closed. “Or, more likely, to see if I was worth the pay I usually demand. Again, I wouldn’t worry so much.” She sighed, then wandered over to the window so she could watch the street. “You should probably stay away from the window,” Denth said. “Just to be safe.” First he tells me not to worry, then he tells me not to let myself be seen, she thought with frustration, walking toward the back of the room, moving toward the door down to the cellar. “I wouldn’t do that, either,” Denth noted. “Stairs are broken in a few places. Not much to see, anyway. Dirt ﬂoor. Dirt walls. Dirt ceiling.” She sighed again, turning away from the door. “What is with you, anyway?” he asked, still not opening his eyes. “You’re not usually this nervous.” “I don’t know,” she said. “Being locked in like this makes me anxious.” “I thought princesses were taught to be patient,” Denth noted. He’s right, she realized. That sounded like something Siri would say. What is wrong with me lately? She forced herself to sit down on the stool, folding her hands in her lap, reasserting control of her hair, which had rebelliously started to lighten to a brown. “Please,” she said, forcing herself to sound patient, “tell me of this place. Why did you select this building?” Denth cracked an eyelid. “We rent it,” he finally said. “It’s nice to have safe houses around the city. Since we don’t use them very often, we find the cheapest ones we can.” I noticed, Vivenna thought, but fell silent, recognizing how stilted her attempt at conversation had sounded. She sat quietly, looking down at her hands, trying to figure out just what had set her on edge. It was more than the fight. The truth was, she was worried about how long things in T’Telir were taking. Her father would have received her letter two weeks before and would know that two of his daughters were in Hallandren. She could only hope that the logic of her letter, mixed with her threats, would keep him from doing anything foolish. She was glad Denth had made her abandon Lemex’s house. If her father did send agents to retrieve her, they would naturally try to find Lemex first— just as she had. However, a cowardly part of her wished that Denth hadn’t shown such foresight. If they were still living in Lemex’s home, she might have been discovered already. And be on her way back to Idris. She acted so determined. Indeed, sometimes she felt quite determined. Those were the times when she thought about Siri or her kingdom’s needs. However, those times—the royal times—were actually rather rare. The rest of the time, she wondered. What
was she doing? She didn’t know about subterfuge or warfare. Denth was really behind everything she was “doing” to help Idris. What she had suspected on that first day had proved true. Her preparation and study amounted to little. She didn’t know how to go about saving Siri. She didn’t know what to do about the Breath she held within her. She didn’t even know, really, if she wanted to stay in this insane, overcrowded, overcolored city. In short, she was useless. And that was the one thing, above all else, that her training had never prepared her to deal with. “You really want to meet with the Idrians?” Denth asked. Vivenna looked up. Outside, it was growing darker as evening approached. Do I? she thought. If my father has agents in the city, they might be there. But, if there’s something I can do for those people... “I’d like to,” she said. He fell silent. “You don’t like it,” she said. He shook his head. “It will be hard to arrange, hard to keep quiet, and will make you hard to protect. These meetings we’ve been having—they’ve all been in controlled areas. If you meet with the common folk, that won’t be possible.” She nodded quietly. “I want to do it anyway. I have to do something, Denth. Something useful. Being paraded before these contacts of yours is helping. But I need to do more. If war is coming, we need to prepare these people. Help them, somehow.” She looked up, staring out toward the windows. Clod the Lifeless stood in the corner where Jewels had left him. Vivenna shivered, looking away. “I want to help my sister,” she said. “And I want to be useful to my people. But I can’t help feeling that I’m not doing much for Idris by staying in the city.” “Better than leaving,” Denth said. “Why? “Because if you left, there wouldn’t be anyone to pay me.” She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t joking,” Denth noted. “I really do like getting paid. However, there are better reasons to stay.” “Like what?” she asked. He shrugged. “Depends, I guess. Look, Princess, I’m not the type to give brilliant advice or deep counsel. I’m a mercenary. You pay me, you point me, and I go stab things. But I figure that if you think about it, you’ll find that running back to Idris is about the least useful thing you could do. You won’t be able to do anything there other than sit about and knit doilies. Your father has other heirs. Here, you might be largely ineffective—but there you’re completely redundant.” He fell silent, stretching, leaning back a little more. Tough man to have a conversation with, sometimes, Vivenna thought to herself, shaking her head. Still, she found his words comforting. She smiled, turning. And found Clod standing right beside her stool. She yelped, half-scrambling, half-falling backward. Denth was on his feet in a heartbeat, sword drawn, and Tonk Fah wasn’t far behind. Vivenna stumbled to her feet, her skirts getting in the way, and placed
a hand against her chest, as if to still her heartbeat. The Lifeless stood, watching her. “He does that sometimes,” Denth said, chuckling, though it sounded false to Vivenna. “Just walks up to people.” “Like he was curious about them,” Tonk Fah said. “They can’t be curious,” Denth said. “No emotion at all. Clod. Go back to your corner.” The Lifeless turned and began to walk. “No,” Vivenna said, shivering. “Put it in the basement.” “But, the stairs—” Denth said. “Now!” Vivenna snapped, hair tingeing red at the tips. Denth sighed. “Clod, to the cellar.” The Lifeless turned and walked to the door at the back. As he went down the steps, Vivenna heard one crack slightly, but the creature made it safely, judging by the sound of his footsteps. She sat back down, trying to calm her breathing. “Sorry about that,” Denth said. “I can’t feel him,” Vivenna said. “It’s unnerving. I forget that he’s there, and don’t notice when he approaches.” Denth nodded. “I know.” “Jewels, too,” she said, glancing at him. “She is a Drab.” “Yeah,” Denth said, settling back down. “Has been since she was a child. Her parents sold her Breath to one of the gods.” “They each need a Breath a week to survive,” Tonk Fah added. “How horrible,” Vivenna said. I really need to show her more kindness. “It’s really not so bad,” Denth said. “I’ve been without Breath myself.” “You have?” He nodded. “Everyone goes through times when they’re short of coin. The nice thing about Breath is that you can always buy one off someone else.” “Somebody is always selling,” Tonk Fah said. Vivenna shook her head, shivering. “But you have to live without it for a time. Have no soul.” Denth laughed—and this time it was definitely genuine. “Oh, that’s just superstition, Princess. Lacking Breath doesn’t change you that much.” “It makes you less kind,” Vivenna said. “More irritable. Like...” “Jewels?” Denth asked, amused. “Nah, she’d be like that anyway. I’m sure of it. Either way, when I’ve sold my Breath, I didn’t feel much different. You really have to pay attention to even notice it’s missing.” Vivenna turned away. She didn’t expect him to understand. It was easy to call her beliefs superstition, but she could just as easily turn the words back on Denth. People saw what they wanted to see. If he believed he felt the same without Breath, that was just an easy way to rationalize the selling of it—and then purchase of another Breath from an innocent person. Besides, why even bother buying one back if it didn’t matter? The conversation died off until Jewels returned. She walked in and, once again, Vivenna barely noticed her. I’m starting to rely on that life sense far too much, she thought with annoyance, standing as Jewels nodded to Denth. “He is who he says he is,” Jewels said. “I asked around, got three confirmations from people I kind of trust.” “All right, then,” Denth said, stretching and climbing to his feet. He kicked Tonk Fah awake. “Let’s carefully head
back to the house.” Annotations for Chapter 22 Twenty-Three Annotations for Chapter 23 Lightsong found Blushweaver in the grassy portion of the courtyard behind her palace. She was enjoying the art of one of the city’s master gardeners. Lightsong strolled through the grass, his entourage hovering around him, holding up a large parasol to shield him from the sun, and generally seeing that he was suitably pampered. He passed hundreds of planters, pots, and vases filled with various kinds of growing things, all arranged into elaborate formal patterns and rows. Temporary ﬂower beds. The gods were too godly to leave the court and visit the city gardens, so the gardens had to be brought to them. Such an enormous undertaking required dozens of workers and carts full of plants. Nothing was too good for the gods. Except, of course, freedom. Blushweaver stood admiring one of the patterns of vases. She noticed Lightsong as he approached, his moving BioChroma successively making the ﬂowers shine more vibrantly in the afternoon sunlight. She was wearing a surprisingly modest dress. It had no sleeves and appeared to be made entirely of a single wrapping of green silk, but it covered up the essential bits and then some. “Lightsong, dear,” she said, smiling. “Visiting a lady in her home? How charmingly forward. Well, enough of this small talk. Let us retire to the bedroom.” He smiled, holding up a sheet of paper as he approached her. She paused, then accepted it. The front was covered with colored dots—the artisans’ script. “What is this?” she asked. “I figured I knew how our conversation would begin,” he said. “And so I saved us the trouble of having to go through it. I had it written out beforehand.” Blushweaver raised an eyebrow, then read. “‘To start, Blushweaver says something that is mildly suggestive.’” She glanced at him. “Mildly? I invited you to the bedroom. I’d call that blatant.” “I underestimated you,” Lightsong said. “Please continue.” “‘Then Lightsong says something to deﬂect her,’” Blushweaver read. “‘It is so incredibly charming and clever that she is left stunned by his brilliance and cannot speak for several minutes...’ Oh, honestly, Lightsong. Do I have to read this?” “It’s a masterpiece,” he said. “Best work I’ve ever done. Please, the next part is important.” She sighed. “‘Blushweaver says something about politics which is dreadfully boring but she offsets it by wiggling her chest. After that, Lightsong apologizes for being so distant lately. He explains that he had some things to work out.’” She paused, eyeing him. “Does this mean that you’re finally ready to be part of my plans?” He nodded. To the side, a group of gardeners removed the ﬂowers. They returned in waves, building a pattern of small blossoming trees in large pots around Blushweaver and Lightsong, a living kaleidoscope with the two Returned gods at its center. “I don’t think that the queen is involved in a plot to take the throne,” Lightsong said. “Although I’ve spoken with her only brieﬂy, I am convinced.” “Then why agree to join with me?”
He stood quietly for a moment, enjoying the blossoms. “Because,” he said. “I intend to see that you don’t crush her. Or the rest of us.” “My dear Lightsong,” Blushweaver said, pursing bright red lips. “I assure you that I’m harmless.” He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that.” “Now, now,” she said, “you should never point out a lady’s departure from strict truth. Anyway, I’m glad you came. We have work to do.” “Work?” he said. “That sounds like...work.” “Of course, dear,” she said, walking away. Gardeners immediately ran forward, pulling aside the small trees to clear a path for them. The master gardener himself stood by directing the evolving composition like the conductor of a botanical orchestra. Lightsong hurried and caught up. “Work,” he said. “Do you know what my philosophy on that word is?” “I have somehow gotten the subtle impression that you do not approve of it,” Blushweaver said. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Work, my dear Blushweaver, is like fertilizer.” “It smells?” He smiled. “No, I was thinking that work is like fertilizer in that I’m glad it exists; I just don’t ever want to get stuck in it.” “That’s unfortunate,” Blushweaver said. “Because you just agreed to do so.” He sighed. “I thought I smelled something.” “Don’t be tedious,” she said, smiling to some workers as they lined her path with vases of ﬂowers. “This is going to be fun.” She turned back to him, eyes twinkling. “Mercystar got attacked last night.” ~ “Oh, my dear Blushweaver. It was positively tragic.” Lightsong raised an eyebrow. Mercystar was a gorgeously voluptuous woman who offered a striking contrast with Blushweaver. Both were, of course, perfect examples of feminine beauty. Blushweaver was simply the slim—yet busty—type while Mercystar was the curvaceous—yet busty—type. Mercystar lounged back on a plush couch, being fanned with large palm leaves by several of her serving men. She didn’t have Blushweaver’s subtle sense of style. There was a skill to choosing bright clothing that didn’t edge into garishness. Lightsong himself didn’t have it—but he had servants who did. Mercystar, apparently, didn’t even know such a skill existed. Though admittedly, he thought, orange and gold aren’t exactly the easiest colors to wear with dignity. “Mercystar, dear,” Blushweaver said warmly. One of the servants provided a cushioned stool, sliding it beneath Blushweaver just as she sat at Mercystar’s elbow. “I can understand how you must feel.” “Can you?” Mercystar asked. “Can you possibly? This is terrible. Some...some miscreant snuck into my palace, accosting my servants! The very home of a goddess! Who would do such a thing?” “Indeed, he must have been deranged,” Blushweaver said soothingly. Lightsong stood beside her, smiling sympathetically, hands clasped behind his back. A cool afternoon breeze blew across the courtyard and through the pavilion. Some of Blushweaver’s gardeners had brought over ﬂowers and trees, surrounding the pavilion’s canopy, filling the air with their mingled perfumes. “I can’t understand it,” Mercystar said. “The guards at the gates are supposed to prevent these kinds of things! Why do we have walls if people can just
walk in and violate our homes? I just don’t feel safe anymore.” “I’m certain the guards will be more diligent in the future,” Blushweaver said. Lightsong frowned, glancing toward Mercystar’s palace, where servants buzzed about like bees around a disturbed hive. “What was the intruder after, do you suppose?” he said, almost to himself. “Works of art, perhaps? Surely there are merchants who would be much easier to rob.” “We may not know what they want,” Blushweaver said smoothly, “but we at least know something about them.” “We do?” Mercystar said, perking up. “Yes, dear,” Blushweaver said. “Only someone with no respect for tradition, propriety, or religion would dare trespass in the home of a god. Someone base. Disrespectful. Unbelieving...” “An Idrian?” Mercystar asked. “Did you ever wonder, dear,” Blushweaver said, “why they sent their youngest daughter to the God King instead of their eldest?” Mercystar frowned. “They did?” “Yes, dear,” Blushweaver said. “That is rather suspicious, now, isn’t it?” “Something is going on in the Court of Gods, Mercystar,” Blushweaver said, leaning over. “These could be dangerous times for the Crown.” “Blushweaver,” Lightsong said. “A word, if you please?” She eyed him in annoyance. He met her gaze steadily, which eventually caused her to sigh. She patted Mercystar’s hand and then retreated from the pavilion with Lightsong, their servants and priests trailing behind. “What are you doing?” Lightsong said as soon as they were out of Mercystar’s hearing. “Recruiting,” Blushweaver said, a glint in her eye. “We’re going to need her Lifeless Commands.” “I’m still not myself persuaded that we will need them,” Lightsong said. “War may not be necessary.” “As I said,” Blushweaver replied, “we need to be careful. I’m just making preparations.” “All right,” he said. There was a wisdom to that. “But we don’t know that it was an Idrian who broke into Mercystar’s palace. Why are you implying that it was?” “And you think it’s just coincidence? Someone sneaks into one of our palaces now, with the war approaching?” “Coincidence.” “And the intruder just happened to pick one of the four Returned who hold Lifeless access Commands? If I were going to go to war with Hallandren, the first thing I’d do would be try to search out those commands. Maybe see if they were written down anywhere, or perhaps try to kill the gods who held them.” Lightsong glanced back at the palace. Blushweaver’s arguments held some merit, but they weren’t enough. He had an odd impulse to look into this more deeply. However, that sounded like work. He really couldn’t afford to make an exception to his usual habits, particularly without a lot of complaining first. It set a poor precedent. So he just nodded his head, and Blushweaver led them back to the pavilion. “Dear,” Blushweaver said, quickly sitting back beside Mercystar and looking a little bit more anxious. She leaned in. “We’ve talked it over and decided to trust you.” Mercystar sat up. “Trust me? With what?” “Knowledge,” Blushweaver whispered. “There are those of us who fear that the Idrians aren’t content with
their mountains and are determined to control the lowlands as well.” “But we’ll be joined by blood,” Mercystar said. “There will be a Hallandren God King with royal blood on our throne.” “Oh?” Blushweaver said. “And could that not also be interpreted as an Idrian king with Hallandren blood on the throne?” Mercystar wavered. Then, oddly, she glanced at Lightsong. “Do you believe this?” Why did people look toward him? He did everything to discourage such behavior, but they still tended to act like he was some kind of moral authority. “I think that some...preparation would be wise,” he said. “Though, of course, the same can be said for dinner.” Blushweaver gave him an annoyed look, though by the time she looked back at Mercystar, she had her consoling face on again. “We understand that you’ve had a difficult day,” she said. “But please, consider our offer. We would like you to join with us in our precautions.” “What kind of precautions are you talking about?” Mercystar asked. “Simple ones,” Blushweaver said quickly. “Thinking, talking, planning. Eventually, if we think we have enough evidence, we will bring what we know to the God King.” This seemed to ease Mercystar’s mind. She nodded. “Yes, I can see. Preparation. It would be wise.” “Rest now, dear,” Blushweaver said, rising and leading Lightsong away from the pavilion. They walked leisurely across the perfect lawn back toward Blushweaver’s own palace. He felt a reluctance to go, however. Something about the meeting bothered him. “She’s a dear,” Blushweaver said, smiling. “You just say that because she’s so easy to manipulate.” “Of course,” Blushweaver said. “I positively love people who do as they should. ‘Should’ being defined as whatever I think is best.” “At least you’re open about it,” Lightsong said. “To you, my dear, I’m as easy to read as a book.” He snorted. “Maybe one that hasn’t been translated to Hallandren yet.” “You just say that because you’ve never really tried reading me,” she said, smiling at him. “Though, I must say that there is one thing about dear Mercystar that positively annoys me.” “And that is?” “Her armies,” Blushweaver said, folding her arms. “Why did she, goddess of kindness, get command of ten thousand Lifeless? It’s obviously a dire error in judgment. Particularly since I don’t have command of any troops.” “Blushweaver,” he said with amusement, “you’re the goddess of honesty, communication, and interpersonal relationships. Why in the world would you be given stewardship of armies?” “There are many interpersonal relationships related to armies,” she said. “After all, what do you call one man hitting another with a sword? That’s interpersonal.” “Quite so,” Lightsong said, glancing back at Mercystar’s pavilion. “Now,” Blushweaver said, “I should think that you’d appreciate my arguments, since relationships are, in fact, war. As is clear in our relationship, dear Lightsong. We...” She trailed off, then poked him in the shoulder. “Lightsong? Pay attention to me!” “Yes?” She folded her arms petulantly. “I must say, your banter has been decidedly off today. I may just have to find someone else to
play with.” “Hum, yes,” he said, studying Mercystar’s palace. “Tragic. Now, the break-in at Mercystar’s. It was just one person?” “Supposedly,” Blushweaver said. “It’s not important.” “Was anyone injured?” “A couple of servants,” Blushweaver said with a wave of the hand. “One was found dead, I believe. You should be paying attention to me, not that—” Lightsong froze. “Someone was killed?” She shrugged. “So they say.” He turned around. “I’m going to go back and talk to her some more.” “Fine,” Blushweaver snapped. “But you’ll do it without me. I have gardens to enjoy.” “All right,” Lightsong said, already turning away. “I’ll talk to you later.” Blushweaver let out a huff of indignation, her hands on her hips, watching him go. Lightsong ignored her irritation, however, more focused on... What? So some servants had been hurt. It wasn’t his place to be involved in criminal disturbances. And yet, he walked straight to Mercystar’s pavilion again, his servants and priests trailing behind, as ever. She was still reclining on her couch. “Lightsong?” she asked with a frown. “I returned because I just heard that one of your servants was killed in the attack.” “Ah, yes,” she said. “The poor man. What a terrible occurrence. I’m sure he’s found his blessings in heaven.” “Funny, how they’re always in the last place you consider looking,” Lightsong said. “Tell me, how did the murder happen?” “It’s very odd, actually,” she said. “The two guards at the door were knocked unconscious. The intruder was discovered by four of my servants who were walking through the Service hallway. He fought them, knocked out one, killed another, and two escaped.” “How was the man killed?” Mercystar sighed. “I really don’t know,” she said with a wave of the hand. “My priests can tell you. I fear I was too traumatized to take in the details.” “It would be all right if I talked to them?” “If you must,” Mercystar said. “Have I mentioned exactly how thoroughly out of sorts I am? One would think that you’d prefer to stay and comfort me.” “My dear Mercystar,” he said. “If you know anything of me, then you will realize that leaving you alone is by far the best comfort I can offer.” She frowned, looking up. “It was a joke, my dear,” he said. “I am, unfortunately, quite bad at them. Scoot, you coming?” Llarimar, who stood—as always—with the rest of the priests, looked toward him. “Your Grace?” “No need to upset the others any further,” Lightsong said. “I think that you and I alone will be sufficient for this exercise.” “As you command, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. Once again, Lightsong’s servants found themselves separated from their god. They clustered uncertainly on the grass—like a group of children abandoned by their parents. “What is this about, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked quietly as they walked up to the palace. “I honestly have no idea,” Lightsong said. “I just feel that there’s something odd going on here. The break-in. The death of that man. Something is wrong.” Llarimar looked at him, a strange
expression on his face. “What?” Lightsong asked. “It is nothing, Your Grace,” Llarimar finally said. “This is just a very uncharacteristic of you.” “I know,” Lightsong said, feeling confident about the decision nonetheless. “I honestly can’t say what prompted it. Curiosity, I guess.” “Curiosity that outweighs your desire to avoid doing...well, anything at all?” Lightsong shrugged. He felt energized as he walked into the palace. His normal lethargy retreated, and instead he felt excitement. It was almost familiar. He found a group of priests chatting inside the servants’ corridor. Lightsong walked right up to them, and they turned to regard him with shock. “Ah, good,” Lightsong said. “I assume you can tell me more of this break-in?” “Your Grace,” one said as all three bowed their heads. “I assure you, we have everything under control. There is no danger to you or your people.” “Yes, yes,” Lightsong said, looking over the corridor. “Is this where the man was killed, then?” They glanced at one another. “Over there,” one of them said reluctantly, pointing to a turn in the hallway. “Wonderful. Accompany me, if you please.” Lightsong walked up to the indicated section. A group of workers were removing the boards from the ﬂoor, probably to be replaced. Bloodstained wood, no matter how well cleaned, would not do for a goddess’s home. “Hum,” Lightsong said. “Looks messy. How did it happen?” “We aren’t sure, Your Grace,” said one of the priests. “The intruder knocked the men at the doorway unconscious, but did not otherwise harm them.” “Yes, Mercystar mentioned that,” Lightsong said. “But then he fought with four of the servants?” “Well, ‘fought’ isn’t quite the right word,” the priest said, sighing. Though Lightsong wasn’t their god, he was a god. They were bound by oath to answer his questions. “He immobilized one of them with an Awakened rope,” the priest continued. “Then, while one remained behind to delay the intruder, the other two ran for aid. The intruder quickly knocked the remaining man unconscious. At that time, the one who had been tied up was still alive.” The priest glanced at his colleagues. “When help finally came—delayed by a Lifeless animal that was causing confusion—they found the second man still unconscious. The first, still tied up, was dead. Stabbed through the heart with a dueling blade.” Lightsong nodded, kneeling beside the broken boards. The servants who had been working there bowed their heads and retreated. He wasn’t certain what he expected to find. The ﬂoor had been scrubbed clean, then torn apart. However, there was a strange patch a short distance away. He walked over and knelt, inspecting it more closely. Completely devoid of color, he thought. He looked up, focusing on the priests. “An Awakener, you say?” “Undoubtedly, Your Grace.” He looked back down at the grey patch. There’s no chance an Idrian did this, he realized. Not if he used Awakening. “What was this Lifeless creature you mentioned?” “A Lifeless squirrel, Your Grace,” one of the men said. “The intruder used it as a diversion.” “Well made?” he asked. They
nodded. “Using modern Command words, if its actions were any judge,” one said. “It even had ichor-alcohol instead of blood. Took us the better part of the night to catch the thing!” “I see,” Lightsong said, standing. “But the intruder escaped?” “Yes, Your Grace,” one of them said. “What do you suppose he was after?” The priests wavered. “We don’t know for sure, Your Grace,” one of them said. “We scared him away before he could reach his goal—one of our men saw him ﬂeeing back out the way he had come. Perhaps the resistance was too much for him.” “We think that he may have been a common burglar, Your Grace,” one said. “Here to sneak into the gallery and steal the art.” “Sounds likely enough to me,” Lightsong said, standing. “Good work with this, and all that.” He turned, walking back down the hallway toward the entrance. He felt strangely surreal. The priests were lying to him. He didn’t know how he could tell. Yet he did—he knew it deep inside, with some instincts he hadn’t realized he possessed. Instead of disturbing him, for some reason the lies excited him. “Your Grace,” Llarimar said, hurrying up. “Did you find what you wanted?” “That was no Idrian who broke in,” Lightsong said quietly as they walked into the sunlight. Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “There have been cases of Idrians coming to Hallandren and buying themselves Breath, Your Grace.” “And have you ever heard of one using a Lifeless?” Llarimar fell quiet. “No, Your Grace,” he finally admitted. “Idrians hate Lifeless. Consider them abominations, or some such nonsense. Either way, it wouldn’t make sense for an Idrian to try and get in like that. What would be the point? Assassinating a single one of the Returned? He or she would only be replaced, and the protocols in place would be certain that even the Lifeless armies weren’t without someone to direct them for long. The possibility for retaliation would far outweigh the benefit.” “So you believe that it was a thief?” “Of course not,” Lightsong said. “A ‘common burglar’ with enough money or Breath that he can waste a Lifeless, just for a diversion? Whoever broke in, he was already rich. Besides, why sneak through the servants’ hallway? There are no valuables there. The interior of the palace holds far more wealth.” Llarimar fell quiet again. He looked over at Lightsong, the same curious expression as before on his face. “That’s some very solid reasoning, Your Grace.” “I know,” Lightsong said. “I feel positively unlike myself. Perhaps I need to go get drunk.” “You can’t get drunk.” “Ah, but I certainly enjoy trying.” They walked back toward his palace, picking up his servants on the way. Llarimar seemed unsettled. Lightsong, however, simply felt excited. Murder in the Court of Gods, he thought. True, it was only a servant—but I’m supposed to be a god for all people, not just important ones. I wonder how long it’s been since someone was killed in the court? Hasn’t happened in my lifetime, certainly. Mercystar’s priests
were hiding something. Why had the intruder released a diversion—particularly such an expensive one—if he were simply going to run away? The servants of the Returned were not formidable soldiers or warriors. So why had he given up so easily? All good questions. Good questions that he, of all people, shouldn’t have bothered to wonder about. And yet, he did. All the way back to the palace, through a nice meal, and even into the night. Annotations for Chapter 23 Twenty-Four Annotations for Chapter 24 Siri’s servants clustered around her uncertainly as she walked into the chaotic room. She wore a blue and white gown with a ten-foot train. As she entered, scribes and priests looked up in shock; some immediately scrambled to their feet, bowing. Others just stared as she passed, her serving women doing their best to hold her train with dignity. Determined, Siri continued through the chamber—which was more like a hallway than a proper room. Long tables lined the walls, stacks of paper cluttered those tables, and scribes—Pahn Kahl men in brown, Hallandren men in the day’s colors—worked on the papers. The walls were, of course, black. Colored rooms were only found in the center of the palace, where the God King and Siri spent most of their time. Separately, of course. Though, things are a little different at night, she thought, smiling. It felt very conspiratorial of her to be teaching him letters. She had a secret that she was keeping from the rest of the kingdom, a secret that involved one of the most powerful men in the entire world. That gave her a thrill. She supposed she should have been more worried. Indeed, in her more thoughtful moments, the reality behind Bluefingers’s warnings did worry her. That’s why she had come to the scribes’ quarters. I wonder why the bedchamber is out here, she thought. Outside the main body of the palace, in the black part. Either way, the servants’ section of the palace—God King’s bedchamber excluded—was the last place the scribes expected to be disturbed by their queen. Siri noticed that some of her serving women looked apologetically at the men in the room as Siri arrived at the doors on the far side. A servant opened the door for her, and she entered the room beyond. A relaxed group of priests stood leafing through books in the medium-sized chamber. They looked over at her. One dropped his book to the ﬂoor in shock. “I,” Siri proclaimed, “want some books!” The priests stared at her. “Books?” one finally asked. “Yes,” Siri said, hands on hips. “This is the palace library, is it not?” “Well, yes, Vessel,” the priest said, glancing at his companions. All wore the robes of their office, and this day’s colors were violet and silver. “Well, then,” Siri said. “I’d like to borrow some of the books. I am tired of common entertainment and shall be reading to myself in my spare time.” “Surely you don’t want these books, Vessel,” another priest said. “They are about boring topics like religion or
city finances. Surely a book of stories would be more appropriate.” Siri raised an eyebrow. “And where might I find such a ‘more appropriate’ volume?” “We could have a reader bring the book from the city collection,” the priest said, stepping forward smoothly. “He’d be here shortly.” Siri hesitated. “No. I do not like that option. I shall take some of these books here.” “No, you shall not,” a new voice said from behind. Siri turned. Treledees, high priest of the God King, stood behind her, fingers laced, miter on his head, frown on his face. “You cannot refuse me,” Siri said. “I am your queen.” “I can and will refuse you, Vessel,” Treledees said. “You see, these books are quite valuable, and should something happen to them, the kingdom would suffer grave consequences. Even our priests are not allowed to bear them out of the room.” “What could happen to them in the palace, of all places?” she demanded. “It is the principle, Vessel. These are the property of a god. Susebron has made it clear that he wishes the books to stay here.” Oh he has, has he? For Treledees and the priests, having a tongueless god was very convenient. The priests could claim that he’d told them whatever served the purposes of the moment, and he could never correct them. “If you absolutely must read these volumes,” Treledees said, “you can stay here to do it.” She glanced at the room and thought of the stuffy priests standing in a ﬂock around her, listening to her sound out words, making a fool of herself. If anything in these volumes was sensitive, they’d probably find a way to distract her and keep her from finding it. “No,” Siri said, retreating from the crowded room. “Perhaps another time.” ~ I told you that they would not let you have the books, the God King wrote. Siri rolled her eyes and ﬂopped back onto the bed. She still wore her heavy evening dress. For some reason, being able to communicate with the God King made her even shyer. She only took off the dresses right before she went to sleep—which, lately, was getting later and later. Susebron sat in his usual place—not on the mattress, as he had that first night. Instead, he had pulled his chair up beside the bed. He still seemed so large and imposing. At least, he did until he looked at her, his face open, honest. He waved her back toward him where he sat with a board, writing with a bit of charcoal that she’d smuggled in. You shud not anger the prests so, he wrote. His spelling, as one might expect, was awful. Priests. She had pilfered a cup, then had hidden it in the room. If she held it to the wall and listened, she could sometimes faintly hear talking on the other side. After her nightly moaning and bouncing, she could usually hear chairs moving and a door closing. After that, there was silence in the other room. Either the priests left each
night once they were sure the deed was done or they were suspicious and trying to fool her into thinking they were gone. Her instinct said the former, though she made certain to whisper when she spoke to the God King, just in case. Siri? he wrote. What are you thinking about? “Your priests,” she whispered. “They frustrate me! They intentionally do things to spite me.” They are good men, he wrote. They work very hard to mayntayn my kingdom. “They cut out your tongue,” she said. The God King sat quietly for a few moments. It was nesisary, he wrote. I have too much power. She moved over. As usual, he shied back when she approached, moving his arm out of the way. There was no arrogance in this reaction. She had begun to think that he just had very little experience with touching. “Susebron,” she whispered. “These men are not looking after your best interests. They did more than cut out your tongue. They speak in your name, doing whatever they please.” They are not my enemes, he wrote stubbornly. They are good men. “Oh?” she said. “Then why do you hide from them the fact that you’re learning to read?” He paused again, glancing downward. So much humility for one who has ruled Hallandren for fifty years, she thought. In many ways, he’s like a child. I do not want them to know, he finally wrote. I do not want to upset them. “I’m sure,” Siri said ﬂatly. He paused. You are shur? he wrote. Does that mean you beleve me? “No,” Siri said. “That was sarcasm, Susebron.” He frowned. I do not know this thing. Sarkazm. “Sarcasm,” she said, spelling it. “It’s...” She trailed off. “It’s when you say one thing, but you really mean the opposite.” He frowned at her, then furiously erased his board and began writing again. This thing makes no sense. Why not say what you mean? “Because,” Siri said. “It’s just like...oh, I don’t know. It’s a way to be clever when you make fun of people.” Make fun of people? he wrote. God of Colors! Siri thought, trying to think of how to explain. It seemed ridiculous to her that he would know nothing of mockery. And yet, he had lived his entire life as a revered deity and monarch. “Mockery is when you say things to tease,” Siri said. “Things that might be hurtful to someone if said in anger, but you say them in an affectionate or in a playful way. Sometimes you do just say them to be mean. Sarcasm is one of the ways we mock—we say the opposite, but in an exaggerated way.” How do you know if the person is affekshonate, playful, or mean? “I don’t know,” Siri said. “It’s the way they say it, I guess.” The God King sat, looking confused but thoughtful. You are very normal, he finally wrote. Siri frowned. “Um. Thank you?” Was that good sarcasm? he wrote. Because in reality, you are quite strange. She smiled. “I try my best.”
He looked up. “That was sarcasm again,” she said. “I don’t ‘try’ to be strange. It just happens.” He looked at her. How had she ever been frightened of this man? How had she misunderstood? The look in his eyes, it wasn’t arrogance or emotionlessness. It was the look of a man who was trying very hard to understand the world around him. It was innocence. Earnestness. However, he was not simple. The speed at which he’d learned to write proved that. True, he’d already understood the spoken version of the language—and he’d memorized all of the letters in the book years before meeting her. She’d only needed to explain the rules of spelling and sound for him to make the final jump. She still found it amazing how quickly he picked things up. She smiled at him, and he hesitantly smiled back. “Why do you say that I’m strange?” she asked. You do not do things like other people, he wrote. Everyone else bows before me all of the time. Nobody talks to me. Even the prests, they only okashonally give me instrukshons—and they haven’t done that in years. “Does it offend you that I don’t bow, and that I talk to you like a friend?” He erased his board. Offend me? Why would it offend me? Do you do it in sarcasm? “No,” she said quickly. “I really like talking to you.” Then I do not understand. “Everyone else is afraid of you,” Siri said. “Because of how powerful you are.” But they took away my tongue to make me safe. “It’s not your Breath that scares them,” Siri said. “It’s your power over armies and people. You’re the God King. You could order anyone in the kingdom killed.” But why would I do that? he wrote. I would not kill a good person. They must know that. Siri sat back, resting on the plush bed, the fire crackling in the hearth behind them. “I know that, now,” she said. “But nobody else does. They don’t know you, they know only how powerful you are. So they fear you. And so they show their respect for you.” He paused. And so, you do not respect me? “Of course I do,” she said, sighing. “I’ve just never been very good at following rules. In fact, if someone tells me what to do, I usually want to do the opposite.” That is very strange, he wrote. I thought all people did what they were told. “I think you’ll find that most do not,” she said, smiling. That will get you into trouble. “Is that what the priests taught you?” He shook his head; then he reached over and took out his book. The book of stories for children. He brought it with him always, and she could see from his reverent touch that he valued it greatly. It’s probably his only real possession, she thought. Everything else is taken from him every day, then replaced the next morning. This book, he wrote. My mother read the stories to me when I was
a child. I memorized them all, before she was taken away. It speaks of many children who do not do as they are told. They are often eaten by monsters. “Oh are they?” Siri said, smiling. Do not be afraid, he wrote. My mother taught me that the monsters are not real. But I remember the lessons the stories taught. Obediance is good. You shud treat people well. Do not go into the jungle by yourself. Do not lie. Do not hurt others. Siri’s smile deepened. Everything he’d learned in his life, he’d either gotten from moralistic folktales or from priests who were teaching him to be a figurehead. Once she realized that, the simple, honest man that he had become was not so difficult to understand. Yet what had prompted him to defy that learning and ask her to teach him? Why was he willing to keep his learning secret from the men he had been taught all his life to obey and trust? He was not quite so innocent as he appeared. “These stories,” she said. “Your desire to treat people well. Is that what kept you from...taking me on any of those nights when I first came into the room?” From taking you? I do not understand. Siri blushed, hair turning red to match. “I mean, why did you just sit there?” Because I did not know what else to do, he said. I knew that we need to have a child. So I sat and waited for it to happen. We must be doing something wrong, for no child has come. Siri paused, then blinked. He couldn’t possibly...“You don’t know how to have children?” In the stories, he wrote, a man and a woman spend the night together. Then they have a child. We spent many nights together, and there were no children. “And nobody—none of your priests—explained the process to you?” No. What process do you mean? She sat for a moment. No, she thought, feeling her blush deepen. I am not going to have that conversation with him. “I think we’ll talk about it another time.” It was a very strange experience when you came into the room that first night, he wrote. I must admit, I was very scared of you. Siri smiled as she remembered her own terror. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he would be frightened. Why would it have? He was the God King. “So,” she said, tapping the bedspread with one finger, “you were never taken to other women?” No, he wrote. I did find it very interesting to see you naked. She ﬂushed again, though her hair had apparently decided to just stay red. “That’s not what we’re talking about right now,” she said. “I want to know about other women. No mistresses? No concubines?” No. “They really are scared of you having a child.” Why say that? he wrote. They sent you to me. “Only after fifty years of rule,” she said. “And only under very controlled circumstances, with the proper lineage to produce a child with
the right bloodline. Bluefingers thinks that child might be a danger to us.” I do not understand why, he wrote. This is what everyone wants. There must be an heir. “Why?” Siri said. “You still look like you’re barely two decades old. Your aging is slowed by your BioChroma.” Without an heir, the kingdom is in danger. Should I be killed, there will be nobody to rule. “And that wasn’t a danger for the last fifty years?” He paused, frowning, then slowly erased his board. “They must think that you’re in danger now,” she said slowly. “But not from sickness—even I know that Returned don’t suffer from diseases. In fact, do they even age at all?” I don’t think so, the God King wrote. “How did the previous God Kings die?” There have been only four, he wrote. I do not know how they died for certain. “Only four kings in several hundred years, all dead of mysterious circumstances....” My father died before I was old enough to remember him, Susebron wrote. I was told he gave his life for the kingdom—that he released his BioChromatic Breath, as all Returned can, to cure a terrible disease. The other Returned can only cure one person. A God King, however, can cure many. That is what I was told. “There must be a record of that then,” she said. “Somewhere in those books the priests have guarded so tightly.” I am sorry that they would not let you read them, he wrote. She waved an indifferent hand. “There wasn’t much chance of it working. I’ll need to find another way to get at those histories.” Having a child is the danger, she thought. That’s what Bluefingers said. So whatever threat there is to my life, it will only come after there is an heir. Bluefingers mentioned a threat to the God King too. That almost makes it sound like the danger comes from the priests themselves. Why would they want to harm their own god? She glanced at Susebron, who was ﬂipping intently through his book of stories. She smiled at the look of concentration on his face as he deciphered the text. Well, she thought, considering what he knows of sex, I’d say that we don’t have to worry much about having a child in the near future. Of course, she was also worried that the lack of a child would prove just as dangerous as the presence of one. Annotations for Chapter 24 Twenty-Five Annotations for Chapter 25 Vivenna went among the people of T’Telir and couldn’t help feeling that every one of them recognized her. She fought the feeling down. It was actually a miracle that Thame—who came from her own home city—had been able to pick her out. The people around her would have no way of connecting Vivenna to the rumors they might have heard, especially considering her clothing. Immodest reds and yellows layered one atop the other on her dress. The garment had been the only one that Parlin and Tonk Fah had been able to find that
met her stringent requirements for modesty. The tubelike dress was made after a foreign cut, from Tedradel, across the Inner Sea. It came down almost to her ankles, and though its snugness emphasized her bust, at least the garment covered her almost up to the neck, and had full-length sleeves. Rebelliously, she did find herself stealing glances at the other women in their loose, short skirts and sleeveless tops. That much exposed skin was scandalous, but with the blazing sun and the cursed coastal humidity, she could see why they did it. After a month in the city, she was also beginning to get the hang of moving with the ﬂow of traffic. She still wasn’t sure she wanted to be out, but Denth had been persuasive. You know the worst thing that can happen to a bodyguard? he had asked. Letting your charge get killed when you aren’t even there. We have a small team, Princess. We can either divide and leave you behind with one guard or you can come with us. Personally, I’d like to have you along where I can keep an eye on you. And so she’d come. Dressed in one of her new gowns, her hair turned an uncomfortable—yet un-Idrian—yellow and left loose, blowing behind her. She walked around the garden square, as if out on a stroll, moving so that she wouldn’t look nervous. The people of T’Telir liked gardens—they had all kinds all over the city. In fact, from what Vivenna had seen, most of the city practically was a garden. Palms and ferns grew on every street, and exotic ﬂowers bloomed everywhere year-round. Four streets crossed in the square, with four plots of cultivated ground forming a checkerboard pattern. Each sprouted a dozen different palms. The buildings surrounding the gardens were more rich than the ones in the market up the way. And while there was plenty of foot traffic, people made certain to stick to the slate sidewalks, for carriages were common. This was a wealthy shopping district. No tents. Fewer performers. Higher quality—and more expensive—shops. Vivenna strolled along the perimeter of the northwestern garden block. There were ferns and grass to her right. Shops of a quaint, rich, and—of course—colorful variety lay across the street to her left. Tonk Fah and Parlin lounged between two of these. Parlin had the monkey on his shoulder, and had taken to wearing a colorful red vest with his green hat. She couldn’t help thinking that the woodsman was even more out of place in T’Telir than she was, but he didn’t seem to attract any attention. Vivenna kept walking. Jewels trailed her somewhere in the crowd. The woman was good—Vivenna only rarely caught a glimpse of her, and that was because she’d been told where to look. She never saw Denth. He was there somewhere, far too stealthy for her to spot. As she reached the end of the street and turned around to walk back, she did catch sight of Clod. The Lifeless stood as still as one of the D’Denir statues that
lined the gardens, impassively watching the crowds pass. Most of the people ignored him. Denth was right. Lifeless weren’t plentiful, but they also weren’t uncommon. Several walked through the market carrying packages for their owners. None of these were as muscular or as tall as Clod—Lifeless came in as many shapes and sizes as people. They were put to work guarding shops. Acting as packmen. Sweeping the walkway. All around her. She continued to walk, and she caught a brief glimpse of Jewels in the crowd as she passed. How does she manage to look so relaxed? Vivenna thought. Each of the mercenaries looked as calm as if they were at a leisurely picnic. Don’t think about the danger, Vivenna thought, clenching her fists. She focused on the gardens. The truth was, she was a little jealous of the T’Telirites. People lounged, sitting on the grass, lying in the shade of trees, their children playing and laughing. D’Denir statues stood in a solemn line, arms upraised, weapons at the ready, as if in defense of the people. Trees climbed high into the sky, spreading branches that grew strange ﬂowerlike bundles. Wide-petaled ﬂowers bloomed in planters; some of them were actually Tears of Edgli. Austre had placed the ﬂowers where he wanted them. To cut and bring them back, to use them to adorn a room or house, was ostentation. Yet was it ostentatious to plant them in the middle of the city, where all were free to enjoy them? She turned away. Her BioChroma continued to sense the beauty. The density of life in one area made a sort of buzz inside her chest. No wonder they like to live so close together, she thought, noticing how a group of ﬂowers scaled in color, fanning toward the inside of their planter. And if you’re going to live this compactly, the only way to see nature would be to bring it in. “Help! fire!” Vivenna spun, as did most of the other people on the street. The building Tonk Fah and Parlin had been standing next to was burning. Vivenna didn’t continue to gawk, but turned and looked toward the center of the gardens. Most of the people in the garden itself were stunned, looking toward the smoke billowing into the air. Distraction one. People ran to help, crossing the street, causing carriages to pull up abruptly. At that moment, Clod stepped forward—surging with the crowd— and swung a club at the leg of a horse. Vivenna couldn’t hear the leg break, but she did see the beast scream and fall, upsetting the carriage it had been pulling. A trunk fell from the top of the vehicle, plunging to the street. The carriage belonged to one Nanrovah, high priest of the god Stillmark. Denth’s intelligence said the carriage would be carrying valuables. Even if it weren’t, a high priest in danger would draw a lot of attention. The trunk hit the street. And, in a twist of good fortune, it shattered, spraying out gold coins. Distraction two. Vivenna caught a glimpse of Jewels
standing on the other side of the carriage. She looked at Vivenna and nodded. Time to go. As people ran toward either gold or fire, Vivenna walked away. Nearby, Denth would be raiding one of the shops with a gang of thieves. The thieves got to keep the goods. Vivenna just wanted to make certain those goods disappeared. Vivenna was joined by Jewels and Parlin on the way out. She was surprised to feel how quickly her heart was thumping. Almost nothing had happened. No real danger. No threat to herself. Just a couple of “accidents.” But, then, that was the idea. ~ Hours later, Denth and Tonk Fah still hadn’t returned to the house. Vivenna sat quietly on their new furniture, hands in her lap. The furniture was green. Apparently, brown was not an option in T’Telir. “What time is it?” Vivenna asked quietly. “I don’t know,” Jewels snapped, standing beside the window, looking out at the street. Patience, Vivenna told herself. It’s not her fault she’s so abrasive. She had her Breath stolen. “Should they be back yet?” Vivenna asked calmly. Jewels shrugged. “Maybe. Depends on if they decided to go to a safe house to let things cool down first or not.” “I see. How long do you think we should wait?” “As long as we have to,” Jewels said. “Look, do you think you could just not talk to me? I’d really appreciate it.” She turned back to look out the window. Vivenna stiffened at the insult. Patience! she told herself. Understand her place. That’s what the five Visions teach. Vivenna stood up, then walked quietly over to Jewels. Tentatively, she laid an arm on the other woman’s shoulder. Jewels jumped immediately— obviously, without Breath, it was harder for her to notice when people approached her. “It’s all right,” Vivenna said. “I understand.” “Understand?” Jewels asked. “Understand what?” “They took your Breath,” Vivenna said. “They had no right to do something so terrible.” Vivenna smiled, then withdrew, walking to the stairs. Jewels started laughing. Vivenna stopped, glancing back. “You think you understand me?” Jewels asked. “What? You feel sorry for me because I’m a Drab?” “Your parents shouldn’t have done what they did.” “My parents served our God King,” Jewels said. “My Breath was given to him directly. It’s a greater honor than you could possibly understand.” Vivenna stood still for a moment, absorbing that comment. “You believe in the Iridescent Tones?” “Of course I do,” Jewels said. “I’m a Hallandren, aren’t I?” “But the others—” “Tonk Fah is from Pahn Kahl,” Jewels said. “And I don’t know where in the Colors Denth is from. But I’m from T’Telir itself.” “But surely you can’t still worship those so-called gods,” Vivenna said. “Not after what was done to you.” “What was done to me? I’ll have you know that I gave away my Breath willingly.” “You were a child!” “I was eleven and my parents gave me the choice. I made the right one. My father had been in the dye industry, but had slipped and fallen. The damage
to his back wouldn’t allow him to work, and I had five brothers and sisters. Do you know what it’s like to watch your brothers and sisters starve? Years before, my parents had already sold their Breath to get enough money to start the business. By selling mine, we got enough money to live for nearly a year!” “No price is worth a soul,” Vivenna said. “You—” “Stop judging me!” Jewels snapped. “Kalad’s Phantoms take you, woman. I was proud to sell my Breath! I still am. A part of me lives inside the God King. Because of me, he continues to live. I’m part of this kingdom in a way that few others are.” Jewels shook her head, turning away. “That’s why we get annoyed by you Idrians. So high, so certain that what you do is right. If your god asked you to give up your Breath—or even the Breath of your child—wouldn’t you do it? You give up your children to become monks, forcing them into a life of servitude, don’t you? That’s seen as a sign of faith. Yet when we do something to serve our gods, you twist your lips at us and call us blasphemers.” Vivenna opened her mouth, but could come up with no response. Sending children away to become monks was different. “We sacrifice for our gods,” Jewels said, still staring out the window. “But that doesn’t mean we’re being exploited. My family was blessed because of what we did. Not only was there enough money to buy food, but my father recovered, and a few years later, he was able to open up the dye business again. My brothers still run it. “You don’t have to believe in my miracles. You can call them accidents or coincidences, if you must. But don’t pity me for my faith. And don’t presume that you’re better, just because you believe something different.” Vivenna closed her mouth. Obviously, there was no point in arguing. Jewels was in no mood for her sympathy. Vivenna retreated back up the stairs. ~ A few hours later, it began to grow dark. Vivenna stood on the house’s second-story balcony, looking out over the city. Most of the buildings on their street had such balconies on the front. Ostentatious or not, from their hillside location they did provide a good view of T’Telir. The city glowed with light. On the larger streets, pole-mounted lamps lined the sidewalks, lit each night by city workers. Many of the buildings were illuminated as well. Such expenditure of oil and candles still amazed her. Yet with the Inner Sea to hand, oil was far cheaper than it was in the highlands. She didn’t know what to make of Jewels’s outburst. How could someone be proud that their Breath had been stolen and then fed to a greedy Returned? The woman’s tone seemed to indicate she was being sincere. She’d obviously thought about these things before. Obviously, she had to rationalize her experiences to live with them. Vivenna was trapped. The five Visions taught that she must
try to understand others. They told her not to place herself above them. And yet, Austrism taught that what Jewels had done was an abomination. The two seemed contradictory. To believe that Jewels was wrong was to place herself above the woman. Yet to accept what Jewels said was to deny Austrism. Some might have laughed at her turmoil, but Vivenna had always tried very hard to be devout. She’d understood that she’d need strict devotion to survive in heathen Hallandren. Heathen. Didn’t she place herself above Hallandren by calling it that word? But they were heathen. She couldn’t accept the Returned as true gods. It seemed that to believe in any faith was to become arrogant. Perhaps she deserved the things Jewels had said to her. Someone approached. Vivenna turned as Denth pushed open the wooden door and stepped out onto the balcony. “We’re back,” he announced. “I know,” she said, looking out over the city and its specks of light. “I felt you enter the building a little while ago.” He chuckled, joining her. “I forget that you have so much Breath, Princess. You never use it.” Except to feel when people are nearby, she thought. But I can’t help that, can I? “I recognize that look of frustration,” Denth noted. “Still worried that the plan isn’t working fast enough?” She shook her head. “Other things entirely, Denth.” “Probably shouldn’t have left you alone so long with Jewels. I hope she didn’t take too many bites out of you.” Vivenna didn’t respond. finally, she sighed, then turned toward him. “How did the job go?” “Perfectly,” Denth said. “By the time we hit the shop, nobody was looking. Considering the guards they put there every night, they must be feeling pretty stupid to have been robbed in broad daylight.” “I still don’t understand what good it will do,” she said. “A spice merchant’s shop?” “Not his shop,” Denth said. “His stores. We ruined or carted off every barrel of salt in that cellar. He’s one of only three men who store salt in any great amount; most of the other spice merchants buy from him.” “Yes, but salt,” Vivenna said. “What’s the point?” “How hot was it today?” Denth asked. Vivenna shrugged. “Too hot.” “What happens to meat when it’s hot?” “It rots,” Vivenna said. “But they don’t have to use salt to preserve meat. They can use...” “Ice?” Denth asked, chuckling. “No, not down here, Princess. You want to preserve meat, you salt it. And if you want an army to carry fish with them from the Inner Sea to attack a place as far away as Idris...” Vivenna smiled. “The thieves we worked with will ship the salt away,” Denth said. “Smuggle it to the distant kingdoms where it can be sold openly. By the time this war comes, the Crown will have some real trouble keeping its men supplied with meat. Just another small strike, but those should add up.” “Thank you,” Vivenna said. “Don’t thank us,” Denth said. “Just pay us.” Vivenna nodded. They fell silent for
a time, looking out over the city. “Does Jewels really believe in the Iridescent Tones?” Vivenna finally asked. “As passionately as Tonk Fah likes to nap,” Denth said. He eyed her. “You didn’t challenge her, did you?” “Kind of.” Denth whistled. “And you’re still standing? I’ll have to thank her for her restraint.” “How can she believe?” Vivenna said. Denth shrugged. “Seems like a good enough religion to me. I mean, you can go and see her gods. Talk to them, watch them shine. It isn’t all that tough to understand.” “But she’s working for an Idrian,” Vivenna said. “Working to undermine her own gods’ ability to wage war. That was a priest’s carriage we knocked over today.” “And a fairly important one, actually,” Denth said with a chuckle. “Ah, Princess. It’s a little difficult to understand. Mind-set of a mercenary. We’re paid to do things—but we’re not the ones doing them. It’s you who do these things. We’re just your tools.” “Tools that work against the Hallandren gods.” “That isn’t a reason to stop believing,” Denth said. “We get pretty good at separating ourselves from the things we have to do. Maybe that’s what makes people hate us so much. They can’t see that if we kill a friend on a battlefield, it doesn’t mean that we’re callous or untrustworthy. We do what we’re paid to do. Just like anyone else.” “It’s different,” Vivenna said. Denth shrugged. “Do you think the refiner ever considers that the iron he purifies could end up in a sword that kills a friend of his?” Vivenna stared out over the lights of the city and all of the people they represented, with all their different beliefs, different ways of thinking, different contradictions. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who struggled to believe two seemingly opposing things at the same time. “What about you, Denth?” she asked. “Are you Hallandren?” “Gods, no,” he said. “Then what do you believe?” “Haven’t believed much,” he said. “Not in a long time.” “What about your family?” Vivenna asked. “What did they believe?” “Family’s all dead. They believed faiths that most everybody has forgotten by now. I never joined them.” Vivenna frowned. “You have to believe in something. If not a religion, then somebody. A way of living.” “I did once.” “Do you always have to answer so vaguely?” He glanced at her. “Yes,” he said. “Except, perhaps, for that question.” She rolled her eyes. He leaned against the banister. “The things I believed,” he said, “I don’t know that they’d make sense, or that you’d even hear me out if I told you about them.” “You claim to seek money,” she said. “But you don’t. I’ve seen Lemex’s ledgers. He wasn’t paying you that much. Not as much as I’d assumed by far. And, if you’d wanted, you could have hit that priest’s carriage and taken the money. You could have stolen it twice as easily as you did the salt.” He didn’t respond. “You don’t serve any kingdom or king that I can figure out,” she continued. “You’re
a better swordsman than any simple bodyguard—I suspect better than almost anyone, if you can impress a crime boss with your skill so easily. You could have fame, students, and prizes if you decided to become a sport duelist. You claim to obey your employer, but you give the orders more often than take them—and besides, since you don’t care about money, that whole employee thing is probably just a front.” She paused. “In fact,” she said, “the only thing I’ve ever seen you express even a spark of emotion about is that man, Vasher. The one with the sword.” Even as she said the name, Denth grew more tense. “Who are you?” she asked. He turned toward her, eyes hard, showing her—once again—that the jovial man he showed the world was a mask. A charade. A softness to cover the stone within. “I’m a mercenary,” he said. “All right,” she said, “then who were you?” “You don’t want to know the answer to that,” he said. And then he left, stomping away through the door and leaving her alone on the dark wooden balcony. Annotations for Chapter 25 Twenty-Six Annotations for Chapter 26 Lightsong awoke and immediately climbed from bed. He stood up, stretched, and smiled. “Beautiful day,” he said. His servants stood at the edges of the room, watching uncertainly. “What?” Lightsong asked, holding out his arms. “Come on, let’s get dressed.” They rushed forward. Llarimar entered shortly after. Lightsong often wondered how early he got up, since each morning when Lightsong rose, Llarimar was always there. Llarimar watched him with a raised eyebrow. “You’re chipper this morning, Your Grace.” Lightsong shrugged. “It just felt like it was time to get up.” “A full hour earlier than usual.” Lightsong cocked his head as the servants tied off his robes. “Really?” “Yes, Your Grace.” “Fancy that,” Lightsong said, nodding to his servants as they stepped back, leaving him dressed. “Shall we go over your dreams, then?” Llarimar asked. Lightsong paused, an image ﬂashing in his head. Rain. Tempest. Storms. And a brilliant red panther. “Nope,” Lightsong said, walking toward the doorway. “Your Grace...” “We’ll talk about the dreams another time, Scoot,” Lightsong said. “We have more important work.” “More important work?” Lightsong smiled, reaching the doorway and turning back. “I want to go back to Mercystar’s palace.” “Whatever for?” “I don’t know,” Lightsong said happily. Llarimar sighed. “Very well, Your Grace. But can we at least look over some art, first? There are people who paid good money to get your opinion, and some are waiting quite eagerly to hear what you think of their pieces.” “All right,” Lightsong said. “But let’s be quick about it.” ~ Lightsong stared at the painting. Red upon red, shades so subtle that the painter must have been of the Third Heightening at least. Violent, terrible reds, clashing against one another like waves—waves that only vaguely resembled men, yet that somehow managed to convey the idea of armies fighting much better than any detailed realistic depiction could have. Chaos. Bloody wounds upon bloody uniforms upon
bloody skin. There was so much violence in red. His own color. He almost felt as if he were in the painting—felt its turmoil shaking him, disorienting him, pulling on him. The waves of men pointed toward one figure at the center. A woman, vaguely depicted by a couple of curved brushstrokes. And yet it was obvious. She stood high, as if atop a cresting wave of crashing soldiers, caught in mid-motion, head ﬂung back, her arm upraised. Holding a deep black sword that darkened the red sky around it. “The Battle of Twilight Falls,” Llarimar said quietly, standing beside him in the white hallway. “Last conﬂict of the Manywar.” Lightsong nodded. He’d known that, somehow. The faces of many of the soldiers were tinged with grey. They were Lifeless. The Manywar had been the first time they had been used in large numbers on the battlefield. “I know you don’t prefer war scenes,” Llarimar said. “But—” “I like it,” Lightsong said, cutting off the priest. “I like it a lot.” Llarimar fell silent. Lightsong stared into the painting with its ﬂowing reds, painted so subtly that they gave a feeling of war, rather than just an image. “It might be the best painting that has ever passed through my hall.” The priests on the other side of the room began writing furiously. Llarimar just stared at him, troubled. “What?” Lightsong asked. “It’s nothing,” Llarimar said. “Scoot...” Lightsong said, eyeing him. The priest sighed. “I can’t speak, Your Grace. I cannot taint your impression of the paintings.” “A lot of gods have been giving favorable reviews of war paintings lately, eh?” Lightsong said, looking back at the artwork. Llarimar didn’t answer. “It’s probably nothing,” Lightsong said. “Just our response to those arguments in the court, I’d guess.” “Likely,” Llarimar said. Lightsong fell silent. He knew it wasn’t “nothing” to Llarimar. To him, Lightsong wasn’t just giving his impression of art—he was foretelling the future. What did it augur that he liked a depiction of war with such vibrant, brutal colorings? Was it a reaction to his dreams? But last night, he hadn’t dreamed of a war. finally. He’d dreamed of a storm, true, but that wasn’t the same thing. I shouldn’t have spoken, he thought. And yet, reacting to the art seemed like the only truly important thing he did. He stared at the sharp smears of paint, each figure a just a couple of triangular strokes. It was beautiful. Could war be beautiful? How could he find beauty in those grey faces confronting ﬂesh, the Lifeless killing men? This battle hadn’t even meant anything. It hadn’t decided the outcome of the war, even though the leader of the Pahn Unity—the kingdoms united against Hallandren—had been killed in the battle. Diplomacy had finally ended the Manywar, not bloodshed. Are we thinking of starting this up again? Lightsong thought, still transfixed by the beauty. Is what I do going to lead to war? No, he thought to himself. No, I’m just being careful. Helping Blushweaver secure a political faction. Better that than letting
things just pass me by. The Manywar started because the royal family wasn’t careful. The painting continued to call to him. “What’s that sword?” Lightsong asked. “Sword?” “The black one,” Lightsong said. “In the woman’s hand.” “I...I don’t see a sword, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t see a woman, either. It’s all just wild strokes of paint, to me.” “You called it the Battle of Twilight Falls.” “The title of the piece, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “I assumed that you were as confused by it as I was, so I told you what the artist had named it.” The two fell silent. finally, Lightsong turned, walking away from the painting. “I’m done reviewing art for the day.” He hesitated. “Don’t burn that painting. Keep it for my collection.” Llarimar acknowledge the command with a nod. As Lightsong made his way out of the palace, he tried to regain some of his eagerness, and he succeeded—though memory of the terrible, beautiful scene stayed with him. Mixing with his memories of last night’s dream, with its clashing tempest of winds. Not even that could dampen his mood. Something was different. Something excited him. There had been a murder in the Court of Gods. He didn’t know why he should find that so intriguing. If anything, he should find it tragic or upsetting. And yet for as long as he had lived, everything had been provided for him. Answers to his questions, entertainment to sate his whims. Almost by accident, he had become a glutton. Only two things had been withheld from him: knowledge of his past and freedom to leave the court. Neither of those restrictions was going to change soon. But here, inside the court—the place of too much safety and comfort—something had gone wrong. A little thing. A thing most Returned would ignore. Nobody cared. Nobody wanted to care. Who, therefore, would object to Lightsong’s questions? “You’re acting very oddly, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, catching up to him as they crossed the grass, servants following behind in a chaotic cluster as they worked to get a large red parasol open. “I know,” Lightsong said. “However, I believe we can agree that I have always been rather odd, for a god.” “I must admit that is true.” “Then I’m actually being very like myself,” Lightsong said. “And all is right in the universe.” “Are we really going back to Mercystar’s palace?” “Indeed we are. Do you suppose she’ll be annoyed at us? That might prove interesting.” Llarimar just sighed. “Are you ready to talk about your dreams yet?” Lightsong did not immediately reply. The servants finally got the parasol up and held it over him. “I dreamed of a storm,” Lightsong finally said. “I was standing in it, without anything to brace myself. It was raining and blowing against me, forcing me backward. In fact, it was so strong that even the ground beneath me seemed to undulate.” Llarimar looked disturbed. More signs of war, Lightsong thought. Or, at least, that’s how he’ll see it. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Lightsong said. “A red panther. It seemed to shine, reﬂective, like it was made of glass or something like that. It was waiting in the storm.” Llarimar eyed him. “Are you making things up, Your Grace?” “What? No! That’s really what I dreamed.” Llarimar sighed, but nodded to a lesser priest, who rushed up to take his dictation. It wasn’t long before they reached Mercystar’s palace of yellow and gold. Lightsong paused before the building, realizing that he’d never before visited another god’s palace without first sending a messenger. “Do you want me to send in someone to announce you, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked. Lightsong hesitated. “No,” he finally said, noticing a pair of guards standing at the main doorway. The two men looked far more muscular than the average servant and they wore swords. Dueling blades, Lightsong assumed— though he’d never actually seen one. He walked up to the men. “Is your mistress here?” “I am afraid not, Your Grace,” one of them said. “She went to visit All-mother for the afternoon.” Allmother, Lightsong thought. Another with Lifeless Commands. Blushweaver’s doing? Perhaps he would drop by later—he missed chatting with Allmother. She, unfortunately, hated him violently. “Ah,” Lightsong said to the guard. “Well, regardless, I need to inspect the corridor just inside here, where the attack happened the other night.” The guards glanced at each other. “I...don’t know if we can let you do that, Your Grace.” “Scoot!” Lightsong said. “Can they forbid me?” “Only if they have a direct command to do so from Mercystar.” Lightsong looked back at the men. Reluctantly, they stepped aside. “It’s perfectly all right,” he told them. “She asked me to take care of things. Kind of. Coming, Scoot?” Llarimar followed him into the corridors. Once again, Lightsong felt an odd satisfaction. Instincts he hadn’t known he had drove him to seek out the place where the servant had died. The wood had been replaced—his Heightened eyes could easily tell the difference between the new wood and the old. He walked a little farther. The patch where the wood had turned grey was gone as well, seamlessly replaced with new material. Interesting, he thought. But not unexpected. I wonder...are there any other patches? He walked a little further and was rewarded by another patch of new wood. It formed an exact square. “Your Grace?” a new voice asked. Lightsong looked up to see the curt young priest he had spoken with the day before. Lightsong smiled. “Ah, good. I was hoping that you would come.” “This is most irregular, Your Grace,” the man said. “I hear that eating a lot of figs can cure you of that,” Lightsong said. “Now, I need to speak with the guards who saw the intruder the other night.” “But why, Your Grace?” the priest said. “Because I’m eccentric,” Lightsong said. “Send for them. I need to speak to all of the servants or guards who saw the man who committed the murder.” “Your Grace,” the priest said uncomfortably. “The city authorities have already dealt with this. They have
determined that the intruder was a thief after Mercystar’s art, and they have committed to—” “Scoot,” Lightsong said, turning. “Can this man ignore my demand?” “Only at great peril to his soul, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. The priest eyed them both angrily, then turned and sent a servant to do as Lightsong asked. Lightsong knelt down, causing several servants to whisper in alarm. They obviously thought it improper for a god to stoop. Lightsong ignored them, looking at the square of new wood. It was larger than the other two that had been ripped up, and the colors matched far better. It was just a square patch of wood that was just a slightly different color than its neighbors. Without Breath—and a lot of it—he wouldn’t even have noticed the distinction. A trapdoor, he thought with sudden shock. The priest was watching him closely. This patch isn’t as new as the other ones back there. It’s only new in relation to the other boards. Lightsong crawled along the ﬂoor, deliberately ignoring the door in the ﬂoor. Once again, unexpected instincts warned him not to reveal what he’d discovered. Why was he so wary all of a sudden? Was it the inﬂuence of his violent dreams and imagery from the painting earlier? Or was it something more? He felt as if he were dredging deep within himself, pulling forth an awareness he had never before needed. Either way, he moved on from the patch, pretending that he hadn’t noticed the trapdoor, and was instead searching for threads that might have been caught on the wood. He picked up one that had obviously come from a servant’s robe and held it up. The priest seemed to relax slightly. So he knows about the trapdoor, Lightsong thought. And...perhaps the intruder did as well? Lightsong crawled some more, discomforting the servants until the men he had requested were assembled. He stood—letting a couple of his servants dust off his robes—then walked over to the newcomers. The hallway was growing quite crowded, so he shooed them back out into the sunlight. Outside, he regarded the group of six men. “Identify yourselves. You on the left, who are you?” “My name is Gagaril,” the man said. “I’m sorry,” Lightsong said. The man ﬂushed. “I was named after my father, Your Grace.” “After he what? Spent an unusual amount of time at the local tavern? Anyway, how are you involved in this mess?” “I was one of the guards at the door when the intruder broke in.” “Were you alone?” Lightsong asked. “No,” said another of the men. “I was with him.” “Good,” Lightsong said. “You two, go over there somewhere.” He waved his hand at the lawn. The men looked at each other, then walked away as indicated. “Far enough that you can’t hear us!” Lightsong called at them. The men nodded and continued. “All right,” Lightsong said, looking back at the others. “Who are you four?” “We were attacked by the man in the hallway,” one of the servants said. He pointed at two of the others.
“All three of us. And...one other. The man who was killed.” “Terribly unfortunate, that,” Lightsong said, pointing at another section of the lawn. “Off you go. Walk until you can’t hear me anymore, then wait.” The three men trudged off. “And now you,” Lightsong said, hands on hips, regarding the last man— a shorter priest. “I saw the intruder ﬂee, Your Grace,” the priest said. “I was watching out a window.” “Very timely of you,” Lightsong said, pointing at a third spot on the lawn, far enough from the others to be sequestered. The man walked away. Lightsong turned back to the priest who was obviously in charge. “You said that the intruder released a Lifeless animal?” Lightsong asked. “A squirrel, Your Grace,” the priest said. “We captured it.” “Go and fetch it for me.” “Your Grace, it’s quite wild and—” He stopped, recognizing the look in Lightsong’s eyes, then waved for a servant. “No,” Lightsong said. “Not a servant. You go and get it personally.” The priest looked incredulous. “Yes, yes,” Lightsong said, waving him away. “I know. It’s an offense to your dignity. Perhaps you should think about converting to Austrism. For now, get going.” The priest left, grumbling. “The rest of you,” Lightsong said, addressing his own servants and priests. “You wait here.” They looked resigned. Perhaps they were growing accustomed to him dismissing them. “Come on, Scoot,” Lightsong said, walking toward the first group he had sent off onto the lawn—the two guards. Llarimar scurried forward to keep up as Lightsong took long strides over to the two men. “Now,” Lightsong said to the two, out of earshot of the others, “tell me what you saw.” “He came to us pretending to be a madman, Your Grace,” one of the guards said. “He sauntered out of the shadows, mumbling to himself. It was just an act, though, and when he got close enough, he knocked us both out.” “How?” Lightsong asked. “He grabbed me around the neck with tassels from his Awakened coat,” one of the men said. He nodded to his companion. “Knocked him in the stomach with the hilt of a sword.” The second guard raised his shirt to show a large bruise on his stomach, then cocked his head to the side, showing another one on his neck. “Choked us both,” the first guard said. “Me with those tassels, Fran with a boot on his neck. That’s the last thing we knew. By the time we awoke, he was gone.” “He choked you,” Lightsong said, “but didn’t kill you. Just enough to knock you out?” “That’s right, Your Grace,” the guard said. “Please describe this man,” Lightsong said. “He was big,” the guard said. “Had a scraggly beard. Not too long, but not trimmed either.” “He wasn’t smelly or dirty,” the other said. “He just didn’t seem to take much care for how he looked. His hair was long—came down to his neck— and hadn’t seen a brush in a long while.” “Wore ragged clothing,” the first said. “Patched in places, nothing bright, but not
really dark either. Just kind of...bland. Rather un-Hallandren, now that I think on it.” “And he was armed?” Lightsong said. “With the sword that hit me,” the second guard said. “Big thing. Not a dueling blade, more like an Easterner sword. Straight and really long. Had it hidden under his cloak, and we would have seen it, if he hadn’t covered it up by walking so oddly.” Lightsong nodded. “Thank you. Stay here.” With that, he turned and walked toward the second group. “This is very interesting, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “But I really don’t see the point.” “I’m just curious,” Lightsong said. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “But you’re not really the curious type.” Lightsong continued walking. The things he was doing, he did mostly without thinking. They just felt natural. He approached the next group. “You were the ones who saw the intruder in the hallway, right?” Lightsong said to them. The men nodded. One shot a glance back at Mercystar’s palace. The lawn in front of it was now crowded with a colorful assortment of priests and servants, both Mercystar’s and Lightsong’s own. “Tell me what happened,” Lightsong said. “We were walking through the servants’ hallway,” one said. “We’d been released for the evening, and were going to go out into the city to a nearby tavern.” “Then we saw someone in the hallway,” another said. “He didn’t belong there.” “Describe him,” Lightsong said. “Big man,” one said. The others nodded. “Had ragged clothing and a beard. Kind of dirty-looking.” “No,” another said. “The clothing was old, but the man wasn’t dirty. Just slovenly.” Lightsong nodded. “Continue.” “Well, there isn’t much to say,” one of the men said. “He attacked us. Threw an Awakened rope at poor Taff, who got tied up immediately. Rariv and I ran for help. Lolan stayed behind.” Lightsong looked at the third man. “You stayed back? Why?” “To help Taff, of course,” the man said. Lying, Lightsong thought. Looks too nervous. “Really?” he said, stepping closer. The man looked down. “Well, mostly. I mean, there was the sword, too...” “Oh, right,” another said. “He threw a sword at us. Strangest thing.” “He didn’t draw it?” Lightsong asked. “He threw it?” The men shook their heads. “He threw it at us, sheath and all. Lolan picked it up.” “I thought I’d fight him,” Lolan said. “Interesting,” Lightsong said. “So you two left?” “Yeah,” one of the men said. “When we came back with the others— after getting around that blasted squirrel—we found Lolan on the ground, unconscious, and poor Taff...well, he was still tied up, though the rope wasn’t Awakened anymore. He’d been stabbed straight through.” “You saw him die?” “No,” Lolan said, bringing his hands up in denial. He had—Lightsong noticed—a bandage on one hand. “The intruder knocked me out with a fist to the head.” “But you had the sword,” Lightsong said. “It was too big to use,” the man said, looking down. “So he threw the sword at you, then ran up and punched you?” Lightsong said. The man nodded. “And
your hand?” Lightsong asked. The man paused, unconsciously retracting his hand. “It got twisted. Nothing important.” “And you need a bandage for a twisted wrist?” Lightsong said, raising an eyebrow. “Show me.” The man hesitated. “Show me, or lose your soul, my son,” Lightsong said in what he hoped was a suitably divine voice. The man slowly extended his hand. Llarimar stepped forward and removed the bandage. The hand was completely grey, drained of color. Impossible, Lightsong thought with shock. Awakening doesn’t do that to living ﬂesh. It can’t draw color from someone alive, only objects. Floor boards, clothing, furniture. The man withdrew his hand. “What is that?” Lightsong asked. “I don’t know,” the man said. “I woke up, and it was like that.” “Is that so?” Lightsong said ﬂatly. “And I’m to believe that you had nothing else to do with this? That you weren’t working with the intruder?” The man fell to his knees suddenly, beginning to cry. “Please, my lord! Don’t take my soul. I’m not the best of men. I go to the brothels. I cheat when we gamble.” The other two looked startled at this. “But I didn’t know anything about this intruder,” Lolan continued. “Please, you have to believe me. I just wanted that sword. That beautiful, black sword! I wanted to draw it, swing it, attack the man with it. I reached for it and while I was distracted, he attacked me. But I didn’t see him kill Taff! I promise, I hadn’t ever seen this intruder before! You have to believe me!” Lightsong paused. “I do,” he finally said. “Let this be a warning. Be good. Stop cheating.” “Yes, my lord.” Lightsong nodded to the men, then he and Llarimar left them behind. “I actually kind of feel like a god,” Lightsong said. “Did you see me make that man repent?” “Amazing, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “So what do you think about their testimonies?” Lightsong said. “Something strange is going on, isn’t it?” “I’m still wondering why you think you should be the one to investigate it, Your Grace.” “It’s not like I have anything else to do.” “Besides be a god.” “Overrated,” Lightsong said, walking up to the final man. “It has nice perks, but the hours are awful.” Llarimar snorted quietly as Lightsong turned to address the final witness, the short priest who stood in his robes of yellow and gold. He was distinctly younger than the other priest. Was he chosen to tell me lies with the hopes that he’d seem innocent? Lightsong wondered idly. Or am I just making assumptions? “What is your story?” Lightsong asked. The young priest bowed. “I was going about my duties, carrying to the records sanctuary several prophecies we had inscribed from the Lady’s mouth. I heard a distant disturbance in the building. I looked out the window toward the sound, but I saw nothing.” “Where were you?” Lightsong asked. The young man pointed toward a window. “There, Your Grace.” Lightsong frowned. The priest had been on the opposite side of the palace from where
the killing had occurred. However, that was the side of the building where the intruder had first entered. “You could see the doorway where the intruder disabled the two guards?” “Yes, Your Grace,” the man said. “Though I didn’t see them at first. I almost left the window to search for the source of the noise. However, at that point I did see something odd in the lantern light of the entryway: a figure moving. It was then that I noticed the guards on the ground. I thought they were dead bodies, and I was frightened by the shadowy figure moving between them. I yelled, and ran for help. By the time anyone paid attention to me, the figure was gone.” “You went down to look for him?” Lightsong asked. The man nodded. “And how long did it take you?” “Several minutes, Your Grace.” Lightsong nodded slowly. “Very well, then. Thank you.” The young priest began to walk over to the main group of his colleagues. “Oh, wait,” Lightsong said. “Did you, by any chance, get a clean look at the intruder?” “Not really, Your Grace,” the priest said. “He was in dark clothing, kind of nondescript. It was too far away to see well.” Lightsong waved the man away. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then eyed Llarimar. “Well?” The priest raised an eyebrow. “Well what, Your Grace?” “What do you think?” Llarimar shook his head. “I...honestly don’t know, Your Grace. This is obviously important, however.” Lightsong paused. “It is?” Llarimar nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Because of what that man said—the one who was wounded in the hand. He mentioned a black sword. You predicted it, remember? In the painting this morning?” “That wasn’t a prediction,” Lightsong said. “That was really there, in the painting.” “That’s the way prophecy works, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “Don’t you see? You look at a painting and an entire image appears to your eyes. All I see is random strokes of red. The scene you describe—the things you see—are prophetic. You are a god.” “But I saw exactly what the painting was said to depict!” Lightsong said. “Before you even told me what the title was!” Llarimar nodded knowingly, as if that proved his point. “Oh, never mind. Priests! Insufferable fanatics, every one of you. Either way, you agree with me that there is something strange here.” “Definitely, Your Grace.” “Good,” Lightsong said. “Then you’ll kindly stop complaining when I investigate it.” “Actually, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, “it’s even more imperative that you not get involved. You predicted this would occur, but you are an oracle. You must not interact with the subject of your predictions. If you get involved, you could unbalance a great many things.” “I like being unbalanced,” Lightsong said. “Besides, this is far too much fun.” As usual, Llarimar didn’t react to having his advice ignored. As they began to walk back toward the main group, however, the priest did ask a question. “Your Grace. Just to sate my own curiosity, what do you think about the murder?” “It’s
obvious,” Lightsong said idly. “There were two intruders. The first is the large man with the sword—he knocked out the guards, attacked those servants, released the Lifeless, then disappeared. The second man—the one the young priest saw—came in after the first intruder. That second man is the murderer.” Llarimar frowned. “Why do you suppose that?” “The first man took care not to kill,” Lightsong said. “He left the guards alive at risk to himself, since they could have regained consciousness at any moment to raise the alarm. He didn’t draw his sword against the servants but simply tried to subdue them. There was no reason for him to kill a bound captive—particularly since he’d already left witnesses. If there were a second man, however...well, that would make sense. The servant who was killed, he was the one who was conscious when this second intruder came through. That servant was the only one who saw the second intruder.” “So, you think someone else followed the man with the sword, killed the only witness, and then...” “Both of them vanished,” Lightsong said. “I found a trapdoor. I’m thinking there must be passages beneath the palace. It all seems fairly obvious to me. One thing, however, is not obvious.” He glanced at Llarimar, slowing before they reached the main group of priests and servants. “And what is that, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked. “How in the name of the Colors I figured all of this out!” “I’m trying to grasp that myself, Your Grace.” Lightsong shook his head. “This comes from before, Scoot. Everything I’m doing, it feels natural. Who was I before I died?” “I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, turning away. “Oh, come now, Scoot. I’ve spent most of my Returned life just lounging about, but then the moment someone is killed, I leap out of bed and can’t resist poking around. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?” Llarimar didn’t look at him. “Colors!” Lightsong swore. “I was someone useful? I was just beginning to convince myself that I’d died in a reasonable way—such as falling off a stump when I was drunk.” “You know you died in a brave way, Your Grace.” “It could have been a really high stump.” Llarimar just shook his head. “Either way, Your Grace, you know I can’t say anything about who you were before.” “Well, these instincts came from somewhere,” Lightsong said as they walked over to the main group of watching priests and servants. The head priest had returned with a small wooden box. Wild scratching came from inside. “Thank you,” Lightsong snapped, grabbing the box and passing by without even breaking stride. “I’m telling you, Scoot, I am not pleased.” “You seemed rather happy this morning, Your Grace,” Llarimar noted as they walked away from Mercystar’s palace. Her priest was left behind, a complaint dying on his lips, Lightsong’s entourage trailing after their god. “I was happy,” Lightsong said, “because I didn’t know what was going on. How am I going to be properly indolent if I keep itching to investigate
things? Honestly, this murder will completely destroy my hard-won reputation.” “My sympathies, Your Grace, that you have been inconvenienced by a semblance of motivation.” “Quite right,” Lightsong said, sighing. He handed over the box with its furious Lifeless rodent. “Here. You think my Awakeners can break its security phrase?” “Eventually,” Llarimar said. “Though it’s an animal, Your Grace. It won’t be able to tell us anything directly.” “Have them do it anyway,” Lightsong said. “Meanwhile, I need to think about this case some more.” They walked back to his palace. However, the thing that now struck Lightsong was the fact that he’d used the word “case” in reference to the murder. It was a word he’d never heard used in that particular context. Yet he knew that it fit. Instinctively, automatically. I didn’t have to learn to speak again when I Returned, he thought. I didn’t have to learn to walk again, or read again, or anything like that. Only my personal memory was lost. But not all of it, apparently. And that left him wondering what else he could do, if he tried. Annotations for Chapter 26 Twenty-Seven Annotations for Chapter 27 Something happened to those previous God Kings, Siri thought, striding through the endless rooms of the God King’s palace, her servants scurrying behind. Something that Bluefingers fears will happen to Susebron. It will be dangerous to both the God King and myself. She continued to walk, trailing a train made from countless tassels of translucent green silk behind her. The day’s gown was nearly gossamer thin—she’d chosen it, then had asked her servants to fetch an opaque slip for her. It was funny how quickly she’d stopped worrying about what was “ostentatious” and what was not. There were many much more important problems to worry about. The priests do fear that something will happen to Susebron, she thought firmly. They are so eager for me to produce an heir. They claim it’s about the succession, but they went fifty years without bothering. They were willing to wait twenty years to get their bride from Idris. Whatever the danger is, it’s not urgent. And yet the priests act like it is. Perhaps they’d wanted a bride of the royal line so badly that they’d been willing to risk the danger. Surely they needn’t have waited twenty years, though. Vivenna could have borne children years ago. Though perhaps the treaty specified a time and not an age. Maybe it just said that the king of Idris had twenty years to provide a bride for the God King. That would explain why her father had been able to send Siri instead. Siri cursed herself for ignoring her lessons about the treaty. She didn’t really know what it said. For all she knew, the danger could be spelled out in the document itself. She needed more information. Unfortunately, the priests were obstructive, the servants silent, and Bluefingers, well... She finally caught sight of him moving through one of the rooms, writing on his ledger. Siri hurried up, train rustling. He turned, glimpsing her.
His eyes opened wide, and he increased his speed, ducking through the open doorway into another room. Siri called after him, moving as quickly as the dress would allow, but when she arrived, the room was empty. “Colors!” she swore, feeling her hair grow a deep red in annoyance. “You still think he isn’t avoiding me?” she demanded, turning to the most senior of her servants. The woman lowered her gaze. “It would be improper for a servant of the palace to avoid his queen, Vessel. He must not have seen you.” Right, Siri thought, just like every other time. When she sent for him, he always arrived after she’d given up and left. When she had a letter scribed to him, he responded so vaguely that it only frustrated her even further. She couldn’t take books from the palace library, and the priests were disruptively distracting if she tried to read inside the library chamber itself. She’d requested books from the city, but the priests had insisted that they be brought by a priest, then read to her, so as to not “strain her eyes.” She was pretty sure that if there was anything in the book that the priests didn’t want her to know, the reader would simply skip it. She depended so much upon the priests and scribes for everything, including information. Except...she thought, still standing in the bright red room. There was another source of information. She turned to her head servant. “What activities are going on today in the courtyard?” “Many, Vessel,” the woman said. “Some artists have come and are doing paintings and sketches. There are some animal handlers showing exotic creatures from the South—I believe they have both elephants and zebras on display. There are also several dye merchants showing off their newest color combinations. And—of course—there are minstrels.” “What about at that building we went to before?” “The arena, Vessel? I believe there will be games there later in the evening. Contests of physical prowess.” Siri nodded. “Prepare a box. I want to attend.” ~ Back in her homeland, Siri had occasionally watched running contests. They were usually spontaneous, as the monks did not approve of men showing off. Austre gave all men talents. Flaunting them was seen as arrogance. Boys cannot be so easily contained. She had seen them run, had even encouraged them. Those contests, however, had been nothing like what the Hallandren men now put on. There were a half-dozen different events going on at once. Some men threw large stones, competing for distance. Others raced in a wide circle around the interior of the arena ﬂoor, kicking up sand, sweating heavily in the muggy Hallandren heat. Others tossed javelins, shot arrows, or engaged in leaping contests. Siri watched with a deepening blush—one that ran all the way to the ends of her hair. The men wore only loincloths. During her weeks in the grand city, she had never seen anything quite so...interesting. A lady shouldn’t stare at young men, her mother had taught. It’s unseemly. Yet what was the point,
if not to stare? Siri couldn’t help herself, and it wasn’t just because of the naked skin. These were men who had trained extensively—who had mastered their physical abilities to wondrous effect. As Siri watched, she saw that relatively little regard was given to the winners of each particular event. The contests weren’t really about victory, but about the skill required to compete. In that respect, these contests were almost in line with Idris sensibilities— yet, at the same time, they were ironically opposite. The beauty of the games kept her distracted for much longer than she’d intended, her hair permanently locked into a deep maroon blush, even after she got used to the idea of men competing in so little clothing. Eventually, she forced herself to stand and turn away from the performance. She had work to do. Her servants perked up. They had brought all kinds of luxuries. Full couches and cushions, fruits and wines, even a few men with fans to keep her cool. After only a few weeks in the palace, such comfort was beginning to seem commonplace to her. “There was a god who came and spoke to me before,” Siri said, scanning the amphitheater, where many of the stone boxes were decorated with colorful canopies. “Which one was it?” “Lightsong the Bold, Vessel,” one of the serving women said. “God of bravery.” Siri nodded. “And his colors are?” “Gold and red, Vessel.” Siri smiled. His canopy showed that he was there. He wasn’t the only god to have introduced himself to her during her weeks in the palace, but he was the only one who had spent any amount of time chatting with her. He’d been confusing, but at least he’d been willing to talk. She left her box, beautiful dress trailing on the stone. She’d had to force herself to stop feeling guilty for ruining them, since apparently each dress was burned the day after she wore it. Her servants burst into frantic motion, gathering up furniture and foods, following behind Siri. As before, there were people on the benches below— merchants rich enough to buy entrance to the court or peasants who had won a special lottery. Many turned and looked up as she passed, whispering among themselves. It’s the only way they get to see me, she realized. Their queen. That was one thing that Idris certainly handled better than Hallandren. The Idrians had easy access to their king and their government, while in Hallandren the leaders were kept aloof—and therefore made remote, even mysterious. She approached the red and gold pavilion. The god she had seen before lounged inside, relaxing on a couch, sipping from a large, beautifully engraved glass cup filled with an icy red liquid. He looked much as he had before—the chiseled masculine features that she was already coming to associate with godhood, perfectly styled black hair, golden tan skin, and a distinctly blasé attitude. That’s something else Idris was right about, she thought. My people may be too stern, but it also isn’t good to become as self-indulgent
as some of these Returned. The god, Lightsong, eyed her and nodded in deference. “My queen.” “Lightsong the Bold,” she said as one of her servants brought her chair. “I trust your day has been pleasant?” “So far this day I have discovered several disturbing and redefining elements of my soul which are slowly restructuring the very nature of my existence.” He took a sip from his drink. “Other than that, it was uneventful. You?” “Fewer revelations,” Siri said, sitting. “More confusion. I’m still inexperienced in the way things work here. I was hoping you could answer some of my questions, give me some information, perhaps...” “Afraid not,” Lightsong said. Siri paused, then ﬂushed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong. I—” “No, nothing wrong, child,” Lightsong said, his smile deepening. “The reason I cannot help you is because I, unfortunately, know nothing. I’m useless. Haven’t you heard?” “Um...I’m afraid I haven’t.” “You should pay better attention,” he said, raising his cup toward her. “Shame on you,” he said, smilingly. Siri frowned, growing more embarrassed. Lightsong’s high priest—distinguished by his oversized headgear—looked on disapprovingly, and that only caused her to be more self-conscious. Why should I be the ashamed one? she thought, growing annoyed. Lightsong is the one who is making veiled insults against me—and making overt ones against himself! It’s like he enjoys self-deprecation. “Actually,” Siri said, looking over at him, lifting her chin, “I have heard of your reputation, Lightsong the Bold. ‘Useless’ wasn’t the word I heard used, however.” “Oh?” he said. “No. I was told you were harmless, though I can see that is not true—for in speaking to you, my sense of reason has certainly been harmed. Not to mention my head, which is beginning to ache.” “Both common symptoms of dealing with me, I’m afraid,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “That could be solved,” Siri said. “Perhaps it would help if you refrained from speaking when others are present. I think I should find you quite amiable in those circumstances.” Lightsong laughed. Not a belly laugh, like her father or some of the men back in Idris, but a more refined laugh. Still, it seemed genuine. “I knew I liked you, girl,” he said. “I’m not sure if I should feel complimented or not.” “Depends upon how seriously you take yourself,” Lightsong said. “Come, abandon that silly chair and recline on one of these couches. Enjoy the evening.” “I’m not sure that would be proper,” Siri said. “I’m a god,” Lightsong said with a wave of his hand. “I define propriety.” “I think I’ll sit anyway,” Siri said, smiling, though she did stand and have her servants bring the chair farther under the canopy so that she didn’t have to speak so loudly. She also tried not to pay too much attention to the contests, lest she be drawn in by them again. Lightsong smiled. He seemed to enjoy making others uncomfortable. But, then, he also seemed to have no concern for how he himself appeared. “I meant what I said before, Lightsong,” she
said. “I need information.” “And I, my dear, was quite honest as well. I am useless, mostly. However, I’ll try my best to answer your questions—assuming, of course, you will provide answers to mine.” “And if I don’t know the answers to your questions?” “Then make something up,” he said. “I’ll never know the difference. Unknowing ignorance is preferable to informed stupidity.” “I’ll try to remember that.” “Do so and you defeat the point. Now, your questions?” “What happened to the previous God Kings?” “Died,” Lightsong said. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. It happens to people sometimes, even gods. We make, if you haven’t noticed, laughable immortals. We keep forgetting about that ‘live forever’ part and instead find ourselves unexpectedly dead. And for the second time at that. You might say that we’re twice as bad at staying alive as regular folk.” “How do the God Kings die?” “Gave away their Breath,” Lightsong said. “Isn’t that right, Scoot?” Lightsong’s high priest nodded. “It is, Your Grace. His Divine Majesty Susebron the Fourth died to cure the plague of distrentia that struck T’Telir fifty years ago.” “Wait,” Lightsong said. “Isn’t distrentia a disease of the bowels?” “Indeed,” the high priest said. Lightsong frowned. “You mean to tell me that our God King—the most holy and divine personage in our pantheon—died to cure a few tummy aches?” “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way, Your Grace.” Lightsong leaned over to Siri. “I’m expected to do that someday, you know. Kill myself so that some old lady will be able to stop messing herself in public. No wonder I’m such an embarrassing god. Must have to do with subconscious self-worth issues.” The high priest looked apologetically at Siri. For the first time, she realized that the overweight priest’s disapproval wasn’t directed at her, but at his god. To her, he smiled. Maybe they’re not all like Treledees, she thought, smiling back. “The God King’s sacrifice was not an empty gesture, Vessel,” the priest said. “True, diarrhea may not be a great danger to most, but to the elderly and the young it can be quite deadly. Plus, the epidemic conditions were spreading other diseases, and the city’s commerce—and therefore the kingdom’s—had slowed to a crawl. People in outlying villages went months without necessary supplies.” “I wonder how those who were cured felt,” Lightsong said musingly, “waking to find their God King dead.” “One would think they’d be honored, Your Grace.” “I think they’d be annoyed. The king came all that way, and they were too sick to notice. Anyway, my queen, there you go. That was actually helpful information. You now have me worried that I’ve broken my promise to you about being useless.” “If it’s any consolation,” she said, “you weren’t all that helpful yourself. It’s your priest who actually seems useful.” “Yes, I know. I’ve tried for years to corrupt him. Never seems to work. I can’t even get him to acknowledge the theological paradox it causes when I try to tempt him to do evil.” Siri paused, then found herself smiling even
more broadly. “What?” Lightsong asked, then finished off the last of his drink. It was immediately replaced by another, this one blue. “Talking to you is like swimming in a river,” she said. “I keep getting pulled along with the current and I’m never sure when I’ll be able to take another breath.” “Watch out for the rocks, Vessel,” the high priest noted. “They look rather insignificant, but have sharp edges under the surface.” “Bah,” Lightsong said. “It’s the crocodiles you have to watch for. They can bite. And...what exactly were we talking about, anyway?” “The God Kings,” Siri said. “When the last one died, an heir had already been produced?” “Indeed,” the high priest said. “In fact, he had just been married the year before. The child was born only weeks before he died.” Siri sat back in her chair, thoughtful. “And the God King before him?” “Died to heal the children of a village which had been attacked by bandits,” Lightsong said. “The commoners love the story. The king was so moved by their suffering that he gave himself up for the simple people.” “And had he been married the year before?” “No, Vessel,” the high priest said. “It was several years after his marriage. Though, he did die only a month after his second child was born.” Siri looked up. “Was the first child a daughter?” “Yes,” the priest said. “A woman of no divine powers. How did you know?” Colors! Siri thought. Both times, right after the heir was born. Did having a child somehow make the God Kings wish to give their lives away? Or was it something more sinister? A cured plague or healed village were both things that, with a little creative propaganda, could be invented to cover up some other cause of death. “I’m not truly an expert on these things, I’m afraid, Vessel,” the high priest continued. “And, I’m afraid that Lord Lightsong is not either. If you press him, he could very well just start making things up.” “Scoot!” Lightsong said indignantly. “That’s slanderous. Oh, and by the way, your hat is on fire.” “Thank you,” Siri said. “Both of you. This has actually been rather helpful.” “If I might suggest...” the high priest said. “Please,” she replied. “Try a professional storyteller, Vessel,” the priest said. “You can order one in from the city, and he can recite both histories and tales of imagination to you. They will provide much better information than we can.” Siri nodded. Why can’t the priests in our palace be this helpful? Of course, if they really were covering up the true reason their God Kings died, they had good reason to avoid helping her. In fact, it was likely that if she asked for a storyteller, they would just provide one who would tell her what they wanted her to hear. She frowned. “Could...you do that for me, Lightsong?” “What?” “Order in a storyteller,” she said. “I should like you to be there, in case I have any questions.” Lightsong shrugged. “I guess I could. Haven’t
heard a storyteller in some time. Just let me know when.” It wasn’t a perfect plan. Her servants were listening and they might report to the priests. However, if the storyteller came to Lightsong’s palace, there was at least some chance of Siri hearing the truth. “Thank you,” she said, rising. “Ah, ah, ah! Not so fast,” Lightsong said, raising a finger. She stopped. He drank from his cup. “Well?” she finally asked. He held up the finger again as he continued to drink, tipping his head back, getting the last bits of slushy ice from the bottom of the cup. He set it aside, mouth blue. “How refreshing. Idris. Wonderful place. Lots of ice. Costs quite a bit to bring it here, so I’ve heard. Good thing I don’t ever have to pay for anything, eh?” Siri raised an eyebrow. “And I’m standing here waiting because...” “You promised to answer some of my questions.” “Oh,” she said, sitting back down. “Of course.” “Now, then,” he said. “Did you know any city guards back in your home?” She cocked her head. “City guards?” “You know, fellows who enforce the law. Police. Sheriffs. The men who catch crooks and guard dungeons. That sort.” “I knew a couple, I guess,” she said. “My home city wasn’t large but it was the capital. It did attract people who could be difficult sometimes.” “Ah, good,” Lightsong said. “Kindly describe them for me. Not the difficult fellows. The city watch.” Siri shrugged. “I don’t know. They tended to be careful. They’d interview newcomers to the village, walk the streets looking for wrongdoing, that sort of thing.” “Would you call them inquisitive types?” “Yes,” Siri said. “I guess. I mean, as much as anybody. Maybe more.” “Were there ever any murders in your village?” “A couple,” Siri said, glancing down. “There shouldn’t have been—my father always said things like that shouldn’t happen in Idris. Said murder was a thing of...well, Hallandren.” Lightsong chuckled. “Yes, we do it all the time. Quite the party trick. Now, did these policemen investigate the murders?” “Of course.” “Without having to be asked to do so?” Siri nodded. “How’d they go about it?” “I don’t know,” Siri said. “They asked questions, talked to witnesses, looked for clues. I wasn’t involved.” “No, no,” Lightsong said. “Of course you weren’t. Why, if you’d been a murderer, they would have done something terrible to you, yes? Like exile you to another country?” Siri felt herself pale, hair growing lighter. Lightsong just laughed. “Don’t go taking me so seriously, Your Majesty. Honestly, I gave up wondering if you were an assassin days ago. Now, if your servants and mine will stay behind for a second, I think I may have something important to tell you.” Siri started as Lightsong stood up. He began to walk from the pavilion, and his servants remained where they were. Confused but excited, Siri rose from her own seat and hurried after him. She caught up with him a short distance away, on the stone walkway that ran between the various boxes
in the arena. Down below, the athletes continued their display. Lightsong looked down at her, smiling. They really are tall, she thought, craning a bit. A single foot of extra height made such a difference. Standing next to a man like Lightsong—and not really being that tall herself—she felt dwarfed. Maybe he’ll tell me the thing I’ve been looking for, Siri thought. The secret! “You are playing a dangerous game, my queen,” Lightsong said, leaning against the stone railing. It was built for Returned proportions, so it was too high for her to rest against comfortably. “Game?” she asked. “Politics,” he said, watching the athletes. “I don’t want to play politics.” “If you don’t, it will play you, I’m afraid. I always get sucked in, regardless of what I do. Complaining doesn’t stop that—though it does annoy people, which is satisfying in its own right.” Siri frowned. “So you pulled me aside to give me a warning?” “Colors, no,” Lightsong said, chuckling. “If you haven’t already figured out that this is dangerous, then you’re far too dense to appreciate a warning. I just wanted to give some advice. The first is about your persona.” “My persona?” “Yes,” he said. “It needs work. Choosing the persona of an innocent newcomer was a good instinct. It suits you. But you need to refine it. Work on it.” “It’s not a persona,” she said sincerely. “I am confused and new to all this.” Lightsong raised a finger. “That’s the trick to politics, child. Sometimes, although you can’t disguise who you are and how you really feel, you can make use of who you are. People distrust that which they can’t understand and predict. As long as you feel like an unpredictable element in court, you will appear to be a threat. If you can skillfully—and honestly—portray yourself as someone they understand, then you’ll begin to fit in. ” Siri frowned. “Take me as an example,” Lightsong said. “I’m a useless fool. I always have been, as long as I can remember—which actually isn’t all that long. Anyway, I know how people regard me. I enhance it. Play with it.” “So it’s a lie?” “Of course not. This is who I am. However, I make certain that people never forget it. You can’t control everything. But if you can control how people regard you, then you can find a place in this mess. And once you have that, you can begin to inﬂuence factions. Should you want to. I rarely do because it’s such a bother.” Siri cocked her head. Then she smiled. “You’re a good man, Lightsong,” she said. “I knew it, even when you were insulting me. You mean no harm. Is that part of your persona?” “Of course,” he said, smiling. “But I’m not sure what it is that convinces people to trust me. I’d get rid of it if I could. It only serves to make people expect too much. Just give what I said some practice. The best thing about being locked in this beautiful prison is that you can do
some good, you can change things. I’ve seen others do it. People I respected. Even if there haven’t been many of those around the court lately.” “All right,” she said. “I will.” “You’re digging for something—I can sense it. And it has to do with the priests. Don’t make too many waves until you’re ready to strike. Sudden and surprising, that’s how you want to be. You don’t want to appear too nonthreatening—people are always suspicious of the innocent. The trick is to appear average. Just as crafty as everyone else. That way, everyone else will assume that they can beat you with just a little advantage.” Siri nodded. “Kind of an Idrian philosophy.” “You came from us,” Lightsong said. “Or, perhaps, we came from you. Either way, we’re more similar than our outward trappings make us seem. What is that Idrian philosophy of extreme plainness except a means of contrasting with Hallandren? All those whites you people use? That makes you stand out on a national scale. You act like us, we act like you, we just do the same things in opposite ways.” She nodded slowly. He smiled. “Oh, and one thing. Please, please don’t depend on me too much. I mean that. I’m not going to be of much help. If your plots come to a head—if things go wrong at the last moment and you’re in danger or distress—don’t think of me. I will fail you. That I promise from my heart with absolute sincerity.” “You’re a very strange man.” “Product of my society,” he said. “And since most of the time, my society consists pretty much only of myself, I blame god. Good day, my queen.” With that, he sauntered off back to his box and waved for her servants— who had been watching with concern—to finally rejoin her. Annotations for Chapter 27 Twenty-Eight Annotations for Chapter 28 “The meeting is set, my lady,” Thame said. “The men are eager. Your work in T’Telir is gaining more and more notoriety.” Vivenna wasn’t sure what she thought of that. She sipped her juice. The lukewarm liquid was addictively ﬂavorful, although she wished for some Idrian ice. Thame looked at her eagerly. The short Idrian was, according to Denth’s investigations, trustworthy enough. His story of being “forced” into a life of crime was a tad overstated. He filled a niche in Hallandren society—he acted as a liaison between the Idrian workers and the various criminal elements. He was also, apparently, a staunch patriot. Despite the fact that he tended to exploit his own people, particularly newcomers to the city. “How many will be at the meeting?” Vivenna asked, watching traffic pass on the street out beyond the restaurant’s patio gate. “Over a hundred, my lady,” Thame said. “Loyal to our king, I promise. And, they’re inﬂuential men, all of them—for Idrians in T’Telir, that is.” Which, according to Denth, meant that they were men who wielded power in the city because they could provide cheap Idrian workers and could sway the opinion of the underprivileged Idrian masses. They were
men who, like Thame, thrived because of the Idrian expatriates. A strange duality. These men had stature among an oppressed minority, and without the oppression, they would be powerless. Like Lemex, she thought, who served my father—even seemed to respect and love him—all the while stealing every bit of gold he could lay his hands on. She leaned back, wearing a white dress with a long pleated skirt that rippled and blew in the wind. She tapped the side of her cup, which caused a serving man to refill her juice. Thame smiled, taking more juice as well, though he looked out of place in the fine restaurant. “How many are there, you suppose?” she asked. “Idrians in the city, I mean.” “Perhaps as many as ten thousand.” “That many?” “Trouble on the lower farms,” Thame said, shrugging. “It’s hard, sometimes, living up in those mountains. Crops fail, and what do you have? The king owns your land, so you can’t sell. You need to pay your levies...” “Yes, but one can petition in the case of disaster,” Vivenna said. “Ah, my lady, but most of these men are several weeks’ travel from the king. Should they leave their families to make a petition, when they fear their loved ones will starve during the weeks it will take to bring food from the king’s storehouse if they are successful? Or do they travel the much shorter distance down to T’Telir? Take work there, loading on the docks or harvesting ﬂowers in the jungle plantations? It’s hard work, but steady.” And, in doing so, they betray their people. But who was she to judge? The fifth Vision would define it as haughtiness. Here she sat in the cool shade of a canopy, enjoying a nice breeze and expensive juice while other men slaved to provide for their families. She had no right to sneer at their motivations. Idrians shouldn’t have to seek for work in Hallandren. She didn’t like to admit fault in her father, yet his was not a bureaucratically efficient kingdom. It consisted of dozens of scattered villages with poor highways that were often blocked by snows or rockslides. In addition, he was forced to expend a lot of resources keeping his army strong in case of a Hallandren assault. He had a difficult job. Was that a good enough excuse for the poverty of her people who had been forced to ﬂee their homeland? The more she listened and learned, the more she realized that many Idrians had never known anything like the idyllic life she’d lived in her lovely mountain valley. “Meeting is three days hence, my lady,” Thame said. “Some of these men are hesitant after Vahr and his failure, but they will listen to you.” “I will be there.” “Thank you.” Thame rose—bowed, despite the fact that she’d asked him not to draw attention to her—and withdrew. Vivenna sat and sipped her juice. She felt Denth before he arrived. “You know what interests me?” he said, taking the seat Thame had been using. “What?” “People,” he said,
tapping an empty cup, drawing the serving man back over. “People interest me. Particularly people who don’t act like they’re supposed to. People who surprise me.” “I hope you aren’t talking about Thame,” Vivenna asked, raising an eyebrow. Denth shook his head. “I’m talking about you, Princess. Wasn’t too long ago that—no matter what or who you looked at—you had a look of quiet displeasure in your eyes. You’ve lost it. You’re starting to fit in.” “Then that’s a problem, Denth,” Vivenna said. “I don’t want to fit in. I hate Hallandren.” “You seem to like that juice all right.” Vivenna set it aside. “You’re right, of course. I shouldn’t be drinking it.” “If you say so,” Denth said, shrugging. “Now, if you were to ask the mercenary—which, of course, nobody ever does—he might mention that it’s good for you to start acting like a Hallandren. The less you stand out, the less likely people are to connect you to that Idrian princess hiding in the city. Take your friend Parlin.” “He looks like a fool in those bright colors,” she said, glancing across the street toward where he and Jewels were chatting as they watched the escape route. “Does he?” Denth said. “Or does he just look like a Hallandren? Would you hesitate at all if you were in the jungle and saw him put on the fur of a beast, or perhaps shroud himself in a cloak colored like fallen leaves?” She looked again. Parlin lounged against the side of a building much like street toughs his age she’d seen elsewhere in the city. “You both fit better here than you once did,” Denth said. “You’re learning.” Vivenna looked down. Some things in her new life were actually starting to feel natural. The raids, for instance, were becoming surprisingly easy. She was also growing used to moving with the crowds and being part of an underground element. Two months earlier, she would have been indignantly opposed to dealing with a man like Denth, simply because of his profession. She found it very difficult to reconcile herself to some of these changes. It was growing harder and harder to understand herself, and to decide what she believed. “Though,” Denth said, eyeing Vivenna’s dress, “you might want to think about switching to trousers.” Vivenna frowned, looking up. “Just a suggestion,” Denth said, then gulped down some juice. “You don’t like the short Hallandren skirts, but the only decent clothing we can buy you that are ‘modest’ are of foreign make—and that makes them expensive. That means we have to use expensive restaurants, lest we stand out. That means you have to deal with all of this terrible lavishness. Trousers, however, are modest and cheap.” “Trousers are not modest.” “Don’t show knees,” he said. “Doesn’t matter.” Denth shrugged. “Just giving my opinion.” Vivenna looked away, then sighed quietly. “I appreciate the advice, Denth. Really. I just...I’m confused by a lot of my life lately.” “World’s a confusing place,” Denth said. “That’s what makes it fun.” “The men we’re working with,” Vivenna said. “They
lead the Idrians in the city but exploit them at the same time. Lemex stole from my father but still worked for the interests of my country. And here I am, wearing an overpriced dress and sipping expensive juice while my sister is being abused by an awful dictator and while this wonderful, terrible city prepares to launch a war on my homeland.” Denth leaned back in his chair, looking out over the short railing toward the street, watching the crowds with their colors both beautiful and terrible. “The motivations of men. They never make sense. And they always make sense.” “Right now, you don’t make sense.” Denth smiled. “What I’m trying to say is that you don’t understand a man until you understand what makes him do what he does. Every man is a hero in his own story, Princess. Murderers don’t believe that they’re to blame for what they do. Thieves, they think they deserve the money they take. Dictators, they believe they have the right—for the safety of their people and the good of the nation—to do whatever they wish.” He stared off, shaking his head. “I think even Vasher sees himself as a hero. The truth is, most people who do what you’d call ‘wrong’ do it for what they call ‘right’ reasons. Only mercenaries make any sense. We do what we’re paid to do. That’s it. Perhaps that’s why people look down on us so. We’re the only ones who don’t pretend to have higher motives.” He paused, then met her eyes. “In a way, we’re the most honest men you’ll ever meet.” The two of them fell silent, the crowd passing by just a short distance away, a river of ﬂashing colors. Another figure approached the table. “That’s right,” Tonk Fah said, “but, you forgot to mention that in addition to being honest, we’re also clever. And handsome.” “Those both go without saying,” Denth said. Vivenna turned. Tonk Fah had been watching from nearby, ready to provide backup. They were letting her start to take the lead in some of the meetings. “Honest, perhaps,” Vivenna said. “But I certainly hope that you’re not the most handsome men I’ll ever meet. Are we ready to go?” “Assuming you’re finished with your juice,” Denth said, smirking at her. Vivenna glanced at her cup. It was very good. Feeling guilty, she drained the juice. It would be a sin to waste it, she thought. Then she rose and swished her way from the building, leaving Denth—who now handled most of the coins—to settle the bill. Outside on the street, they were joined by Clod, who’d been given orders to come if she screamed for help. She turned, looking back at Tonk Fah and Denth. “Tonks,” she said. “Where’s your monkey?” He sighed. “Monkeys are boring anyway.” She rolled her eyes. “You lost another one?” Denth chuckled. “Get used to it, Princess. Of all the happy miracles in the universe, one of the greatest is that Tonks has never fathered a child. He’d probably lose it before the week was
out.” She shook her head. “You may be right,” she said. “Next appointment. D’Denir garden, right?” Denth nodded. “Let’s go,” she said, walking down the street. The others trailed behind, picking up Parlin and Jewels on the way. Vivenna didn’t wait for Clod to force a way through the crowd. The less she depended on that Lifeless, the better. Moving through the streets really wasn’t that difficult. There was an art to it—one moved with a crowd, rather than trying to swim against its ﬂow. It wasn’t long before, Vivenna at the front, the group turned off into the wide grassy field that was the D’Denir garden. Like the crossroads square, this place was an open space of green life set among the buildings and colors. Yet, here no ﬂowers or trees broke the landscape, nor did people bustle about. This was a more reverent place. And it was filled with statues. Hundreds of them. They looked much like the other D’Denir in the city—with their oversized bodies and heroic poses, many tied with colorful cloths or garments. These were some of the oldest statues she had seen, their stone weathered from years spent enduring the frequent T’Telir rainfalls. This group was the final gift from Peacegiver the Blessed. The statues had been made as a memorial to those who had died in the Manywar. A monument and a warning. So the legends said. Vivenna couldn’t help thinking that if the people really did honor those that had fallen, they wouldn’t dress the statues up in such ridiculous costumes. Still, the place was far more serene than most in T’Telir, and she could appreciate that. She walked down the steps onto the lawn, wandering between the silent stone figures. Denth moved up beside her. “Remember who we’re meeting?” She nodded. “Forgers.” Denth eyed her. “You all right with this?” “Denth, during our months together I’ve met with thief lords, murderers, and—most frighteningly—mercenaries. I think I can deal with a couple of spindly scribes.” Denth shook his head. “These are the men who sell the documents, not the scribes who do the work. You won’t meet more dangerous men than forgers. Within the Hallandren bureaucracy, they can make anything seem legal by putting the right documents in the right places.” Vivenna nodded slowly. “You remember what to have them make?” Denth asked. “Of course I do,” she said. “This particular plan was my idea, remember?” “Just checking,” he said. “You’re worried that I’ll mess things up, aren’t you?” He shrugged. “You’re the leader in this little dance, Princess. I’m just the guy who mops the ﬂoor afterward.” He eyed her. “I hate mopping up blood.” “Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes, walking faster and leaving him behind. As he fell back, she could hear him talking to Tonk Fah. “Bad metaphor?” Denth asked. “Nah,” Tonk Fah said. “It had blood in it. That makes it a good metaphor.” “I think it lacked poetic style.” “Find something that rhymes with ‘blood’ then,” Tonk Fah suggested. He paused. “Mud? Thud? Uh...tastebud?” They sure are
literate, for a bunch of thugs, she thought. She didn’t have to go far before she spotted the men. They waited beside the agreed meeting place—a large D’Denir with a weathered axe. The group of people were having a picnic and chatting among themselves, a picture of harmless innocence. Vivenna slowed. “That’s them,” Denth whispered. “Let’s go sit beside the D’Denir across from them.” Jewels, Clod, and Parlin hung back while Tonk Fah strolled away to watch the perimeter. Vivenna and Denth approached the statue near the forgers. Denth spread out a blanket for her, then stood to the side, as if he were a manservant. One of the men beside the other statue looked across as Vivenna sat down; then he nodded. The others continued to eat. The Hallandren underground’s penchant for working in broad daylight still unnerved Vivenna, but she supposed it had advantages over skulking about at night. “You want some work commissioned?” the forger closest to her asked, just loudly enough that Vivenna could hear. It almost seemed part of his conversation with his friends. “Yes,” she said. “It costs.” “I can pay.” “You’re the princess everyone is talking about?” She paused, noticing Denth’s hand leisurely going to his sword hilt. “Yes,” she said. “Good,” the forger said. “Royalty always seems to know how to handle itself. What is it you desire?” “Letters,” Vivenna said. “I want them to appear as if they were between certain members of the Hallandren priesthood and the king of Idris. They need to have official seals and convincing signatures.” “Difficult,” the man said. Vivenna pulled something from her dress pocket. “I have a letter written in King Dedelin’s hand. It has his seal on the wax, his signature at the bottom.” The man seemed intrigued, though she could only see the side of his face. “That makes it possible. Still hard. What do you want these documents to prove?” “That these particular priests are corrupt,” Vivenna said. “I have a list on this sheet. I want you to make it look like they’ve been extorting Idris for years, forcing our king to pay outrageous sums and make extreme promises in order to prevent war. I want you to show that Idris doesn’t want war and that the priests are hypocrites.” The man nodded. “Is that everything?” “Yes.” “It can be done. We’ll be in touch. Instructions and explanations are on the back of the paper?” “As requested,” Vivenna said. The group of men stood, a servant moving forward to pack up their lunch. As he did so, he let a napkin blow in the wind, then rushed over and picked it up, grabbing Vivenna’s paper too. Soon, all of them were gone. “Well?” Vivenna asked, looking up. “Good,” Denth said, nodding to himself. “You’re becoming an expert.” Vivenna smiled, settling back on her blanket to wait. The next appointment consisted of a group of thieves who had stolen—at Vivenna and Denth’s request—various goods from the war offices in the Hallandren bureaucratic building. The documents were of relatively little import themselves, but their
absence would cause confusion and frustration. That appointment wasn’t for a few hours, which meant she could enjoy some time relaxing on the lawn, away from the unnatural colors of the city. Denth seemed to sense her inclination, and he sat down, leaning back against the side of the statue’s bare pedestal. As Vivenna waited, she saw that Parlin was over talking to Jewels again. Denth was right; though his clothing looked ridiculous to her, that was because she knew him as an Idrian. Looking at him more objectively, she saw that he fit in remarkably well with other young men in the city. That’s well and good for him, Vivenna thought with annoyance, looking away. He can dress as he wishes—he doesn’t have to worry about his neckline or hemline. Jewels laughed. It was almost a snort of derision, but there was some mirth in it. Vivenna looked back immediately, watching Jewels roll her eyes at Parlin, a self-effacing smirk on his face. He knew he’d said something wrong. He didn’t know what. Vivenna knew him well enough to read the expression and to know that he’d just smile and go along with it. Jewels saw his face, then laughed again. Vivenna gritted her teeth. “I should send him back to Idris,” she said. Denth turned, looking down at her. “Hum?” “Parlin,” she said. “I sent my other guides back. I should have sent him too. He serves no function.” “He’s quick at adapting to situations,” Denth said. “And he’s trustworthy. That’s good enough reason to keep him.” “He’s a fool,” Vivenna said. “Has trouble understanding half of what goes on around him.” “He’s not got the wit of a scholar, true, but he seems to instinctively know how to blend in. Besides, we can’t all be geniuses like you.” She glanced at Denth. “What does that mean?” “It means,” Denth said, “that you shouldn’t let your hair change colors in public, Princess.” Vivenna started, noticing that her hair had shifted from a still, calm black to the red of frustration. Lord of Colors! she thought. I used to be so good at controlling that. What is happening to me? “Don’t worry,” Denth said, settling back. “Jewels has no interest in your friend. I promise you.” Vivenna snorted. “Parlin? Why should I care?” “Oh, I don’t know,” Denth said. “Maybe because you and he have been practically engaged since you were children?” “That’s completely untrue,” Vivenna said. “I’ve been engaged to the God King since before my birth!” “And your father always wished you could marry the son of his best friend instead,” Denth said. “At least, that’s what Parlin says.” He eyed her with a smirk. “That boy talks too much.” “Actually, he’s usually rather quiet,” Denth said. “You have to pry to get him to talk about himself. Either way, Jewels has other ties. So stop your worrying.” “I’m not worried,” Vivenna said. “And I’m not interested in Parlin.” “Of course not.” Vivenna opened her mouth to object, but she noticed Tonk Fah wandering over, and didn’t want him
to join this discussion as well. She snapped her jaw shut as the hefty mercenary arrived. “Flood,” Tonk Fah said. “Hum?” Denth asked. “Rhymes with blood,” Tonk Fah said. “Now you can be poetic. Flood of Blood. It is a nice visual image. Far better than tastebud.” “Ah, I see,” Denth said ﬂatly. “Tonk Fah?” “Yes?” “You’re an idiot.” “Thanks.” Vivenna stood up and began to walk through the statues, studying them—if only to escape having to watch Parlin and Jewels. Tonk Fah and Denth trailed along behind at a comfortable distance, keeping a watchful eye. There was a beauty to the statues. They weren’t like the other kinds of art in T’Telir—ﬂashy paintings, colorful buildings, exaggerated clothing. The D’Denir were solid blocks which had aged with dignity. The Hallandren, of course, did their best to destroy this with the scarves, hats, or other colorful bits they tied on the stone memorials. Fortunately, there were too many in this garden for all to be decorated. They stood, as if on guard, somehow more solid than much of the city. Most stared up into the sky or looked straight ahead. Each one was different, each pose distinct, each face unique. It must have taken decades to create all of these, she thought. Perhaps that’s where the Hallandren got their penchant for art. Hallandren was such a place of contradictions. Warriors to represent peace. Idrians who exploited and protected each other at the same time. Mercenaries who seemed to be among the best men she had ever known. Bright colors that created a kind of uniformity. And, over it all, BioChromatic Breath. It was exploitive, yet people like Jewels saw giving up their Breath as a privilege. Contradictions. The question was, could Vivenna afford to become another contradiction? A person who bent her beliefs in order to see that they were preserved? The Breaths were wonderful. It was more than just the beauty or the ability to hear changes in sound and sense intrinsically the distinct hues of color. It was more even than the ability to sense life around her. More than the sounds of the wind and the tones of people talking, or her ability to feel her way through a group of people and move easily with the motions of a crowd. It was a connection. The world around her felt close. Even inanimate things like her clothing or fallen twigs felt near to her. They were dead, yet seemed to yearn for life again. She could give it to them. They remembered life and she could Awaken those memories. But what good would it do to save her people if she lost herself? Denth doesn’t seem lost, she thought. He and the other mercenaries can separate what they believe from what they are forced to do. In her opinion, that was why people regarded mercenaries as they did. If you divorced belief from action, then you were on dangerous ground. No, she thought. No Awakening for me. The Breath would remain untapped. If it tempted her too much further, she
would give the lot away to somebody who had none. And become a Drab herself. Annotations for Chapter 28 Twenty-Nine Annotations for Chapter 29 Tell me about the mountains, Susebron wrote. Siri smiled. “Mountains?” Please, he wrote, sitting in his chair beside the bed. Siri lay on one side; her bulky dress had been too hot for this evening, so she sat in her shift with a sheet over her, resting on one elbow so she could see what he wrote. The fire crackled. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “I mean, the mountains aren’t amazing like the wonders you have in T’Telir. You have so many colors, so much variety.” I think that rocks sticking from the ground and rising thousands of feet into the air count as a wonder, he wrote. “I guess,” she said. “I liked it in Idris—I didn’t want to know anything else. For someone like you, though, it would probably be boring.” More boring than sitting in the same palace every day, not allowed to leave, not allowed to speak, being dressed and pampered? “Okay, you win.” Tell me of them, please. His handwriting was getting very good. Plus, the more he wrote, the more he seemed to understand. She wished so much that she could find him books to read—she suspected that he’d absorb them quickly, becoming as learned as any of the scholars who had tried to tutor her. And yet, all he had was Siri. He seemed to appreciate what she gave him— but that was probably only because he didn’t know just how ignorant she was. I suspect, she thought, that my tutors would laugh themselves silly if they knew how much I’d come to regret ignoring them. “The mountains are vast,” she said. “You can’t really get a sense of it here, in the lowlands. It’s by seeing them that you know just how insignificant people really are. I mean, no matter how long we worked and built, we could never pile up anything as high as one of the mountains. “They’re rocks, like you said, but they’re not lifeless. They’re green—as green as your jungles. But it’s a different green. I heard some of the traveling merchants complain that the mountains cut off their view, but I think you can see more. They let you see the surface of the land as it extends upward, toward Austre’s domain in the sky.” He paused. Austre? Siri ﬂushed, hair blushing as well. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t talk about other gods in front of you.” Other gods? he wrote. Like those in the court? “No,” Siri said. “Austre is the Idrian god.” I understand, Susebron wrote. Is he very handsome? Siri laughed. “No, you don’t understand. He’s not a Returned, like you or Lightsong. He’s...well, I don’t know. Didn’t the priests mention other religions to you?” Other religions? he wrote. “Sure,” she said. “I mean, not everybody worships the Returned. The Idrians like me worship Austre, and the Pahn Kahl people—like Bluefingers...well, I don’t actually know what they worship,
but it’s not you.” That is very strange to consider, he wrote. If your gods are not Returned, then what are they? “Not they,” Siri said. “Just one. We call him Austre. The Hallandren used to worship him too before...” She almost said before they became heretics. “Before Peacegiver arrived, and they decided to worship the Returned instead.” But who is this Austre? he wrote. “He’s not a person,” Siri said. “He’s more of a force. You know, the thing that watches over all people, who punishes those who don’t do what is right and who blesses those who are worthy.” Have you met this creature? Siri laughed. “Of course not. You can’t see Austre.” Susebron frowned, looking at her. “I know,” she said. “It must seem silly to you. But, well, we know he’s there. When I see something beautiful in nature—when I look at the mountains, with their wildﬂowers growing in patterns that are somehow more right than a man could have planted—I know. Beauty is real. That’s what reminds me of Austre. Plus, we’ve got the Returned—including the first Returned, Vo. He had the five Visions before he died, and they must have come from somewhere.” But you don’t believe in worshiping the Returned? Siri shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet. My people teach strongly against it. They’re not fond of the way that the Hallandren understand religion.” He sat quietly for a long moment. So...you do not like those such as me? “What? Of course I like you! You’re sweet!” He frowned, writing. I don’t think God Kings are supposed to be “sweet.” “fine, then,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’re terrible and mighty. Awesome and deific. And sweet.” Much better, he wrote, smiling. I should very much like to meet this Austre. “I’ll introduce you to some monks sometime,” Siri said. “They should be able to help you with that.” Now you are mocking me. Siri smiled as he looked up at her. There was no hurt in his eyes. He didn’t appear to mind being mocked; indeed, he seemed to find it very interesting. He particularly liked trying to pick out when she was being serious and when she wasn’t. He looked down again. More than meeting with this god, however, I should like to see the mountains. You seem to love them very much. “I do,” Siri said. It had been a long time since she’d thought of Idris. But as he mentioned it, she remembered the cool, open feeling of the meadows she had run through not so long ago. The crispness of the chilly air— something that she suspected one could never find in Hallandren. Plants in the Court of Gods were kept perfectly clipped, cultivated, and arranged. They were beautiful, but the wild fields of her homeland had their own special feel. Susebron was writing again. I suspect that the mountains are beautiful, as you have said. However, I believe the most beautiful thing in them has already come down to me. Siri started, then ﬂushed. He seemed so open, not even a
little embarrassed or shy about the bold compliment. “Susebron!” she said. “You have the heart of a charmer.” Charmer? he wrote. I must only speak what I see. There is nothing so wonderful as you, even in my entire court. The mountains must be special indeed, to produce such beauty. “See, now you’ve gone too far,” she said. “I’ve seen the goddesses of your court. They’re far more beautiful than I am.” Beauty is not about how a person looks, Susebron wrote. My mother taught me this. The travelers in my storybook must not judge the old woman ugly, for she might be a beautiful goddess inside. “This isn’t a story, Susebron.” Yes it is, he wrote. All of those stories are just tales told by people who lived lives before ours. What they say about humankind is true. I have watched and seen how people act. He erased, then continued. It is strange, for me, to interpret these things, for I do not see as normal men do. I am the God King. Everything, to my eyes, has the same beauty. Siri frowned. “I don’t understand.” I have thousands of Breaths, he wrote. It is hard to see as other people do—only through the stories of my mother can I understand their ways. All colors are beauty in my eyes. When others look at something—a person—one may sometimes seem more beautiful than another. This is not so for me. I see only the color. The rich, wondrous colors that make up all things and gives them life. I cannot focus only on the face, as so many do. I see the sparkle of the eyes, the blush of the cheeks, the tones of skin—even each blemish is a distinct pattern. All people are wonderful. He erased. And so, when I speak of beauty, I must speak of things other than these colors. And you are different. I do not know how to describe it. He looked up, and suddenly Siri was aware of just how close they were to each other. She, only in her shift, with the thin sheet covering her. He, tall and broad, shining with a soul that made the colors of the sheets bend out like light through a prism. He smiled in the firelight. Oh, dear...she thought. This is dangerous. She cleared her throat, sitting up, ﬂushing yet again. “Well. Um, yes. Very nice. Thank you.” He looked back down. I wish I could let you go home, to see your mountains again. Perhaps I could explain this to the priests. She paled. “I don’t think it would be good to let them know that you can read.” I could use the artisan’s script. It is very difficult to write, but they taught it to me so I could communicate with them, if I needed to. “Still,” she said. “Telling them you want to send me home could hint that you’ve been talking to me.” He stopped writing for a few moments. Maybe that would be a good thing, he wrote. “Susebron, they’re planning to kill
you.” You have no proof of that. “Well, it’s suspicious, at least,” she said. “The last two God Kings died within months of producing an heir.” You’re too untrusting, Susebron wrote. I keep telling you. My priests are good people. She regarded him ﬂatly, catching his eyes. Except for removing my tongue, he admitted. “And keeping you locked up, and not telling you anything. Look, even if they aren’t planning to kill you, they know things they’re not telling you. Perhaps it’s something to do with BioChroma—something that makes you die once your heir arrives.” She frowned, leaning back. Could that be it? she wondered suddenly. “Susebron, how do you pass on your Breaths?” He paused. I don’t know, he wrote. I...don’t know a lot about it. “I don’t either,” she said. “Can they take them from you? Give them to your son? What if that kills you?” They wouldn’t do that, he wrote. “But maybe it’s possible,” she said. “And maybe that’s what happens. That’s why having a child is so dangerous! They have to make a new God King and it kills you to do so.” He sat with his board in his lap, then shook his head, writing. I am a god. I am not given Breaths, I am born with them. “No,” Siri said. “Bluefingers told me you’d been collecting them for centuries. That each God King gets two Breaths a week, instead of one, building up his reserves.” Actually, he admitted, some weeks I get three or four. “But you only need one a week to survive.” Yes. “And they can’t let that wealth die with you! They’re too afraid of it to let you use it, but they also can’t let themselves lose it. So, when a new child is born, they take the Breath from the old king—killing him—and give it to the new one.” But Returned cannot use their Breath for Awakening, he wrote. So my treasure of Breaths is useless. This gave her pause. She had heard that. “Does that mean only the Breath you’re born with, or does it include the extra Breaths that have been added on top?” I do not know, he wrote. “I’ll bet you could use those extra Breaths if you wanted,” she said. “Otherwise, why remove your tongue? You may not be able to access and use that Breath that makes you Returned in the first place, but you have thousands and thousands of Breaths above that.” Susebron sat for a few moments, and then finally he rose, walking across to the window. He stared out at the darkness beyond. Siri frowned, then picked up his board and crossed the room. She got off the bed and approached hesitantly, wearing only her shift. “Susebron?” she asked. He continued to stare out the window. She joined him, careful not to touch him, looking out. Colorful lights sparkled amidst the city beyond the wall of the Court of Gods. Beyond that was darkness. The still sea. “Please,” she said, pushing the board into his hands. “What is it?” He
paused, then took it. I am sorry, he wrote. I do not wish to appear petulant. “Is it because I keep challenging your priests?” No, he wrote. You have interesting theories, but I think they are just guesses. You do not know that the priests plan what you claim. That doesn’t bother me. “What is it, then?” He hesitated, then erased with the sleeve of his robe. You do not believe that the Returned are divine. “I thought we already talked about this.” We did. However, I realized now that this is the reason why you treat me as you do. You are different because you do not believe in my godhood. Is that the only reason I find you interesting? And, if you do not believe, it makes me sad. Because a god is who I am, it is what I am, and if you do not believe in it, it makes me think you do not understand me. He paused. Yes. It does sound petulant. I am sorry. She smiled, then tentatively touched his arm. He froze, looking down, but didn’t pull back as he had times before. So she moved up beside him, resting against his arm. “I don’t have to believe in you to understand you,” she said. “I’d say that those people who worship you are the ones who don’t understand. They can’t get close to you, see who you really are. They’re too focused on the aura and the divinity.” He didn’t respond. “And,” she said, “I’m not different just because I don’t believe in you. There are a lot of people in the palace who don’t believe. Bluefingers, some of the serving girls who wear brown, other scribes. They serve you just as reverently as the priests. I’m just...well, I’m an irreverent type. I didn’t really listen to my father or the monks back home, either. Maybe that’s what you need. Someone who would be willing to look beyond your godhood and just get to know you.” He nodded slowly. That is comforting, he wrote. Though, it is very strange to be a god whose wife does not believe in him. Wife, she thought. Sometimes that was tough to remember. “Well,” she said, “I should think it would do every man good to have a wife who isn’t as in awe of him as everyone else is. Somebody has to keep you humble.” Humility is, I believe, somewhat opposite to godhood. “Like sweetness?” she asked. He chuckled. Yes, just like that. He put the board down. Then, hesitantly—a little frightened—he put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer as they looked out the window at the lights of a city that remained colorful, even at night. ~ Bodies. Four of them. They all lay dead on the ground, blood an oddly dark color against the grass. It was the day after Vivenna’s visit to the D’Denir garden to meet with the forgers. She was back again. Sunlight streamed down, hot upon her head and neck as she stood with the rest of the gawking
crowd. The silent D’Denir waited in rows behind her, soldiers of stone who would never march. Only they had seen the four men die. People chattered with hushed voices, waiting for the city guard to finish their inspection. Denth had brought Vivenna quickly, before the bodies could be cleared. He had done so at her request. Now she wished she’d never asked. To her enhanced eyes, the colors of the blood on grass were powerfully distinct. Red and green. It made almost a violet in combination. She stared at the corpses, feeling an odd sense of disconnection. Color. So strange to see the colors of skin paled. She could tell the difference—the intrinsic difference—between skin that was alive and skin that was dead. Dead skin was ten shades whiter than live skin. It was caused by blood seeping down and out of the veins. Almost like...like the blood was the color, drained out of its casks. The paint of a human life which had been carelessly spilled, leaving the canvas blank. She looked away. “You see it?” Denth said, at her side. She nodded silently. “You asked about him. Well, here’s what he does. This is why we’re so worried. Look at those wounds.” She turned back. In the growing morning light, she could see something she’d missed before. The skin directly around the sword wounds had been completely drained of color. The wounds themselves had a dark black tinge to them. As if they had been infected with some terrible disease. She turned back to Denth. “Let’s go,” Denth said, leading her away from the crowd as the city Guards finally began to order people back, annoyed by the number of gawkers. “Who were they?” she asked quietly. Denth stared straight ahead. “A gang of thieves. Ones we’d worked with.” “You think he might come for us?” “I’m not sure,” Denth said. “He could probably find us if he wanted. I don’t know.” Tonk Fah approached across the green as they passed through the D’Denir statues. “Jewels and Clod are on alert,” Tonk Fah said. “None of us see him anywhere.” “What happened to the skin of those men?” Vivenna asked. “It’s that sword of his,” Denth growled. “We have to find a way to deal with it, Tonks. We’re going to end up crossing him, eventually. I can feel it.” “But what is the sword?” Vivenna asked. “And how did it drain the color from their skin?” “We’ll have to steal the thing, Denth,” Tonk Fah said, rubbing his chin as Jewels and Clod filled in around them, making a protective pattern as they moved out into the human river of the street. “Steal the sword?” Denth asked. “I’m not touching the thing! No, we have to make him use it. Draw it. He won’t be able to keep it out for long. After that, we’ll be able to take him easily. I’ll kill him myself.” “He beat Arsteel,” Jewels said quietly. Denth froze. “He did not beat Arsteel! Not in a duel, at least.” “Vasher didn’t use the sword,”
Jewels said. “There was no blackness to Arsteel’s wounds.” “Then Vasher used a trick!” Denth said. “Ambush. Accomplices. Something. Vasher is no duelist.” Vivenna let herself get pulled along, thinking of those bodies. Denth and the others had spoken of the deaths this Vasher was causing. She’d wanted to see them. Well, now she had. And it left her feeling disturbed. Unsettled. And... She frowned, itching slightly. Someone with a lot of Breath was watching her. ~ Hey! Nightblood said. It’s VaraTreledees! We should go talk to him. He’ll be happy to see me. Vasher stood openly atop the building. He didn’t really care who saw him. He rarely did. An endless ﬂow of people passed on the colorful street. VaraTreledees—Denth, as he called himself now—walked among them with his team. The woman, Jewels. Tonk Fah, as always. The clueless princess. And the abomination. Is Shashara here? Nightblood asked, excitement in his nebulous voice. We need to go see her! She’ll be worried about what happened to me. “We killed Shashara long ago, Nightblood,” Vasher said. “Just like we killed Arsteel.” Just like we’ll eventually kill Denth. As usual, Nightblood refused to acknowledge Shashara’s death. She made me, you know, Nightblood said. Made me to destroy things that were evil. I’m rather good at it. I think she’d be proud of me. We should go talk to her. Show her how well I do my job. “You are good at it,” Vasher whispered. “Too good.” Nightblood began to hum quietly, pleased at the perceived praise. Vasher, however, focused on the princess, walking in her obviously exotic dress, standing out like a ﬂake of snow in the tropical heat. He would need to do something about her. Because of her, so many things were falling apart. Plans toppling like badly stacked boxes, creating a racket with their collapse. He didn’t know where Denth had found her or how he kept control of her. However, Vasher was sorely tempted to jump down and let Nightblood take her. The deaths the night before had already drawn too much attention. Nightblood was right. Vasher wasn’t good at sneaking about. Rumors regarding him were widespread in the city. That was both good and bad. Later, he thought, turning from the silly girl and her mercenary entourage. Later. Annotations for Chapter 29 Thirty Annotations for Chapter 30 “Lightsong!” Blushweaver said, hands on hips. “What in the name of the Iridescent Tones are you doing?” Lightsong ignored her, instead applying his hands to the clump of muddy clay in front of him. His servants and priests stood in a large ring, looking nearly as confused as Blushweaver—who had arrived at his pavilion just a few moments before. The pottery wheel spun. He held the clay, trying to get it to stay in place. Sunlight shone in through the sides of the pavilion, and the neatly manicured grass under his table was ﬂecked with clay. As the wheel sped up, the clay twirled round, ﬂipping out clods and clumps. Lightsong’s hands became soaked with grimy, slick clay, and it didn’t
take long for the entire mess to ﬂip off the wheel and squish to the ground. “Hum,” he said, regarding it. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Blushweaver asked. She wore one of her customary dresses—which meant nothing on the sides, very little at the top, and only slightly more through the front and back. She had her hair up in an intricately twisting woven pattern of braids and ribbon. Likely the work of a master stylist, who had been invited into the court to perform for one of the gods. Lightsong hopped to his feet, holding his hands out to either side as servants rushed to wash them off. Others came and wiped the bits of clay from his fine robes. He stood thoughtfully as other servants removed the pottery wheel. “Well?” Blushweaver asked. “What was that?” “I just discovered that I am no good at pottery,” Lightsong said. “Actually, I am worse than ‘no good.’ I am pathetic. Ridiculously bad. Can’t even get the blasted clay to stay on the wheel.” “Well what did you expect?” “I’m not sure,” Lightsong said, walking across the pavilion toward a long table. Blushweaver—obviously annoyed at being led along—followed. Lightsong suddenly grabbed five lemons off of the table and threw them into the air. He proceeded to juggle them. Blushweaver watched. And, for just a moment, she looked honestly concerned. “Lightsong?” she asked. “Dear. Is...everything all right?” “I have never practiced juggling,” he said, watching the lemons. “Now, please grab that guava fruit.” She hesitated, then carefully picked up the guava. “Throw it,” Lightsong said. She tossed it at him. He deftly plucked it from the air, then threw it into the pattern with the lemons. “I didn’t know I could do this,” he said. “Not before today. What do you make of it?” “I...” she cocked her head. He laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words, my dear.” “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen another god throwing fruit into the air.” “It’s more than this,” Lightsong said, dipping down as he nearly lost one of the lemons. “Today I have discovered that I know a surprising number of sailing terms, that I am fantastic at mathematics, and that I have a fairly good eye for sketching. On the other hand, I know nothing about the dyeing industry, horses, or gardening. I have no talent for sculpting, I can’t speak any foreign languages, and—as you’ve seen—I’m terrible at pottery.” Blushweaver watched him for a second. He looked at her, letting the lemons drop but snatching the guava out of the air. He tossed it to a servant, who began peeling it for him. “My previous life, Blushweaver. These are skills that I—Lightsong—have no right to know. Whomever I was before I died, he could juggle. He knew about sailing. And he could sketch.” “We’re not supposed to worry about the people we were before,” Blush-weaver said. “I’m a god,” Lightsong said, taking back a plate containing the peeled and sliced guava, then offering a piece to
Blushweaver. “And, by Kalad’s Phantoms, I’ll worry about whatever I please.” She paused, then smiled and took a slice. “Just when I thought I had you figured out...” “You didn’t have me figured out,” he said lightly. “And neither did I. That’s the point. Shall we go?” She nodded, joining him as they began to cross the lawn, their servants bringing parasols to shade them. “You can’t tell me that you’ve never wondered,” Lightsong said. “My dear,” she replied, sucking on a guava piece, “I was boring before.” “How do you know?” “Because I was an ordinary person! I would have been...Well, have you seen regular women?” “Their proportions aren’t quite up to your standards, I know,” he said. “But many are quite attractive.” Blushweaver shivered. “Please. Why would you want to know about your normal life? What if you were a murderer or a rapist? Worse, what if you had bad fashion sense?” He snorted at the twinkle in her eye. “You act so shallow. But I see the curiosity. You should try some of these things, let them tell you a little of who you were. There must have been something special about you for you to have Returned.” “Hum,” she said, smiling and sidling up to him. He stopped as she ran her finger down the front of his chest. “Well, if you’re trying new things today, maybe there’s something else you ought to think about....” “Don’t try to change the subject.” “I’m not,” she said. “But, how will you know who you were if you don’t try? It would be an...experiment.” Lightsong laughed, pushing her hand away. “My dear, I fear you would find me less than satisfactory.” “I think you overestimate me.” “That’s impossible.” She paused, ﬂushing slightly. “Uh...” Lightsong said. “Hum. I didn’t exactly mean...” “Oh, bother,” she said. “Now you’ve spoiled the moment. I was about to say something very clever, I just know it.” He smiled. “Both of us, at a loss for words in one afternoon. I do believe we’re losing our touch.” “My touch is perfectly fine, which you’d discover if you’d just let me show you.” He rolled his eyes and continued to walk. “You’re hopeless.” “When all else fails, use sexual innuendo,” she said lightly, joining him. “It always brings the focus back to where it belongs. On me.” “Hopeless,” he said again. “But, I doubt we have time for me to chastise you again. We’ve arrived.” Indeed, Hopefinder’s palace was before them. Lavender and silver, it had a pavilion out front prepared with three tables and food. Naturally, Blushweaver and Lightsong had arranged for the meeting ahead of time. Hopefinder the Just, god of innocence and beauty, stood up as they approached. He appeared to be about thirteen years old. By apparent physical age, he was the youngest of the gods in the court. But they weren’t supposed to acknowledge such discrepancies. After all, he’d Returned when his body had been two, which made him—in god years—Lightsong’s senior by six years. In a place where most gods didn’t last
twenty years, and the average age was probably closer to ten, six years difference was very significant. “Lightsong, Blushweaver,” Hopefinder said, stiff and formal. “Welcome.” “Thank you, dear,” Blushweaver said, smiling at him. Hopefinder nodded, then gestured toward the tables. The three small tables were separate, but set close enough together for the meal to remain intimate while giving each god his or her own space. “How have you been, Hopefinder?” Lightsong asked, sitting. “Very well,” Hopefinder said. His voice always seemed a little too mature for his body. Like a boy trying to imitate his father. “There was a particularly difficult case during petitions this morning. A mother with a child who was dying of the fevers. She’d already lost her other three, as well as her husband. All in the space of a year. Tragic.” “My dear,” Blushweaver said with concern. “You’re not actually considering...passing your Breath, are you?” Hopefinder sat. “I don’t know, Blushweaver. I am old. I feel old. Perhaps it is time for me to go. I’m fifth most aged, you know.” “Yes, but with the times growing so exciting!” “Exciting?” he asked. “Why, they’re calming down. The new queen is here, and my sources in the palace say that she’s pursuing her duties to produce an heir with great vigor. Stability will soon arrive.” “Stability?” Blushweaver asked as the servants bought them each a chilled soup. “Hopefinder, I find it hard to believe that you’re so uninformed.” “You think the Idrians plan to use the new queen in a play for the throne,” Hopefinder said. “I know what you’ve been doing, Blushweaver. I disagree.” “And the rumors out in the city?” Blushweaver said. “The Idrian agents who are causing such a ruckus? This so-called second princess somewhere in the city?” Lightsong paused, spoon halfway to his lips. What was that? “The city’s Idrians are always creating one crisis or another,” Hopefinder said, waving his fingers dismissively. “What was that disturbance six months ago, the rebel on the outer dye plantations? He died in prison, I recall. Foreign workers rarely provide a stable societal underclass, but I don’t fear them.” “They’ve never claimed to have a royal agent working with them,” Blushweaver said. “Things could get out of hand very quickly.” “My interests in the city are quite secure,” Hopefinder said, lacing his fingers in front of him. The servants took away his soup. He’d taken only three sips. “How about yours?” “That’s what this meeting is for,” Blushweaver said. “Excuse me,” Lightsong said, raising a finger. “But what in the Colors are we talking about?” “Unrest in the city, Lightsong,” Hopefinder said. “Some of the locals are unsettled by the prospect of war.” “They could turn dangerous very easily,” Blushweaver said, stirring her soup with a lazy motion. “I think that we should be prepared.” “I am,” Hopefinder said, watching Blushweaver with his too-young face. Like all younger Returned—the God King included—Hopefinder would continue to age until his body reached maturity. Then, he would stop aging—just over the brink into the prime adulthood—until he gave up
his Breath. He acted so much like an adult. Lightsong hadn’t interacted much with children, but some of his attendants—when training—were youths. Hopefinder was not like those. All accounts said that Hopefinder, like other young Returned, had matured very quickly during his first year of life, coming to think and speak as an adult while his body was still that of a young child. Hopefinder and Blushweaver continued to talk about the stability of the city, mentioning various acts of vandalism that had occurred. War plans stolen, city supply stations poisoned. Lightsong let them talk. He doesn’t seem to find Blushweaver’s beauty distracting, he thought as he watched. She turned to the fruit course, acting characteristically lascivious as she sucked on pieces of pineapple. Hopefinder either didn’t care, or didn’t notice, as she leaned forward, showing an impressive amount of cleavage. Something is different about him, Lightsong thought. He Returned when he was a child and acted like one for a very short time. Now, he’s an adult in some ways, but a child in others. The transformation had made Hopefinder more mature. He was also taller and more physically impressive than ordinary boys his age, even if he didn’t have the chiseled, majestic features of a fully grown god. And yet, Lightsong thought, eating a piece of pineapple, different Gods have different body styles. Blushweaver is inhumanly well endowed, particularly for how thin she is. Yet Mercystar is plump and curvaceous all around. Others, like Allmother, look physically old. Lightsong knew he didn’t deserve his powerful physique. Like the knowledge of how to juggle, he somehow understood that a person usually had to work hard at manual labor to have such a muscular body. Lounging about, eating and drinking, should have made him plump and ﬂabby. But there have been gods who were fat, he thought, remembering some of the pictures he had seen of Returned who had come before him. There was a time in our culture’s history when that was seen as the ideal...Did Returned looks have something to do with the way society saw them? Perhaps their opinion of ideal beauty? That would certainly explain Blushweaver. Some things survived the transformation. Language. Skills. And, as he thought about it, social competence. Considering the fact that the gods spent their lives locked up atop a plateau, they probably should have been far less well adjusted than they were. At the very least, they should have been ignorant and naive. Yet most of them were consummate schemers, sophisticates with a surprisingly good grasp of what happened in the outside world. Memory itself didn’t survive. Why? Why could Lightsong juggle and understand the meaning of the word “bowsprit,” yet at the same time be unable to remember who his parents had been? And who was that face he saw in his dreams? Why had storms and tempests dominated his dreams lately? What was the red panther that had appeared, yet again, in his nightmares the night before? “Blushweaver,” Hopefinder said, holding up a hand. “Enough. Before we go any further, I
must point out that your obvious attempts to seduce me will gain you nothing.” Blushweaver glanced away, looking embarrassed. Lightsong shook himself out of his contemplations. “My dear Hopefinder,” he said. “She was not trying to seduce you. You must understand; Blushweaver’s aura of allure is simply a part of who she is; it’s part of what makes her so charming.” “Regardless,” he said. “I will not be swayed by it or by her paranoid arguments and fears.” “My contacts do not think that these things are simple ‘paranoia,’ ” Blushweaver said as the fruit dishes were removed. A small chilled fish fillet arrived next. “Contacts?” Hopefinder asked. “And just who are these ‘contacts’ you keep mentioning?” “People within the God King’s palace itself.” “We all have people in the God King’s palace,” Hopefinder said. “I don’t,” Lightsong said. “Can I have one of yours?” Blushweaver rolled her eyes. “My contact is quite important. He hears things, knows things. War is coming.” “I don’t believe you,” he said, picking at his food, “but that doesn’t really matter now, does it? You’re not here to get me to believe you. You just want my army.” “Your codes,” Blushweaver said. “Lifeless security phrases. What will it cost us to get them?” Hopefinder picked at his fish some more. “Do you know, Blushweaver, why I find my existence so boring?” She shook her head. “Honestly, I still think you’re bluffing on that count.” “I’m not,” he said. “Eleven years. Eleven years of peace. Eleven years to grow to sincerely loathe this system of government we have. We all attend the assembly court of judgment. We listen to the arguments. But most of us don’t matter. In any given vote, only those with sway in that field have any real say over anything. During war times, those of us with Lifeless Commands are important. The rest of the time, our opinion rarely matters. “You want my Lifeless? Be welcome to them! I have had no opportunity to use them in eleven years, and I venture that another eleven will pass without incident. I will give you those Commands, Blushweaver—but only in exchange for your vote. You sit on the council of social ills. You have an important vote practically every week. In exchange for my security phrases, you must promise to vote in social matters as I say, from now until one of us dies.” The pavilion fell silent. “Ah, so now you reconsider,” Hopefinder said, smiling. “I’ve heard you complain about your duties in court—that you find your votes trivial. Well, it’s not so easy to let go of them, is it? Your vote is all the inﬂuence you have. It isn’t ﬂashy, but it is potent. It—” “Done,” Blushweaver said sharply. Hopefinder cut off. “My vote is yours,” Blushweaver said, meeting his eyes. “The terms are acceptable. I swear it in front of your priests and mine, before another god even.” By the Colors, Lightsong thought. She really is serious. Part of him had presumed, all along, that her posturing about the war was
just another game. Yet the woman who stared Hopefinder in the eyes was not playing. She sincerely believed that Hallandren was in danger, and she wanted to make certain that the armies were unified and prepared. She cared. And that left him worried. What had he gotten himself into? What if there really was a war? As he watched the interaction of the two gods, he was left chilled by how easily and quickly they dealt with the fate of the Hallandren people. To Hopefinder, his control of a quarter of the Hallandren armies should have been a sacred obligation. He was ready to toss that aside simply because he had grown bored. Who am I to chastise another’s lack of piety? Lightsong thought. I, who don’t even believe in my own divinity. And yet...at that moment, as Hopefinder prepared to release his Commands to Blushweaver, Lightsong thought he saw something. Like a remembered fragment of a memory. A dream that he might never have dreamed. A shining room, glowing, reﬂecting light. A room of steel. A prison. “Servants and priests, withdraw,” Hopefinder commanded. They retreated, leaving the three gods alone beside their half-eaten meals, pavilion silk ﬂapping slightly in the wind. “The security phrase,” Hopefinder said, looking at Blushweaver, “is ‘A candle by which to see.’ ” It was the title of a famous poem; even Lightsong knew it. Blushweaver smiled. Speaking those words to any of Hopefinder’s ten thousand Lifeless in the barracks would allow her to override their current orders and take complete control of them. Lightsong suspected that by the end of the day, she’d make the trip down to the barracks—which lay at the base of the court, and were considered part of it—and begin imprinting Hopefinder’s soldiers with a new security phrase, known only to her and perhaps a few of her most trusted priests. “And now, I withdraw,” Hopefinder said, standing. “There is a vote this evening at the court. You will attend, Blushweaver, and you will cast your vote in favor of the reformist arguments.” With that, he left. “Why do I feel like we’ve just been manipulated?” Lightsong asked. “We only got manipulated, my dear, if there isn’t war. If there is, then we may have just set ourselves up to save the entire court—perhaps the kingdom itself.” “How very altruistic of us,” Lightsong said. “We’re like that,” Blushweaver said as the servants returned. “So selﬂess at times it’s painful. Either way, that means we control two gods’ worth of Lifeless.” “Mine and Hopefinder’s?” “Actually,” she said, “I was speaking of Hopefinder’s and Mercystar’s. She confided hers to me yesterday, all the while talking about how comforting she found it that you’d taken a personal interest in the incident at her palace. That was very well done, by the way.” She seemed to be fishing for something. Lightsong smiled. “No, I didn’t know that would encourage her to release her Commands to you. I was just curious.” “Curious about a murdered servant?” “Actually, yes,” Lightsong said. “The death of a servant of the
Returned is quite disconcerting to me, particularly in its proximity to our own palaces.” Blushweaver raised an eyebrow. “Would I lie to you?” Lightsong asked. “Only every time you claim you don’t want to sleep with me. Lies, brazen lies.” “Innuendo again, my dear?” “Of course not,” she said. “That was quite blatant. Regardless, I know that you are lying about that investigation. What was the real purpose of it?” Lightsong paused, then sighed, shaking his head, waving for a servant to bring back the fruit—he liked that better. “I don’t know, Blushweaver. In all honesty, I’m beginning to wonder if I might have been a kind of officer of the law in my previous life.” She frowned. “You know, like city watch. I was extremely good at interrogating those servants. At least, that’s my own humble opinion.” “Which we’ve already established is quite altruistic.” “Quite,” he agreed. “I think this might explain how I ended up dying in a ‘bold’ way, giving me my name.” Blushweaver raised an eyebrow. “I just always assumed you were found in bed with a much younger woman and her father killed you. Seems far more bold than dying from stab wounds while trying to catch some petty thief.” “Your mockery slides right off of my altruistic humility.” “Ah, indeed.” “Either way,” Lightsong said, eating another chunk of pineapple. “I was a sheriff or investigator of some kind. I’ll bet that if I ever got my hands on a sword, I’d prove one of the best duelists this city has ever seen.” She regarded him for a moment. “You’re serious.” “Dead serious. Dead as a squirrel serious.” She paused, looking puzzled. “Personal joke,” he said, sighing. “But yes, I believe it. Though, there’s one thing I can’t figure out.” “And that is?” “How juggling lemons fits into it all.” Annotations for Chapter 30 Thirty-One Annotations for Chapter 31 “I feel I have to ask one more time,” Denth said. “Do we have to go through with this?” Denth walked with Vivenna, Tonk Fah, Jewels, and Clod. Parlin had stayed behind at Denth’s suggestion. He was worried about the dangers of the meeting, and didn’t want another body to keep track of. “Yes, we have to go through this,” Vivenna said. “They’re my people, Denth.” “So?” he asked. “Princess, mercenaries are my people, and you don’t see me spending that much time with them. They’re a smelly, annoying lot.” “Not to mention rude,” Tonk Fah added. Vivenna rolled her eyes. “Denth, I’m their princess. Besides, you yourself said that they were inﬂuential.” “Their leaders are,” Denth said. “And they’d be perfectly happy to meet with you on neutral ground. Going into the slums isn’t necessary—the common people, they really aren’t all that important.” She eyed him. “That is the difference between Hallandren and Idrians. We pay attention to our people.” Behind, Jewels snorted in derision. “I’m not Hallandren,” Denth noted. However, he let the statement drop as they approached the slums. Vivenna had to admit that as they grew closer, she did feel a little more apprehensive.
This slum felt different from the others. Darker, somehow. Something more than just the run-down shops and unrepaired streets. Small groups of men stood on street corners, watching her with suspicious eyes. Every once in a while, Vivenna would catch a glimpse of a building with women in very revealing clothing—even for Hallandren—hanging about the front. Some even whistled toward Denth and Tonk Fah. This was a foreign place. Everywhere else in T’Telir, she felt like she didn’t fit in. Here, she felt unwelcome. Distrusted. Even hated. She steeled herself. Somewhere in this place was a group of tired, overworked, frightened Idrians. The threatening atmosphere made her feel even sorrier for her people. She didn’t know if they would be much help in trying to sabotage the Hallandren war effort, but she did know one thing: She intended to help them. If her people had slipped through the monarchy’s fingers, then it was her duty to try and pick them back up. “That look on your face,” Denth said. “What’s it for?” “I’m worried about my people,” she said, shivering as they passed a large group of street toughs dressed in black with red armbands, their faces stained and dirtied. “I came by this slum when Parlin and I were searching for a new home. I didn’t want to get close, even though I’d heard that rents were cheap. I can’t believe that my people are so oppressed that they would have to live somewhere in here, surrounded by all of this.” Denth frowned. “Surrounded by it?” Vivenna nodded. “Living among prostitutes and gangs, having to walk past such things every day...” Denth started laughing, startling her. “Princess,” he said, “your people don’t live among prostitutes and gangs. Your people are the prostitutes and gangs.” Vivenna stopped in the middle of the street. “What?” Denth glanced back at her. “This is the Idrian quarter of the city. These slums are called the Highlands, for Color’s sake.” “Impossible,” she snapped. “Very possible,” Denth replied. “I’ve seen it in cities across the world. Immigrants gather, make a little enclave. That enclave gets conveniently ignored by the rest of the city. When roads are repaired, other places come first. When guards are sent to patrol, they avoid the foreign sections.” “The slum becomes its own little world,” Tonk Fah said, walking up beside her. “Everyone you pass in here is an Idrian,” Denth said, waving for her to keep walking. “There’s a reason your kind have a bad reputation in the rest of the city.” Vivenna felt a numb chillness. No, she thought. No, it’s not possible. Unfortunately, she soon began to see signs. Symbols of Austre placed— unobtrusive by intention—in the corners of windowsills or on doorsteps. People in greys and whites. Mementos of the highlands in the form of shepherd’s caps or wool cloaks. And yet, if these people were of Idris, then they’d been completely corrupted. Colors marred their costumes, not to mention the air of danger and hostility they exuded. And how could any Idrian even think of becoming a prostitute?
“I don’t understand, Denth. We are a peaceful people. A people of mountain villages. We are open. Friendly.” “That kind doesn’t last long in a slum,” he said, walking beside her. “They change or they get beaten down.” Vivenna shivered, feeling a stab of anger at Hallandren. I could have forgiven the Hallandren for making my people poor. But this? They’ve made thugs and thieves out of caring shepherds and farmers. They’ve turned our women into prostitutes and our children to urchins. She knew she shouldn’t let herself get angry. And yet, she had to grit her teeth and work very, very hard to keep her hair from bleeding to a smoldering red. The images awoke something within her. Something she had consistently avoided thinking about. Hallandren has ruined these people. Just as it ruined me by dominating my childhood, by forcing me to honor the obligation to be taken and raped in the name of protecting my country. I hate this city. They were unseemly thoughts. She couldn’t afford to hate Hallandren. She had been told that on many occasions. She had trouble lately remembering why. But she succeeded in keeping her hatred, and hair, under control. A few moments later, Thame joined them and led them the rest of the distance. She had been told they would be meeting in a large park, but Vivenna soon saw that the term “park” had been used loosely. The plot of land was barren, strewn with garbage, and hemmed in by buildings on all sides. Her group stopped at the edge of this dreary garden and waited as Thame went ahead. People had gathered as Thame had promised. Most were of the same type she had seen earlier. Men wearing dark, ominous colors and cynical expressions. Cocky street toughs. Women in the garb of prostitutes. Some worn-down older people. Vivenna forced on a smile, but it felt insincere, even to her. For their benefit, she changed her hair color to yellow. The color of happiness and excitement. The people muttered among themselves. Thame soon returned and waved her forward. “Wait,” Vivenna said. “I wanted to talk to the common people before we meet with the leaders.” Thame shrugged. “If you wish...” Vivenna stepped forward. “People of Idris,” she said. “I’ve come to offer you comfort and hope.” The people continued to talk among themselves. Very few seemed to pay any attention to her at all. Vivenna swallowed. “I know that you’ve had hard lives. But I want to promise you that the king does care for you and want to support you. I will find a way to bring you home.” “Home?” one of the men said. “Back to the highlands?” Vivenna nodded. Several people snorted at that comment, and a few trailed away. Vivenna watched them go with concern. “Wait,” she said. “Don’t you want to hear me? I bring news from your king.” The people ignored her. “Most of them just wanted confirmation that you were whom you were rumored to be, Your Highness,” Thame said quietly. Vivenna turned back toward
the groups still talking quietly in the garden. “Your lives can get better,” she promised. “I will see you cared for.” “Our lives are already better,” one of the men said. “There is nothing for us in the highlands. I earn twice as much here as I did back there.” Others nodded in agreement. “Then why even come to see me?” she whispered. “I told you, Princess,” Thame said. “They’re patriots—they cling to being Idrian. City Idrians. We stick together, we do. You being here, it means something to them, don’t worry. They may seem indifferent, but they’ll do anything to get back at the Hallandren.” Austre, Lord of Colors, she thought, growing even more deeply upset. These people aren’t even Idrians anymore. Thame called them “patriots,” but all she saw was a group held together by the eternal pressures of Hallandren disdain. She turned, giving up on her speech. These people were not interested in hope or comfort. They only wanted revenge. She could use that, perhaps, but it made her feel dirty even to consider it. Thame led her and the others down a pathway beaten into the ugly field of weeds and trash. Near the far side of the “park,” they found a wide structure that was partially a storage shed, partially an open wooden pavilion. She could see the leaders waiting inside. There were three of them, each with his own complement of bodyguards. She had been told of them ahead of time. The leaders wore rich, vibrant T’Telir colors. Slumlords. Vivenna felt her stomach twist. All three of the men had at least the first Heightening. One of them had attained the Third. Jewels and Clod took their places outside the building, guarding Vivenna’s escape route. Vivenna walked in and sat in the last open chair. Denth and Tonk Fah took up protective places behind her. Vivenna regarded the slumlords. All three were variations on the same theme. The one on the left looked most comfortable in his rich clothing. That would be Paxen—the “gentleman Idrian,” he was called. He’d gotten his money from running brothels. The one on the right looked like he needed a haircut to match his fine garments. That would be Ashu, who was known for running and funding underground fighting leagues where men could watch Idrians box each other to unconsciousness. The one in the center seemed the self-indulgent type. He was sloppy—but in a purposefully relaxed way, perhaps because it was a nice accent to his handsome, youthful face. Rira, Thame’s employer. She reminded herself not to put too much stock in any facile interpretation of their appearances. These were dangerous men. The room was silent. “I’m not sure what to say to you,” Vivenna said finally. “I came to find something that doesn’t exist. I was hoping that the people still cared about their heritage.” Rira leaned forward, sloppy clothing out of place compared with the clothing of the others in the room. “You’re our princess,” he said. “Daughter of our king. We care about that.” “Kind of,” said Paxen.
“Really, Princess,” Rira said. “We’re honored to meet with you. And curious at your intentions in our city. You’ve been making quite a stir.” Vivenna regarded them with a serious expression. finally, she sighed. “You all know that war is coming.” Rira nodded. Ashu, however, shook his head. “I’m not convinced there will be war. Not yet.” “It is coming,” Vivenna said sharply. “I promise you that. My intentions in this city, therefore, are to make certain that the war goes as well for Idris as possible.” “And what would that entail?” Ashu asked. “A royal on the throne of Hallandren?” Was that what she wanted? “I just want our people to survive.” “A weak middle ground,” said Paxen, polishing the top of his fine cane. “Wars are fought to be won, Your Highness. The Hallandren have Lifeless. Beat them, and they’ll just make more. I think that an Idrian military presence in the city would be an absolute necessity if you wanted to bring our homeland freedom.” Vivenna frowned. “You think to overthrow the city?” asked Ashu. “If you do, what do we get out of it?” “Wait,” said Paxen. “Overthrow the city? Are we sure we want to get involved in that sort of thing again? What of Vahr’s failure? We all lost a lot of money in that venture.” “Vahr was from Pahn Kahl,” said Ashu. “Not one of us at all. I’m willing to take another risk if there are real royals involved this time.” “I didn’t say anything about overthrowing the kingdom,” Vivenna said. “I just want to bring the people some hope.” Or, at least, I did... “Hope?” asked Paxen. “Who cares about hope? I want commitments. Will titles be handed out? Who gets the trade contracts if Idris wins?” “You have a sister,” Rira said. “A third one, unmarried. Is her hand bargainable? Royal blood could gain my support for your war.” Vivenna’s stomach twisted. “Gentlemen,” she said in her diplomat’s voice, “this is not about seeking personal gain. This is about patriotism.” “Of course, of course,” Rira said. “But even patriots should earn rewards. Right?” All three looked at her expectantly. Vivenna stood up. “I will be going, now.” Denth, looking surprised, laid a hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure?” he asked. “It took quite a bit of effort to set up this meeting.” “I have been willing to work with thugs and thieves, Denth,” she said quietly. “But seeing these and knowing they’re my own people is too hard.” “You judge us quickly, Princess,” Rira said from behind, chuckling. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t expect this?” “Expecting something is different from seeing it firsthand, Rira. I expected you three. I didn’t expect to see what had happened to our people.” “And the five Visions?” Rira asked. “You sweep in here, judge us beneath you, then sweep away? That’s not very Idrian of you.” She turned back toward the men. The long-haired Ashu had already stood and was gathering his bodyguards to go, grumbling about the “waste of time.” “What do you
know of being Idrian?” she snapped. “Where is your obedience of Austre?” Rira reached beneath his shirt, pulling out a small white disk, inscribed with his parents’ names. An Austrin charm of obedience. “My father carried me down here from the highlands, Princess. He died working the Edgli fields. I’ve pulled myself up by the pain of my scraped, bleeding hands. I worked very hard to make things better for your people. When Vahr spoke of revolution, I gave him coin to feed his supporters.” “You buy Breath,” she said. “And you make prostitutes of housewives.” “I live,” he said. “And I make sure that everyone else has enough food. Will you do better for them?” Vivenna frowned. “I...” She fell silent as she heard the screams. Her life sense jolted her, warning of large groups of people approaching. She spun as the slumlords cursed, standing. Outside, through the garden, she saw something terrible. Purple-and-yellow uniforms on hulking men with grey faces. Lifeless soldiers. The city watch. Peasants scattered, screaming as the Lifeless tromped into the garden, led by a number of uniformed living city guards. Denth cursed, shoving Vivenna to the side. “Run!” he said, whipping his sword free. “But—” Tonk Fah grabbed her arm, towing her out of the building as Denth charged the guards. The slumlords and their people were in disarray as they ﬂed, though the city guards were quickly moving to cut off the exits. Tonk Fah cursed, pulling Vivenna into a small alleyway across from the garden. “What’s going on?” she asked, heart thumping. “Raid,” Tonk Fah said. “Shouldn’t be too dangerous, unless...” Blades sounded, metal clashing against metal, and the screams grew more desperate. Vivenna glanced backward. The men from the slumlords’ groups, feeling trapped, had engaged the Lifeless. Vivenna felt a sense of horror, watching the terrible, grey-faced men wade among the swords and daggers, ignoring wounds. The creatures pulled out their weapons and began to attack. Men yelled and screamed, falling, bloody. Denth moved to defend the mouth of Vivenna’s alleyway. She didn’t know where Jewels had gone. “Kalad’s Phantoms!” Tonk Fah cursed, pushing her ahead of him as they retreated. “Those fools decided to resist. Now we’re in trouble.” “But how did they find us!” “Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t care. They might be after you. They might just be after those slumlords. I hope we never find out. Keep moving!” Vivenna obeyed, rushing down the dark alleyway, trying to keep from tripping on her long dress. It proved very impractical to run in, and Tonk Fah kept shooing her forward, looking back anxiously. She heard grunts and echoing yells as Denth fought something at the mouth of the alleyway. Vivenna and Tonk Fah burst out of the alleyway. There, standing in the street waiting, was a group of five Lifeless. Vivenna lurched to a halt. Tonk Fah cursed. The Lifeless looked as if they were stone, their expressions eerily grim in the waning light. Tonk Fah glanced backward, obviously decided that Denth wasn’t going to be arriving anytime soon, then resignedly
held his hands up and dropped his sword. “I can’t take five on my own, Princess,” he whispered. “Not Lifeless. We’ll have to let them arrest us.” Vivenna slowly held her hands up as well. The Lifeless pulled out their weapons. “Uh...” Tonk Fah said. “We surrender?” The creatures charged. “Run!” he shouted, reaching down and snatching his sword off the ground. Vivenna stumbled to the side as several of the lifeless charged Tonk Fah. She scrambled away as quickly as she could. Tonk Fah tried to follow, but had to stop to defend himself. She slowed, glancing back in time to see him ram his dueling blade through the neck of a Lifeless. The creature gushed something that was not blood. Three others got around Tonk Fah, though he did manage to whip his blade to the side, taking one in the back of the leg. It fell to the cobbles. Two ran toward her. Vivenna watched them come, mind numb. Should she stay? Try to help... Help how? something screamed within her. That something was visceral and primal. Run! And she did. She dashed away, overwhelmed with terror, taking the first corner she saw, ducking into an alleyway. She raced for the other end, but in her haste she tripped on her skirt. She hit the cobblestones roughly, crying out. She heard footsteps behind her, and she yelled for help, ignoring her bruised elbow as she quickly tore her skirt off, leaving only her under breeches. She scrambled to her feet, screaming again. Something darkened the other end of the alleyway. A hulking figure with grey skin. Vivenna stopped, then spun. The other two entered the alleyway behind her. She backed against the wall, feeling suddenly cold. Shocked. Austre, God of Colors, she thought, trembling. Please... The three Lifeless advanced on her, weapons drawn. She looked down. A bit of rope, frayed but still useful, sat in the refuse beside her discarded green skirt. Like everything else, the rope called to her. As if it knew that it could live again. She couldn’t sense the Lifeless bearing down on her, but ironically she felt as if she could sense the rope. Could imagine it, twisting around legs, tying the creatures up. Those Breaths you hold, Denth had said. They’re a tool. Almost priceless. Certainly powerful... She glanced back at the Lifeless, with their inhumanly human eyes. She felt her heart thumping so hard it felt like someone was pounding on her chest. She watched them approach. And saw her death reﬂected in their unfeeling eyes. Tears on her face, she fell to her knees, trembling as she grabbed the rope. She knew the mechanics. Her tutors had trained her. She’d need to touch the fallen skirt to drain color out of it. “Come to life,” she begged the rope. Nothing happened. She knew the mechanics, but that obviously wasn’t enough. She wept, eyes blurry. “Please,” she begged. “Please. Save me.” The first Lifeless reached her—the one who had cut her off at the far end of the alleyway. She cringed,
cowering to the dirty street. The creature leaped over her. She looked up in shock as the creature slammed its weapon into one of the others as they arrived. Vivenna blinked her eyes clear, and only then did she recognize the newcomer. Not Denth. Not Tonk Fah. A creature with skin as grey as that of the men attacking her, which was why she hadn’t recognized him at first. Clod. He expertly took off the head of his first opponent, wielding his thick-bladed sword. Something clear sprayed from the neck of the beheaded creature as it fell backward, tumbling to the ground. Dead—apparently—as any man would have been. Clod blocked an attack from the remaining Lifeless guard. Behind, in the mouth of the alleyway, two more appeared. They charged as Clod backed up, firmly planting one foot on either side of Vivenna, his sword held before him. It dripped clear liquid. The remaining lifeless guard waited for the other two to approach. Vivenna trembled, too tired—too numb—to ﬂee. She glanced upward, and saw something almost human in Clod’s eyes as he raised his sword against the three. It was the first emotion she’d seen in any Lifeless, though she might have imagined it. Determination. The three attacked. She had assumed—in her ignorance back in Idris—that Lifeless were like decaying skeletons or corpses. She’d imagined them attacking in waves, lacking skill, but having relentless, dark power. She’d been wrong. These creatures moved with proficiency and coordination, just as a human might. Except there was no speaking. No yelling or grunting. Just silence as Clod fended off one attack, then rammed his elbow into the face of a second Lifeless. He moved with a ﬂuidity she had rarely seen, his skill matching the brief moment of dazzling speed that Denth had displayed in the restaurant. Clod whipped his sword around and took the third Lifeless in the leg. One of the others, however, rammed his blade through Clod’s stomach. Something clear squirted out both sides, spraying Vivenna. Clod didn’t even grunt as he brought his weapon around and took off a second head. The Lifeless guard died, falling to the ground and leaving his weapon sticking from Clod’s stomach. One of the other guards stumbled away, leg bleeding clear blood, and then it fell backward to the ground too. Clod efficiently turned his attention to the last standing Lifeless, which did not retreat, but took an obviously defensive stance. The stance didn’t work; Clod took this last one down in a matter of seconds, slamming his sword repeatedly against that of his opponent before spinning it around in an unexpected motion and taking off his enemy’s sword hand. That was followed by a blow to the stomach, dropping the creature. In a final motion, he efficiently rammed his blade through the neck of a fallen creature, stopping it from trying to crawl toward Vivenna, a knife in its hand. The alleyway fell still. Clod turned toward her, eyes lacking emotion, square jaw and rectangular face set above a thick, muscled neck. He began to
twitch. He shook his head, as if trying to clear his vision. An awful lot of clear liquid was pouring from his torso. He placed one hand against the wall, then slumped to his knees. Vivenna hesitated, then reached out a hand toward him. Her hand fell on his arm. The skin was cold. A shadow moved on the other side of the alleyway. She looked up, apprehensive, still in shock. “Aw, Colors,” Tonk Fah said, running forward, outfit wet with clear liquid. “Denth! She’s here!” He knelt down beside Vivenna. “You okay?” She nodded dully, only barely aware that she was still holding her skirt in one hand. That meant her legs—to just above her knees—were exposed. She couldn’t find it in herself to care. Nor did she care that her hair was bleached white. She just stared at Clod, who knelt before her, head bowed, as if worshiping at some strange altar. His weapon slipped from his twitching fingers and clanged to the cobbles. His eyes stared forward, glassy. Tonk Fah followed her gaze, looking at Clod. “Yeah,” he said. “Jewels is not going to be pleased. Come on, we need to get out of here.” Annotations for Chapter 31 Thirty-Two Annotations for Chapter 32 He was always gone when Siri awoke. She lay in the deep, well-stuffed bed, morning light streaming through the window. Already, the day was growing warm, and even her single sheet was too hot. She threw it off but remained on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. She could tell from the sunlight that it was nearly noon. She and Susebron tended to stay up late talking. That was probably a good thing. Some might see that she was getting up later and later each morning, and think that it was due to other activities. She stretched. At first, it had been strange to communicate with the God King. As the days progressed, however, it was feeling more and more natural to her. She found his writing—uncertain, unpracticed letters that explained such interesting thoughts—to be endearing. If he spoke, she suspected that his voice would be kindly. He was so tender. She’d never have expected that. She smiled, sinking back into her pillow, idly wishing for him to still be there when she awoke. She was happy. That, also, was something she’d never expected from Hallandren. She did miss the highlands, and her inability to leave the Court of Gods frustrated her, particularly considering the politics. And yet there were other things. Marvelous things. The brilliant colors, the performers, the sheer overwhelming experience of T’Telir. And there was the opportunity to speak with Susebron each night. Her brashness had been such a shame and an embarrassment to her family, but Susebron found it fascinating, even alluring. She smiled again, letting herself dream. However, real life began to intrude. Susebron was in danger. Real, serious danger. He refused to believe that his priests could bear him any sort of malice or be a threat. That same innocence which made him so appealing was also a
terrible liability. But what to do? Nobody else knew of his predicament. There was only one person who could help him. That person, unfortunately, wasn’t up to the task. She had ignored her lessons, and had come to her fate wholly unprepared. So what? a part of her mind whispered. Siri stared at the ceiling. She found it hard to summon her customary shame at having ignored her lessons. She’d made a mistake. How much time was she going to spend moping, annoyed at herself for something done and gone? All right, she told herself. Enough excuses. I might not have prepared as well as I should, but I’m here, now, and I need to do something. Because nobody else will. She climbed out of bed, running her fingers through her long hair. Susebron liked it long—he found it as fascinating as her serving women did. With them to help her care for it, the length was worth the trouble. She folded her arms, wearing only her shift, pacing. She needed to play their game. She hated thinking of it that way. “Game” implied small stakes. This was no game. It was the God King’s life. She searched through her memory, dredging up what scraps she could from her lessons. Politics was about exchanges. It was about giving what you had—or what you implied that you had—in order to gain more. It was like being a merchant. You started with a certain stock, and by the end of the year, you hoped to have increased that stock. Or maybe even have changed it into a completely different and better stock. Don’t make too many waves until you’re ready to strike, Lightsong had told her. Don’t appear too innocent, but don’t appear too smart either. Be average. She stopped beside the bed then gathered up the bedsheets and towed them over to the smoldering fire to burn, as was her daily chore. Exchanges, she thought, watching the sheets catch fire in the large hearth. What do I have to trade or exchange? Not much. It would have to do. She walked over and pulled open the door. As usual, a group of serving women waited outside. Siri’s standard ladies moved around her, bringing clothing. Another group of servants, however, moved to tidy the room. Several of these wore brown. As her servants dressed her, she watched one of the girls in brown. At a convenient moment, Siri stepped over, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You’re from Pahn Kahl,” Siri said quietly. The girl nodded, surprised. “I have a message I want you to give to Bluefingers,” Siri whispered. “Tell him I have vital information he needs to know. I’d like to trade. Tell him it could change his plans drastically.” The girl paled, but nodded, and Siri stepped back to continue dressing. Several of the other serving women had heard the exchange, but it was a sacred tenet of the Hallandren religion that the servants of a god weren’t to repeat what they heard in confidence. Hopefully that would hold true.
If it didn’t, then she hadn’t really given that much away. Now she just had to decide just what “vital information” she had, and why exactly Bluefingers should care about it. ~ “My dear queen!” Lightsong said, actually going so far as to embrace Siri as she stepped into his box at the arena. Siri smiled as Lightsong waved for her to seat herself in one of his chaise lounges. Siri sat with care—she was coming to favor the elaborate Hallandren gowns, but moving gracefully in them took quite a bit of skill. As she settled, Lightsong called for fruit. “You treat me too kindly,” Siri said. “Nonsense,” Lightsong said. “You’re my queen! Besides, you remind me of someone of whom I was very fond.” “And who is that?” “I honestly have no idea,” Lightsong said, accepting a plate of sliced grapes, then handing them to Siri. “I can barely remember her. Grapes?” Siri raised an eyebrow, but she knew by now not to encourage him too much. “Tell me,” she asked, using a little wooden spear to eat her grape slices. “Why do they call you Lightsong the Bold?” “There is an easy answer to that,” he said, leaning back. “It is because of all the gods, only I am bold enough to act like a complete idiot.” Siri raised an eyebrow. “My station requires true courage,” he continued. “You see, I am normally quite a solemn and boring person. At nights my fondest desire is to sit and compose interminably periphrastic lectures on morality for my priests to read to my followers. Alas, I cannot. Instead, I go out each evening, abandoning didactic theology in favor of something which requires true courage: spending time with the other gods.” “Why does that take courage?” He looked at her. “My lady. Have you seen how positively tedious they all can be?” Siri laughed. “No, really,” she said. “Where did the name come from?” “It’s a complete misnomer,” Lightsong said. “Obviously you’re intelligent enough to see that. Our names and titles are assigned randomly by a small monkey who has been fed an exceedingly large amount of gin.” “Now you’re just being silly.” “Now?” Lightsong asked. “Now?” he raised a cup of wine toward her. “My dear, I am always silly. Please be good enough to retract that statement at once!” Siri just shook her head. Lightsong, it appeared, was in rare form this afternoon. Great, she thought. My husband is in danger of being murdered by unknown forces and my only allies are a scribe who’s afraid of me and a god who makes no sense. “It has to do with death,” Lightsong finally said as the priests began to file into the arena ﬂoor below for this day’s round of arguments. Siri looked toward him. “All men die,” Lightsong said. “Some, however, die in ways that exemplify a particular attribute or emotion. They show a spark of something greater than the rest of mankind. That is what is said to bring us back.” He fell silent. “You died showing great bravery,
then?” Siri asked. “Apparently,” he said. “I don’t know for sure. Something in my dreams suggests that I may have insulted a very large panther. That sounds rather brave, don’t you think?” “You don’t know how you died?” He shook his head. “We forget,” he said. “We awake without memories. I don’t even know what work I did.” Siri smiled. “I suspect that you were a diplomat or a salesman of some sort. Something that required you to talk a lot, but say very little!” “Yes,” he said quietly, seeming unlike himself as he stared down at the priests below. “Yes, no doubt that was it exactly...” He shook his head, then smiled at her. “Regardless, my dear queen, I have provided a surprise for you this day!” Do I want to be surprised by Lightsong? She glanced about nervously. He laughed. “No need to fear,” he said. “My surprises rarely cause bodily harm, and never to beautiful queens.” He waved his hand, and an elderly man with an extraordinarily long white beard approached. Siri frowned. “This is Hoid,” Lightsong said. “Master storyteller. I believe you had some questions you wished to ask...” Siri laughed in relief, remembering only now her request to Lightsong. She glanced at the priests below. “Um, shouldn’t we be paying attention to the speeches?” Lightsong waved indifferently. “Pay attention? Ridiculous! That would be far too responsible of us. We’re gods, for the Colors’ sake. Or, well, I am. You’re close enough. A god-in-law, one might say. Anyway, do you really want to listen to a bunch of stuffy priests talk about sewage treatment?” Siri grimaced. “I thought not. Besides, neither of us have votes pertaining to this issue. So let us spend our time wisely. We never know when we will run out!” “Of time?” Siri asked. “But you’re immortal!” “Not run out of time,” Lightsong said, holding up his plate. “Of grapes. I hate listening to storytellers without grapes.” Siri rolled her eyes, but continued to eat the grape slices. The storyteller waited patiently. As she looked more closely, she could tell that he wasn’t quite as old as he seemed at first glance. The beard must be a badge of his profession, and while it didn’t appear to be fake, she suspected that it had been bleached. He was really much younger than he wanted to appear. Still, she doubted Lightsong would have settled for anyone other than the very best. She settled back in her chair—which, she noticed, had been crafted for someone of her size. I should be careful with my questions, she thought. I can’t ask directly about the deaths of the old God Kings; that would be too obvious. “Storyteller,” she said. “What do you know of Hallandren history?” “Much, my queen,” he said, bowing his head. “Tell me of the days before the division between Idris and Hallandren.” “Ah,” the man said, reaching into a pocket. He pulled out a handful of sand and began to rub it between his fingers, letting it drop in a soft stream toward the
ground, its grains blown slightly in the wind. “Her Majesty wishes one of the deep stories, from long before. A story before time began?” “I wish to know the origins of the Hallandren God Kings.” “Then we begin in the distant haze,” the storyteller said, bringing up another hand, letting powdery black sand drop from it, mixing with the sand that fell from the first hand. As Siri watched, the black sand turned white, and she cocked her head, smiling at the display. “The first God King of Hallandren is ancient,” Hoid said. “Ancient, yes. Older than kingdoms and cities, older than monarchs and religions. Not older than the mountains, for they were already here. Like the knuckles of the sleeping giants below, they formed this valley, where panthers and ﬂowers both make their home. “We speak of just ‘the valley’ then, a place before it had a name. The people of Chedesh still dominated the world. They sailed the Inner Sea, coming from the east, and it was they who first discovered this strange land. Their writings are sparse, their empire has long since been taken by the dust, but memory remains. Perhaps you can imagine their surprise upon arriving here? A place with beaches of fine, soft sand, with fruits aplenty, and with strange, alien forests?” Hoid reached into his robes and pulled out a handful of something else. He began to drop it before him—small green leaves from the fronds of a fern. “Paradise, they called it,” Hoid whispered. “A paradise hidden between the mountains, a land with pleasant rains that never grew cold, a land where succulent food grew spontaneously.” He threw the handful of leaves into the air, and in the center of them puffed a burst of colorful dust, like a tiny ﬂame-less firework. Deep reds and blues mixed in the air, blowing around him. “A land of color,” he said. “Because of the Tears of Edgli, the striking ﬂowers of such brilliance that could yield dyes that would hold fast in any cloth.” Siri had never really thought about how Hallandren would look to people who came across the Inner Sea. She’d heard stories from the ramblemen who came into Idris, and they spoke of distant places. In other lands, one found prairies and steppes, mountains and deserts. But not jungles. Hallandren was unique. “The first Returned was born during this time,” Hoid said, sprinkling a handful of silver glitter into the air before him. “Aboard a ship that was sailing the coast. Returned can now be found in all parts of the world, but the first one—the man whom you call Vo, but we name only by his title—was born here, in the waters of this very bay. He declared the five Visions. He died a week later. “The men of his ship founded a kingdom upon these beaches, then called Hanald. Before their arrival, all that had existed in these jungles was the people of Pahn Kahl, more a mere collection of fishing villages than a true kingdom.” The glitter ran out, and
Hoid began to drop a powdery brown dirt from his other hand as he reached into another pocket. “Now, you may wonder why I must travel back so far. Should I not speak of the Manywar, of the shattering of kingdoms, of the five Scholars, of Kalad the Usurper and his phantom army, which some say still hides in these jungles, waiting? “Those are the events we focus upon, the ones men know the best. To speak only of them, however, is to ignore the history of three hundred years that led up to them. Would there have been a Manywar without knowledge of the Returned? It was a Returned, after all, who predicted the war and prompted Strifelover to attack the kingdoms across the mountains.” “Strifelover?” Siri interrupted. “Yes, Your Majesty,” Hoid said, switching to a black dust. “Strifelover. Another name for Kalad the Usurper.” “That sounds like the name of a Returned.” Hoid nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “Kalad was Returned, as was Peacegiver, the man who overthrew him and founded Hallandren. We haven’t arrived at that part yet. We are still back in Hanald, the outpost-become-kingdom founded by the men of the first Returned’s crew. They were the ones who chose the first Returned’s wife as their queen, then used the Tears of Edgli to create fantastic dyes which sold for untold riches across the world. This soon became a bustling center of trade.” He removed a handful of ﬂower petals and began to let them fall before him. “The Tears of Edgli. The source of Hallandren wealth. Such small things, so easy to grow here. And yet, this is the only soil where they will live. In other parts of the world, dyes are very difficult to produce. Expensive. Some scholars say that the Manywar was fought over these ﬂower petals, that the kingdoms of Kuth and Huth were destroyed by little drips of color.” The petals fell to the ﬂoor. “But only some of the scholars say that, storyteller?” Lightsong said. Siri turned, having almost forgotten that he was with her. “What do the rest say? Why was the Manywar fought in their opinions?” The storyteller fell silent for a moment. And then he pulled out two handfuls and began to release dust of a half-dozen different colors. “Breath, Your Grace. Most agree that the Manywar was not only about petals squeezed dry, but a much greater prize. People squeezed dry. “You know, perhaps, that the royal family was growing increasingly interested in the process by which Breath could be used to bring objects to life. Awakening, it was then first being called. It was a fresh and poorly understood art, then. It still is, in many ways. The workings of the souls of men—their power to animate ordinary objects and the dead to life—is something discovered barely four centuries ago. A short time, by the accounting of gods.” “Unlike a court proceeding,” Lightsong mumbled, glancing over at the priests who were still talking about sanitation. “Those seem to last an eternity, according to the accounting of this
god.” The storyteller didn’t break stride at the interruption. “Breath,” he said. “The years leading up to the Manywar, those were the days of the five Scholars and the discovery of new Commands. To some, this was a time of great enlightenment and learning. Others call them the darkest days of men, for it was then we learned to best exploit one another.” He began to drop two handfuls of dust, one bright yellow, the other black. Siri watched, amused. He seemed to be slanting what he said toward her, careful not to offend her Idris sensibilities. What did she really know of Breath? She’d rarely even seen any Awakeners in the court. Even when she did, she didn’t really care. The monks had spoken against such things, but, well, she had paid about as much attention to them as she had to her tutors. “One of the five Scholars made a discovery,” Hoid continued, dropping a handful of white scraps, small torn pieces of paper with writing on them. “Commands. Methods. The means by which a Lifeless could be created from a single Breath. “This, perhaps, seems a small thing to you. But you must look at the past of this kingdom and its founding. Hallandren began with the servants of a Returned and was developed by an expansive mercantile effort. It controlled a uniquely lucrative region which, through the discovery and maintenance of the northern passes—combined with increasingly skillful navigation—was becoming a jewel coveted by the rest of the world.” He paused and his second hand came up, dropping little bits of metal, which fell to the stonework with a sound not unlike falling rain. “And so the war came,” he said. “The five Scholars split, joining different sides. Some kingdoms gained the use of Lifeless while others did not. Some kingdoms had weapons others could only envy. “To answer the god’s question, my story claims one other reason for the Manywar: the ability to create Lifeless so cheaply. Before the discovery of the single-Breath Command, Lifeless took fifty Breaths to make. Extra soldiers— even a Lifeless one—are of limited use if you can gain only one for every fifty men you already have. However, being able to create a Lifeless with a single Breath...one for one...that will double your troops. And half of them won’t need to eat.” The metal stopped falling. “Lifeless are no stronger than living men,” Hoid said. “They are the same. They are not more skilled than living men. They are the same. However, not having to eat like regular men? That advantage was enormous. Mix that with their ability to ignore pain and never feel fear...and suddenly you had an army that others could not stand against. It was taken even further by Kalad, who was said to have created a new and more powerful type of Lifeless, gaining an advantage even more frightening.” “What kind of new Lifeless?” Siri asked, curious. “Nobody remembers, Your Majesty,” Hoid explained. “The records of that time have been lost. Some say they were burned intentionally. Whatever the
true nature of Kalad’s Phantoms, they were frightening and terrible—so much so that even though the details have been lost in time, the phantoms themselves live on in our lore. And our curses.” “Do they really still exist out there?” Siri asked, shivering slightly, glancing toward the unseen jungles. “Like the stories say? An unseen army, waiting for Kalad to return and command them again?” “Alas,” Hoid said, “I can tell only stories. As I said, so much from that time is lost to us now.” “But we know of the royal family,” Siri said. “They broke away because they didn’t agree with what Kalad was doing, right? They saw moral problems with using Lifeless?” The storyteller hesitated. “Why, yes,” he finally said, smiling through his beard. “Yes, they did, Your Majesty.” She raised an eyebrow. “Psst,” Lightsong said, leaning in. “He’s lying to you.” “Your Grace,” the storyteller said, bowing deeply. “I beg your pardon. There are diverging explanations! Why, I am a teller of stories—all stories.” “And what do other stories say?” Siri asked. “None of them agree, Your Majesty,” Hoid said. “Your people speak of religious indignation and of treachery by Kalad the Usurper. The Pahn Kahl people tell of the royal family working hard to gain powerful Lifeless and Awakeners, then being surprised when their tools turned against them. In Hallandren, they tell of the royal family aligning themselves with Kalad, making him their general and ignoring the will of the people by seeking war with bloodlust.” He looked up, and then began to trail two handfuls of black, burned charcoal. “But time burns away behind us, leaving only ash and memory. That memory passes from mind to mind, then finally to my lips. When all is truth, and all are lies, does it matter if some say the royal family sought to create Lifeless? Your belief is your own.” “Either way, the Returned took control of Hallandren,” she said. “Yes,” Hoid said. “And they gave it a new name, a variation on the old one. And yet, some still speak regretfully of the royals who left, bearing the blood of the first Returned to their highlands.” Siri frowned. “Blood of the first Returned?” “Yes, of course,” Hoid said. “It was his wife, pregnant with his child, who became the first queen of this land. You are his descendant.” She sat back. Lightsong turned, curious. “You didn’t know this?” he asked, in a tone lacking his normal ﬂippancy. She shook her head. “If this fact is known to my people, we do not speak of it.” Lightsong seemed to find that interesting. Down below, the priests were moving on to a different topic—something about security in the city and increasing patrols in the slums. She smiled, sensing a subtle way to get to the questions she really wanted to ask. “That means that the God Kings of Hallandren carried on without the blood of the first Returned.” “Yes, Your Majesty,” Hoid said, crumbling clay out into the air before him. “And how many God Kings have there been?”
“Five, Your Majesty,” the man said. “Including His Immortal Majesty, Lord Susebron, but not including Peacegiver.” “Five kings,” she said. “In three hundred years?” “Yes, Your Majesty,” Hoid said, bringing out a handful of golden dust, letting it fall before him. “The dynasty of Hallandren was founded at the conclusion of the Manywar, the first one gaining his Breath and life from Peacegiver himself, who was revered for dispelling Kalad’s Phantoms and bringing a peaceful end to the Manywar. Since that day, each God King has fathered a stillborn son who then Returned and took his place.” Siri leaned forward. “Wait. How did Peacegiver create a new God King?” “Ah,” Hoid said, switching back to sand with his left hand. “Now there is a story lost in time. How indeed? Breath can be passed from one man to another, but Breath—no matter how much—does not make one a god. Legends say that Peacegiver died by granting his Breath to his successor. After all, can a god not give his life away to bless another?” “Not exactly a sign of mental stability, in my opinion,” Lightsong said, waving for some more grapes. “You don’t encourage confidence in our predecessors, storyteller. Besides, even if a god gives away his Breath, it doesn’t make the recipient divine.” “I only tell stories, Your Grace,” Hoid repeated. “They may be truths, they may be fictions. All I know is that the stories themselves exist and that I must tell them.” With as much ﬂair as possible, Siri thought, watching him reach into yet another pocket and pull free a handful of small bits of grass and earth. He let bits fall slowly between his fingers. “I speak of foundations, Your Grace,” Hoid said. “Peacegiver was no ordinary Returned, for he managed to stop the Lifeless from rampaging. Indeed, he sent away Kalad’s Phantoms, which formed the main bulk of the Hallandren army. By doing so, he left his own people powerless. He did so in an effort to bring peace. By then, of course, it was too late for Kuth and Huth. However, the other kingdoms—Pahn Kahl, Tedradel, Gys, and Hallandren itself—were brought out of the conﬂict. “Can we not assume more from this god of gods who was able to accomplish so much? Perhaps he did do something unique, as the priests claim. Leave some seed within the God Kings of Hallandren, allowing them to pass their power and divinity from father to son?” Heritage which would give them a claim to rule, Siri thought, idly slipping a sliced grape into her mouth. With such an amazing god as their progenitor, they could become God Kings. And the only one who could threaten them would be... The royal family of Idris, who can apparently trace their line back to the first Returned. Another heritage of divinity, a challenger for rightful rule in Hallandren. That didn’t tell her how the God Kings had died. Nor did it tell her why some gods—such as the first Returned—could bear children, while others could not. “They’re immortal, correct?” Siri asked.
Hoid nodded, smoothly dropping the rest of his grass and dirt, moving into a different discussion by bringing forth a handful of white powder. “Indeed, Your Majesty. Like all Returned, the God Kings do not age. Agelessness is a gift for all who reach the fifth Heightening.” “But why have there been five God Kings?” she asked. “Why did the first one die?” “Why do any Returned pass on, Your Majesty?” Hoid asked. “Because they are loony,” Lightsong said. The storyteller smiled. “Because they tire. Gods are not like ordinary men. They come back for us, not for themselves, and when they can no longer endure life, they pass on. God Kings live only as long as it takes them to produce an heir.” Siri started. “That’s commonly known?” she asked, then cringed slightly at the potentially suspicious comment. “Of course it is, Your Majesty,” the storyteller said. “At least, to storytellers and scholars. Each God King has passed from this world shortly after his son and heir was born. It is natural. Once the heir has arrived, the God King grows restless. Each one has sought out an opportunity to use up his Breath to benefit the realm. And then...” He threw up a hand, snapping his fingers, throwing up a little spray of water, which puffed to mist. “And then they pass on,” he said. “Leaving their people blessed and their heir to rule.” The group fell silent, the mist evaporating in front of Hoid. “Not exactly the most pleasant thing to inform a newlywed wife, storyteller,” Lightsong noted. “That her husband is going to grow bored with life as soon as she bears him a son?” “I seek not to be charming, Your Grace,” Hoid said, bowing. At his feet, the various dusts, sands, and glitters mixed together in the faint breeze. “I only tell stories. This one is known to most. I should think that Her Majesty would like to be aware of it as well.” “Thank you,” Siri said quietly. “It was good of you to speak of it. Tell me, where did you learn such an...unusual method of storytelling?” Hoid looked up, smiling. “I learned it many, many years ago from a man who didn’t know who he was, Your Majesty. It was a distant place where two lands meet and gods have died. But that is unimportant.” Siri ascribed the vague explanation to Hoid’s desire to create a suitably romantic and mysterious past for himself. Of far more interest to her was what he’d said about the God Kings’ deaths. So there is an official explanation, she thought, stomach twisting. And it’s actually a pretty good one. Theologically, it makes sense that the God Kings would depart once they had arranged for a suitable successor. But that doesn’t explain how Peacegiver’s Treasure—that wealth of Breath—passes from God King to God King when they have no tongues. And it doesn’t explain why a man like Susebron would get tired of life when he seems so excited by it. The official story would work fine for those
who didn’t know the God King. It fell ﬂat for Siri. Susebron would never do such a thing. Not now. Yet...Would things change if she bore him a son? Would Susebron grow tired of her that easily? “Maybe we should be hoping for old Susebron to pass, my queen,” Lightsong said idly, picking at the grapes. “You were forced into all this, I suspect. If Susebron died, you might even be able to go home. No harm done, people healed, new heir on the throne. Everyone is either happy or dead.” The priests continued to argue below. Hoid bowed, waiting for dismissal. Happy...or dead. Her stomach twisted. “Excuse me,” she said, rising. “I would like to walk about a bit. Thank you for your storytelling, Hoid.” With that—entourage in tow—she quickly left the pavilion, preferring that Lightsong not see her tears. Annotations for Chapter 32 Thirty-Three Annotations for Chapter 33 Jewels worked quietly, ignoring Vivenna and pulling another stitch tight. Clod’s guts—intestines, stomach, and some other things Vivenna didn’t want to identify—lay on the ﬂoor beside him, carefully pulled out and arranged so that they could be repaired. Jewels was working on the intestines at the moment, sewing with a special thick thread and curved needle. It was gruesome. And yet it didn’t really affect Vivenna, not after the shock she’d had earlier. They were in the safe house. Tonk Fah had gone to scout the regular house to see if Parlin was all right. Denth was downstairs, fetching something. Vivenna sat on the ﬂoor. She’d changed to a long dress, purchased on the way—her skirt was filthy from its time in the mud—and she sat with legs pulled up against her chest. Jewels continued to ignore Vivenna, working atop a sheet on the ﬂoor. She was muttering to herself, still angry. “Stupid thing,” Jewels said under her breath. “Can’t believe we let you get hurt like this just to protect her.” Hurt. Did that even mean anything to a creature like Clod? He was awake; she could see that his eyes were open. What was the point of sewing up his insides? Would they heal? He didn’t need to eat. Why bother with intestines? Vivenna shivered, looking away. She felt, in a way, as if her own insides had been ripped out. Exposed. For the world to see. Vivenna closed her eyes. Hours later, and she was still shaking from the terror of huddling in that alleyway, thinking that she’d be dead in a moment. What had she learned about herself when finally threatened? Modesty had meant nothing—she’d pulled off her skirt rather than let it trip her again. Her hair had meant nothing; she’d ignored it as soon as the danger arrived. Her religion, apparently, meant nothing. Not that she’d been able to use the Breath—she hadn’t even managed to commit blasphemy successfully. “I’m half-tempted to just leave,” Jewels muttered. “You and I. Go away.” Clod began to shufﬂe, and Vivenna opened her eyes to see him trying to stand up, even though his insides were hanging out. Jewels swore.
“Lie back down,” she hissed, barely audible. “Colorscursed thing. Howl of the sun. Go inactive. Howl of the sun.” Vivenna watched as Clod lay down and then stopped moving. They might obey commands, she thought. But they aren’t very smart. It tried to walk out, obeying Jewels’s apparent Command to “go away.” And what was that nonsense Jewels had said about the sun? Was that one of the security phrases Denth had mentioned? Vivenna heard footsteps on the stairs leading down to the cellar, and then the door opened and Denth appeared. He closed the door, then came over and handed Jewels something that looked like a large wineskin. The woman took it and immediately turned back to her work. Denth walked over and sat down beside Vivenna. “They say a man doesn’t know himself until he faces death for the first time,” he said in a conversational tone. “I don’t know about that. It seems to me that the person you are when you’re about to die isn’t as important as the person you are during the rest of your life. Why should a few moments matter more than an entire lifetime?” Vivenna didn’t respond. “Everyone gets scared, Princess. Even brave men sometimes run the first time they see battle. In armies, that’s why there’s so much training. The ones who hold aren’t the courageous ones, they’re the well-trained ones. We have instincts like any other animal. They take over sometimes. That’s all right.” Vivenna continued to watch as Jewels carefully placed the intestines back into Clod’s belly. She took out a small package and removed something that looked like a strip of meat. “You did well, actually,” Denth said. “Kept your wits about you. Didn’t freeze. Found the quickest way out. I’ve protected some people who will just stand there and die unless you shake them and force them to run.” “I want you to teach me Awakening,” Vivenna whispered. He started, glancing at her. “Do you...want to think about that a bit first?” “I have,” she whispered, arms around knees, chin resting against them. “I thought I was stronger than I am. I thought I’d rather die than use it. That was a lie. In that moment, I would have done anything to survive.” Denth smiled. “You’d make a good mercenary.” “It’s wrong,” she said, still staring forward. “But I can’t claim to be pure anymore. I might as well understand what I have. Use it. If that damns me, then so be it. At least it will have helped me survive long enough to destroy the Hallandren.” Denth raised an eyebrow. “You want to destroy them now, eh? No more simple sabotage and undermining?” She shook her head. “I want this kingdom overthrown,” she whispered. “Just like the slumlords said. It can corrupt those poor people. It can corrupt even me. I hate it.” “I—” “No, Denth,” Vivenna said. Her hair bled to a deep red, and for once she didn’t care. “I really hate it. I’ve always hated this people. They took my childhood. I had to
prepare. Become their queen. Get ready to marry their God King. Everyone said he was unholy and a heretic. Yet I was supposed to have sex with him! “I hate this entire city, with its colors and its gods! I hate the fact that it stole away my life, then demanded that I leave behind all that I love! I hate the busy streets, the placating gardens, the commerce, and the suffocating weather. “I hate their arrogance most of all. Thinking they could push my father around, force him into that treaty twenty years ago. They’ve controlled my life. Dominated it. Ruined it. And now they have my sister.” She drew in a deep breath through gritted teeth. “You’ll have your vengeance, Princess,” Denth whispered. She looked at him. “I want them to hurt, Denth. The attack today wasn’t about subduing a rebellious element. The Hallandren sent those soldiers in to kill. Kill the poor that they created. We’re going to stop them from doing things like that. I don’t care what it takes. I’m tired of being pretty and nice and ignoring ostentation. I want to do something.” Denth nodded slowly. “All right. We’ll change course, start making our attacks a little more painful.” “Good,” she said. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling frustrated, wishing that she was strong enough to keep all of these emotions away. But she wasn’t. She’d kept them in too long. That was the problem. “This was never about your sister, was it?” Denth asked. “Coming here?” She shook her head, eyes still shut. “Why, then?” “I had trained all of my life,” she whispered. “I was the one who would sacrifice herself. When Siri left in my place, I became nothing. I had to come and get it back.” “But you just said that you’ve always hated Hallandren,” he said, sounding confused. “I have. And I do. That’s why I had to come.” He was silent for a few moments. “Too complicated for a mercenary, I guess.” She opened her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she understood, either. She’d always kept a firm grip on her hatred, only letting it manifest in disdain for Hallandren and its ways. She confronted the hatred now. Acknowledged it. Somehow, Hallandren could be loathsome yet enticing at the same time. It was as if...she knew that until she came and saw the place for herself, she wouldn’t have a real focus—a real understanding, a real image—of what it was that had destroyed her life. Now she understood. If her Breaths would help, then she would use them. Just like Lemex. Just like those slumlords. She wasn’t above that. She never had been. She doubted Denth would understand. Instead, Vivenna nodded toward Jewels. “What is she doing?” Denth turned. “Attaching a new muscle,” he said. “One of the ones in his side got cut, sheared right through. Muscles won’t work right if you just sew them together. She has to replace the whole thing.” “With screws?” Denth nodded. “Right into the bone. It works all right. Not perfectly, but all
right. No wound can ever be perfectly fixed on a Lifeless, though he will heal some. You just sew them up and pump them full of fresh ichoralcohol. If you fix them enough times, the body will stop working right and you’ll have to spend another Breath to keep them going. By then, it’s usually just best to buy another body.” Saved by a monster. Perhaps that was what made her so determined to use her Breath. She should be dead, but Clod had saved her. A Lifeless. She owed her life to something that should not exist. Even worse, if she looked deep within herself, she found herself feeling a traitorous pity for the thing. Even an affection. Considering that, she figured that she was already damned to the point where using her Breaths wouldn’t matter. “He fought well,” she whispered. “Better than the Lifeless that the city guard was using.” Denth glanced at Clod. “They’re not all equal. Most Lifeless, they’re just made out of whatever body happens to be around. If you pay good money, you can get one who was very skillful in life.” She felt a chill, remembering then that moment of humanity she’d seen on Clod’s face as he defended her. If an undead monstrosity could be a hero, then a pious princess could blaspheme. Or was she still just trying to justify her actions? “Skill,” she whispered. “They keep it?” Denth nodded. “Some semblance of it, at least. Considering what we paid for this guy, he must have been quite the soldier. And that’s why it’s worth the money, time, and trouble to repair him, rather than buy a new Lifeless.” They treat him just like a thing, Vivenna thought. Just as she should. And yet, more and more, she thought of Clod as a “he.” He had saved her life. Not Denth, not Tonk Fah. Clod. It seemed to her that they should show more respect for him. Jewels finished with the muscles, then sewed the skin closed with a thick string. “Though he’ll kind of heal,” Denth said, “it’s best to use something strong in the repair, so the wound doesn’t rip apart again.” Vivenna nodded. “And the...juice.” “Ichor-alcohol,” Denth said. “Discovered by the five Scholars. Wonderful stuff. Keeps a Lifeless going really well.” “That’s what let the Manywar occur?” she whispered. “Getting the mixture right?” “That’s part of it. That and the discovery—again by one of the five Scholars, I forget which one—of some new Commands. If you really want to be an Awakener, Princess, that’s what you have to learn. The Commands.” She nodded. “Teach me.” To the side Jewels got out a small pump and attached a small hose to a little valve at the base of Clod’s neck. She began to pump the ichor-alcohol, moving the pump very slowly, probably in order to keep from bursting the blood vessels. “Well,” Denth said, “there are a lot of Commands. If you want to bring a rope to life—like that one you tried to use back in the alleyway—a good Command
is ‘hold things.’ Speak it with a clear voice, willing your Breath to act. If you do it right, the rope will grab whatever is closest. ‘Protect me’ is another good one, though it can be interpreted in fairly strange ways if you don’t imagine exactly what you want.” “Imagine?” Vivenna asked. He nodded. “You have to form the Command in your head, not just speak it. The Breath you give up, it’s part of your life. Your soul, you Idrians would say. When you Awaken something, it becomes part of you. If you’re good— and practiced—the things you Awaken will do what you expect of them. They’re part of you. They understand, just like your hands understand what you want them to do.” “I’ll start practicing, then,” she said. He nodded. “You should pick it up fairly quickly. You’re a clever woman, and you have a lot of Breaths.” “That makes a difference?” He nodded, looking somewhat distant. As if distracted by his own thoughts. “The more Breaths you hold when you start, the easier it is for you to learn how to Awaken. It’s like...I don’t know, the Breath is more part of you. Or you’re more part of it.” She sat back, contemplating that. “Thank you,” she finally said. “What? For explaining Awakening? Half the children on the streets could have told you that much.” “No,” she said. “Though I appreciate the instruction, the thanks is for other things. For not condemning me as a hypocrite. For being willing to change plans and take risks. For protecting me today.” “Last I checked, those were all the things a good employee should do. At least if that employee is a mercenary.” She shook her head. “It’s more than that. You’re a good man, Denth.” He met her eyes, and she could see something in them. An emotion she couldn’t describe. Again, she thought of the mask he wore—the persona of the laughing, joking mercenary. That man seemed just a front, when she looked into those eyes, and saw so much more. “A good man,” he said, turning away. “Sometimes, I wish that were still true, Princess. I haven’t been a good man for some years now.” She opened her mouth to reply, but something made her hesitate. Outside, a shadow passed the window. Tonk Fah entered a few moments later. Denth stood up without glancing at her. “Well?” he asked Tonk Fah. “Looks safe,” Tonk Fah said, eyeing Clod. “How’s the stiff?” “Just finished,” Jewels said. She leaned down, saying something very soft to the Lifeless. Clod started moving again, sitting up, looking about. Vivenna waited as his eyes passed over her, but there didn’t seem to be recognition in them. He wore the same dull expression. Of course, Vivenna thought, standing. He’s Lifeless, after all. Jewels had said something to make him start working again. It was probably the same thing Jewels had used to make him stop moving in the first place. That odd phrase... Howl of the sun. Vivenna filed it away, then followed as they left
the building. ~ A short time later,they were home. Parlin rushed out, expressing his fears for their safety. He went to Jewels first, though she brushed him off. As Vivenna entered the building, he moved up to her. “Vivenna? What happened?” She just shook her head. “There was fighting,” he said, following her up the stairs. “I heard about it.” “There was an attack on the camp we visited,” Vivenna said wearily, reaching the top of the stairs. “A squad of Lifeless. They started killing people.” “Lord of Colors!” Parlin said. “Is Jewels all right?” Vivenna ﬂushed, turning on the landing, looking down the stairs toward him. “Why do you ask about her?” Parlin shrugged. “I think she’s nice.” “Should you be saying things like that?” Vivenna asked, noticing halfheartedly that her hair was turning red again. “Aren’t you engaged to me?” He frowned. “You were engaged to the God King, Vivenna.” “But you know what our fathers wanted,” she said, hands on hips. “I did,” Parlin said. “But, well, when we left Idris, I figured we were both going to get disinherited. There’s really no reason to keep up the charade.” Charade? “I mean, let’s be honest, Vivenna,” he said, smiling. “You really haven’t ever been that nice to me. I know you think I’m stupid; I guess you’re probably right. But if you really cared, I figured that you wouldn’t make me feel stupid, too. Jewels grumbles at me, but she laughs at my jokes sometimes. You’ve never done that.” “But...” Vivenna said, finding herself at a slight loss for words. “But why did you follow me down to Hallandren?” He blinked. “Well, for Siri, of course. Isn’t that why we came? To rescue her?” He smiled fondly, then shrugged. “Good night, Vivenna.” He trailed down the steps, calling to Jewels to see if she was hurt. Vivenna watched him go. He’s twice the person I am, she thought with shame, turning toward her room. But I’m just finding it hard to care anymore. Everything had been taken from her. Why not Parlin, too? Her hatred for Hallandren grew a little more firm as she stepped into her room. I just need to sleep, she thought. Maybe after that, I can figure out just what in the name of the Colors I’m doing in this city. One thing remained firm. She was going to learn how to Awaken. The Vivenna from before—the one who had a right to stand tall and denounce Breath as unholy—no longer had a place in T’Telir. The real Vivenna hadn’t come to Hallandren to save her sister. She’d come because she couldn’t stand being unimportant. She’d learn. That was her punishment. Inside her room, she pushed the door closed, locking the bolt. Then she walked over to pull the drapes closed. A figure stood on her balcony, resting easily against the railing. He wore several days’ worth of stubble on his face and his dark clothing was worn, almost tattered. He carried a deep black sword. Vivenna jumped, eyes wide. “You,” he said in an
angry voice, “are causing a lot of trouble.” She opened her mouth to scream, but the drapes snapped forward, mufﬂing her neck and mouth. They squeezed tightly, choking her. They wrapped around her entire body, pinning her arms to her sides. No! she thought. I survive the attack and the Lifeless, and then fall in my own room? She struggled, hoping someone would hear her thrashing and come for her. But nobody did. At least, not before she fell unconscious. Annotations for Chapter 33 Thirty-Four Annotations for Chapter 34 Lightsong watched the young queen dart away from his pavilion and felt an odd sense of guilt. How very uncharacteristic of me, he thought, taking a sip of wine. After the grapes, it tasted a little sour. Maybe the sourness was from something else. He’d spoken to Siri about the God King’s death in his usual ﬂippant way. In his opinion, it was usually best for people to hear the truth bluntly—and, if possible, amusingly. He hadn’t expected such a reaction from the queen. What was the God King to her? She’d been sent to be his bride, probably against her will. Yet she seemed to take the prospect of his death with grief. He eyed her appraisingly as she ﬂed. Such a small, young thing she was, all dressed up in gold and blue. Young? he thought. Yet she’s been alive longer than I have. He retained some things from his former life—such as his perception of his own age. He didn’t feel like he was five. He felt far older. That age should have taught him to hold his tongue when speaking of making widows out of young women. Could the girl actually have feelings for the God King? She’d been in the city for only a couple of months, and he knew—through rumors—what her life must be like. Forced to perform her duty as a wife for a man to whom she could not speak and whom she could not know. A man who represented all the things that her culture taught were profane. The only thing Lightsong could suppose, then, was that she was worried about what might happen to her if her husband killed himself. A legitimate worry. The queen would lose most of her stature if she lost her husband. Lightsong nodded to himself, turning to look down at the arguing priests. They were done with sewage and guard patrols and had moved on to other topics. “We must prepare ourselves for war,” one of them was saying. “Recent events make it clear that we cannot coexist with the Idrians with any assurance of peace or security. This conﬂict will come, whether we wish it or not.” Lightsong sat listening, tapping one finger against the arm rest of his chair. For five years, I’ve been irrelevant, he thought. I didn’t have a vote on any of the important court councils, I simply held the codes to a division of the Lifeless. I’ve crafted a divine reputation of being useless. The tone below was even more hostile than
it had been during previous meetings. That wasn’t what worried him. The problem was the priest spearheading the movement for war. Nanrovah, high priest of Stillmark the Noble. Normally, Lightsong wouldn’t have bothered paying attention. Yet Nanrovah had always been the most outspoken against war. What had made him change his mind? It wasn’t long before Blushweaver made her way to his box. By the time she arrived, Lightsong’s taste for the wine had returned, and he was sipping thoughtfully. The voices against war from below were soft and infrequent. Blushweaver sat beside him, a rustle of cloth and a waft of perfume. Lightsong didn’t look toward her. “How did you get to Nanrovah?” he finally asked. “I didn’t,” Blushweaver said. “I don’t know why he changed his mind. I wish he hadn’t done it so quickly—it seems suspicious and makes people think I manipulated him. Either way, I’ll take the support.” “You wish for war so much?” “I wish for our people to be aware of the threat,” Blushweaver said. “You think I want this to happen? You think I want to send our people to die and to kill?” Lightsong looked at her, judging her sincerity. She had such beautiful eyes. One rarely noticed that, considering how she proffered the rest of her assets so blatantly. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you want a war.” She nodded sharply. Her dress was sleek and trim this day, as always, but it was particularly revealing up top, where her breasts were pressed up and forward, demanding attention. Lightsong looked away. “You’re boring today,” Blushweaver said. “I’m distracted.” “We should be happy,” Blushweaver said. “The priests have almost all come around. Soon there will be a call for attack made to the main assembly of gods.” Lightsong nodded. The main assembly of gods was called to deliberate only in the most important of situations. In that case, they all had a vote. If the vote was for war, the gods with Lifeless Commands—gods like Lightsong— would be called upon to administrate and lead the battle. “You’ve changed the Commands on Hopefinder’s ten thousand?” Lightsong asked. She nodded. “They’re mine now, as are Mercystar’s.” Colors, he thought. Between the two of us, we now control three-quarters of the kingdom’s armies. What in the name of the Iridescent Tones am I getting myself into? Blushweaver settled back in her chair, eyeing the smaller one that Siri had vacated. “I am annoyed, however, at Allmother.” “Because she’s prettier than you, or because she’s smarter?” Blushweaver didn’t dignify that with a verbal response; she just shot him a look of annoyance. “Just trying to act less boring, my dear,” he said. “Allmother controls the last group of Lifeless,” Blushweaver said. “An odd choice, don’t you think?” Lightsong said. “I mean, I am a logical choice—assuming you don’t know me, of course—since I’m supposedly bold. Hopefinder represents justice, a nice mix with soldiers. Even Mercystar, who represents benevolence, makes a kind of sense for one who controls soldiers. But Allmother? Goddess of matrons and families? Giving her
ten thousand Lifeless is enough to make even me consider my drunk-monkey theory.” “The one who chooses names and titles of the Returned?” “Exactly,” Lightsong said. “I’ve actually considered expanding the theory. I am now proposing to believe that God—or the universe, or time, or whatever you think controls all of this—is all really just a drunk monkey.” She leaned over, squeezing her arms together, seriously threatening to pop her bosom out the front of her dress. “And, you think my title was chosen by happenstance? Goddess of honesty and interpersonal relations. Seems to fit, wouldn’t you say?” He hesitated. Then he smiled. “My dear, did you just try to prove the existence of God with your cleavage?” She smiled. “You’d be surprised what a good wriggle of the chest can accomplish.” “Hum. I’d never considered the theological power of your breasts, my dear. If there were a Church devoted to them, perhaps you’d make a theist out of me after all. Regardless, are you going to tell me what specifically Allmother did to annoy you?” “She won’t give me her Lifeless Commands.” “Not surprising,” Lightsong said. “I hardly trust you, and I’m your friend.” “We need those security phrases, Lightsong.” “Why?” he asked. “We’ve got three of the four—we dominate the armies already.” “We can’t afford infighting or divisiveness,” Blushweaver said. “If her ten were to turn against our thirty, we’d win, but we’d be left badly weakened.” He frowned. “Surely she wouldn’t do that.” “Surely we’d rather be certain.” Lightsong sighed. “Very well, then. I’ll talk to her.” “That might not be a good idea.” He raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t like you very much.” “Yes, I know,” he said. “She has remarkably good taste. Unlike some other people I know.” She glared at him. “Do I need to wriggle my breasts at you again?” “No, please. I don’t know if I’d be able to stand the theological debate that would follow.” “All right, then,” she said, sitting back, looking down at the priests who were still arguing. They sure are taking a long time on this one, he thought. He glanced toward the other side, where Siri had paused to look out over the arena, her arms resting on the stonework; it was too high for her to do so comfortably. Perhaps it wasn’t thinking of her husband’s death that bothered her, he thought. Maybe it was because the discussion turned to war. A war her people couldn’t win. That was another good reason why the conﬂict was becoming inevitable. As Hoid had implied, when one side had an unbeatable advantage, war was the result. Hallandren had been building its Lifeless armies for centuries, and the size was becoming daunting. Hallandren had less and less to lose from an attack. He should have realized that earlier, rather than assuming this would all blow over once the new queen arrived. Blushweaver huffed beside him, and he noticed that she had noticed his study of Siri. She was watching the queen with obvious dislike. Lightsong immediately changed the topic. “Do you
know anything about a tunnel complex beneath the Court of Gods?” Blushweaver turned back toward him, shrugging. “Sure. Some of the palaces have tunnels beneath them, places for storage and the like.” “Have you ever been down in any of them?” “Please. Why would I go crawling about in storage tunnels? I only know about them because of my high priestess. When she joined my Service, she asked me if I wanted mine connected to the main complex of tunnels. I said I didn’t.” “Because you didn’t want others to have access to your palace?” “No,” she said, turning back to watching the priests below. “Because I didn’t want to put up with the racket of all that digging. Can I have some more wine, please?” ~ Siri watched the proceedings for quite a long time. She felt a little like Lightsong said he did. Because she didn’t have a say about what the court did, it was frustrating to pay attention. Yet she wanted to know. The arguments of the priests were, in a way, her only connection to the outside world. She was not encouraged by what she heard. As the time passed, the sun falling close to the horizon and servants lighting massive torches along the walkway, Siri found herself feeling more and more daunted. Her husband was probably either going to be killed or persuaded to kill himself in the upcoming year. Her homeland, in turn, was about to be invaded by the very kingdom her husband ruled—yet he could do nothing to stop it because he had no way to communicate. Then there was the guilt she felt for actually enjoying all the challenges and problems. Back home, she’d had to be contrary and disobedient to find any kind of excitement. Here she only had to stand and watch, and things would begin to topple against each other and cause a clatter. There was far too much clatter at present, but that didn’t stop her from thrilling at her part in it. Silly fool, she told herself. Everything you love is in danger and you’re thinking about how exciting it is? She needed to find a way to help Susebron. In doing so, perhaps she could bring him out from beneath the oppressive control of the priests. Then he might be able to do something to help her homeland. As she followed that line of thought, she almost missed a comment from below. It was spoken by one of the priests most strongly in favor of attacking. “Have you not heard of the Idrian agent who has been causing havoc in the city?” the priest asked. “The Idrians are preparing for the war! They know that a conﬂict is inevitable and so they’ve begun to work against us!” Siri perked up. Idrian agents in the city? “Bah,” said another of the priests. “The ‘infiltrator’ you speak of is said to be a princess of the royal family. That’s obviously a story for the common people. Why would a princess come in secret to T’Telir? These stories are
ridiculous and unfounded.” Siri grimaced. That, at least, was obviously true. Her sisters were not the types to come and work as “Idrian agents.” She smiled, imagining her soft-spoken monk of a sister—or even Vivenna in her prim outfits and stony attitude—coming to T’Telir in secret. Part of her had a little trouble believing that Vivenna had really been intended to become Susebron’s bride. Starchy Vivenna? Having to deal with the exotic court and the wild costumes? Vivenna’s stoic coldness would never have coaxed Susebron out of his imperial mask. Vivenna’s obvious disapproval would have alienated her from gods like Lightsong. Vivenna would have hated wearing the beautiful dresses and would never have appreciated the colors and variety in the city. Siri might not have been ideal for the position, but she was slowly coming to realize that Vivenna hadn’t been a good choice either. A group of people was approaching along the walkway. Siri remained where she was; she was too distracted by her thoughts to pay much attention. “Are they talking about a relative of yours?” a voice asked. Siri started, spinning. Behind her stood a dark-haired goddess wearing a lavish—and revealing—gown of green and silver. Like most of the gods, she stood a good head taller than a mortal person, and she looked down at Siri with a raised eyebrow. “Your...Grace?” Siri responded, confused. “They’re discussing the famous hidden princess,” the goddess said with a wave of her hand. “She’d be a relative of yours, if she really does have the Royal Locks.” Siri glanced back at the priests. “They must be mistaken. I’m the only princess here.” “The stories of her are quite pervasive.” Siri fell silent. “My Lightsong has taken a liking to you, Princess,” the goddess said, folding her arms. “He has been very kind to me,” Siri said carefully, trying to present the right image—that of the person she was, only less threatening. A little more confused. “Might I ask which goddess you are, Your Grace?” “I am Blushweaver,” the goddess said. “I am pleased to meet you.” “No you aren’t,” Blushweaver said. She leaned in, eyes narrowing. “I don’t like what you’re doing here.” “Excuse me?” Blushweaver raised a finger. “He’s a better man than any of us, Princess. Don’t you go spoiling him and pulling him into your schemes.” “I don’t know what you mean.” “You don’t fool me with your false naïveté,” Blushweaver said. “Lightsong is a good person—one of the last ones we have left in this court. If you taint him, I will destroy you. Do you understand?” Siri nodded dumbly; then Blushweaver turned and moved away, muttering, “find someone else’s bed to climb into, you little slut.” Siri watched her go, shocked. When she finally regained her composure, she blushed furiously, then ﬂed. ~ By the time she got back to the palace, Siri was quite ready for her bath. She entered the bathing chamber, letting her serving women undress her. They retreated with the clothing, then exited to prepare the evening’s gown. That left Siri in the hands
of a group of lesser attendants, the ones whose job it was to follow her into the massive tub and scrub her clean. Siri relaxed and leaned back, sighing as the women went to work. Another group—standing fully clothed in the deep water—pulled her hair straight then cut most of it free, something she’d ordered them to do every night. For a few moments, Siri ﬂoated and let herself forget the threats to her people and her husband. She even let herself forget Blushweaver and her snappish misunderstanding. She just enjoyed the heat and the scents of the perfumed water. “You wanted to speak with me, My Queen?” a voice asked. Siri started, splashing as she dunked her body beneath the water. “Bluefingers,” she snapped. “I thought we’d cleared this up on the first day!” He stood at he rim of the tub, fingers blue, typically anxious as he began to pace. “Oh, please,” he said. “I have daughters twice your age. You sent word that you wanted to talk to me. Well, this is where I will talk. Away from random ears.” He nodded to several of the serving girls, and they began to splash just a bit more, speaking quietly, creating a low noise. Siri ﬂushed, her short hair a deep red—though a few cut-off strands that ﬂoated in the water remained blond. “Haven’t you gotten over your shyness yet?” Bluefingers asked. “You’ve been in Hallandren for months.” Siri eyed him, but didn’t relax her concealing posture, even if she did let the serving women continue to work on her hair and scrub her back. “Won’t it seem suspicious to have the serving women making so much noise?” she asked. Bluefingers waved a hand. “They’re already considered second-class servants by most in the palace.” She understood what he meant. These women, as opposed to her regular servants, wore brown. They were from Pahn Kahl. “You sent me a message earlier,” Bluefingers said. “What did you mean by claiming to have information relating to my plans?” Siri bit her lip, sorting through the dozens of ideas she had considered, discarding them all. What did she know? How could she make Bluefingers willing to trade? He gave me clues, she thought. He tried to scare me into not sleeping with the king. But he had no reason to help me. He barely knew me. He must have other motives for not wanting an heir to be born. “What happens when a new God King takes the throne?” she asked carefully. He eyed her. “So you’ve figured that out, then?” Figured out what? “Of course I have,” she said out loud. He wrung his hands nervously. “Of course, of course. Then you can see why I’m so nervous? We worked hard to get me where I am. It isn’t easy for a Pahn Kahl man to rise high in the theocracy of Hallandren. Once I got into place, I worked so hard to provide work for my people. The serving girls who wash you, they have far better lives than the Pahn Kahl
who work the dye fields. That will all be lost. We don’t believe in their gods. Why would we be treated as well as people of their own faith?” “I still don’t see why it has to happen,” Siri said carefully. He waved a nervous hand. “Of course it doesn’t have to, but tradition is tradition. The Hallandren are very lax in every area but religion. When a new God King is chosen, his servants are replaced. They won’t kill us to send us into the afterlife along with our lord—that horrid custom hasn’t been in effect since the days before the Manywar—but we will be dismissed. A new God King represents a fresh start.” He stopped pacing, looking at her. She was still naked in the water, awkwardly covering herself as best she could. “But,” he said, “I guess my job security is the lesser of our problems.” Siri snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about my safety above your own place in the palace.” “Of course not,” he said, kneeling down beside the tub, speaking quietly. “But the God King’s life...well, that worries me.” “So,” Siri said, “I haven’t been able to decide yet. Do the God Kings give up their lives willingly once they have an heir, or are they coerced into it?” “I’m not sure,” Bluefingers admitted. “There are stories, spoken of by my people regarding the last God King’s death. They say that the plague he cured—well, he wasn’t even in the city when the ‘curing’ happened. My suspicion is that they somehow coerced him to give up his Breaths to his son and that killed him.” He doesn’t know, Siri thought. He doesn’t realize that Susebron is a mute. “How closely have you served the God King?” He shrugged. “As close as any servant considered unholy. I’m not allowed to touch him or speak to him. But, Princess, I’ve served him all my life. He’s not my god, but he’s something better. I think these priests look upon their gods as placeholders. It doesn’t really matter to them who is holding the station. Me, I’ve served His Majesty for my entire life. I was hired by the palace as a lad and I remember Susebron’s childhood. I cleaned his quarters. He’s not my god, but he is my liege. And now these priests are planning to kill him.” He turned back to his pacing, wringing his hands. “But there’s nothing to be done.” “Yes, there is,” she said. He waved a hand. “I gave you a warning and you ignored it. I know that you’ve been performing your duties as a wife. Perhaps we could find some way of making certain that no pregnancy of yours comes to term.” Siri ﬂushed. “I would never do such a thing! Austre forbids it.” “Even to save the life of the God King? But...of course. What is he to you? Your captor and imprisoner. Yes. Perhaps my warnings were useless.” “I do care, Bluefingers,” she said. “And I think we can stop this before it gets to the point
of worrying about an heir. I’ve been talking to the God King.” Bluefingers froze, looking directly at her. “What?” “I’ve been talking to him,” Siri admitted. “He’s not as heartless as you might think. I don’t think this has to end with him dying or your people losing their places in the palace.” Bluefingers studied her, staring at her to the point that she ﬂushed again, ducking further down into the water. “I see that you’ve found yourself a position of power,” he noted. Or, at least, one that looks powerful, she thought ruefully. “If things turn out as I want them to, I’ll make certain your people are cared for.” “And my side of the bargain?” he asked. “If things don’t turn out as I want them to,” she said, taking a deep breath, heart ﬂuttering, “I want you to get Susebron and me out of the palace.” Silence. “Deal,” he said. “But let us make certain it does not come to that. Is the God King aware of the danger from his own priests?” “He is,” Siri lied. “In fact, he knew about it before I did. He’s the one who told me I needed to contact you.” “He did?” Bluefingers asked, frowning slightly. “Yes,” Siri said. “I will be in touch on how to make this turn out well for all of us. And, until then, I would appreciate it if you’d let me get back to my bath.” Bluefingers nodded slowly, then retreated from the bathing chamber. Siri, however, found it hard to still her nerves. She wasn’t certain if she’d handled the exchange well or not. She seemed to have gained something. Now she just had to figure out how to use it. Annotations for Chapter 34 Thirty-Five Annotations for Chapter 35 Vivenna awoke sore, tired, and terrified. She tried struggling, but her hands and legs were tied. She succeeded only in rolling herself into an even less comfortable position. She was in a dark room, gagged, her face pressing awkwardly against a splintering wood ﬂoor. She still wore her skirt, an expensive foreign one like those that Denth complained about. Her hands were tied behind her. Someone was in the room with her. Someone with a lot of Breath. She could feel it without even trying. She twisted, rolling onto her back in an awkward motion. She could see a figure silhouetted against a starlit sky, standing on a balcony a short distance away. It was him. He turned toward her, face shadowed in the unlit room, and she began to squirm with panic. What was this man planning to do with her? Horrible possibilities leaped to mind. The man walked toward her, feet thumping roughly on the ﬂoor, the wood shaking. He knelt down, pulling her head up by the hair. “I’m still deciding whether or not to kill you, Princess,” he said. “If I were you, I’d avoid doing anything more to antagonize me.” His voice was deep, thick, and had an accent she couldn’t place. She froze in his grip, trembling, hair bleached
white. He appeared to be studying her, eyes reﬂecting starlight. He dropped her back to the wooden ﬂoor. She groaned through the gag as he lit a lantern, then pushed the balcony doors closed. He reached to his belt and removed a large hunting dagger. Vivenna felt a stab of fear, but he simply walked over and cut the bonds on her hands. He tossed the dagger aside, and it made a thock as it stuck into the wood of the far wall. He reached for something on the bed. His large, black-hilted sword. Vivenna scrambled back, hands free, and pulled at her gag, intending to scream. He whipped the scabbarded sword toward her, making her freeze. “You will remain quiet,” he said sharply. She huddled back into the corner. How is this happening to me? she thought. Why hadn’t she ﬂed back to Idris long ago? She’d been deeply unsettled when Denth had killed the ruffians in the restaurant. She’d known then that she was dealing with people and situations that were truly dangerous. She’d been an arrogant fool to think that she could do anything in this city. This monstrous, overwhelming, terrible city. She was nothing. Barely a peasant from the countryside. Why had she been determined to get herself involved in this people’s politics and schemes? The man, Vasher, stepped forward. He undid the clasp on that deep, black sword, and Vivenna felt a strange nausea strike her. A thin wisp of black smoke began to curl up from the blade. Vasher approached, backlit by the lantern, the sheathed tip of the sword dragging along the ﬂoor behind him. Then he dropped the sword to the ﬂoor in front of Vivenna. “Pick it up,” he said. She untensed slightly, looking up, though she still huddled in the corner. She felt tears on her cheeks. “Pick up the sword, Princess.” She had no training with weapons, but maybe...She reached for the sword, but felt her nausea grow far stronger. She groaned, her hand twitching as it approached the strange black blade. She shied away. “Pick it up!” Vasher bellowed. She complied with a gagged cry of desperation, grabbing the weapon, feeling a terrible sickness travel like a wave up her arm and into her stomach. She found herself ripping away her gag with desperate fingers. Hello, a voice said in her head. Would you like to kill someone today? She dropped the horrid weapon and fell to her knees, retching onto the ﬂoor. There wasn’t much in her stomach, but she couldn’t stop herself. When she was done, she crawled away and huddled down against the wall again, mouth dripping with bile, feeling too sick to yell for help or even wipe her face. She was crying again. That seemed the least of her humiliations. Through teary eyes, she watched as Vasher stood quietly. Then he grunted—as if in surprise—and picked up the sword. He clicked the clasp on its sheath, locking the weapon back inside, then threw a towel onto what she’d retched up. “We are in one of
the slums,” he said. “You may scream if you wish, but nobody will think anything of it. Except me. I’ll be annoyed.” He glanced back at her. “I warn you. I’m not known for my ability to keep my temper.” Vivenna shivered, still feeling hints of nausea. This man held even more Breath than she did. Yet, when he’d kidnapped her, she hadn’t felt anyone standing in her room. How had he hidden it? And what was that voice? They seemed silly things to distract her, considering her current situation. However, she used them to keep from thinking about what this man might do to her. What— He was walking toward her again. He picked up the gag, his expression dark. She finally screamed, trying to scramble away, and he cursed, putting a foot on her back and forcing her down against the ﬂoor. He tied her hands again before forcing on the gag. She cried, her voice mufﬂed as he jerked her backward. He stood, then slung her over his shoulder and carried her out of the room. “Colors-cursed slums,” he muttered. “Everyone’s too poor to afford cellars.” He pushed her into a sitting position in the doorway of a second, much smaller room and retied her hands to the doorknob. He stepped back, looking her over, obviously unsatisfied. Then he knelt beside her, unshaven face close to hers, breath vile. “I have work to do,” he said. “Work that you have forced me to do. You will not run. If you do, I’ll find you and kill you. Understand?” She nodded weakly. She caught sight of him retrieving his sword from the other room, then he quickly rushed down the stairs. The door below slammed and locked, leaving her alone and helpless. ~ An hour or so later, Vivenna had finished crying herself dry. She sat slumped, hands tied awkwardly above her. Part of her kept waiting for the others to find her. Denth, Tonk Fah, Jewels. They were experts. They’d be able to save her. No rescue came. Dazed, drowsy, and sick though she was, she realized something. This man—this Vasher—was someone that even Denth had feared. Vasher had killed one of their friends some months before. He was at least as skilled as they were. How did they all end up here, then? she thought, her wrists rubbed raw. It seems an unlikely coincidence. Perhaps Vasher had followed Denth to the city and was acting out some kind of twisted rivalry by working against them. They’ll find me and save me. But she knew that they wouldn’t, not if Vasher was as dangerous as they said. He’d know how to hide from Denth. If she was going to escape, she’d have to do it herself. The concept terrified her. Strangely, however, memories from her tutors returned to her. There are things to do if you are kidnapped, one had taught. Things that every princess should know. During her time in T’Telir, she’d begun to feel that her lessons were useless. Now she was surprised to find herself remembering
sessions that related directly to her situation. If a person kidnaps you, the tutor had taught, your best time to escape is near the beginning, when you are still strong. They will starve you and beat you so that soon you will be too weak to ﬂee. Do not expect to be rescued, though friends will undoubtedly be working to help you. Never expect to be redeemed for a ransom. Most kidnappings end in death. The best thing you can do for your country is try to escape. If you don’t succeed, then perhaps the captor will kill you. That is preferable to what you might have to endure as a captive. Plus, if you die, the kidnappers will no longer have a hostage. It was a harsh, blunt lesson—but many of her lessons had been like that. Better to die than to be held captive and used against Idris. That was the same lesson that warned her that the Hallandren might try to use her against Idris once she was there as queen. In such a case, she was told that her father might be forced to order her assassination. That was a problem she didn’t have to worry about anymore. The kidnapping advice, however, seemed useful. It frightened her, made her want to cower in place and simply wait, hoping that Vasher would find a reason to let her go. But the more she thought, the more she knew that she had to be strong. He’d been extremely harsh with her—exaggeratedly so. He’d wanted to frighten her so that she wouldn’t try to escape. He’d cursed not having a cellar, for that would have been a good place to secret her. When he returned, he would probably move her to a more secure location. The tutors were right. The only chance she had to escape was now. Her hands were bound tightly. She’d tried pulling them free several times already. Vasher knew his knots. She wiggled, rubbing more skin off, and she cringed in pain. Blood began to drip down her wrist, but even that slickness wasn’t enough to get her hands free. She began to cry again, not in fear, but in pain and frustration. She couldn’t wiggle her way out. But...could she perhaps make the ropes untie themselves? Why didn’t I let Denth train me with Breath sooner? Her stubborn self-righteousness seemed even more ﬂagrant to her now. Of course it was better to use the Breath than it was to be killed—or worse—by Vasher. She thought she understood Lemex and his desire to gather enough BioChroma to extend his life. She tried to speak some Commands through her gag. That was useless. Even she knew that the Commands had to be spoken clearly. She began to wiggle her chin, pushing on the gag with her tongue. It didn’t appear to be as tight as her wrist bonds. Plus, it was wet from her tears and saliva. She worked at it, moving her lips and her teeth. She was actually surprised when it finally dropped loose below her
chin. She licked her lips, working her sore jaw. Now what? she thought. Her apprehension was rising. Now she really needed to get free. If Vasher returned and saw that she’d managed to work her gag off, he’d never leave her with such an opportunity again. He might punish her for disobeying him. “Ropes,” she said. “Untie yourself.” Nothing happened. She gritted her teeth, trying to remember the Commands that Denth had told her. Hold things and Protect me. Neither seemed all that useful in her situation. She certainly didn’t want the ropes to hold her wrists more tightly. However, he had said something else. Something about imagining what you wanted in your mind. She tried that, picturing the ropes untying themselves. “Untie yourselves,” she said clearly. Again, nothing happened. Vivenna leaned her head back in frustration. Awakening seemed such a vague art, which was odd, considering the number of rules and restrictions it appeared to have. Or maybe it just seemed vague to her because it was so complicated. She closed her eyes. I have to get this, she thought. I must figure it out. If I don’t, I will be killed. She opened her eyes, focusing on her bonds. She pictured them untying again, but somehow that felt wrong. She was like a child, sitting and staring at a leaf, trying to make it move just by concentrating on it. That wasn’t the way her newfound senses worked. They were part of her. So, instead of concentrating, she relaxed, letting her unconscious mind do the work. A little like she did when she changed the color of her hair. “Untie,” she Commanded. The Breath ﬂowed from her. It was like blowing bubbles beneath the water, exhaling a piece of herself but feeling it ﬂow into something else. That something else became part of her—a limb she could only slightly control. It was more of a sense of the rope than an ability to move it. As the Breath left her, she could feel the world dull, colors becoming slightly less bold, the wind a little more difficult to hear, the life of the city a little more distant. The ropes around her hands jerked, causing her wrists to burn. Then the ropes unraveled and dropped to the ground. Her arms came free, and she sat, staring at her wrists, shocked. Austre, Lord of Colors, she thought. I did it. She wasn’t certain whether to be impressed or ashamed. Either way, she knew she needed to run. She untied her ankles, then scrambled to her feet, noticing that a section of the wooden door had been completely drained of color in a circular pattern around her hands. She paused only brieﬂy, then grabbed the rope and ran down the stairs. She unlocked the door and peeked out the doorway onto the street, but it was dark, and she could see little. Taking a deep breath, she rushed out into the night. ~ She walked aimlessly for a time, trying to put space between herself and Vasher’s lair. She knew that she

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