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should probably find a place to hide, but she was afraid. She was distinctive in her fine dress and would be remembered by all who passed. Her only real hope was to get out of the slums and into the city proper, where she could find her way back to Denth and the others. She carried the rope tucked into the dress’s pocket pouch, hidden behind a fold of cloth on the side. She’d grown so accustomed to having a certain amount of Breath that missing a fraction, even the small bit contained in the rope, felt wrong. Awakeners could recover Breath they invested into objects; she’d been tutored on that. She just didn’t know the Commands to do it. So she brought the rope, hoping that Denth would be able to help her recover its Breath. She maintained a quick pace, head down, trying to watch for a discarded cloak or piece of cloth she could wrap around herself to hide the dress. Fortunately, it seemed as if the hour was too late, even, for most ruffians. She did occasionally see shadowed figures on the sides of the road, and she had trouble keeping her heart stilled as she passed them. If only the sun were up! she thought. It was just beginning to grow light with morning’s arrival, but it was still dark enough that she had trouble telling which direction she was going. The slums were convoluted enough that she felt she was going in circles. The tall buildings loomed around her, blocking off the sky. This area had once been much more rich; the shadowed fronts of the buildings held worn engravings and faded colors. The square down the street to her left held an old, broken statue of a man atop a horse, perhaps part of a fountain or— Vivenna stopped. A broken statue of a horseman. Why did that seem familiar? Denth’s directions, she thought. When he explained to Parlin how to get from the safe house to the restaurant. That day, weeks back, seemed so vague to her now. But she did remember the exchange. She’d been worried that Parlin would get lost. For the first time in hours, she felt a sense of hope. The directions had been simple. Could she remember them? She worked, walking hesitantly, partially just on instinct. After just a few minutes, she realized that the dark street around her looked familiar. There were no lamps in the slums, but the light of false dawn was enough. She turned around, and sure enough, the safe house lay huddled between two larger buildings across from her. Blessed Austre! she thought with relief, quickly crossing the street and pushing her way into the building. The main room was empty, and she hurriedly opened the door down to the cellar, seeking a place to hide. She searched around with her fingers, and sure enough, she found a lantern with ﬂint and steel beside the stairway. She pulled the door closed and found it more sturdy than she would have assumed. That felt good,
though she couldn’t lock it from this side. She left it unlatched and bent down to light the lantern. A set of worn, broken stairs led down into the cellar. Vivenna paused, remembering that Denth had warned her about the steps. She walked down carefully, feeling them creak beneath her, and could see why he’d been worried. Still, she made it down all right. At the bottom, she wrinkled her nose at the musty scent. The carcasses of several small game hung on the wall; someone had been here recently, which was a good sign. She rounded the stairs. The main space of the cellar was built beneath the ﬂoor of the upper room. She would rest there for a few hours, and if Denth didn’t arrive, she’d venture out. Then she— She froze, jerking to a halt, lantern swinging in her hand. Its unsteady light shone on a figure sitting before her, head bowed, face shadowed. His arms were tied behind his back and his ankles were bound to the legs of the chair. “Parlin?” Vivenna asked with shock, rushing to his side. She quickly set down the lantern, then froze. There was blood on the ﬂoor. “Parlin!” she said louder, urgently lifting his head. His eyes stared forward, sightless, his face scratched and bloody. Her life sense couldn’t feel him. His eyes were dead. Vivenna’s hand began to shake. She stumbled back, horrified. “Oh, Colors,” she found herself mumbling. “Colors, Colors, Colors...” A hand fell on her shoulder. She screamed, spinning. A large figure stood in the darkness behind her, half-hidden beneath the stairs. “Hello, Princess,” Tonk Fah said. He smiled. Vivenna stumbled back, nearly colliding with Parlin’s body. She began to gasp, hand at her chest. Only then did she notice the bodies on the walls. Not game animals. What she had mistaken for a pheasant in the dim light of her lantern now reﬂected back green. A dead parrot. A monkey hung beside, body sliced and cut. The freshest corpse was that of a large lizard. All had been tortured. “Oh, Austre,” she mumbled. Tonk Fah stepped forward, grabbing for her, and Vivenna finally shocked herself into motion. She ducked to the side, escaping his reach. She ran around the large man, scrambling toward the stairs. She came up short as she collided with someone’s chest. She looked up, blinking. “Do you know what I hate most about being a mercenary, Princess?” Denth asked quietly, grabbing her arm. “Fulfilling the stereotypes. Everyone assumes that they can’t trust you. The thing is, they really can’t.” “We do what we’re paid to,” Tonk Fah said, stepping up behind her. “It’s not exactly the most desirable work,” Denth said, holding her tightly. “But the money is good. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to do this. Everything was going so nicely. Why did you run away? What tipped you off?” He pushed her forward with a careful hand, still holding her arm, as Jewels and Clod moved down the steps behind him. The stairs groaned beneath the weight. “You’ve been lying
to me the entire time,” she whispered, tears almost unnoticed on her cheeks, heart thumping as she tried to make sense of the world. “Why?” “Kidnapping is hard work,” Denth said. “Terrible business,” Tonk Fah added. “It’s better if your subject never even knows they’ve been kidnapped.” They always kept an eye on me. Staying near. “Lemex...” “Didn’t do what we needed him to,” Denth said. “Poison was too good a death for that one. You should have known, Princess. With as much Breath as he held...” He couldn’t have died from sickness, she realized. Austre! Her mind was numb. She glanced at Parlin. He’s dead. Parlin is dead. They killed him. “Don’t look at him,” Denth said, delicately turning her head away from the corpse. “That was an accident. Listen to me, Princess. You’ll be all right. We won’t hurt you. Just tell me why you ran away. Parlin insisted not to know where you had gone, though we knew he spoke to you on the stairs right before you vanished. Did you really leave without telling him? Why? What made you suspect us? Did one of your father’s agents contact you? I thought we found all of those when they entered the city.” She shook her head dumbly. “This is important, Princess,” Denth said calmly. “I need to know. Whom did you contact? What did you tell the slumlords about me?” He began to squeeze her arm tightly. “We wouldn’t want to have to break anything,” Tonk Fah said. “You Idrians. You break too easily.” What had once seemed lighthearted banter to her now seemed terrible and callous. Tonk Fah loomed in the shadowy lantern light to her right, Denth was a slimmer form in front of her. She remembered his speed, the way he’d slain those bodyguards at the restaurant. Remembered the way they’d destroyed Lemex’s house. Remembered their ﬂippancy toward death. They’d hidden it all behind a veil of humor. Now that Denth had brought another lantern, she could see a couple of large sacks stuffed underneath the stairs; a foot was hanging out of one of them. The boot bore the crest of the Idrian army on its side. Her father had sent people to recover her. Denth had just found them before they found her. How many had he killed? Bodies wouldn’t keep for long in this basement. Those two corpses must be relatively new, awaiting disposal somewhere else. “Why?” she asked again, nearly too stunned to speak. “You seemed like my friends.” “We are,” Denth said. “I like you, Princess.” He smiled—a genuine smile, not a dangerous leer, like Tonk Fah. “If it means anything, I really am sorry. Parlin wasn’t supposed to die—that was an accident. But, well, a job is a job. We do what we’re paid to do. I explained this all to you several times, I’m sure you recall.” “I never really believed...” she whispered. “They never do,” Tonk Fah said. Vivenna blinked. Get away quickly. While you still have strength. She’d escaped once. Wasn’t that enough? Didn’t she deserve some
peace? Quickly! She twisted her arm, slapping it against the back of Tonk Fah’s cloak. “Grab—” Denth, however, was too fast. He yanked her back, covered her mouth, then snatched her other hand, holding it tightly. Tonk Fah stood surprised as Vivenna’s dress bled free of color, turning grey, and some of her Breath passed through Denth’s fingers and into Tonk Fah’s cloak. Yet without a Command, that Breath couldn’t do anything. It had been wasted, and Vivenna felt the world around her grow more dull. Denth released her mouth and slapped Tonk Fah on the back of the head. “Hey,” Tonk Fah said, rubbing his head. “Pay attention,” Denth said. Then he glanced at Vivenna, holding her arm tightly. Blood seeped between his fingers from her wounded wrist. Denth froze, obviously seeing her bloodied wrists for the first time; the dark cellar had obscured them. He looked up, meeting her eyes. “Aw, hell,” he cursed. “You didn’t run from us, did you?” “Huh?” Tonk Fah asked. Vivenna was numb. “What happened?” Denth asked. “Was it him?” She didn’t respond. Denth grimaced, then twisted her arm, causing her to yelp. “All right. It looks like my hand has been forced. Let’s deal with that Breath of yours first, and then we can have a chat—nicely, like friends—about what has happened to you.” Clod stepped up beside Denth, grey eyes staring forward, empty as always. Except...could she see something in them? Was she imagining it? Her emotions were so strained lately that she really couldn’t trust her perceptions. Clod seemed to meet her eyes. “Now,” Denth said, face growing harder. “Repeat after me. My Life to yours. My Breath become yours.” Vivenna looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “Howl of the sun,” she whispered. Denth frowned. “What?” “Attack Denth. Howl of the sun.” “I—” Denth began. At that moment, Clod’s fist hit his face. The blow threw Denth to the side and into Tonk Fah, who cursed and stumbled. Vivenna wrenched free, ducking past Clod—nearly tripping on her dress—and threw her shoulder into the surprised Jewels. Jewels fell. Vivenna scrambled up the stairs. “You let her hear the security phrase?” Denth bellowed, sounds of struggle coming from where he was wrestling with Clod. Jewels gained her feet and followed Vivenna. The woman’s foot broke through a step, however. Vivenna stumbled into the room above, then threw the door shut. She reached over, turning the latch. Won’t hold them for long, she thought, feeling helpless. They’ll keep coming. Chasing me. Just like Vasher. God of Colors. What am I going to do? She rushed out onto the street, now lit by the dawn light pouring into the city, and ducked down an alleyway. Then she just kept running—this time trying to pick the smallest, dirtiest, darkest alleyways she could. Annotations for Chapter 35 Thirty-Six Annotations for Chapter 36 I will not leave you, Susebron wrote, sitting on the ﬂoor beside the bed, his back propped up by pillows. I promise. “How can you be sure?” Siri asked from her place on the bed.
“Maybe once you have an heir, you’ll grow tired of life, then give away your Breath.” First of all, he wrote, I’m still not even sure how I would get an heir. You refuse to explain it to me, nor will you answer my questions. “They’re embarrassing!” Siri said, feeling her short hair grow red. She turned it back to yellow in an instant. Secondly, he wrote, I cannot give away my Breath, not if what I understand about BioChroma is true. Do you think I’ve been lied to about how Breath works? He’s getting much more articulate in his writing, Siri thought as she watched him erase. It’s such a shame that he’s been locked up his entire life. “I really don’t know that much about it,” she said. “BioChroma isn’t exactly something we focus on in Idris. I suspect that half of the things I know are rumors and exaggerations. For instance, back in Idris, they think you sacrifice people on altars in the court here—I heard that a dozen times from different people.” He paused, then continued writing. Regardless, we argue something that is absurd. I will not change. I am not going to suddenly decide to kill myself. You do not need to worry. She sighed. Siri, he wrote, I lived for fifty years with no information, no knowledge, barely able to communicate. Can you really think that I would kill myself now? Now, when I’ve discovered how to write? When I’ve discovered someone to talk to? When I’ve discovered you? She smiled. “All right. I believe you. But I still think we have to worry about your priests.” He didn’t respond, looking away. Why is he so cursedly loyal to them? she thought. Finally, he looked back at her. Would you grow your hair? She raised an eyebrow. “And what color am I to make it?” Red, he wrote. “You Hallandren and your bright colors,” she said, shaking her head. “Do you realize that my people considered red the most ﬂagrant of all colors?” He paused. I’m sorry, he wrote. I did not mean to offend you. I— He broke off as she reached down and touched his arm. “No,” she said. “Look, I wasn’t arguing. I was just being ﬂirtatious. I’m sorry.” Flirtatious? he wrote. My storybook doesn’t use this term. “I know,” Siri said. “That book is too full of stories about children getting eaten by trees and things.” The stories are metaphors meant to teach— “Yes, I know,” she said, interrupting him again. So, what is ﬂirtatious? “It’s...” Colors! How do I get myself into these situations? “It’s when a girl acts hesitant—or sometimes silly—in order to make a man pay more attention to her.” Why would that make a man pay attention to her? “Well, like this.” She looked at him, leaning forward a bit. “Do you want me to grow my hair?” Yes. “Do you really want me to?” Of course. “Well then, if I must,” she said, tossing her head and commanding her hair become a deep auburn red. It ﬂushed
midtoss, ﬂaring from yellow to red like ink bleeding into a pool of clear water. Then she made it grow. The ability was more instinctive than conscious—like ﬂexing a muscle. In this case, it was a “muscle” she’d been using a lot lately, since she tended to cut her hair off in the evenings rather than spending the time combing it. Even as the hair whipped past her face, it grew in length. She tossed her head, one final time—the hair making it feel more heavy, her neck warm from the locks that now tumbled down around her shoulders and down her back, twisting in loose curls. Susebron looked at her with wide eyes. She met them, then tried a seductive glance. The result seemed so ridiculous to her, however, that she just found herself laughing. She fell back on the bed, newly grown hair ﬂaring around her. Susebron tapped her leg. She looked over at him, and he stood up, sitting on the side of the bed so that she could see his tablet as he wrote. You are very strange, he said. She smiled. “I know. I’m not meant to be a seductress. I can’t keep a straight face.” Seductress, he wrote. I know that word. It is used in a story when the evil queen tries to tempt the young prince with something, though I don’t know what. She smiled. I think she must have been planning to offer him food. “Yeah,” Siri said. “Good interpretation, there, Seb. Completely right.” He hesitated. She wasn’t offering food, was she? Siri smiled again. He ﬂushed. I feel like such an idiot. There is so much that everyone else understands intrinsically. Yet I have only the stories of a children’s book to guide me. I’ve read them so often that it’s hard to separate myself—and the way I view them—from the child I was when I first read them. He began to erase furiously. She sat up then laid a hand on his arm. I know that there are things I’m missing, he wrote. Things that embarrass you, and I have guesses. I am not a fool. And yet, I get frustrated. With your ﬂirtation and sarcasm—both behaviors where you apparently act opposite to what you want—I fear that I will never understand you. He stared with frustration at his board, wiping cloth held in one hand, charcoal in the other. The fire cracked quietly in the fireplace, throwing waves of overbright yellow against his clean-shaven face. “I’m sorry,” she said, scooting closer to him. She wrapped her arms around his elbow, laying her head against his upper arm. He actually didn’t seem that much bigger than she, now that she was used to it. There had been men back in Idris who had stood as much as six and a half feet tall, and Susebron was only a few inches taller than that. Plus, because his body was so perfectly proportioned, he didn’t seem spindly or unnatural. He was normal, just bigger. He glanced at her as she rested her head
on his arm and closed her eyes. “I think you are doing better than you think. Most people back in my homeland didn’t understand me half as well as you do.” He began to write, and she opened her eyes. I find that hard to believe. “It’s true,” she said. “They kept telling me to become someone else.” Who? “My sister,” she said with a sigh. “The woman you were supposed to marry. She was everything the daughter of a king should be. Controlled, soft-spoken, obedient, learned.” She sounds boring, he wrote, smiling. “Vivenna is a wonderful person,” Siri said. “She was always very kind to me. It’s just that...well, I think even she felt that I should have been more reserved.” I can’t understand that, he wrote. You’re wonderful. So full of life and excitement. The priests and servants of the palace, they wear colors, but there’s no color inside of them. They just go about their duties, eyes down, solemn. You’ve got color on the inside, so much of it that it bursts out and colors everything around you. She smiled. “That sounds like BioChroma.” You are more honest than BioChroma, he wrote. My Breath, it makes things more bright, but it isn’t mine. It was given to me. Yours is your own. She felt her hair shift from the deep red into a golden tone, and she sighed softly with contentment, pulling herself a little closer to him. How do you do that? he wrote. “Do what?” Change your hair. “That one was unconscious,” she said. “It goes blond if I feel happy or content.” You’re happy, then? he wrote. With me? “Of course.” But when you speak of the mountains, there is such longing in your voice. “I miss them,” she said. “But if I left here, I’d miss you too. Sometimes, you can’t have everything you want, since the wants contradict each other.” They fell silent for a time, and he set aside his board, hesitantly wrapping his arm around her and leaning back against the headboard. A blushful tinge of red crept into her hair as she realized that they were still sitting on the bed, and she was snuggling up beside him wearing only her shift. But, well, she thought, we are married, after all. The only thing that spoiled the moment was the occasional rumbling of her stomach. After a few minutes, Susebron reached for his board. You are hungry? he wrote. “No,” she said. “My stomach is an anarchist; it likes to growl when it’s full.” He paused. Sarcasm? “A poor attempt,” she said. “It’s all right—I’ll survive.” Didn’t you eat before you came to my chambers? “I did,” she said. “But growing that much hair is draining. It always leaves me hungry.” It makes you hungry every night? he asked, writing quickly. And you didn’t say anything? She shrugged. I will get you food. “No, we can’t afford to expose ourselves.” Expose what? he wrote. I am God King—I have food whenever I wish it. I have sent for it at night
before. This will not be odd. He stood, walking toward the doorway. “Wait!” she said. He turned, glancing back at him. “You can’t go to the door like that, Susebron,” she said, keeping her voice quiet, in case someone was listening. “You’re still fully dressed.” He looked down, then frowned. “Make your clothing look disheveled at least,” she said, quickly hiding his writing board. He undid his neck buttons, then threw off his deep black overrobe, revealing an undergown. Like everything white near him, it gave off a halo of rainbow colors. He reached up, mussing his dark hair. He turned back to her, eyes questioning. “Good enough,” she said, pulling the bedsheets up to her neck, covering herself. She watched curiously as Susebron rapped on the door with his knuckles. It immediately opened. He’s too important to open his own door, Siri thought. He commanded food by putting a hand to his stomach, then pointing away. The servants—barely visible to Siri through the doorway—scuttled away at his order. He turned as the door closed, walking back to sit beside her on the bed. A few minutes later, servants arrived at the room with a dining table and a chair. They set the table with large amounts of food—everything from roasted fish to pickled vegetables and simmering shellfish. Siri watched with amazement. There’s no way they fixed it that quickly. They simply had it waiting in the kitchens, should their god happen to grow hungry. It was wasteful to the point of extravagance, but it was also wondrous. It bespoke a lifestyle that her people back in Idris couldn’t even imagine, one representative of an uncomfortable imbalance in the world. Some people starved; others were so wealthy that they never even saw most meals that were made for them. The servants set only one chair at the table. Siri watched as they brought in plate after plate. They couldn’t know what the God King wanted, so they apparently brought him some of everything. They filled the table, then retreated as Susebron pointed for them to go. The scents were almost too much for Siri in her hungered state. She waited, tense, until the door closed. Then she threw off the sheets and rushed over. She had thought the meals prepared for her were extravagant, but they were nothing compared with this feast. Susebron gestured toward the chair. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked. He shrugged. She walked over and took one of the blankets from the bed, then spread it on the stone ﬂoor. “What looks good to you?” she said, approaching the table. He pointed at the plate of simmering mussels and several of the breads. She moved these, along with a dish that didn’t appear to have any fish in it—a bowl of exotic fruits tossed in some kind of creamy sauce—to the cloth. She then sat down and began eating. Susebron carefully situated himself on the ﬂoor. He managed to look dignified even when wearing only his undergown. Siri reached over and handed him his board. This is
very odd, he said. “What?” she asked. “Eating on the ﬂoor?” He nodded. Dining is such a production for me. I eat some of what is on a plate, then servants pull it away, wipe my face, and bring me another one. I never finish an entire dish, even if I like it. Siri snorted. “I’m surprised they don’t hold the spoon for you.” They did when I was younger, Susebron wrote, ﬂushing. I eventually got them to let me do it myself. It’s hard, when you can’t speak with anyone. “I can imagine,” Siri said between mouthfuls. She eyed Susebron, who ate with small, reserved bites. She felt a slight stab of shame at how fast she was eating, then decided she didn’t care. She put aside the fruit dish and fetched several pastries from the table. Susebron eyed her as she began to eat one after another. Those are Pahn Kahl tinkfans, he wrote. One takes only small bites, making sure to eat a piece of bread between to clear away the taste. They are a delicacy and— He broke off as Siri picked up an entire pastry and shoved it into her mouth. She smiled at him, then continued chewing. After a moment of looking stunned, he wrote on his board again. You realize that children in the stories who gorged themselves usually ended up being thrown off of cliffs? Siri stuffed another crispbread into her mouth beside the first, dusting her fingers and face with powdered sugar in the process, her cheeks bulging. Susebron watched her, then reached over and took a whole one himself. He inspected it, then shoved it into his mouth. Siri laughed, nearly spitting out bits of pastry onto the blanket. “And so my corruption of the God King continues,” she said once she could speak. He smiled. This is very curious, he wrote, eating another crispbread. Then another. Then another. Siri watched him, raising an eyebrow. “One would think that as God King, you would at least be able to eat sweets whenever you want.” I have many rules that others need not follow, he wrote as he chewed. The stories explained this. Much is required of a prince or a king. I would rather have been born a peasant. Siri raised an eyebrow. She had a feeling that he’d be surprised if he actually had to experience things like hunger, poverty, or even discomfort. However, she left him his illusions. Who was she to chastise? You are the one who was hungry, he wrote. But I am the one doing all the eating! “They obviously don’t feed you enough,” Siri said, trying a slice of bread. He shrugged, continuing to eat. She watched him, wondering if eating was different for him, with no tongue. Did that affect his ability to taste? He certainly still seemed to like the sweets. Thinking of her tongue made her mind turn to darker topics. We can’t just keep going on like this, she thought. Playing around at night, pretending like the world isn’t going on without
us. We’re going to get crushed. “Susebron,” she said. “I think we need to find a way to expose what your priests have been doing to you.” He looked up, then wrote, What do you mean? “I mean that we should have you try to talk to the common people,” she said. “Or maybe some of the other gods. The priests gain all of their power by associating with you. If you choose to communicate through someone else, it would overthrow them.” Do we need to do that? “Pretend with me for a moment that we do,” she said. Very well, he wrote. But how, exactly, would I communicate with someone else? I can’t exactly stand up and begin shouting. “I don’t know. Notes, perhaps?” He smiled. There is a story about that in my book. A princess trapped in a tower who throws notes out into the ocean waters. The king of the fishes finds them. “I doubt the king of fishes cares about our predicament,” Siri said ﬂatly. Such a creature is only slightly less fantastic than the possibility of my notes being found and interpreted correctly. If I threw them out the window, nobody would believe that the God King had written them. “And if you passed them to servants?” He frowned. Assuming that you are right, and that my priests are working against me, then wouldn’t it be foolhardy to trust the servants they employ? “Perhaps. We could try a Pahn Kahl servant.” None of them attend me, for I am the God King, he wrote. Besides, what if we did get a servant or two on our side? How would that expose the priests? Nobody would believe a Pahn Kahl servant who contradicted the priests. She shook her head. “I suppose you could try making a scene, running away or causing a distraction.” When outside of the palace, I am constantly attended by a troop of hundreds. Awakeners, soldiers, guards, priests, and Lifeless warriors. Do you honestly think I could make any kind of a scene without being rushed away before I could communicate with anyone? “No,” she admitted. “But we have to do something! There has to be a way out of this.” I do not see one. We need to work with the priests, not against them. Perhaps they know more about why the God Kings die. They could tell us—I can speak to them, using the artisans’ script. “No,” Siri said. “Not yet. Let me think first.” Very well, he wrote, then tried another pastry. “Susebron...” she finally said. “Would you consider running away with me? Back to Idris?” He frowned. Perhaps, he finally wrote. That seems extreme. “What if I could prove that the priests are trying to kill you? And what if I could provide a way out—someone to smuggle us from the palace and out of the city?” The concept obviously bothered him. If it is the only way, he wrote, then I will go with you. But I do not believe that we will get to that point. “I hope
you’re right,” she said. But if you’re not, she thought, then we’re escaping. We’ll take our chances back with my family, war or no war. Annotations for Chapter 36 Thirty-Seven Annotations for Chapter 37 In the slums it could seem like night, even during the full light of day. Vivenna wandered, aimless, stepping over soiled bits of colorful trash. She knew that she should find a place to hide and stay there. Yet she wasn’t really thinking straight anymore. Parlin was dead. He’d been her friend since childhood. She’d convinced him to come with her on what now seemed the most idiotic of quests. His death was her fault. Denth and his team had betrayed her. No. They had never worked for her. Now that she looked back, she could see the signs. How conveniently they’d found her in the restaurant. How they’d used her to get at Lemex’s Breath. How they’d manipulated her, letting her feel that she was in control. They’d just been playing along. She’d been a prisoner and never known it. The betrayal felt so much the worse for how she’d come to trust, even befriend, them. She should have seen the warnings. Tonk Fah’s joking brutality. Denth’s explanations that mercenaries had no allegiances. He’d pointed out that Jewels would work against her own gods. Compared with that, what was betraying a friend? She stumbled down yet another alleyway, hand on the wall of a brick building beside her. Dirt and soot stained her fingers. Her hair was a bleached white. It still hadn’t recovered. The attack in the slum had been frightening. Getting captured by Vasher had been terrifying. But seeing Parlin, tied to that chair, blood coming from his nose, his cheeks sliced open to reveal the inside of his mouth... She would never forget. Something inside of her seemed broken. Her ability to care. She was just...numb. She reached the end of the alleyway, then looked up dully. There was a wall in front of her. A dead end. She turned to go back. “You,” a voice said. Vivenna turned, surprised at the speed of her own reaction. Her mind remained shocked, but a carnal part of her was still awake. Capable of defensive instinct. She stood in a narrow alley like those she had walked down all day. She’d kept to the slums, figuring that Denth would expect her to run for the open city. He knew it better than she did. In her addled mind, staying in the cluttered, quiet slum seemed a much better idea. A man sat on a small stack of boxes behind her, legs swinging over the sides. He was short, dark-haired, and wore typical slum clothing—a mixture of garments going through various stages of wear. “You’ve been causing quite a stir,” the man said. She stood quietly. “Woman wandering the slums in a beautiful white dress, eyes dark, hair white and ragged. If everyone hadn’t been so paranoid following the raid the other day, you’d have been seen to hours ago.” The man seemed faintly familiar. “You’re Idrian,”
she whispered. “You were there, in the crowd, when I visited the slumlords.” He shrugged. “That means you know who I am,” she said. “I don’t know anything,” he said. “Particularly not things that could get me into trouble.” “Please,” she said. “You have to help me.” She took a step forward. He hopped off his boxes, a knife ﬂashing in his hand. “Help you?” he asked. “I saw that look in your eyes when you came to the meeting. You look down on us. Just like the Hallandren.” She shied back. “A lot of people have seen you wandering about like a wraith,” he said. “But nobody seems to know exactly where to find you. There’s quite a search going in some parts.” Denth, she thought. It’s a miracle I’ve stayed free so long. I need to do something. Stop wandering. find a place to hide. “I figure that someone will find you eventually,” the man said. “So I’m going to act first.” “Please,” she whispered. He raised the knife. “I won’t turn you in. You deserve at least that much. Besides, I don’t want to draw attention to myself. That dress, though. That will sell for a lot, even damaged like it is. I could feed my family for weeks on that cloth.” She hesitated. “Scream and I’ll cut you,” he said quietly. “It’s not a threat. It’s just an inevitability. The dress, Princess. You’ll be better without it. It’s what is making everyone take notice of you.” She considered using her Breath. But what if it didn’t work? She couldn’t concentrate, and had a feeling that she wouldn’t be able to get the Commands to work. She wavered, but the looming knife convinced her. So, staring straight ahead and feeling like she was someone else, she reached up and began undoing the buttons. “Don’t drop it to the ground,” the man said. “It’s dirty enough already.” She pulled it off, then shivered, standing only in her underleggings and her shift. He took the dress, then opened her pocket pouch. He frowned as he tossed aside the rope inside of it. “No money?” She shook her head dully. “The leggings. They’re silk, right?” Her shift came down to her midthighs. She stooped down, pulling off the leggings, then handed them over. He took them, and she saw a glint of greed—or perhaps something else—in his eyes. “The shift,” he said, waving his knife. “No,” she said quietly. He took a step forward. Something snapped inside of her. “No!” she yelled. “No, no, NO! You take your city, your colors and clothing, and go! Leave me!” She fell to her knees, crying, and grabbed handfuls of refuse and mud, rubbing it on the shift. “There!” she screamed. “You want it! Take it from me! Sell it like this!” Contrary to his threat, the man wavered. He looked around, then clutched the valuable cloth to his chest and dashed away. Vivenna knelt. Where had she found more tears? She curled up, heedless of the trash and mud, and wept. ~ It started
raining sometime while she was curled in the mud. It was one of the soft, hazy Hallandren rainfalls. The wet drops kissed her cheek; little streams ran down the sides of the alleyway walls. She was hungry and exhausted. But with the falling rain came a shred of lucidity. She needed to move. The thief had been right—the dress had been a hindrance. She felt naked in the shift, particularly now that it was wet, but she had seen women in the slums wearing just as little. She needed to go on, become just another waif in the dirt and grime. She crawled over to a refuse pile, noticing a bit of a cloth sticking from it. She pulled free a muddy, stinking shawl. Or maybe it had been a rug. Either way, she wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling it tight across her chest to offer some measure of modesty. She tried to make her hair black, but it refused. She sat down, too apathetic to be frustrated. Instead, she simply rubbed mud and dirt into her hair, changing the pale white into a sickly brown. It’s still too long, she thought. I’ll need to do something about that. It stands out. No beggar would keep hair that long—it would be difficult to care for. She began to make her way out of the alleyway, then paused. The shawl had become brighter, now that she was wearing it. Breath. I’ll be immediately visible to anyone with the first Heightening. I can’t hide in the slums! She still felt the loss of the Breath she’d sent into the rope and then the larger amount she’d wasted on Tonk’s cloak. Yet she had the greater portion left. She huddled down by the side of the wall, nearly losing control again as she considered the situation. And then she realized something. Tonk Fah snuck up on me down in that cellar. I couldn’t feel his Breath. Just like I couldn’t feel Vasher’s when he ambushed me in my rooms. The answer felt so easy it was ridiculous. She couldn’t feel the Breath in the rope she’d made. She picked it up, tying it around her ankle. Then she took the shawl, holding it in front of her. It was such a pathetic thing, frayed at the edges, its original red color barely peeking through the grime. “My life to yours,” she said, speaking the words Denth had tried to get her to say. “My Breath become yours.” They were the same words Lemex had spoken when he’d given her his Breath. It worked on the shawl too. Her Breath drained from her body, all of it, invested into the shawl. It was no Command—the shawl wouldn’t be able do anything—but her Breath, hopefully, would be safe. She wouldn’t give off an aura. None at all. She almost fell to the ground with the shock of losing it all. Where she had once been able to sense the city around her, now everything became still. It was as if it had been silenced. The entire
city becoming dead. Or maybe it was Vivenna who had become dead. A Drab. She stood slowly, shivering in the drizzling rain, and wiped the water from her eyes. Then she pulled the shawl—Breaths and all—close and shufﬂed away. Annotations for Chapter 37 Thirty-Eight Annotations for Chapter 38 Lightsong sat on the edge of his bed, sweat thick on his brow as he stared down at the ﬂoor in front of him. He was breathing heavily. Llarimar eyed a lesser scribe, who lowered his pen. Servants clustered around the edges of the bedchamber. They had, at his request, woken him up unusually early in the morning. “Your Grace?” Llarimar asked. It’s nothing, Lightsong thought. I dream of war because I’m thinking about it. Not because of prophecy. Not because I’m a god. It felt so real. In the dream he had been a man, on the battlefield, with no weapon. Soldiers had died around him. Friend after friend. He had known them, each one close to him. A war against Idris wouldn’t be like that, he thought. It would be fought by our Lifeless. He didn’t want to acknowledge that his friends during the dream hadn’t been wearing bright colors. He hadn’t been seeing through the eyes of a Hallandren soldier, but an Idrian. Perhaps that was why it had been such a slaughter. The Idrians are the ones threatening us. They’re the rebels who broke off, maintaining a second throne inside of Hallandren borders. They need to be quelled. They deserve it. “What did you see, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked again. Lightsong closed his eyes. There were other images. The recurring ones. The glowing red panther. The tempest. A young woman’s face, being absorbed by darkness. Eaten alive. “I saw Blushweaver,” he said, speaking only of the very last part of the dreams. “Her face red and ﬂushed. I saw you, and you were sleeping. And I saw the God King.” “The God King?” Llarimar asked, sounding excited. Lightsong nodded. “He was crying.” The scribe wrote the images down. Llarimar, for once, didn’t prompt further. Lightsong stood, forcing the images out of his mind. Yet he couldn’t ignore that his body felt weak. It was his feast day, and he would have to take in a Breath or he would die. “I’m going to need some urns,” Lightsong said. “Two dozen of them, one for each of the gods, painted after their colors.” Llarimar gave the order without even asking why. “I’ll also need some pebbles,” Lightsong said as the servants dressed him. “Lots of them.” Llarimar nodded. Once Lightsong was dressed, he turned to leave the room. Off once again to feed on the soul of a child. ~ Lightsong threw a pebble into one of the urns in front of him. It made a slight ringing sound. “Well done, Your Grace,” Llarimar complimented him, standing beside Lightsong’s chair. “Nothing to it,” Lightsong said, tossing another pebble. It fell short of the intended urn, and a servant rushed forward, plucking it off the ground and depositing it in the proper
container. “I appear to be a natural,” Lightsong noted. “I get it in every time.” He felt much better, having been given fresh Breath. “Indeed, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “I believe that Her Grace the goddess Blushweaver is approaching.” “Good,” Lightsong said, throwing another pebble. He hit the target this time. Of course, the urns were only a few feet from his seat. “I can show off my pebble-throwing skills.” He sat on the green of the courtyard, a cool breeze blowing, his pavilion set up just inside the court’s gates. He could see the blocking wall, the one that kept him from looking out at the city proper. With the wall in the way, it was a rather depressing sight. If they’re going to lock us in here, he thought, they could at least give us the courtesy of a decent view out. “What in the name of the Iridescent Tones are you doing?” Lightsong didn’t need to look to know that Blushweaver was standing with hands on hips beside him. He threw another pebble. “You know,” he said, “it’s always struck me as strange. When we say oaths like that, we use the colors. Why not use our own names? We are, allegedly, gods.” “Most gods don’t like their names being used as an oath,” Blushweaver said, sitting beside him. “Then they are far too pompous for my taste,” Lightsong said, tossing a pebble. It missed, and a servant deposited it. “I, personally, should find it very ﬂattering to have my name used as an oath. Lightsong the Brave! Or, by Lightsong the Bold! I suppose that’s a bit of a mouthful. Perhaps we could shorten it to a simple Lightsong!” “I swear,” she said. “You are getting stranger by the day.” “No, actually,” he said. “You didn’t swear in that particular statement. Unless you’re proposing we should swear using the personal pronoun. You! So, your line at this point is ‘What in the name of You are you doing?’ ” She grumbled at him under her breath. He eyed her. “I certainly don’t deserve that yet. I’ve barely gotten started. Something else must be bothering you.” “Allmother,” she said. “Still won’t give you the Commands?” “Refuses to even speak with me now.” Lightsong threw a pebble into one of the urns. “Ah, if only she knew the refreshing sense of frustration she was missing out on knowing by refusing your acquaintance.” “I’m not that frustrating!” Blushweaver said. “I’ve actually been rather charming with her.” “Then that is your problem, I surmise,” Lightsong said. “We’re gods, my dear, and we quickly grow tired of our immortal existences. Surely we seek for extreme ranges in emotion—good or bad, it doesn’t matter. In a way, it’s the absolute value of emotion that is important, rather than the positive or negative nature of that emotion.” Blushweaver paused. So did Lightsong. “Lightsong, dear,” she said. “What in the name of You did that mean?” “I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “It just kind of came out. I can visualize what it means in my
head, though. With numbers.” “Are you all right?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned. Images of warfare ﬂashed in his mind. His best friend, a man he didn’t know, dying with a sword through the chest. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Things have been rather strange for me lately.” She sat quietly for a moment. “You want to go back to my palace and frolic? That always makes me feel better.” He tossed a pebble, smiling. “You, my dear, are incorrigible.” “I’m the goddess of lust, for Your sake,” she said. “I’ve got to fill the role.” “Last I checked,” he said, “you were goddess of honesty.” “Honesty and honest emotions, my dear,” she said sweetly. “And let me tell you, lust is one of the most honest of all emotions. Now, what are you doing with those silly pebbles?” “Counting,” he said. “Counting your inanities?” “That,” Lightsong said, tossing another pebble, “and counting the number of priests who come through the gates wearing the colors of each god or goddess.” Blushweaver frowned. It was midday, and the gates were fairly busy with the comings and goings of servants and performers. There were only occasionally priests or priestesses, however, since they would have been required to come in early to attend their gods. “Each time a priest of a particular god enters,” Lightsong said, “I toss a pebble into the urn representing that god.” Blushweaver watched him toss—and miss—with another pebble. As he’d instructed, the servants picked the pebble up and put it in the proper urn. Violet and silver. To the side, one of Hopefinder’s priestesses rushed across the green toward her god’s palace. “I’m bafﬂed,” Blushweaver finally said. “It’s easy,” Lightsong said. “You see someone wearing purple, you throw a pebble in the urn of the same color.” “Yes, dear,” she said. “But why?” “To keep track of how many priests of each god enter the court, of course,” Lightsong said. “They’ve slowed to nearly a trickle. Scoot, would you mind counting?” Llarimar bowed then gathered several servants and scribes, ordering them to empty the urns and count the contents of each one. “My dear Lightsong,” Blushweaver said. “I do apologize if I’ve been ignoring you lately. Allmother has been rudely unresponsive to my suggestions. If my lack of attention has caused your fragile mind to snap...” “My mind is quite unsnapped, thank you,” Lightsong said, sitting up, watching the servants count. “Then, you must be so very bored,” Blushweaver continued. “Perhaps we can come up with something to entertain you.” “I’m well entertained.” He smiled even before the counting results were in. Mercystar had one of the smallest piles. “Lightsong?” Blushweaver asked. Nearly all of her playful attitude was gone. “I ordered my priests in early today,” Lightsong said, glancing at her. “And to set up position here, in front of the gates, before the sun even rose. We’ve been counting priests for some six hours now.” Llarimar walked over, handing Lightsong a list of the gods and the number of priests who had entered wearing their colors. Lightsong scanned
it, nodding to himself. “Some of the gods have had over a hundred priests report for Service, yet a couple of them have had barely a dozen. Mercystar is one of those.” “So?” Blushweaver asked. “So,” Lightsong said. “I’m going to send my servants to watch and count at Mercystar’s palace, keeping track of the number of priests who are there. I already suspect that I know what they’ll find. Mercystar doesn’t have fewer priests than the rest of us. They’re just getting into the court by a different route.” Blushweaver looked at him blankly, but then cocked her head. “The tunnels?” Lightsong nodded. Blushweaver leaned back, sighing. “Well at least you’re not insane or bored. You’re just obsessed.” “Something’s going on with those tunnels, Blushweaver. And it relates to the servant who was murdered.” “Lightsong, we have much bigger problems to worry about!” Blushweaver shook her head, holding her forehead as if she could have a headache. “I can’t believe that you’re still bothering with this. Honestly! The kingdom is about to go to war—for the first time, your position in the assembly is important— and you’re worrying about how priests are getting into the court?” Lightsong didn’t respond immediately. “Here,” he finally said, “let me prove my point to you.” He reached over to the side of his couch and picked a small box up off the ground. He held it up, showing it to Blushweaver. “A box,” she said ﬂatly. “What a convincing argument you make.” He pulled the top off of the box, leaving a small grey squirrel sitting in his hand. It stood perfectly still, staring forward, fur blowing in the breeze. “A Lifeless rodent,” Blushweaver said. “That’s much better. I feel myself being swayed already.” “The person who broke into Mercystar’s palace used this as a distraction,” Lightsong said. “Do you know anything about breaking Lifeless, my dear?” She shrugged. “I didn’t either,” Lightsong said. “Not until I required my priests to break this one. Apparently, it requires weeks to take control of a Lifeless for which you do not have the right security phrases. I’m not even sure how the process goes—has something to do with Breath and torture, apparently.” “Torture?” she said. “Lifeless can’t feel.” Lightsong shrugged. “Anyway, my servants broke this one for me. The stronger and more skilled the Awakener who created the Lifeless, the more difficult it is to break it.” “That’s why we need to get the Commands from Allmother,” Blushweaver said. “If something were to happen to her, her ten thousand would become useless to us. It would take years to break that many Lifeless!” “The God King and some of Allmother’s priestesses have the codes as well,” Lightsong said. “Oh,” Blushweaver said, “and you think he is going to just give them over to us? Assuming we’re even allowed to talk to him?” “I’m just pointing out that a single assassination couldn’t ruin our entire army,” Lightsong said, holding up the squirrel. “That’s not the point. The point is that whomever made this squirrel held quite a bit
of Breath and knew what he was doing. The creature’s blood has been replaced with ichoralcohol. The sutures are perfect. The Commands controlling the rodent were extremely strong. It’s a marvelous piece of BioChromatic art.” “And?” she asked. “And he released it in Mercystar’s palace,” Lightsong said. “Creating a distraction so that he could sneak into those tunnels. Someone else followed the intruder, and this second person killed a man to keep him from revealing what he’d seen. Whatever is in those tunnels—wherever they lead—it’s important enough to waste Breath on. Important enough to kill for.” Blushweaver shook her head. “I still can’t believe you are even worrying about this.” “You said you knew about the tunnels,” Lightsong said. “I had Llarimar ask around, and others know of them too. They’re used for storage beneath the palaces, as said. Different gods have ordered them constructed at various times during the history of the court. “But,” he continued, excited, “they would also be the perfect place to set up a clandestine operation! The court is outside the jurisdiction of the regular city guards. Each palace is like a little, autonomous country! Expand a few of those cellars so that their tunnels connect with others, dig them out past the walls so that you can come and go secretly...” “Lightsong,” Blushweaver said. “If something that secret were going on, then why would the priests use those tunnels to come into the court? Wouldn’t that be a little suspicious? I mean, if you noticed it, how hard could it be to discover?” Lightsong paused, then ﬂushed slightly. “Of course,” he said. “I got so wrapped up in pretending to be useful that I forgot myself! Thank you so much for reminding me that I am an idiot.” “Lightsong, I didn’t mean—” “No, it’s quite all right,” he said, standing. “Why bother? I need to remember who I am. Lightsong, self-hating god. The most useless person ever granted immortality. Just answer one question for me.” Blushweaver paused. “What question?” “Why?” he asked, looking at her. “Why do I hate being a god? Why do I act so frivolous? Why do I undermine my own authority. Why?” “I always assumed it was because you were amused by the contrast.” “No,” he said. “Blushweaver, I was like this from the first day. When I awoke, I refused to believe I was a god. Refused to accept my place in this pantheon and this court. I’ve acted accordingly ever since. And, if I might say, I’ve gotten quite a bit more clever about it as the years have passed. Which is beside the point. The thing I must focus on—the important point here—is why.” “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I don’t either,” he said. “But whoever I was before, he’s trying to get out. He keeps whispering for me to dig at this mystery. Keeps warning me that I’m no god. Keeps prompting me to deal with all this in a frivolous way.” He shook his head. “I don’t know who I was—nobody will tell me. But I’m beginning
to have suspicions. I was a person who couldn’t simply sit and let something unexplained slide away into the fog of memory. I was a man who hated secrets. And I’m only just beginning to understand how many secrets there are in this court.” Blushweaver looked taken aback. “Now,” he said, walking away from the pavilion, his servants hurrying to catch up, “if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to.” “What business?” Blushweaver demanded, rising. He glanced back. “To see Allmother. There are some Lifeless Commands that need to be dealt with.” Annotations for Chapter 38 Thirty-Nine Annotations for Chapter 39 A week living in the gutters served to drastically change Vivenna’s perspective on life. She sold her hair on the second day for a depressingly small amount of money. The food that she’d bought hadn’t even filled her stomach, and she didn’t have the strength to regrow the locks. The haircut didn’t even have the dignity of being cleanly shorn—it was a ragged job of hackwork, and the remaining hair would have still been a pale white, save for the fact that it was matted and blackened with dirt and soot. She’d thought about selling her Breath, but wouldn’t even know where to go or how to go about it. Besides, she had a strong feeling that Denth would be watching places where she might sell the Breath. Beyond that, she had no idea how to get the Breaths back from her shawl, now that she’d put them into it. No. She had to remain secret, unseen. Couldn’t draw attention to herself. She sat on the side of the street, holding out her hand to the passing crowds, keeping her eyes down. No offerings came. She wasn’t certain how the other beggars did it; their meager earnings seemed an amazing treasure. They knew so much she didn’t—where to sit, how to plead. Passers learned to avoid beggars, even with their eyes. The successful beggars, then, were those who managed to draw attention. Vivenna wasn’t certain if she wanted the attention or not. Though the gnawing pain of hunger had eventually driven her out onto busy streets, she was still frightened that Denth or Vasher might find her. The more hungry she got, the less other worries bothered her. Eating was a problem for now. Being killed by Denth or Vasher was a problem for later. The ﬂood of people in their colors continued to pass. Vivenna watched them without focusing on faces or bodies. Just colors. Like a spinning wheel, each spoke a different hue. Denth won’t find me here, she thought. He won’t see the princess in the beggar on the side of the street. Her stomach growled. She was learning to ignore it. Just as the people ignored her. She didn’t feel like she was a true beggar or child of the street, not after just one week. But she was learning to imitate them, and her mind felt so fuzzy lately. Ever since she’d gotten rid of her Breath. She pulled the shawl close.
She kept it with her always. She still hardly believed what Denth and the others had done. She had such fond memories of their joking. She couldn’t connect that to what she’d seen in the cellar. In fact, sometimes she found herself rising to seek them out. Surely the things she’d seen had been hallucinations. Surely they couldn’t be such terrible men. That’s foolish, she thought. I need to focus. Why isn’t my mind working right anymore? Focus on what? There wasn’t much to think about. She couldn’t go to Denth. Parlin was dead. The city authorities would be no help—she had now heard the rumors of the Idrian princess who had been causing such troubles. She’d be arrested in a heartbeat. If there were any more of her father’s agents in the city, she had no idea how to locate them without exposing herself to Denth. Besides, there was a good chance that Denth had found those agents and killed them. He’d been so clever at keeping her captive, quietly eliminating those who could have taken her to safety. What did her father think? Vivenna lost to him, every man he sent to retrieve her vanishing mysteriously, Hallandren inching closer and closer to declaring war. Those were distant worries. Her stomach growled. There were soup kitchens in the city, but at the first one she’d gone to, she’d spotted Tonk Fah lounging in a doorway across the street. She’d turned and scurried away, hoping he hadn’t seen her. For the same reason, she didn’t dare leave the city. Denth was sure to have agents watching the gates. Besides, where would she go? She didn’t have the supplies for a trip back to Idris. Perhaps she could leave if she managed to save up enough money. That was hard, almost impossible. Every time she got a coin, she spent it on food. She couldn’t help herself. Nothing else seemed to matter. She’d already lost weight. Her stomach growled again. So she sat, sweaty and filthy in the meager shade. She still wore only her shift and the shawl, though she was dirty enough that it was difficult to tell where clothing ended and skin began. Her former arrogant refusal to wear anything but the elegant dresses now seemed ridiculous. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog from it. One week on the street felt like an eternity—yet she knew that she’d only just begun to experience the life of the poor. How did they survive, sleeping in alleyways, getting rained on every day, jumping at every sound, feeling so hungry they were tempted to pick at and eat the rotting garbage they found in gutters? She’d tried that. She’d even managed to keep some down. It was the only thing she’d had to eat in two days. Someone stopped beside her. She looked up, eager, hand stretching out further until she saw the colors he wore. Yellow and blue. City guard. She grabbed at her shawl, pulling it closer. It was foolish, she knew—nobody knew about the Breaths it contained.
The move was reﬂexive. The shawl was the only thing she owned, and—meager though it was—several urchins had already tried to steal it from her while she slept. The guard didn’t reach for her shawl. He just nudged her with his truncheon. “Hey,” he said. “Move. No begging on this corner.” He didn’t explain. They never did. There were apparently rules about where beggars could sit and where they couldn’t, but nobody bothered to provide the specifics to the beggars. Laws were things of lords and gods, not the lowly. I’m already starting to think about lords as if they were some other species. Vivenna rose and felt a moment of nausea and dizziness. She rested against the side of the building, and the guard nudged her again, prompting her to shufﬂe away. She bowed her head and moved along with the crowd, though most of them kept their distance from her. Ironic that they would leave her space now that she didn’t care. She didn’t want to think about how she smelled—though more than the scent, it was the fear of being robbed that probably kept the others away. They needn’t have worried. She wasn’t skilled enough to cut purses or pick pockets, and she couldn’t afford to get caught trying. She’d stopped worrying about the morality of stealing days ago. Even before leaving the slum alleys for the streets, she hadn’t been so naive as to believe that she wouldn’t steal if she were denied food, though she had assumed that it would take her far longer to reach that state. She didn’t head to another corner, but instead shufﬂed out of the crowds, making her way back into the Idrian slums. Here she’d gained some small measure of acceptance. At least she was considered one of them. None knew that she was the princess—after that first man, nobody had recognized her. However, her accent had earned her a place. She began to seek out a location to spend the night. That was one of the reasons she’d decided not to continue begging for the evening. It was a profitable time, true, but she was just so tired. She wanted a good place to sleep. She wouldn’t have thought that it would make much difference which alleyway one huddled in, but some were warmer than others and some had better cover from the rain. Some were safer. She was beginning to learn these things, as well as who to avoid angering. In her case, that last group included pretty much everyone—including the urchins. They were all above her in the pecking order. She’d learned that the second day. She’d tried to bring back a coin from selling her hair, intending to save it for a chance at leaving the city. She wasn’t certain how the urchins had known that she had coin, but she’d gotten her first beating that day. Her favorite alleyway turned out to be occupied by a group of men with dark expressions, doing something that was obviously illegal. She left quickly, going to her second-favorite. It
was crowded with a gang of urchins. The ones who had beaten her before. She left that one quickly as well. The third alley was empty. This one was beside a building with a bakery. The ovens hadn’t yet been stoked for the night’s baking, but they would provide some warmth through the walls in the early morning. She lay down, curling up with her back against the bricks, clutching her shawl close. Despite the lack of pillow or blanket, she was asleep in moments. Annotations for Chapter 39 Forty Annotations for Chapter 40 Siri was enjoying a meal on the court green when Treledees found her. She ignored him, content to pick at the dishes in front of her. The sea, she had decided, was quite strange. What else could be said of a place that could spawn creatures with such wiggly tentacles and boneless bodies, and yet others with such needly skins? She poked at something the locals called a cucumber, but which—in actuality—tasted nothing like one. She tried each dish, testing them with her eyes closed, focusing on the ﬂavor. Some hadn’t been as bad as the others. She hadn’t really liked any of them. Seafood just wasn’t appetizing to her. I would have trouble becoming a true Hallandren, she decided, sipping her fruit juice. Fortunately, the juice was delicious. The variety, and ﬂavor, of the numerous Hallandren fruits was almost as remarkable as the oddity of its sea life. Treledees cleared his throat. The God King’s high priest was not one accustomed to waiting. Siri nodded to her serving women, motioning for them to prepare another series of plates. Susebron had been coaching Siri on how to eat with etiquette, and she wanted to practice. Coincidentally, his way of eating—taking small bites, never really finishing anything—was a good one for testing out new dishes. She wanted to become familiar with Hallandren, its ways, its people, its tastes. She’d forced her servants to begin talking to her more, and she planned to meet with more of the gods. In the distance, she saw Lightsong wandering by, and she waved to him fondly. He seemed uncharacteristically preoccupied; he waved back, but didn’t come over to visit her. Pity, she thought. I would have liked a good excuse to keep Treledees waiting even longer. The high priest cleared his throat again, this time more demandingly. finally, Siri stood, gesturing for her servants to stay behind. “Would you mind walking with me for a bit, Your Excellency?” she asked lightly. She passed him, moving languidly in a gorgeous violet dress with a gossamer train that trailed through the grass behind her. He hurried to catch up. “I need to speak to you about something.” “Yes,” she said. “I deduced that by the way that you summoned me several times today.” “You didn’t come,” he said. “It seems to me that the consort of the God King should not make a habit of responding to demands and hopping to attend upon others whenever she is requested.” Treledees frowned. “However,” she continued, “I will
of course make time for the high priest himself, should he come to speak to me.” He eyed her, standing tall and straight-backed, wearing the God King’s colors of the day—blue and copper. “You should not antagonize me, Your Highness.” Siri felt a brief ﬂush off anxiety, but caught her hair before it bleached white. “I am not antagonizing you,” she said. “I am simply establishing some rules that should have been understood from the beginning.” Treledees got a hint of a smile on his face. What? Siri thought with surprise. Why that reaction? As they walked, he drew himself up. “Is that so?” he said, his voice turning condescending. “You know very little of what you presume, Your Highness.” Blast! she thought. How did this conversation get away from me so quickly? “I might say the same to you, Your Excellency.” The massive black temple of a palace loomed above them, sheer ebony blocks stacked like the playthings of gigantic child. “Oh?” he said, glancing at her. “Somehow I doubt that.” She had to force back another spear of anxiety. Treledees smiled again. Wait, she thought. It’s like he can read my emotions. Like he can see... Her hair hadn’t changed colors, at least not discernibly. She glanced at Treledees, trying to figure out what was wrong. She noticed something interesting. In a circle around Treledees, the grass seemed just a shade more colorful. Breath, she thought. Of course he’d have it! He’s one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. People with lots of Breath were supposed to be able to see very minute changes in color. Could he really be reading her from such faint reactions in her hair? Was that why he had always been so dismissive? Could he see her fear? She gritted her teeth. In her youth, Siri had ignored the exercises that Vivenna had done to make sure she had complete control over her hair. Siri was an emotional person, and people had been able to read her regardless of her hair, so she’d figured that there was no point in learning to manipulate the Royal Locks. She hadn’t imagined a Court of Gods and men with the power of BioChroma. Those tutors had been a whole lot more intelligent than Siri had credited. As were the priests. Now that she thought about it, it was obvious that Treledees and the others would have studied the meanings of all the shades of hair changes. She needed to get the conversation back on course. “Do not forget, Treledees,” she said. “You are the one who came to see me. Obviously, I have some power here, if I could force even the high priest to do as I wish.” He glanced at her, eyes cold. Focusing, she kept her hair the deepest black. Black, for confidence. She met his eyes, and let not even a slight tinge color her locks. He finally turned away. “I have heard disturbing rumors.” “Oh?” “Yes. It appears that you are no longer fulfilling your wifely duties. Are you pregnant?” “No,”
she said. “I had my women’s issue just a couple of days ago. You can ask my servants.” “Then why have you stopped trying?” “What?” she asked lightly. “Are your spies disappointed to be missing their nightly show?” Treledees ﬂushed just slightly. He glanced at her, and she still managed to keep her hair perfectly black. Not even a glimmer of white or red. He seemed more uncertain. “You Idrians,” the priest spat. “Living up in your lofty mountains, dirty and uncultured, but still assuming that you’re better than us. Don’t judge me. Don’t judge us. You know nothing.” “I know that you’ve been listening in on the God King’s chamber.” “Not just listening,” Treledees said. “The first few nights, there was a spy in the chambers itself.” Siri couldn’t mask this blush. Her hair remained mostly black, but if Treledees really did have enough BioChroma to distinguish subtle changes, he would have seen a hint of red. “I am well aware of the poisonous things your monks teach,” Treledees said, turning away. “The hatred into which you’re indoctrinated. Do you really think that we’d let a woman from Idris confront the God King himself, alone, unwatched? We had to make certain you weren’t intending to kill him. We’re still not convinced.” “You speak with remarkable frankness,” she noted. “Merely saying some things that I should have established from the beginning.” They stopped in the shadow of the massive palace. “You are not important here. Not compared to our God King. He is everything, and you are nothing. Just like the rest of us.” If Susebron is so important, Siri thought, meeting Treledees’s eyes, then why are you planning to kill him? She held his eyes. The woman she’d been a few months ago would have looked away. But when she felt weak, she remembered Susebron. Treledees was orchestrating the plot to subdue, control, and eventually kill his own God King. And Siri wanted to know why. “I stopped having sex with the God King on purpose,” she said, keeping her hair dark with some effort. “I knew it would get your attention.” In truth, she had simply stopped her little performances each night. Treledees’s reaction, fortunately, proved that the priests believed her acting. For that she blessed her luck. They might still be unaware that she could communicate with Susebron. She was extra careful to whisper at night, and had even taken to writing things herself, to keep up the charade. “You must produce an heir,” Treledees said. “Or what? Why are you so eager, Treledees?” “It is none of your concern,” he said. “Suffice it to say that I have obligations that you cannot comprehend. I am subject to the gods, and I do their will, not yours.” “Well you’re going to have to bend on that last part if you want your heir,” Siri said. Treledees obviously did not like how the conversation was going. He glanced at her hair. And, somehow, she kept it from showing even a slight bit of uncertainty. He looked back at her eyes.
“You can’t kill me, Treledees,” she said. “Not if you want a royal heir. You can’t bully me or force me. Only the God King could do that. And, we know how he is.” “I don’t know what you mean,” Treledees said ﬂatly. “Oh, come now,” Siri said. “Did you honestly expect me to sleep with the man and not find out he has no tongue? That he’s virtually a child? I doubt he can even go to the privy without help from some servants.” Treledees ﬂushed with anger. He really does care, Siri noted abstractly. Or, at least, insulting his God King insults him. He’s more devoted than I would have expected. So it probably wasn’t about money. She couldn’t be sure, but she suspected that this was not the type of man to sell out his religion. Whatever the reasons for what was happening inside the palace, it probably had to do with true conviction. Revealing what she knew about Susebron was a gamble. She figured that Treledees would guess anyway, and so it would be better to indicate that she thought Susebron a fool with the mind of a child. Give away one bit of information, but also mislead with another. If they assumed that she thought Susebron a fool, they wouldn’t suspect a conspiracy between her and her husband. Siri wasn’t certain if she was doing the right thing. But she needed to learn, or Susebron would die. And the only way to learn was to do. She didn’t have much, but she did have one thing that the priests wanted: her womb. It seemed that she could hold it for ransom effectively, for Treledees suppressed his anger and maintained a semblance of calm. Turning from her, he glanced up at the palace. “Do you know much about the history of this kingdom? After your family departed, of course.” Siri frowned, surprised at the question. More than you probably think, she thought. “Not really,” she said out loud. “Lord Peacegiver left us with a challenge,” Treledees said. “He gave us the treasure our God King now holds, a wealth of BioChromatic Breath such as nobody had ever seen. Over fifty thousand Breaths. He told us to keep them safe.” Treledees turned back to her. “And he warned us not to use it.” Siri felt a slight shiver. “I do not expect you to understand what we have done,” Treledees said. “But it was necessary.” “Necessary to keep a man in bondage?” Siri said. “To deprive him of the ability to speak, to make a permanent child out of a grown man? He didn’t even understand what he was supposed to do with a woman!” “It was necessary,” Treledees said, jaw set. “You Idrians. You don’t even try to understand. I’ve had dealings with your father for years, and I sense the same ignorant prejudice in him.” He’s baiting me, Siri thought, keeping her emotions in check. It was harder than she’d expected. “Believing in Austre instead of your living gods is not ignorance. After all, you’re the ones
who abandoned our faith and took an easier path.” “We follow the god who came to protect us when your Austre—an unseen, unknown thing—abandoned us to the destroyer Kalad. Peacegiver returned to life with a specific purpose—to stop the conﬂict between men, to bring peace again to Hallandren.” He glanced at her. “His name is holy. He is the one who gave us life, Vessel. And he only asked one thing of us: to care for his power. He died to give it to us, but demanded that it be held in case he should Return again and need it. We couldn’t let it be used. We couldn’t let it be profaned. Not even by our God King.” He fell silent. So how do you get that treasure away from him to pass on? she thought. She was tempted to ask. Would that be giving away too much? Finally, Treledees continued. “I see now why your father sent you instead of the other one. We should have studied all of the daughters, not just the first. You are far more capable than we had been led to believe.” The statement surprised her, but she kept her hair in check. Treledees sighed, looking away. “What are your demands? What will it take to make you return to your...duties each night?” “My servants,” she said. “I want to replace my main serving women with the women from Pahn Kahl.” “You are displeased with your serving women?” “Not particularly,” Siri said. “I simply feel that I have more in common with the women of Pahn Kahl. They, like me, are living in exile from their own people. Besides, I like the browns they wear.” “Of course,” Treledees said, obviously thinking her Idrian prejudices were behind the request. “The Hallandren girls can continue to serve in the roles that the Pahn Kahl women did,” Siri said. “They don’t have to leave me completely—in fact, I still want to talk to some of them. However, the main women who are with me always, they are to be from Pahn Kahl.” “As I said,” Treledees said. “It shall be done. You’ll return to your efforts, then?” “For now,” Siri said. “That will earn you a few more weeks.” Treledees frowned, but what could he really do? Siri smiled at him, then turned and walked away. However, she found herself dissatisfied with the way the conversation had gone. She’d achieved a victory—but at the cost of antagonizing Treledees even further. I doubt he would have taken a liking to me, no matter how hard I tried, she decided, sitting down in her pavilion. This is probably the better way. She still didn’t know what was going to happen to Susebron; at least she had confirmed that manipulating the priests was possible. That meant something, though she knew she was treading dangerous ground. She turned back to her meal, ready to try another round of seafood. She did her best to learn about Hallandren, but if it came down to Susebron’s life, she was going to get him out. She
hoped that giving Bluefingers’s Pahn Kahl a more prominent role in her Service would facilitate that escape. She hoped. With a sigh, she raised the first bit of food to her lips and continued with her tasting. Annotations for Chapter 40 Forty-One Annotations for Chapter 41 Vivenna presented her coin. “One bit?” Cads asked. “That’s all? One single bit?” He was among the dirtiest men she’d met, even in the streets. He liked fancy clothing, though. It was his style—worn and dirty clothing in the latest designs. He seemed to think it was funny. A mockery of the highborn. He turned her coin over in his grime-covered fingers. “One bit,” he repeated. “Please,” Vivenna whispered. They stood at the mouth of an alley at the back of two restaurants. Just inside the alley, she could see urchins rooting in the garbage. Fresh garbage from two restaurants. She salivated. “I find it hard to believe, lady girly,” he said, “that this is all you made today.” “Please, Cads,” she said again. “You know...you know I don’t beg well.” It was starting to rain. Again. “You should do better,” he said. “Even the children can bring me at least two.” Behind him, the fortunates who had pleased him continued to feast. It smelled so good. Or maybe that was the restaurants. “I haven’t eaten in days,” she whispered, blinking away the rain. “Then do better tomorrow,” he said, shooing her away. “My coin—” Cads immediately waved for his toughs as she reached toward him. Vivenna shied away reﬂexively, stumbling. “Two tomorrow,” Cads said, walking into his alleyway. “I have to pay the restaurant owners, you know. Can’t let you eat for free.” Vivenna stood, staring at him. Not because she thought she could get him to change his mind. But because she just had trouble making her mind understand. It was her last chance for food this day. One bit wouldn’t buy anything more than a mouthful elsewhere, but here—last time—it had allowed her to eat until she was full. That had been a week ago. How long had she been on the streets now? She didn’t know. She turned, dully, and pulled her shawl tight. It was dusk. She should go beg some more. She couldn’t. Not after losing that bit. She felt shaken, as if her most valuable possession had been stolen. No. No. She still had that. She pulled the shawl close. Why was it important? She had trouble remembering. She shufﬂed back toward the Highlands. Her home. A part of her realized that she shouldn’t feel so distant from the person she had been. She was a princess, wasn’t she? But she felt so sick lately, sick enough that she didn’t even think she could feel the hunger anymore. It was all so wrong. So very, very wrong. She entered the slums and crept along, careful to keep her head bowed, her back cowed, lest someone take offense at her. She hesitated as she walked, however, passing a street to her right. It was where the whores waited, protected from
the drizzle by an awning. Vivenna stared at them, standing in their revealing clothing. It was only two streets into the slum, a place that wasn’t too threatening for outsiders. Everyone knew not to rob a man on his way to visit the whores. The slumlords didn’t like it when their customers got scared away. Bad for business, as Denth might say. Vivenna stood for a long moment. The whores looked fed. They weren’t dirty. Several of them laughed. She could join them. An urchin had spoken of it the other day, mentioned that she was still young. He’d wanted her to come to the slumlord with him, hoping to get some coin for recruiting a willing girl. It was so tempting. Food. Warmth. A dry bed. Blessed Austre, she thought, shaking herself. What am I thinking? What is wrong with my mind? It was so hard to focus. As if she were in a trance all the time. She forced herself to keep moving, stumbling away from the women. She wouldn’t do that. Not yet. Not yet. Oh, Lord of Colors, she thought with horror. I need to get out of this city. Better for me to die, starving on the road back to Idris—better to get taken by Denth and tortured—than to end up in the brothel. However, much like the morality of stealing, the morality of using her body seemed much vaguer to her now, when her hunger was such a constant need. She made her way to her latest alleyway. She’d been kicked out of the others. But this one was good. It was secluded, yet often filled with younger urchins. Their company made her feel better, though she knew they searched her at night for coins. I can’t believe how tired I am...she thought, head spinning, putting her hand against the wall. She took a few deep breaths. The dizzy spells struck often these days. She started forward again. The alleyway was empty, everyone else staying out in the evening to try for a few extra coins. She took the best of the spots—an earthen mound which had managed to grow a small tuft of grass. There weren’t even that many lumps in the dirt, though it would be wet with mud from the light rain. She didn’t care about that. Shadows darkened the alleyway behind her. Her reaction was immediate. She started to run. Living on the streets taught quick lessons. Weak as she was, in her panic she managed a burst of speed. Then another shadow stepped across the other end of the alley ahead of her. She froze, then turned to see a group of thugs moving up the alleyway behind her. At their back was the man who had robbed her a few weeks ago, the one who had taken her dress. He looked chagrined. “Sorry, Princess,” he said. “Bounty just got too high. Took me blasted long enough to find you, though. You did a great job of hiding.” Vivenna blinked. And then she simply let herself slide down to the ground.
I just can’t take any more, she thought, wrapping her arms around herself. She was exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, completely. In a way, she was glad it was over. She didn’t know what the men would do to her, but she did know it was over. Whomever they sold her to wouldn’t be careless enough to let her escape again. The thugs clustered around her. She heard one mention taking her to Denth. Rough hands grabbed her arm, towing her to her feet. She followed with head bowed. They led her out onto the main street. It was growing dim, but no urchins or beggars made their way toward the alley. I should have realized, she thought. It was too deserted. Everything, finally, overwhelmed her. She couldn’t summon the energy to care about escaping, not again. A part of her, deep inside, realized that her tutors had been right. When you were weak and hungry, it was hard to summon the energy to care about anything, even escape. She had trouble remembering her tutors now. She had trouble even remembering what it was like to not be hungry. The thugs stopped walking. Vivenna looked up, blinking away her dizziness. There was something in the dark, wet street in front of them. A black sword. The weapon, silver sheath and all, had been rammed into the dirt. The street grew still. One of the thugs stepped forward, pulling the sword from the ground. He undid the sheath clasp. Vivenna felt a sudden nausea, more of a memory than a real sensation. She stumbled back, horrified. The other thugs, transfixed, gathered up around their friend. One of them reached for the hilt. The man carrying the sword struck. He swung the weapon, sheath and all, into the face of his friend. A black smoke began to twist off the sword, rising from the tiny sliver of blade that was visible. Men cried out, each one scrambling for the sword. The man holding it continued to swing, the weapon hitting with far more force and damage than it should have. Bones broke, blood began to run on the cobblestones. The man continued to attack, moving with terrible speed. Vivenna, still stumbling backward, could see his eyes. They were terrified. He killed his last friend—the one who had robbed her on that day that now seemed so long ago—by slamming the sheathed sword down against the man’s back. Bones cracked. By now, the clothing on the sword wielder’s arm had disintegrated, and a blackness—like vines growing on a wall—had twisted up around his shoulder. Black, pulsing veins that bulged out of the skin. The man screamed a piercing, desperate cry. Then he twisted the sword around and rammed it, sheath and all, through his chest. It cut skin and ﬂesh, though the sheath itself didn’t look sharpened. The man stumbled to his knees, then slumped backward, twitching, staring up into the air as the black veins on his arm began to evaporate. He died like that, kneeling, held upright by the sword that came out through his
back, propping him up from behind. Vivenna stood alone on a street littered with corpses. A figure descended from a rooftop, lowered by two twisting lengths of animated rope. He landed softly, ropes falling dead. He passed Vivenna, ignoring her, and grabbed the sword. He paused for a moment, then did up the clasp and pulled the weapon—sheath and all—free from the corpse. The dead man finally fell to the ground. Vivenna stared dully ahead. Then, numb, she sat down in the street. She didn’t even ﬂinch as Vasher picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Annotations for Chapter 41 Forty-Two Annotations for Chapter 42 “Her Grace is not interested in seeing you,” the priestess said, maintaining a reverent posture. “Well I’m not interested in her uninterest,” Lightsong said. “Perhaps you should ask her again, just to be sure.” The priestess bowed her head. “My pardons, Your Grace, but I have already asked fourteen times. Goddess Allmother is growing impatient with your requests, and she instructed me not to respond to them anymore.” “Did she give the same command to the other priestesses?” The priestess paused. “Well, no, Your Grace.” “Wonderful,” Lightsong said. “Send for one of them. Then send her to ask Allmother if she will see me.” The priestess sighed audibly; Lightsong considered that something of a victory. Allmother’s priests were among the most pious—and most humble—in the court. If he could annoy them, he could annoy anyone. He waited, hands on hips, as the priestess went to do his bidding. Allmother could give them orders and commands, but she couldn’t tell them to completely ignore Lightsong. After all, he was a god too. As long as he asked them to do something other than what Allmother had explicitly forbidden, they had to obey. Even if it annoyed their goddess. “I’m developing a new skill,” Lightsong said. “Irritation by proxy!” Llarimar sighed. “What about your speech to Goddess Blushweaver a few days ago, Your Grace? It seemed to imply that you were not going to annoy people as much.” “I said nothing of the sort,” Lightsong said. “I simply said that I was coming to recognize within myself a little more of the person I used to be. That doesn’t mean I’m going to discard all the progress I’ve made over the last few years.” “Your sense of self-awareness is remarkable, Your Grace.” “I know! Now, hush. The priestess is coming back.” Indeed, the woman approached and bowed before Lightsong on the grass. “My apologies, Your Grace. Our goddess, however, has now requested that no priestess be allowed to ask her if you can come in to see her.” “Did she tell them that they couldn’t ask if she would come out here?” “Yes, Your Grace,” the priestess said. “And every other phrasing that would imply asking her to come within Your Grace’s proximity, or communicate with him by letter, or relay messages from him in any form.” “Hum,” he said, tapping his chin. “She’s getting better. Well, I guess there’s nothing to be done.” The priestess relaxed
visibly. “Scoot, set up my pavilion here in front of her palace,” Lightsong said. “I’m going to be sleeping here tonight.” The priestess looked up. “You’re going to do what?” Llarimar asked. Lightsong shrugged. “I’m not moving until I meet with her. That means staying until she acknowledges me. It’s been over a week! If she wants to be stubborn, then I’ll prove that I can be equally stubborn.” He eyed the priestess. “I’m quite practiced at it, you know. Comes from being an insufferable buffoon, and all. I don’t suppose she forbade you from allowing squirrels into the building?” “Squirrels, Your Grace?” the woman asked. “Excellent,” Lightsong said, sitting down as his servants erected the pavilion. He pulled the Lifeless squirrel from its box and held it forward. “Almond grass,” he said quietly, giving the new Command he’d had his people imprint on the Lifeless. Then he spoke louder, so that the priestess could hear. “Go into the building, search out the Returned who lives in it, and run around in circles squeaking as loudly as you can. Don’t let anyone catch you. Oh, and destroy as much furniture as you can.” Then, more quietly, he repeated, “Almond grass.” The squirrel immediately jumped off his hand and shot toward the palace. The priestess twisted her head to follow it, horrified. The squirrel began to screech with a sound that seemed amazingly un-squirrel-like. It disappeared into the building, slipping between the legs of a startled guard. “What a delightful afternoon it’s becoming,” Lightsong said, reaching for a handful of grapes as the priestess rushed after the squirrel. “It won’t be able to follow all of those orders, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “It has the mind of a squirrel, despite the power that Breath gives it to obey Commands.” Lightsong shrugged. “We shall see.” He began to hear shouts of annoyance from inside the palace. He smiled. It took longer than he had expected. Allmother was stubborn, as proved by Blushweaver’s complete inability to manipulate her. As he sat—idly listening to a group of musicians—a priestess occasionally checked on him. Several hours passed. He didn’t eat or drink very much so he didn’t need to visit the privy. He ordered his musicians to play louder. He had picked a group with a lot of percussion. Finally, a frazzled-looking priestess came out of the palace. “Her Grace will see you,” the woman said, bowing before Lightsong. “Hum?” Lightsong said. “Oh, that. Do I have to go now? Can’t I finish listening to this song?” The priestess glanced up. “I—” “Oh, very well then,” Lightsong said, rising. ~ Allmother was still in her audience chamber. Lightsong hesitated in the doorway—which, like those in every palace, was designed at the godly scale. He frowned to himself. People still waited in a line and Allmother sat on a throne at the front of the room. She was stocky for a goddess, and he had always considered her white hair and wrinkled face an oddity within the pantheon. In bodily age, she was the oldest of the gods.
It had been a while since he’d come to visit her. In fact...The last time I was here was the night before Calmseer gave up her Breath, he realized. That evening, years ago, when we shared what would be her last meal. He’d never come back. What would have been the point? They’d only gotten together in the first place because of Calmseer. On most of those occasions, Allmother had been quite vocal about what she thought of Lightsong. At least she was honest. That was more than he could say for himself. She didn’t acknowledge him as he entered. She continued to sit, a little stooped over, listening to the man presenting his petition. He was middle-aged and stood awkwardly, leaning on a walking staff. “...my children are starving now,” he said. “I cannot afford the food. I figured if my leg worked, I could go back to the docks.” He looked down. “Your faith is commendable,” Allmother said. “Tell me, how did you lose the use of your leg?” “A fishing accident, Your Grace,” the man said. “I came down from the highlands a few years back, when early frosts took my crops. I took a job on one of the stormrunners—the ships who go out during the spring tempests, catching fish when others remain in the harbor. The accident crushed a barrel against me leg. Nobody will take me on to work the boats, not with a lame leg.” Allmother nodded. “I wouldn’t have come to you,” he said. “But with my wife sick and my daughter crying with such hunger...” Allmother reached a hand out, laying it on the man’s shoulder. “I understand your difficulties, but your problems are not as severe as you may think. Go and speak with my high priest. I have a man on the docks who owes me allegiance. You have two good hands; you will be put to work sewing nets.” The man looked up, hope glimmering in his eyes. “We will send you back with enough food to care for your family until you learn your new trade,” Allmother said. “Go with my blessing.” The man rose, then fell back to his knees and began to cry. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.” Priests walked forward and led the man away. The room fell still, and Allmother looked over, meeting Lightsong’s eyes. She nodded to the side, where a priest stepped up, holding a small bundle of fur tied tightly with ropes. “That is yours, I am told?” Allmother asked. “Ah, yes,” Lightsong said, ﬂushing slightly. “Terribly sorry. It kind of got away from me.” “With an accidental Command to find me?” Allmother asked. “Then run around in circles screaming?” “That actually worked?” Lightsong said. “Interesting. My high priest didn’t think the squirrel’s brain would be capable of following such complicated Commands.” Allmother regarded him with a stern look. “Oh,” Lightsong said. “I mean, ‘Whoops. It completely misunderstood me. Stupid squirrel.’ My deepest apologies, honored sister.” Allmother sighed, then waved toward a doorway on the side of the room. Lightsong walked
that way and she followed, a few servants trailing. Allmother moved with the stiffness of age. Is it me, or does she look older than she did before? That was, of course, impossible. Returned did not age. At least, not the ones who had reached maturity. Once they were out of earshot and view of the petitioners, Allmother grabbed his arm. “What in the name of the Colors do you think you are doing?” she snapped. Lightsong turned, raising an eyebrow. “Well, you wouldn’t see me, and—” “Do you intend to destroy what little authority we have left, you idiot?” Allmother asked. “Already, people in the city are saying that the Returned are growing weak, that the best of us died years ago.” “Maybe they’re right.” Allmother scowled. “If too many of them believe that, then we lose our access to Breaths. Have you considered that? Have you considered what your lack of decorum, your ﬂippancy, could cost all of us?” “Is that the reason for the show then?” he asked, glancing back through the doorway. “Once, the Returned didn’t just listen to petitions and say yes or no,” Allmother said. “They would take the time to hear each person who came to them, then seek to help them as best they could.” “Seems like an awful lot of trouble.” “We’re their gods. Should a bit of trouble deter us?” She eyed him. “Oh, of course. We wouldn’t want to let something as simple as the pains of our people interfere with our leisure time. Why am I even talking to you” She turned to leave the room. “I came to give you my Lifeless Commands,” Lightsong said. Allmother froze. “Blushweaver has control of two sets of the Commands,” Lightsong said, “which gives her control of half of our armies. That worries me. I mean, I trust her as much as I trust any other Returned. But if war does come, then she’ll quickly become the second-most-powerful person in the kingdom. Only the God King would have more authority.” Allmother regarded him with an unreadable expression. “I figure that the best way to counter her is to have someone else who has two sets of Commands,” Lightsong said. “Perhaps it will give her pause. Keep her from doing anything rash.” There was silence in the room. “Calmseer trusted you,” Allmother finally said. “Her one ﬂaw, I must profess,” Lightsong said. “Even goddesses have them, or so it seems. I’ve found it gentlemanly to never point out such things.” “She was the best of us,” Allmother said, glancing out in the direction of her supplicants. “She would meet with people all day. They loved her.” “Bottom line blue,” Lightsong said. “That’s my core security phrase. Please, take it. I’ll tell Blushweaver that you bullied me into giving it to you. She’ll be angry at me, of course, but it won’t be the first time.” “No,” Allmother finally said. “No, I’m not letting you out of this so easily, Lightsong.” “What?” he asked, startled. “Can’t you feel it?” she asked. “Something is happening in
the city. This mess with the Idrians and their slums, the increasingly fierce arguments among our priests.” She shook her head. “I’m not letting you wiggle out of your part. You were chosen for that place of yours. You’re a god, like the rest of us, even if you do your best to pretend otherwise.” “You already have my Command, Allmother,” he said with a shrug, walking toward a doorway to leave. “Do what you will with it.” “Verdant bells,” Allmother said. “That’s mine.” Lightsong froze in midstep. “Now two of us know both of them,” Allmother said. “If what you said earlier was true, then it’s better that our Commands be distributed.” He spun. “You were just calling me a fool! Now you entrust me with command of your soldiers? I must ask, Allmother, and please think me not rude. But what in the name of the Colors is wrong with you?” “I dreamed that you would come,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I saw it in the pictures a week ago. All week, I’ve seen patterns of circles in the paintings, all red and gold. Your colors.” “Coincidence,” he said. She snorted quietly. “Someday, you’ll have to get over your foolish selfishness, Lightsong. This isn’t just about us. I’ve decided to start doing a better job of things. Perhaps you should take a look at who you are and what you are doing.” “Ah, my dear Allmother,” Lightsong said. “You see, the problem in that challenge is the presumption that I haven’t tried to be something other than what I am. Every time I do, disaster is the result.” “Well, you now have my Commands. For better, or for worse.” The aged goddess turned away, walking back toward her room of supplicants. “I, for one, am curious to see how you handle them.” Annotations for Chapter 42 Forty-Three Annotations for Chapter 43 Vivenna awoke, sick, tired, thirsty, starving. But alive. She opened her eyes, feeling a strange sensation. Comfort. She was in a comfortable soft bed. She sat up immediately; her head spun. “I’d be careful,” a voice said. “Your body is weak.” She blinked fuzzy eyes, focusing on a figure sitting at a table a short distance away, his back to her. He appeared to be eating. A black sword in a silver sheath rested against the table. “You,” she whispered. “Me,” he said between bites. She looked down at herself. She wasn’t wearing her shift anymore, but instead had on a set of soft cotton sleeping garments. Her body was clean. She raised a hand to her hair, feeling that the tangles and mats were gone. It was still white. She felt so strange to be clean. “Did you rape me?” she asked quietly. He snorted. “A woman who’s been to Denth’s bed holds no temptation for me.” “I never slept with him,” she said, though she didn’t know why she cared to tell him. Vasher turned, face still framed by the patchy, ragged beard. His clothing was far less fine than her own. He studied her eyes.
“He had you fooled, didn’t he?” She nodded. “Idiot.” She nodded again. He turned back to his meal. “The woman who runs this building,” he said. “I paid her to bathe you, dress you, and change your bedpan. I never touched you.” She frowned. “What...happened?” “Do you remember the fight on the street?” “With your sword?” He nodded. “Vaguely. You saved me.” “I kept a tool out of Denth’s hands,” he said. “That’s all that really matters.” “Thank you anyway.” He was silent for a few moments. “You’re welcome,” he finally said. “Why do I feel so ill?” “Tramaria,” the man said. “It’s a disease you don’t have in the highlands. Insect bites spread it. You probably got it a few weeks before I found you. It stays with you, if you’re weak.” She put a hand to her head. “You probably had a pretty bad time lately,” Vasher noted. “What with the dizziness, the dementia, and the hunger.” “Yes,” she said. “You deserved it.” He continued to eat. She didn’t move for a long moment. His food smelled so good, but she’d apparently been fed during the fevers, for she wasn’t as famished as she might have expected. Just mildly hungry. “How long was I unconscious?” she asked. “A week,” he said. “You should sleep some more.” “What are you going to do with me?” He didn’t reply. “The BioChromatic Breaths you had,” he said. “You gave them to Denth?” She paused, thinking. “Yes.” He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “No,” she admitted, looking away. “I put them in the shawl I was wearing.” He stood, leaving the room. She considered running. Instead, she got out of the bed and began to eat his food—a fish, whole and fried. Seafood didn’t bother her anymore. He returned, then stopped in the doorway, watching her ravage the fish bones. He didn’t force her out of the seat; he simply took the other chair at the table. finally, he held up the shawl, washed and clean. “This?” he asked. She froze, a bit of fish on her cheek. He set the shawl on the table beside her. “You’re giving it back to me?” she asked. He shrugged. “If there really is Breath stored in it, I can’t get to it. Only you can.” She picked it up. “I don’t know the Command.” He raised an eyebrow. “You escaped those ropes of mine without Awakening them?” She shook her head. “I guessed that one.” “I should have gagged you better. What do you mean you ‘guessed’ it?” “It was the first time I’d ever used Breath.” “That’s right, you’re of the royal line.” “What does that mean?” He just shook his head, pointing toward the shawl. “Your Breath to mine,” he said. “That’s the Command you want.” She laid her hand on the shawl and said the words. Immediately, everything changed. Her dizziness went away. Her deadness to the world vanished. She gasped, shaking with the pleasure of Breath restored. It was so strong that she actually fell from the chair, quivering like a
person having a fit with the wonder of it. It was amazing. She could sense life. Could sense Vasher making a pocket of color around him that was bright and beautiful. She was alive again. She basked in that for a long moment. “It’s shocking, when you first get it,” Vasher said. “It’s usually not too bad if you take the Breath back after only an hour or so. Wait weeks, or even a few days, and it’s like taking it in for the first time.” Smiling, feeling amazing, she climbed back into the seat and wiped the fish from her face. “My sickness is gone!” “Of course,” he said. “You’ve got enough Breath for at least the Third Heightening, if I’m reading you right. You’ll never know sickness. You’ll barely even age. Assuming you manage to hang on to the Breath, of course.” She looked up at him in a panic. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to force you to give it to me. Though I probably should. You’re far more trouble than you’re worth, Princess.” She turned back to the food, feeling more confident. It seemed now as if the last few weeks had been a nightmare. A bubble, surreal, disconnected from her life. Had it really been she who had sat on the street, begging? Had she really slept in the rain, lived in the mud? Had she really considered turning to prostitution? She had. She couldn’t forget that just because she now had Breath again. But had becoming a Drab had a hand in her actions? Had the sickness had a part in it too? Either way, the greatest part had been simple desperation. “All right,” he said, standing, picking up the black sword. “Time to go.” “Go where?” she asked, suspicious. The last time she had met this man, he’d bound her, forced her to touch that sword of his, and left her gagged. He ignored her concern, tossing a pile of clothing onto the table. “Put this on.” She picked through it. Thick trousers, a tunic that tucked into them, a vest to go over the tunic. All of various shades of blue. There were undergarments of a less bright color. “That’s a man’s clothing,” she said. “It’s utilitarian,” Vasher said, walking toward the doorway. “I’m not going to waste money buying you fancy dresses, Princess. You’ll just have to get used to those.” She opened her mouth, but then shut it, discarding her complaint. She’d just spent...she didn’t know how long running around in a thin, nearly translucent shift that had only covered her to midthigh. She took the trousers and shirts gratefully. “Please,” she said, turning toward him. “I appreciate this clothing. But can I at least know what you intend to do with me?” Vasher hesitated in the doorway. “I have work for you to do.” She shivered, thinking of the bodies Denth had shown her, and of the men Vasher had killed. “You’re going to kill again, aren’t you?” He turned back toward her, frowning. “Denth is working toward something. I’m
going to block him.” “Denth was working for me,” she said. “Or, at least, he was pretending to. All of those things he did, they were at my command. He was just playing along to keep me complacent.” Vasher gave a barking laugh, and Vivenna ﬂushed. Her hair—responding to her mood for the first time since her shock at seeing Parlin dead—turned red. It felt so surreal. Two weeks on the street? It felt so much longer. But now, suddenly, she was cleaned and fed, and somehow she felt like her old self again. Part of it was the Breath. The beautiful, wonderful Breath. She never wanted to be parted from it again. Not her old self at all. Who was she, then? Did it matter? “You laugh at me,” she said, turning to Vasher. “But I was just doing the best I could. I wanted to help my people in the upcoming war. fight against Hallandren.” “Hallandren isn’t your enemy.” “It is,” she said sharply. “And it is planning to march on my people.” “The priests have good reasons for acting as they do.” Vivenna snorted. “Denth said that every man thinks he’s doing the right thing.” “Denth is too smart for his own good. He was playing with you, Princess.” “What do you mean?” “Didn’t it ever occur to you?” Vasher asked. “Attacking supply caravans? Rousing the Idrian poor to rebel? Reminding them of Vahr and his promises of freedom, which were so fresh in their minds? Showing yourself to thug lords, making them think that Idris was working to undermine the Hallandren government? Princess, you say every man thinks he’s on the right side, that every man who opposed you was deluding himself.” He met her eyes. “Didn’t you ever once stop to think that maybe you were the one on the wrong side?” Vivenna froze. “Denth wasn’t working for you,” Vasher said. “He wasn’t even pretending to. Someone in this city hired him to start a war between Idris and Hallandren, and he’s spent these last few months using you to make it happen. I’m trying to figure out why. Who’s behind it, and why would a war serve them?” Vivenna sat back, eyes wide. It couldn’t be. He had to be wrong. “You were the perfect pawn,” Vasher said. “You reminded the people in the slums of their true heritage, giving Denth someone to rally them behind. The Court of Gods is a hair’s breadth away from marching on your homeland. Not because they hate Idrians, but because they feel like Idris insurgents have already been attacking them.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t believe that you didn’t realize what you were doing. I assumed you had to be working with him intentionally to start the war.” He eyed her. “I underestimated your stupidity. Get dressed. I don’t know if we have enough time to undo what you’ve done, but I intend to try.” ~ The clothing felt strange. The trousers pulled at her thighs, making her feel like she was exposed. It was odd not to
have the swishing of skirts at her ankles. She walked beside Vasher without comment, head bowed, hair too short to even put into a braid. She didn’t try to regrow it yet. That would draw needed nourishment from her body. They passed through the Idrian slum, and Vivenna had to fight to keep herself from jumping at every sound, looking over her shoulder to see if someone was following her. Was that an urchin wanting to steal the money she’d begged? Was that a group of thugs, wishing to sell her to Denth? Were those shadows grey-eyed Lifeless, come to attack and slaughter? They passed a waif beside the road, a young woman of indeterminable age but with a soot-covered face and bright eyes that watched them. Vivenna could read the hunger in those eyes. The woman was trying to decide whether or not to try stealing from them. The sword in Vasher’s hand was obviously enough to ward the girl away. Vivenna watched her scurry down an alleyway, feeling an odd sense of connection. Colors, she thought. Was that really me? No. She hadn’t even been as capable as that girl. Vivenna had been so naive that she’d been kidnapped without knowing it, then worked to start a war without realizing what she was doing. Didn’t you ever stop to think that maybe you were on the wrong side? She wasn’t sure what to believe. She’d been taken in so quickly by Denth that she was hesitant to accept anything this Vasher said. However, she could see signs that some of what he had told her was true. Denth had always taken her to meet with the less reputable elements in the city. Not only were they the ones a mercenary like him would know, but they would be more likely to prefer the chaos of war. Attacking the Hallandren supplies wouldn’t only make it more difficult to administer the war, it would make the priests more likely to attack while they were still strong. The losses would also serve to make them angrier. It made chilling sense—sense it was hard for her to ignore. “Denth made me think that the war was inevitable,” Vivenna whispered as they walked through the slums. “My father thinks it’s inevitable. Everyone says it’s going to happen.” “They’re wrong,” Vasher said. “War between Hallandren and Idris has been close for decades, but never inevitable. Getting this kingdom to attack requires convincing the Returned—and they’re generally too focused on themselves to want something as disruptive as a war. Only an extended effort—first convincing the priests, then getting them to argue until the gods believed them—would be successful.” Vivenna stared ahead down the dirty streets with their colorful refuse. “I really am useless, aren’t I?” she whispered. Vasher glanced over at her. “First, my father sent my sister to marry the God King instead of me. I followed, but I didn’t even know what I was doing—Denth took me on the very first day I was here. When I finally escaped him, I couldn’t make it a
month on the street without getting robbed, beaten, and then captured. Now you claim that I’ve single-handedly brought my people to the edge of war.” Vasher snorted. “Don’t give yourself too much credit. Denth has been working on this war for a long time. From what I hear, he corrupted the Idrian ambassador himself. Plus there are elements in the Hallandren government— the ones who hired Denth in the first place—who want this conﬂict to happen.” It was all so confusing. What he said made sense, but Denth had made sense too. She needed to know more. “Do you have any guesses who they might be? The ones who hired Denth?” Vasher shook his head. “One of the gods, I think—or perhaps a cabal of them. Maybe a group of priests, working on their own.” They fell silent again. “Why?” Vivenna finally asked. “How should I know?” Vasher asked. “I can’t even figure out who’s behind it.” “No,” Vivenna said. “Not that. I mean, why are you involved? Why do you care?” “Because,” Vasher said. “Because why?” Vasher sighed. “Look, Princess. I’m not like Denth; I don’t have his ability with words, and I don’t really like people in the first place. Don’t expect me to chat with you. All right?” Vivenna shut her mouth in surprise. If he’s trying to manipulate me, she thought, he has a very strange way of doing it. Their destination turned out to be a run-down building on the corner of a run-down intersection. As they approached, Vivenna paused to wonder exactly how slums like this one came to exist. Did people build them cramped and shoddy on purpose? Had these streets, like others she’d seen, once been part of a better section of town that had fallen into disrepair? Vasher grabbed her arm as she stood there, then pulled her up to the door, upon which he pounded with the hilt of his sword. The door creaked open a second later, and a pair of nervous eyes glanced out. “Get out of the way,” Vasher said, testily shoving the door open the rest of the way and pulling Vivenna inside. A young man stumbled back, pressing up against the wall of the hallway and letting Vasher and Vivenna pass. He closed the door behind them. Vivenna felt as if she should be frightened, or at least angry, at the treatment. However, after what she had been through, it just didn’t seem like much. Vasher let go of her and thumped his way down a set of stairs. Vivenna followed more carefully, the dark stairwell reminding her of the cellar in Denth’s hideout. She shivered. At the bottom, fortunately, the similarities between cellars ended. This one had a wooden ﬂoor and walls. A rug sat in the middle of the room with a group of men sitting on it. A couple of them rose as Vasher rounded the stairs. “Vasher!” one said. “Welcome. Do you want something to drink?” “No.” The men glanced uncomfortably at each other as Vasher tossed his sword toward the side of
the room. It hit with a clank, skidding on the wood. Then he reached back and pulled Vivenna forward. “Hair,” he said. She hesitated. He was using her just as Denth had. But rather than make him angry, she obliged, changing the color of her hair. The men watched with awe; then several of them bowed their heads. “Princess,” one whispered. “Tell them you don’t want them to go to war,” Vasher said. “I don’t,” she said honestly. “I have never wanted my people to fight Hallandren. They would lose, almost certainly.” The men turned to Vasher. “But she was working with the slumlords. Why did she change her mind?” Vasher looked at her. “Well?” Why did she change her mind? Had she changed her mind? It was all too quick. “I...” she said. “I’m sorry. I...didn’t realize. I’ve never wanted war. I thought it was inevitable, and so I tried to plan for it. I might have been manipulated, though.” Vasher nodded, then pushed her aside. He left her and joined the men as they sat back on the rug. Vivenna remained where she was. She wrapped her hands around herself, feeling the unfamiliar cloth of the tunic and coat. These men are Idrians, she realized, listening to their accents. And now they’ve seen me, their princess, wearing a man’s clothing. How is it that I can still care about such things, considering everything else that is happening? “All right,” Vasher said, squatting. “What are you doing to stop this?” “Wait,” one of the men said. “You expect that to change our minds? A few words from the princess, and we’re supposed to believe everything you’ve been telling us?” “If Hallandren goes to war, you’re dead,” Vasher snapped. “Can’t you see that? What do you think will happen to the Idrians in these slums? You think things are bad now, wait until you’re seen as enemy sympathizers.” “We know that, Vasher,” another said. “But what do you expect us to do? Submit to Hallandren treatment of us? Cave in and worship their indolent gods?” “I don’t really care what you do,” Vasher said, “as long as it doesn’t involve threatening the security of the Hallandren government.” “Maybe we should just admit that war is coming and fight,” another said. “Maybe the slumlords are right. Maybe the best thing to do is hope that Idris wins.” “They hate us,” another of them said, a man in his twenties with anger in his eyes. “They treat us worse than they do the statues in their streets! We’re less than Lifeless, to them.” I know that anger, Vivenna realized. I felt it. Feel it still. Anger at Hallandren. The man’s words rang hollow to her now. The truth was, she hadn’t really felt any ire from the Hallandren people. If anything, she’d felt indifference. She was just another body on the street to them. Perhaps that’s why she hated them. She’d worked all of her life to become something important for them—in her mind, she’d been dominated by the monster that was Hallandren and
its God King. And then, in the end, the city and its people had simply ignored her. She didn’t matter to them. And that was infuriating. One of the Idrian men, an older man wearing a dark tan cap, shook his head in thought. “The people are restless, Vasher. Half the men talk of storming the Court of Gods in anger. The women store up food, waiting for the inevitable. Our youths go out in secret groups, searching the jungles for Kalad’s legendary army.” “They believe that old myth?” Vasher asked. The man shrugged. “It offers hope. A hidden army, powerful enough that it nearly ended the Manywar itself.” “Believing myths isn’t what frightens me,” another man said. “It’s that our youths would even think of using Lifeless as soldiers. Kalad’s Phantoms. Bah!” He spat to the side. “What it means is that we’re desperate,” one of the older men said. “The people are angry. We can’t stop the riots, Vasher. Not after that slaughter a few weeks back.” Vasher pounded the ﬂoor with a fist. “That’s what they want! Can’t you fools see that you’re giving your enemies perfect scapegoats? Those Lifeless that attacked the slum weren’t given their orders by the government. Someone slipped a few broken Lifeless into the group with orders to kill so that things would turn ugly!” What? Vivenna thought. “The Hallandren theocracy is a top-heavy structure laden with bureaucratic foolishness and inertia,” Vasher said. “It never moves unless someone pushes it! If we have riots in the street, that will be just what the war faction needs.” I could help him, Vivenna thought, watching the reactions of the Idrians. She knew them instinctively in a way Vasher obviously didn’t. He made good arguments, but he approached them in the wrong way. He needed credibility. She could help. But should she? Vivenna didn’t know what to think anymore. If Vasher was right, she’d been played like a puppet by Denth. She believed that was true, but how could she know that Vasher wasn’t doing the same thing? Did she want war? No, of course she didn’t. Particularly not a war Idris would have a very hard time surviving, let alone winning. Vivenna had worked so hard to undermine Hallandren’s ability to wage war. Why hadn’t she ever considered trying to head it off? I did, she realized. That was my original plan when I was back in Idris. I’d intended to talk the God King out of war when I became his bride. She’d given up on that plan. No, she’d been manipulated into giving up on it. Either by her father’s sense of inevitability or by Denth’s subtlety—or by both—it didn’t really matter. Her initial instinct had been to prevent the conﬂict. That was the best way to protect Idris; and it was—she now realized—also the best way to protect Siri. She’d practically given up on saving her sister, focusing on her own hate and arrogance instead. Stopping the war wouldn’t protect Siri from being abused by the God King. But it would probably keep
her from being used as a pawn or a hostage. It could save her life. That was enough for Vivenna. “It’s too late,” one of the men said. “No,” Vivenna said. “Please.” The men in the circle paused, looking over at her. She walked back to the circle and then knelt before them. “Please do not say such things.” “But Princess,” one of the men said, “what can we do? The slumlords rile the people to anger. We have no power compared to them.” “You must have some inﬂuence,” she said. “You seem like men of wisdom.” “We’re family men and workers,” another said. “We have no riches.” “But people listen to you?” she asked. “Some do.” “Then tell them that there are more options,” Vivenna said, bowing her head. “Tell them to be stronger than I was. The Idrians here in the slums— I’ve seen their strength. If you tell them that they’ve been used, maybe they can avoid being manipulated further.” The men fell silent. “I don’t know if everything this man says is true,” she said, nodding to Vasher. “But I do know that Idris will not win this war. We should be doing everything we can to prevent a conﬂict, not to encourage one.” She felt a tear on her cheek, and her hair had grown a pale white. “You can see. I...no longer have the control a princess and follower of Austre should show. I am a disgrace to you, but please don’t let my failure doom you. The Hallandren don’t hate us. They barely even notice us. I know this is frustrating, but if you make them notice you by rioting and destroying, they will only be shaken into anger against our homeland.” “So we should just roll over?” the younger man asked. “Let them step on us? What does it matter if they do it unintentionally? We still get crushed.” “No,” Vivenna said. “There must be a better way. An Idrian is their queen, now. Perhaps, if we give them time, they will get over their prejudice. We must focus our energies now on keeping them from attacking!” “Your words make sense, Princess,” said the older man wearing the cap. “But—and forgive me for my ostentation—those of us here in Hallandren find it difficult to care about Idris much anymore. It failed us before we even left, and now we can’t really go back.” “We are Idrians,” one of the others said. “But...well, our families here are more important.” A month ago, Vivenna would have been offended. Her sojourn on the streets, though, had taught her a little of what desperation could do to a person. What was Idris to them if their families starved? She could not blame them for their attitude. “You think you will fare better if Idris is conquered?” Vasher asked. “If there’s war, you’ll be treated even worse than you are now.” “There are other options,” Vivenna said. “I know of your plight. If I return to my father and explain it, perhaps we can find a way to return
you to Idris.” “Return us to Idris?” one of the men said. “My family has been here in Hallandren for fifty years now!” “Yes, but as long as the king of Idris lives,” Vivenna said, “you have an ally. We can work with diplomacy to make things better for you.” “The king doesn’t care about us,” another said sadly. “I care,” Vivenna said. And she did. She found it strange, but a part of her felt more of a kinship with the Idrians in the city than with those she had left behind. She understood. “We must find a way to bring attention to your suffering without bringing hatred as well,” she said. “We will find a way. As I said, my sister is married to the God King himself. Perhaps through her, he can be persuaded to improve the slums. Not because he’s afraid of the violence our people might cause, but because of the pity he feels for their situation.” She continued to kneel, ashamed before these men. Ashamed to be crying, to be seen in the immodest clothing and with ragged, short hair. Ashamed to have failed them so completely. How could I fail so easily? she thought. I, who was supposed to be so prepared, so in control. How could I be so angry that I ignored my people’s needs just because I wanted to see Hallandren pay? “She is sincere,” one of the men finally said. “I will give her that.” “I don’t know,” said another. “I still feel it’s too late.” “If that’s the case,” Vivenna said, still looking at the ﬂoor, “what do you have to lose? Think of the lives you could save. I promise. Idris will not forget you any longer. If you make peace with Hallandren, I will ensure that you are seen as heroes back in our homeland.” “Heroes, eh?” one of them said. “It would be nice to be known as a hero, rather than the ones who left the highlands to live in brazen Hallandren.” “Please,” Vivenna whispered. “I’ll see what I can do,” one of the men said, standing. Several of the others voiced agreement. They stood as well, shaking hands with Vasher. Vivenna remained kneeling as they left. Eventually, the room was empty save for her and Vasher. He sat down across from her. “Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t do it for you,” she whispered. “Get up,” he said. “Let’s go. I want to meet with someone else.” “I...” She sat up on the rug, trying to make sense of her feelings. “Why should I do as you tell me? How do I know that you’re not just using me? Lying to me. Like Denth did.” “You don’t know,” Vasher said, recovering his sword from the corner. “You’ll just have to do what I say.” “Am I a prisoner then?” He glanced at her. Then he walked over and squatted. “Look,” he said. “We both agree that war is bad for Idris. I’m not going to take you on raids or make you meet with slumlords. All
you have to do is tell people you don’t want a war.” “And if I’m not willing to do that?” she said. “Will you force me?” He watched her for a moment, then swore under his breath, standing. He pulled out a bag of something and tossed it at her. It clinked as it hit her chest then fell to the ﬂoor. “Go,” he said. “Get back to Idris. I’ll do it without you.” She just continued to sit, staring. He began to walk away. “Denth used me,” she found herself whispering. “And the worst part is, I still feel like this must all be just a misunderstanding. I feel that he’s really my friend, and that I should go to him and find out why he did what he did. Maybe we are all just confused.” She closed her eyes, resting her head on her knees. “But then I remember the things I saw him do. My friend Parlin is dead. Other soldiers sent by my father, stuffed in sacks. I’m so confused.” The room fell silent. “You’re not the first one he’s taken in, Princess,” Vasher finally said. “Denth...he’s a subtle one. A man like him can be evil to the core, but if he is charismatic and amusing, people will listen to him. They’ll even like him.” She looked up, blinking teary eyes. Vasher turned away. “Me,” he said. “I’m not like that. I have trouble talking. I get frustrated. I snap at people. Doesn’t make me very popular. But I promise you that I won’t lie to you.” He met her eyes. “I want to stop this war. That’s all that really matters to me right now. I promise you.” She wasn’t sure if she believed him. Yet she found herself wanting to. Idiot, she thought. You’re just going to get taken in again. She hadn’t proven herself a very good judge of character. Still, she didn’t pick up the bag of coins. “I am willing to help. Assuming it doesn’t involve anything more than telling others that I wish to keep Idris from harm.” “Good enough.” She hesitated. “Do you really think we can do it. Stop the war?” He shrugged. “Maybe. Assuming I can keep myself from beating the Colors out of all these Idrians for acting like idiots.” A pacifist with temper-control issues, she thought ruefully. What a combination. A little like a devout Idrian princess who holds enough BioChromatic Breath to populate a small village. “There are more places like this,” Vasher said. “I would show you to the people there.” “All right,” she said, trying not to look at the blade as she stood. Even now, it had a strange ability to make her feel sick. Vasher nodded. “There won’t be many people at each meeting. I don’t have Denth’s connections, and I’m not friendly with important people. The ones I know are workers. We’ll have to go visit the dye vats, perhaps even some of the fields.” “I understand,” she said. Without further comment, Vasher picked up his bag of coins, then
led her out onto the street. And so, she thought, I begin again. I can only hope that this time, I’m on the right side. Annotations for Chapter 43 Forty-Four Annotations for Chapter 44 Siri watched Susebron with affection as he ate a third dessert. Their night’s meal lay spread out on the table and ﬂoor, some dishes completely devoured, others barely tasted. That first night when Susebron had ordered a meal had started a tradition. Now they ordered food every night—though only after Siri did her act for the listening priests. Susebron claimed to find it very amusing, though she noticed the curiosity in his eyes as he watched her. Susebron had proven to have quite a sweet tooth now that disapproving priests and their sense of etiquette were absent. “You should probably watch out,” she noted as he finished another pastry. “If you eat too many of those, you will get fat.” He reached for his writing board. No I won’t. “Yes you will,” she said, smiling. “That’s the way it works.” Not for gods, he wrote. My mother explained it. Some men become more bulky if they exercise a lot and become fat if they eat a lot. That doesn’t happen to Returned. We always look the same. Siri couldn’t offer argument. What did she know of Returned? Is food in Idris like this? Susebron wrote. Siri smiled. He was always so curious about her homeland. She could sense a longing in him, the wish to be free of his palace and see the outside. And yet, he didn’t want to be disobedient, even when the rules were harsh. “I really need to work on corrupting you some more,” she noted. He paused. What does that have to do with food? “Nothing,” she said. “But it’s true nonetheless. You’re far too good a person, Susebron.” Sarcasm? he wrote. I certainly hope that it is. “Only half,” she said, lying down on her stomach and watching him across their impromptu picnic setting. Half-sarcasm? he wrote. Is this something new? “No,” she said, sighing. “There is truth sometimes even in sarcasm. I don’t really want to corrupt you, but I do think that you’re just too perfectly obedient. You need to be a little more reckless. Impulsive and independent.” It’s hard to be impulsive when you are locked in a palace surrounded by hundreds of servants, he wrote. “Good point.” However, I have been thinking about the things you’ve said. Please don’t be mad at me. Siri perked up, noting the embarrassment in his expression. “All right. What did you do?” I talked to my priests, he said. With the artisans’ script. Siri felt a moment of panic. “You told them about us?” No, no, he wrote quickly. I did tell them I was worried about having a child. I asked why my father died right after he had a child. Siri frowned. Part of her wished that he’d let her handle such negotiations. However, she said nothing. She didn’t want to keep him pinned down as his priests did. It
was his life that was being threatened—he deserved the chance to work on the problem too. “Good,” she said. You’re not mad? She shrugged. “I was just encouraging you to be more impulsive! I can’t complain now. What did they say?” He erased, then continued. They told me not to worry. They said everything would be all right. So I asked them again, and again they gave me a vague answer. Siri nodded slowly. It hurts me to write this, but I’m beginning to think that you are right. I’ve noticed that my guards and Awakeners are staying particularly close lately. We even skipped going to the Court Assembly yesterday. “That’s a bad sign,” she agreed. “I haven’t had much luck finding out what is going to happen. I’ve ordered in three other storytellers but none of them had any better information than what Hoid gave me.” You still think it’s about the Breath I hold? She nodded. “Remember what I said about my conversation with Treledees? He talked about that Breath of yours with reverence. To him, it’s something to be passed from generation to generation, like a family tapestry.” In one of the children’s stories in my book, he wrote, there is a magic sword. A young boy is given it by his grandfather, and it turns out the sword was an heirloom—the symbol of kingship in the land. “What are you saying?” she asked. Perhaps the entire monarchy of Hallandren is nothing more than a way to guard the Breath. The only way to safely pass Breath between individuals and generations is to use people as hosts. So they created a dynasty of God Kings who could hold the treasure and pass it from father to son. Siri nodded slowly. “That would mean that the God King is more of a vessel than I am. A sheath for a magic weapon.” Exactly, Susebron wrote, hand moving quickly. They had to make my family kings because of how much Breath was in that treasure. And they had to give it to a Returned—otherwise their king and their gods might have competed for power. “Perhaps. It seems awfully convenient that the God King always bears a stillborn son who becomes Returned...” She trailed off. Susebron saw it too. Unless the next God King isn’t really the son of the current one, he wrote, hand shaking slightly. “Austre!” Siri said. “God of Colors! That’s it. Somewhere in the kingdom, a baby died and Returned. That’s why it’s so urgent that I get pregnant! They already have the next God King, now they just need to keep up the farce. They marry me to you, hope for a child as quickly as possible, then switch the baby for the Returned one.” Then they kill me and somehow take my Breaths away, he wrote. And give it to this child, who can become the next God King. “Wait. Do infants even Return?” she asked. Yes, he wrote. “But, how does an infant Return in a way that is heroic, or virtuous, or anything like
that?” Susebron hesitated, and she could tell he didn’t have an answer for her. Infant Returned. Among her own people, they didn’t believe that a person was chosen to Return because of some virtue they exemplified. That was a Hallandren belief. To her, it seemed a hole in their theology, but she didn’t want to challenge Susebron on it further. He already worried about how she didn’t believe in his divinity. Siri sat back. “That doesn’t really matter. The real question is more important. If the God Kings are just vessels to hold Breath, then why bother changing them? Why not just leave one man holding the Breath?” I don’t know, Susebron wrote. It doesn’t seem to make sense, does it? Maybe they are worried about keeping a single God King captive that long. Children are easier to control, perhaps? “If that’s the case, they would want to change more often,” Siri said. “Some of those God Kings lasted centuries. Of course, it could just have to do with how rebellious they think their king is.” I do everything I’m supposed to! You just complained that I am too obedient. “Compared to me, you are,” she said. “Maybe from their viewpoint, you’re a wild man. After all, you did hide that book your mother gave you, and then you learned to write. Perhaps they know you well enough to realize that you weren’t going to stay docile. So now that they have an opportunity to replace you, they’re intending to take it.” Maybe, he wrote. Siri thought through their conclusions again. Looked at critically, she could see that they were just speculations. Yet everyone said that the other Returned couldn’t have children, and so why would the God King be different? That might just be a means of obfuscating the fact that they were bringing in a new person to be God King when they found one. That still didn’t answer the most important question. What were they going to do to Susebron to get his Breaths away from him? Susebron leaned back, staring up at the dark ceiling. Siri watched him, noting the look of sadness in his eyes. “What?” she asked. He just shook his head. “Please? What is it?” He sat for a moment, then looked down, writing. If what you say is true, then the woman who raised me was not my mother. I would have been born to someone random out in the countryside. The priests would have taken me once I Returned, then raised me in the palace as the “son” of the God King they’d just killed. Seeing him in pain made her insides twist. She moved around the blanket, sitting beside him, putting her arms around him and resting her head on his arm. She’s the only person to have shown me real kindness in my life, he wrote. The priests, they revere me and care for me—or, at least, I assumed that they did. However, they never really loved me. Only my mother did that. And now I’m not sure I even know
who she is. “If she raised you, she’s your mother,” Siri said. “It doesn’t matter who gave birth to you.” He didn’t respond to that. “Maybe she was your real mother,” Siri said. “If they were going to bring you to the palace in secret, they might as well bring your mother too. Who better to care for you?” He nodded, then scribbled on the board with one hand—the other was around Siri’s waist. Perhaps you are right. Though it now seems suspicious to me that she would die as she did. She was one of the few who could have told me the truth. This seemed to make him even more sad, and Siri pulled him closer, laying her head on his chest. Please, he wrote. Tell me of your family. “My father was often frustrated with me,” Siri said. “But he did love me. Does love me. He just wanted me to do what they thought was right. And...well, the more time I spend in Hallandren, the more I wish I had listened to him, at least a little bit. “Ridger is my older brother. I was always getting him into trouble. He was the heir, and I had him thoroughly corrupted, at least until he got old enough to appreciate his duties. He’s a little like you. Very kindhearted, always trying to do what is right. He didn’t eat as many sweets, though.” Susebron smiled faintly, squeezing her shoulder. “Between us is Fafen, but I didn’t really know her that well. She joined a monastery when I was still quite young—and I was glad. It’s seen as a duty in Idris to provide at least one child for the monasteries. They’re the ones who grow the food for the needy and take care of things that need to be done around the city. Pruning, washing, painting. Anything to be of Service.” He reached over. A little like a king, he wrote. Living a life to serve others. “Sure,” Siri said. “Only they don’t get locked up and they can stop doing it, if they want. Either way, I’m glad it was Fafen and not me. I would have gone crazy living as a monk. They have to be pious all the time, and are supposed to be the least ostentatious in the city.” Not a good match for your hair, he wrote. “Definitely,” she said. Though, he wrote, frowning slightly. It’s stopped changing colors so often lately. “I’ve had to learn to control it better,” Siri said with a grimace. “People can read me too easily by it. Here.” She changed it from black to yellow, and he smiled, running his fingers through its lengthy locks. “After Fafen and Ridger,” Siri said, “there’s just the eldest, Vivenna. She’s the one you were supposed to marry. She spent her entire life preparing to move to Hallandren.” She must hate me, Susebron wrote. Growing up knowing she would have to leave her family and live with a man she didn’t know. “Nonsense,” Siri said. “Vivenna looked forward to it. I don’t
think she can feel hatred. She was always just calm and careful and perfect.” Susebron frowned. “I sound bitter, don’t I?” Siri said, sighing. “I don’t mean to. I really do love Vivenna. She was always there, watching out for me. But it seemed to me that she made too many efforts to cover up for me. My big sister, pulling me out of trouble, scolding me calmly, then seeing that I wasn’t punished as much as I should have been.” She hesitated. “They’re all probably at home right now, worried sick about me.” You sound like you’re worried about them, he wrote. “I am,” she said. “I’ve been listening to the priests argue in the court. It doesn’t sound good, Seb. There are a lot of Idrians in the city and they’re being very reckless. The city guard was forced to send troops into one of the slums a few weeks back. That isn’t helping reduce tensions between our countries.” Susebron didn’t write a response, but instead wrapped his arm around her again, pulling her close. It felt good to be held against him. Very good. After a few minutes, he pulled his arm away and wrote again, awkwardly erasing first. I was wrong, you know. “About what?” About one of the things I said earlier. I wrote that my mother was the only person to ever show me love and kindness. That’s not true. There’s been another. He stopped writing and looked at her. Then he glanced at the board again. You didn’t have to show me kindness, he wrote. You could have hated me for taking you from your family and your homeland. Instead, you taught me to read, befriended me. Loved me. He stared at her. She stared at him. Then, hesitant, he leaned down and kissed her. Oh, dear...Siri thought, a dozen objections popping into her head. She found it difficult to move, to resist, or to do anything. Anything other than kiss him back. She felt hot. She knew that they needed to stop, lest the priesthood get exactly what they were waiting for. She understood all of these things. Yet those objections began to seem less and less rational as she kissed him, as her breathing grew more hurried. He paused, obviously uncertain what to do next. Siri looked up at him, breathing heavily, then pulled him down to kiss him again, feeling her hair bleed to a deep, passionate red. At that point, she stopped caring about anything else. Susebron didn’t know what to do. But she did. I really am too hasty, she thought as she pulled off her shift. I need to get better at controlling my impulses. Some other time. Annotations for Chapter 44 Forty-Five Annotations for Chapter 45 That night, Lightsong dreamed of T’Telir burning. Of the God King dead and of soldiers in the streets. Of Lifeless killing people in colorful clothing. And of a black sword. Forty-Six Annotations for Chapter 46 Vivenna choked down her meal. The dried meat tasted strongly of fish, but she had learned that
by breathing through her mouth, she could ignore much of the ﬂavor. She ate every bite, then washed the taste away with a few mouthfuls of warm boiled water. She was alone in the room. It was a small chamber built onto the side of a building near the slums. Vasher had paid a few coins for a day in it, though he wasn’t there at the moment. He’d rushed off to deal with something. She leaned back, food consumed, closing her eyes. She’d reached the point where she was so exhausted that she actually found it difficult to sleep. The fact that the room was so small didn’t help. She couldn’t even stretch out all the way. Vasher hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that their work would be rigorous. Stop after stop, she spoke with the Idrians, consoling them, begging them not to push Hallandren to war. There were no restaurants as there had been with Denth. No dinners with men in fine clothing and guards. Just group after group of tired, working-class men and women. Many of them weren’t rebellious and a large number of them didn’t even live in the slums. But they were part of the Idrian community in T’Telir, and they could inﬂuence how their friends and family felt. She liked them. Empathized with them. She felt far better about her new efforts than she had about her work with Denth, and so far as she could tell, Vasher was being honest with her. She had decided to trust those instincts. That was her decision, and that decision meant helping Vasher, for now. Vasher didn’t ask her if she wanted to continue. He simply led her from location to location, expecting her to keep up. And so she did, meeting with the people and begging their forgiveness, despite how emotionally draining it was. She wasn’t certain if she could repair what she had done, but she was willing to try. This determination seemed to gain her some respect from Vasher. It was much more reluctantly given than Denth’s respect had been. Denth was fooling me the entire time. It was still hard to remember that fact. Part of her didn’t want to. She leaned forward, staring at the bland wall in front of her in the boxlike room. She shivered. It was a good thing that she’d been working herself so hard lately. It kept her from thinking about things. Discomforting things. Who was she? How did she define herself now that everything she’d been, and everything she’d tried, had collapsed around her? She couldn’t be Vivenna the confident princess anymore. That person was dead, left behind in that cellar with Parlin’s bloody corpse. Her confidence had come from naïveté. Now she knew how easily she had been played. She knew the cost of ignorance, and she had glimpsed the grim truths of real poverty. Yet, she also couldn’t be that woman—the waif of the streets, the thief, the beaten-down wretch. That wasn’t her. She felt as if those weeks had been a dream, brought on
by the stress of isolation and trauma of her betrayal, fueled by becoming a Drab and being suffocated by disease. To pretend that was the real her would be to parody those who truly lived on the streets. The people she’d hidden among and tried to imitate. Where did that leave her? Was she the penitent, quiet princess who knelt with bowed head, pleading with the peasants? This, too, was partially an act. She really did feel sorry. However, she was using her stripped pride as a tool. That wasn’t her. Who was she? She stood up, feeling cramped in the tiny room, and pushed open the door. The neighborhood outside wasn’t quite a slum, but it wasn’t rich either. It was simply a place where people lived. There were enough colors along the street to be welcoming, but the buildings were small and held a number of families each. She walked along the street, careful not to stray too far from the room Vasher had rented. She passed trees, admiring their blooms. Who was she really? What was left, when one stripped away the princess and the hatred of Hallandren? She was determined. That part of her, she liked. She’d forced herself to become the woman she needed to be in order to marry the God King. She’d worked hard, sacrificing, to reach her goal. She was also a hypocrite. Now she knew what it was to be truly humble. Compared to that, her former life seemed more brash and arrogant than any colorful skirt or shirt. She did believe in Austre. She loved the teachings of the five Visions. Humility. Sacrifice. Seeing another’s problems before your own. Yet she was beginning to think that she—along with many others—had taken this belief too far, letting her desire to seem humble become a form of pride itself. She now saw that when her faith had become about clothing instead of people, it had taken a wrong turn. She wanted to learn to Awaken. Why? What did that say about her? That she was willing to accept a tool her religion rejected, just because it would make her powerful? No, that wasn’t it. At least, she hoped it wasn’t it. Looking back on her recent life, she felt frustrated at her frequent helplessness. And that felt like part of whom she really was. The woman who would do anything to be sure she wasn’t helpless. That was why she’d studied so hard with the tutors in Idris. That was also why she wanted to learn how to Awaken. She wanted as much information as she could, and wanted to be prepared for the problems that might come at her. She wanted to be capable. That might be arrogant, but it was the truth. She wanted to learn everything she could about how to survive in the world. The most humiliating aspect of her time in T’Telir was her ignorance. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. She nodded to herself. Time to practice, then, she thought, returning to the room. Inside, she pulled out
a piece of rope—the one that Vasher had used to tie her up, the first thing that she had Awakened. She’d since retrieved the Breath from it. She went back outside, holding the rope between her fingers, twisting it, thinking. The Commands that Denth taught me were simple phrases. Hold things. Protect me. He’d implied that the intent was important. When she’d Awakened her bonds, she’d made them move as if part of her body. It was more than just the Command. The Command brought the life, but the intent—the instructions from her mind—brought focus and action. She stopped beside a large tree with thin, blossom-laden branches that drooped toward the ground. She stood beside a branch, touched the bark of the tree’s trunk itself to use its color. She held out the rope to the branch. “Hold things,” she Commanded, reﬂexively letting out some of her Breath. She felt an instant of panic as her sense of the world dimmed. The rope twitched. However, instead of drawing color from the tree, the Awakening pulled color from her tunic. The garment bled grey, and the rope moved, wrapping like a snake around the branch. Wood cracked slightly as the rope pulled tight. However, the other end of the rope twisted in an odd pattern, writhing. Vivenna watched, frowning, until she figured out what was happening. The rope was twisting around her hand, trying to hold it as well. “Stop,” Vivenna said. Nothing happened. It continued to pull tight. “Your Breath to mine,” she Commanded. The rope stopped twisting and her Breath returned. She shook the rope free. All right, she thought. “Hold things” works, but it’s not very specific. It will wrap around my fingers as well as the thing I want it to tie up. What if I tried something else? “Hold that branch,” she Commanded. Again, Breath left her. More of it this time. Her trousers drained of color, and the rope end twisted, wrapping around the branch. The rest of it remained still. She smiled in satisfaction. So the more complicated the Command, the more Breath it requires. She took back her Breath. As Vasher had explained, doing so didn’t shock her senses, for it was a mere restoration to a normal state for her. If she’d gone several days without that Breath, she’d have been overwhelmed by recovering its power. It was a little like taking a first bite of something very ﬂavorful. She eyed her clothes, which were now completely grey. Out of curiosity, she tried Awakening the rope again. Nothing happened. She picked up a stick, then Awakened the rope. It worked this time, the stick losing its color, though it took a lot more breath. Perhaps this was because the stick wasn’t very colorful. The tree trunk didn’t work for color, though. Presumably, one couldn’t draw color from something that was itself alive. She discarded the branch and fetched a few of Vasher’s colored handkerchiefs from the room. She walked back to the tree. Now what? she thought. Could she put the Breath into the
rope now, then command it to hold something later? How would she even phrase that? “Hold things that I tell you to hold,” she Commanded. Nothing happened. “Hold that branch when I tell you.” Again, nothing. “Hold whatever I say.” Nothing. A voice came from behind. “Tell it to ‘Hold when thrown.’” Vivenna jumped, spinning. Vasher stood behind her, Nightblood held before him, point down. He had his pack over his shoulder. Vivenna ﬂushed, glancing back at the rope. “Hold when thrown,” she said, using a handkerchief for color. Her Breath left her, but the rope remained limp. So she tossed it to the side, hitting one of the hanging tree branches. The rope immediately twisted about, locking the branches together and holding them tightly. “That’s useful,” Vivenna said. Vasher raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. Dangerous though.” “Why?” “Get the rope back.” Vivenna paused, realizing that the rope had twisted around branches that were too high for her to reach. She hopped up, trying to grab it. “I prefer to use a longer rope,” Vasher said, raising Nightblood by the blade and using its hooked crossguard to pull the branches down. “If you always keep hold of one end, then you don’t have to worry about it getting taken from you. Plus, you can Awaken when you need to, rather than leaving a bunch of Breath locked into a rope that you may or may not need.” Vivenna nodded, recovering her Breath from the rope. “Come on,” he said, walking back toward the room. “You’ve made enough of a spectacle for one day.” Vivenna followed, noticing that several people on the street had stopped to watch her. “How did they notice?” she asked. “I wasn’t that obvious about what I was doing.” Vasher snorted. “And how many people in T’Telir walk around in grey clothing?” Vivenna blushed as she followed Vasher into the cramped room. He set down his pack and then leaned Nightblood against one wall. Vivenna eyed the sword. She still wasn’t certain what to make of the weapon. She felt a little nauseated every time she looked at it, and the memory of how violently sick she’d felt when touching it was still fresh. Plus there had been that voice in her head. Had she really heard it? Vasher had been characteristically tight-lipped when she’d asked about it, rebuffing her questions. “Aren’t you an Idrian?” Vasher asked, drawing her attention as he settled down. “Last I checked,” she replied. “You seem oddly fascinated with Awakening for a follower of Austre.” He spoke with eyes closed as he rested his head against the door. “I’m not a very good Idrian,” she said, sitting down. “Not anymore. I might as well learn to use what I have.” Vasher nodded. “Good enough. I’ve never really understood why Austrism suddenly turned its back on Awakening.” “Suddenly?” He nodded, eyes still closed. “Wasn’t like that before the Manywar.” “Really?” “Of course,” he said. He often spoke that way, mentioning things that seemed farfetched to her, yet saying them as if he knew exactly what he
was talking about. No conjecture. No wavering. As if he knew everything. She could see why it was sometimes hard for him to get along with people. “Anyway,” Vasher said, opening his eyes. “Did you eat all of that squid?” She nodded. “Is that what that was?” “Yes,” he said, opening his pack, getting out another dried chunk of meat. He held it up. “Want more?” She felt sick. “No, thank you.” He paused, noticing the look in her eyes. “What? Did I give you a bad piece?” She shook her head. “What?” he asked. “It’s nothing.” He raised an eyebrow. “I said it’s nothing.” She glanced away. “I just don’t care for fish very much.” “You don’t?” he asked. “I’ve been feeding it to you for five days now.” She nodded silently. “You ate it every time.” “I’m dependent upon you for food,” she said. “I don’t intend to complain about what you give me.” He frowned, then took a bite of squid and began chewing. He still wore his torn, almost-ragged clothing, but Vivenna had now been around him enough to know that he kept it clean. He obviously had the resources to get new clothing, yet he chose to wear the worn and tattered things instead. He also wore the same half-scrub, half-beard on his face. It never seemed to get longer, yet she never saw him trim it or shave it. How did he manage to keep it just the right length? Was that intentional, or was she reading too much into it? “You aren’t what I expected,” he said. “I would have been,” she said. “A few weeks ago.” “I doubt it,” he said, gnawing on his chunk of squid. “That tenacious spirit you’ve got doesn’t come from a few weeks on the streets. Neither does that sense of martyrdom.” She met his eyes. “I want you to teach me more about Awakening.” He shrugged. “What do you want to know?” “I don’t even know how to answer that,” she said. “Denth taught me a few Commands, but that was the same day that you took me captive.” Vasher nodded. They sat silent for a few minutes. “Well?” she finally asked. “Are you going to say anything?” “I’m thinking,” he said. She raised an eyebrow. He scowled. “Awakening is something I’ve done for a very, very long time. I always have trouble trying to explain it. Don’t rush me.” “It’s okay,” she said. “Take your time.” He shot her a glance. “Don’t patronize me either.” “I’m not patronizing; I’m being polite.” “Well next time, be polite with less condescension in your voice,” he said. Condescension? she thought. I wasn’t condescending! She eyed him as he sat, chewing on his dried squid. The more time she spent with him, the less frightening she found him, but the more frustrating. He is a dangerous man, she reminded herself. He has left corpses strewn all over the city, using that sword of his to make people slaughter each other. She’d considered running from him on several occasions, but had eventually
decided that she’d be a fool to do so. She could find no fault in his efforts to stop the war, and his solemn promise in the basement that first day still stuck with her. She believed him. Hesitantly. She just intended to keep her eyes open a little wider from now on. “All right,” he said. “I guess this is for the best. I’m getting tired of you walking around with that bright aura of yours that you can’t even use.” “Well?” “Well, I think we should start with theory,” he said. “There are four kinds of BioChromatic entities. The first, and most spectacular, are the Returned. They’re called gods here in Hallandren, but I’d rather call them Spontaneous Sentient BioChromatic Manifestations in a Deceased Host. What is odd about them is that they’re the only naturally occurring BioChromatic entity, which is theoretically the explanation for why they can’t use or bestow their BioChromatic Investiture. Of course, the fact is that every living being is born with a certain BioChromatic Investiture. This could also explain why Type Ones retain sentience.” Vivenna blinked. That wasn’t what she had been expecting. “You’re more interested in Type Two and Type Three entities,” Vasher continued. “Type Two being Mindless Manifestations in a Deceased Host. They are cheap to make, even with awkward Commands. This is per the Law of BioChromatic Parallelism: the closer a host is to a living shape and form, the easier it is to Awaken. BioChroma is the power of life, and so it seeks patterns of life. That, however, leads us to another law—the Law of Comparability. It states that the amount of Breath required to Awaken something isn’t necessarily indicative of its power once Awakened. A piece of cloth cut into a square and a piece of cloth cut into the shape of a person will take very different amounts of Breath to Awaken, but will be essentially the same once they have been Invested. “The explanation for this is simple. Some people think of Awakening as pouring water into a cup. You pour until the cup is filled, and then the object comes to life. This is a false analogy. Instead, think of Awakening as beating down a door. You pound and pound, and some doors are easier to open than others, but once they’re open, they do about the same thing.” He glanced at her. “Understand?” “Uh...” she said. She’d spent her youth training with the tutors, but this was beyond even their methods of teaching. “It’s a little dense.” “Well, do you want to learn or not?” You asked me if I understood, she thought. And I answered. However, she didn’t voice her objections. Better for him to keep talking. “Type Two BioChromatic entities,” he said, “are what people in Hallandren call Lifeless. They are different from Type One entities in several ways. Lifeless can be created at will, and require only a few Breaths to Awaken— anywhere between one and hundreds, depending on the Commands used— and they feed off of their own color when being
Invested. They don’t present an aura when Awakened, but the Breath sustains them, keeping them from needing to eat. They can die, and need a special alcohol solution to remain functional past a few years of Awakened status. Because of their organic host, their Breath clings to the body, and cannot be withdrawn once Invested.” “I know a little about them,” Vivenna said, “Denth and his team have a Lifeless.” Vasher fell silent. “Yes,” he finally said. “I know.” Vivenna frowned, noticing a strange look in his eyes. They sat silently for a few moments. “You were talking about Lifeless and their Commands?” she prompted. Vasher nodded. “They need a Command to Awaken them, just like anything else. Even your religion teaches about Commands—it says that Austre is the one who Commands the Returned to come back.” She nodded. “Understanding the theory of Commands is tough. Look at Lifeless, for instance. It’s taken us centuries to discover the most efficient ways to bring a body to a Lifeless state. Even now, we’re not sure if we understand how it works. I guess this is the first thing I’d like to get across to you—that BioChroma is complicated, and we really don’t understand most of it.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “Just what I said,” Vasher replied, shrugging. “We don’t really know what we’re doing.” “But you sound so technical and precise in your descriptions.” “We’ve figured out some things,” he said. “But Awakeners really haven’t been around that long. The more you learn about BioChroma, the more you’ll realize that there are more things that we don’t know than there are things we do. Why are the specific Commands so important, and why do they have to be spoken in your native language? What brings Type One entities—Returned—back to life in the first place? Why are Lifeless so dull-minded, while Returned fully sentient?” Vivenna nodded. “Creating Type Three BioChromatic entities is what we traditionally call ‘Awakening,’ ” Vasher continued. “That’s when you create a BioChromatic manifestation in an organic host that is far removed from having been alive. Cloth works the best, though sticks, reeds, and other plant matter can be used.” “What about bones?” Vivenna asked. “They’re strange,” Vasher said. “They take far more Breath to awaken than a body held together with ﬂesh and aren’t as ﬂexible as something like cloth. Still, Breath will stick to them fairly easily, since they were once alive and maintain the form of a living thing.” “So Idrian stories that talk about skeletal armies aren’t just fabrications?” He chuckled. “Oh, they are. If you wanted to Awaken a skeleton, you’d have to arrange all the bones together in their correct places. That’s a lot of work for something that will take upwards of fifty or a hundred Breaths to Awaken. Intact corpses make far more sense economically, even if the Breath sticks to them so well that it becomes impossible to recover. Still, I’ve seen some very interesting things done with skeletons which have been Awakened. “Anyway, Type Three entities—regular Awakened objects—are different.
BioChroma doesn’t stick to them very well at all. The result is that they require quite a bit of Investiture—often well over a hundred Breaths—to Awaken them. The benefit of this, of course, is that the Breath can be drawn back out again. This has allowed for quite a bit more experimentation, and that has resulted in a more comprehensive understanding of Awakening techniques.” “You mean the Commands?” Vivenna asked. “Right,” Vasher said. “As you’ve seen, most basic Commands work easily. If the Command is something the object could do, and you state it in a simple way, the Command will usually work.” “I tried some simple Commands,” she said. “On the rope. They didn’t work.” “Those may have sounded simple, but they weren’t. Simple Commands are only two words long. Grab something. Hold something. Move up. Move down. Twist around. Even some two-word Commands can be more complicated, and it takes practice visualizing—or, well, imagining. Well, using your mind to—” “I understand that part,” she said. “Like ﬂexing a muscle.” He nodded. “The Command ‘Protect me,’ though only two words, is extremely complicated. So are others, like Fetch something. You have to give the right impulse to the object. This area is where you really begin to understand how little we know. There are probably thousands of Commands we don’t know. The more words you add, the more complicated the mental component becomes, which is why discovering a new Command can take years of study.” “Like the discovery of a new Command to make Lifeless,” she said thoughtfully. “Three hundred years ago, those who had the one-Breath Command could make their Lifeless much more cheaply than those who didn’t. That disparity started the Manywar.” “Yes,” Vasher said. “Or, at least, that was part of what caused the war. It’s not really important. The thing to understand is that we’re still children when it comes to Awakening. It doesn’t help that a lot of people who learn new, valuable Commands never share them, and probably die with the knowledge.” Vivenna nodded, noticing how his lesson grew more relaxed and conversational as he got into the topic. His expertise surprised her. He sits on the ﬂoor, she thought, eating a dry piece of squid, not having shaven in weeks and wearing clothing that looks like it’s about to fall off. Yet he talks like a scholar giving a lecture. He carries a sword that leaks black smoke and causes people to kill each other, yet he works so hard to stop a war. Who is this man? She glanced to the side, to where Nightblood sat leaning against the wall. Perhaps it was the discussion of the technical aspects of BioChroma, or perhaps it was simply her growing suspicion. She was beginning to understand what wasn’t right about the sword. “What is a Type Four BioChromatic entity?” Vivenna asked, glancing back at Vasher. He fell silent. “Type One is a human body with sentience,” Vivenna said. “Type Two is a human body without sentience. Type three is an Awakened object like a rope—an
object with no sentience. Is there a way to create an Awakened object with sentience? Like a Returned, but inside of something other than a human body?” Vasher stood. “We’ve covered enough for one day.” “You didn’t answer my question.” “And I’m not going to,” he said. “And I advise you never to ask it again. Understand?” He glanced at her, and she felt a chill at the harshness in his voice. “All right,” she said, though she didn’t glance away. He snorted to himself, then reached into his large pack, yanking something out. “Here,” he said. “I brought you something.” He tossed a long, cloth-wrapped object to the ﬂoor. Vivenna stood, walking over to pull the cloth off. Inside was a thin, well-polished dueling blade. “I don’t know how to use one of these,” she said. “Then learn,” he replied. “If you know how to fight, you’ll be far less annoying to have around. I won’t have to keep pulling you out of trouble all the time.” She ﬂushed. “One time.” “It’ll happen again,” he said. She hesitantly picked up the sheathed sword, surprised at how light it was. “Let’s go,” Vasher said. “I’ve got another group for us to visit.” Annotations for Chapter 46 Forty-Seven Annotations for Chapter 47 Lightsong tried not to think about his dreams. He tried not to think about T’Telir in ﬂames. Of people dying. Of the world, essentially, ending. He stood on the second story of his palace, looking over the Court of Gods. The second story was essentially a covered roof, open on all sides. Wind blew through his hair. The sun was close to setting. Already, torches were arrayed on the lawn. It was so perfect. The palaces set in a circle, lit by torches and lanterns matching the colors of the nearest building. Some of the palaces were dark; the buildings that currently held no gods. What would happen if too many others Returned before we killed ourselves? he thought idly. Would they build more palaces? As far as he knew, there had always been enough space. At the head of the court sat the God King’s palace, tall and black. It had obviously been built so that it would dominate even the extravagant mansions of the others, and it threw a wide, warped shadow across the back wall. Perfect. So perfect. The torches were arranged in patterns he could only see by standing atop a building. The grass was kept manicured, and the massive wall tapestries were replaced often so that they showed no wear, stains, or fading. The people put forth such effort for their gods. Why? Sometimes it bafﬂed him. But what to think of other faiths, ones with no visible gods, only incorporeal imaginings or wishes? Surely those ‘gods’ did even less for their people than the Hallandren court, yet they still were worshipped. Lightsong shook his head. Meeting with Allmother had reminded him of days he hadn’t thought of in a long time. Calmseer. She had been his mentor when he’d first Returned. Blushweaver was jealous of
his memories of her, but she didn’t understand the truth. Nor could he, really, explain it. Calmseer had come closer to being a divinity than any Returned Lightsong had known. She’d cared for her followers much as Allmother now tried to do, but there had been genuine concern in Calmseer’s regard. She hadn’t helped the people because she feared that they would stop worshiping, and she had no arrogance of presumed superiority. Real kindness. Real love. Real mercy. Yet even Calmseer had felt inadequate. She had often said she felt guilty because she couldn’t live up to what people expected. How could she? How could anyone? In the end, he suspected this was what drove her to answer a petition. There had only been one way, in her estimation, to be the goddess everyone demanded she be. And that was to give up her life. They push us into it, Lightsong thought. They craft all of this splendor and luxury, they give us whatever we desire, then they subtly poke at us. Be a god. Prophesy. Maintain our illusion for us. Die. Die so that we can keep believing. He usually stayed off his roof. He preferred to be down below, where the limited perspective made it so much easier to ignore the larger view. So much easier to focus on simple things, like his life in the moment. “Your Grace?” Llarimar asked quietly, approaching. Lightsong didn’t reply. “Are you all right, Your Grace?” “No man should be this important,” Lightsong said. “Your Grace?” Llarimar asked, walking up beside him. “It does strange things to you. We weren’t built for it.” “You’re a god, Your Grace. You were built for it.” “No,” he said. “I’m no god.” “Excuse me, but you don’t really get to choose. We worship you, and that makes you our god.” Llarimar spoke the words in his usual calm fashion. Didn’t the man ever get upset? “You’re not helping.” “I apologize, Your Grace. But perhaps you should stop arguing about the same old things.” Lightsong shook his head. “This is something different today. I’m not sure what to do.” “You mean about Allmother’s Commands?” Lightsong nodded. “I thought I had it figured out, Scoot. I can’t keep up with all of the things Blushweaver is plotting—I’ve never been good at details.” Llarimar didn’t respond. “I was going to give it up,” Lightsong said. “Allmother was doing a fantastic job of standing up for herself. I figured that if I gave her my Commands, then she’d know what to do. She’d understand if it’s better to support Blushweaver or oppose her.” “You could still just let her,” Llarimar said. “You gave her your Commands too.” “I know,” Lightsong said. They fell silent. So it comes down to this, he thought. The first of us who changes those Commands takes control of all twenty thousand. The other will be locked out. What did he choose? Did he sit back and let history happen, or did he jump in and make a mess of it? Whoever you are, he thought, whatever
is out there that sent me back, why couldn’t you just let me be? I’d already lived one life. I’d already made my choices. Why did you have to send me back? He’d tried everything, and yet people still looked to him. He knew for a fact that he was one of the most popular Returned, visited by more petitioners and given more art than almost anyone else. Honestly, he thought. What is wrong with these people? Were they so in need of something to worship that they chose him rather than worry that their religion might be false? Allmother claimed that some did think that. She worried about the perceived lack of faith among the common people. Lightsong wasn’t certain he agreed with her. He knew of the theories—that the gods who lived the longest were the weak ones because the system encouraged the best to sacrifice themselves quickly. However, the same number of petitioners came to him now as when he first started. Plus, too few gods were chosen on a whole for that to be statistically valid. Or was he just distracting himself with irrelevant details? He leaned on the railing, looking out over the green and its glowing pavilions. This could be the crowning moment for him. He could finally prove himself to be an indolent wastrel. It was perfect. If he did nothing, then Allmother would be forced to take up the armies and resist Blushweaver. Was that what he wanted? Allmother kept herself isolated from the other gods. She didn’t attend many court assemblies and didn’t listen to the debates. Blushweaver was intimately involved. She knew every god and goddess well. She understood the issues, and she was very clever. Of all of the gods, only she had begun taking steps to secure their armies. Siri is no threat, he thought. But if someone else were manipulating her? Would Allmother have the political savvy to understand the danger? Without his concerned guidance, would Blushweaver see that Siri wasn’t crushed? If he did walk away, there would be a cost. He would be to blame, for he’d given up. “Who was she, Llarimar?” Lightsong asked quietly. “The young woman in my dreams. Was she my wife?” The high priest didn’t answer. “I need to know,” Lightsong said, turning. “This time, I really need to know.” “I...” Llarimar frowned, then looked away. “No,” he said quietly. “She was not your wife.” “My lover?” He shook his head. “But she was important to me?” “Very,” Llarimar said. “And is she still alive?” Llarimar wavered, then finally nodded his head. Still alive, Lightsong thought. If this city fell, then she would be in danger. Everyone who worshiped Lightsong—everyone who counted on him despite his best efforts—would be in danger. T’Telir couldn’t fall. Even if there were war, the fighting wouldn’t come here. Hallandren was not in danger. It was the most powerful kingdom in the world. And what of his dreams? He had been given only one real duty in the government. That of taking command of ten thousand Lifeless.
Of deciding when they should be used. And when they should not be. Still alive... He turned and walked toward the steps. ~ The Lifeless Enclave was technically part of the Court of Gods. The huge building was built at the base of the court plateau, and a long, covered walkway ran down to it. Lightsong moved down the steps with his entourage. They passed several guard posts, though he wasn’t sure why they needed guards in a hallway leading from the court. He had only visited the enclave a couple of times— primarily during his first few weeks as a Returned, when he had been required to give the security phrase to his ten thousand soldiers. Perhaps I should have come more often, he thought. What would have been the point? Servants cared for the Lifeless, making certain their ichoralcohol was fresh, that they exercised, and...did whatever else it was that Lifeless did. Llarimar and several of the other priests were puffing from the long, brisk walk by the time they reached the bottom of the steps. Lightsong, of course, had no trouble, as he was in perfect physical condition. There were some things about godhood that never made him complain. A couple of guards opened the doors into the compound. It was gigantic, of course—it contained space for forty thousand Lifeless. There were four large warehouse-like storage areas for the different groups of Lifeless, a track for them to run around, a room filled with various stones and blocks of metal for them to lift to keep their muscles strong, and a medical area where their ichoralcohol was tested and refreshed. They passed through several twisting passages, designed to confuse invaders who might try to strike at the Lifeless, then approached a guard post set beside a large open doorway. Lightsong passed the living human guards and looked in at the Lifeless. He’d forgotten that they kept them in the dark. Llarimar waved for a couple of priests to hold up lamps. The door opened onto a viewing platform. The ﬂoor of the warehouse extended below, filled with line upon line of silent, waiting soldiers. They wore their armor and carried their weapons in sheaths. “There are holes in the ranks,” Lightsong said. “Some of them will be exercising,” Llarimar replied. “I have sent a servant to fetch them.” Lightsong nodded. The Lifeless stood with eyes open. They didn’t shufﬂe or cough. Staring out over them, Lightsong suddenly remembered why he never felt any desire to return and inspect his troops. They were simply too unnerving. “Everyone out,” Lightsong said. “Your Grace?” Llarimar asked. “Don’t you want a few priests to stay?” Lightsong shook his head. “No. I will bear this phrase myself.” Llarimar hesitated, but then nodded, doing as ordered. In Lightsong’s opinion, there was no good way of keeping Command phrases. Leaving them in the hands of a single god was to risk losing the phrase through assassination. However, the more people who knew the Command phrases, the more likely it was that the secret would be bribed
or tortured out of someone. The only mitigating factor was the God King. Apparently, with his powerful BioChroma, he could break Lifeless more quickly. Still, taking control of ten thousand would require weeks, even for the God King. The choice was left to the individual Returned. They could let some of their priests hear the Command phrase so that if something happened to the god, the priests could pass the phrase on to the next Returned. If the god chose not to give the phrase to his priests, then he placed an even larger burden on himself. Lightsong had found that option silly, years before, and had included Llarimar and several others in the secret. This time he saw wisdom in keeping the phrase to himself. Should he get the chance, he would whisper it to the God King. But only him. “Bottom line blue,” he said. “I give you a new Command phrase.” He paused. “Red panther. Red panther. Step to the right side of the room.” A group of the Lifeless near the front—those who could hear his voice—moved over to the side. Lightsong sighed, closing his eyes. A part of him had hoped that Allmother had come here first, that she had already changed the Command phrase. But she hadn’t. He opened his eyes then took the steps down to the warehouse ﬂoor. He spoke again, changing the phrase for another group. He could do about twenty or thirty at a time—he remembered the process taking hours the last time. He continued. He would leave the Lifeless with their basic instructions to obey the servants when they asked the creatures to exercise or go to the infirmary. He’d give them a lesser Command that could be used to move them about and make them march to specific locations, as when they had been placed in ranks outside the city to greet Siri, and another to make them go with members of the city guard to provide extra muscle. Yet there would only be one person with ultimate command of them. One person who could make them go to war. When he was done in this room, he would move on, taking utter command of Allmother’s ten thousand as well. He would draw both armies to him. And in doing so, he would take his place at the very heart of the fate of two kingdoms. Annotations for Chapter 47 Forty-Eight Annotations for Chapter 48 Susebron didn’t leave in the mornings anymore. Siri lay in the bed beside him, curled slightly, her skin against his. He slept peacefully, chest going up and down, the white bed sheets throwing out prismatic colors around him as they inevitably reacted to his presence. A few months back, who could have understood where she’d find herself? Not only married to the God King of Hallandren, but in love with him as well. She still thought it amazing. He was the most important religious and secular figure in the whole of the Inner Sea area. He was the basis for worship of the Hallandren Iridescent
Tones. He was a creature feared and hated by most people in Idris. And he was dozing quietly at her side. A god of color and beauty, his body as perfectly sculpted as a statue. And what was Siri? Not perfect, of that she was sure. And yet, somehow, she’d brought to him something that he needed. A hint of spontaneity. A breath from the outside, untamed by his priests or his reputation. She sighed, head resting on his chest. There would be a price to be paid for their enjoyment these last few nights. We really are fools, she thought idly. We only have to avoid one thing: giving the priests a child. We’re aiming ourselves straight toward disaster. She found it hard to berate herself too firmly. She suspected that her act wouldn’t have fooled the priests for much longer. They would grow suspicious, or at least frustrated, if she continued it without producing an heir. She could imagine them interfering if faced with more stalling. Whatever she and Susebron did to change events, they would have to do it quickly. He stirred beside her, and she twisted, looking at his face as he opened his eyes. He regarded her for a few minutes, stroking her hair. It was amazing how quickly they had become comfortable in their intimacy. He reached for his writing board. I love you. She smiled. It was always the first thing he wrote in the mornings. “And I love you,” she said. However, he continued, we are probably in trouble, aren’t we? “Yes.” How long? he asked. Until it’s obvious that you will bear a child, I mean? “I’m not sure,” she said, frowning. “I don’t have much experience with this, obviously. I know that some of the women back in Idris complained of not being able to have children as quickly as they wanted, so maybe it doesn’t always happen immediately. I know other women who bore children almost exactly nine months after their wedding night.” Susebron looked thoughtful. A year from now, I could be a mother, Siri thought. She found the concept daunting. Up until a short time ago, she hadn’t really thought of herself as an adult. Of course, she thought, feeling a bit sick, according to what we’ve been told, any children I bear the God King would be stillborn anyway. Even if that was a lie, her child would be in danger. She still suspected that the priests would spirit it away, then replace it with a Returned. In all likelihood, Siri would then be made to disappear as well. Bluefingers tried to warn me, she thought. He spoke of danger, not only to Susebron, but to me. Susebron was writing. I’ve made a decision, he wrote. Siri raised an eyebrow. I want to try making myself known to the people, he wrote, and the other gods. I want to take control of my kingdom for myself. “I thought we decided that would be too dangerous.” It will be, he wrote. But I’m beginning to think that it is
a risk we must take. “And your objections from before?” she asked. “You can’t shout out the truth, and your guards are likely to rush you away if you try something like escaping.” Yes, Susebron wrote, but you have far fewer guards, and you can yell. Siri paused. “Yes,” she said. “But would anyone believe me? What would they think if I just started screaming about how the God King is being held prisoner by his own priests?” Susebron cocked his head. “Trust me,” she said. “They’d think that I was crazy.” What if you gained the confidence of the Returned you often speak about? he wrote. Lightsong the Bold. Siri gave that some thought. You could go to him, Susebron wrote. Tell him the truth. Perhaps he will lead you to other Returned he thinks might listen. The priests will not be able to silence us all. Siri lay beside him for a moment, head still resting on his chest. “It sounds possible, Seb, but why not just run? My serving women are from Pahn Kahl now. Bluefingers has said that he will try to get us out, if I ask. We can ﬂee to Idris.” If we ﬂee, Hallandren troops will follow, Siri. We would not be safe in Idris. “We could go somewhere else, then.” He shook his head. Siri, I have been listening to the arguments in the court of judgment. There will soon be war between our kingdoms. If we run, we will be abandoning Idris to invasion. “The invasion will happen if we stay, too.” Not if I take control of my throne, Susebron wrote. The people of Hallandren, even the gods, are obligated to obey me. There will be no war if they know I disapprove. He erased, then continued, writing faster. I have told the priests that I don’t wish to go to war, and they appeared sympathetic. However, they have done nothing. “They are probably worried,” Siri said. “If they let you start making policy, then you may begin to think that you don’t need them.” They’d be right, he wrote, smiling. I need to become the leader of my people, Siri. That is the only way to protect your beautiful hills and the family you love so much. Siri fell silent, offering no further objections. To do as he was saying would be to play their hand. Make a gamble for everything. If they failed, the priests would undoubtedly figure out that Siri and Susebron were in communication. That would spell the end of their time alone together. Susebron obviously noticed her concern. It is dangerous, but it is the best option. Fleeing would be just as risky, and it would leave us in far worse circumstances. In Idris, we would be seen as the reason the Hallandren armies had come. Other countries would be even more dangerous. Siri slowly nodded. In another country, they’d have no money and would make perfect subjects for ransom. They’d escape the priests only to find themselves being held captive to be used against Hallandren. The
Kingdom of Iridescence was still widely disliked because of the Manywar. “We’d be taken captive, as you say,” she acknowledged. “Plus, if we were in another country, I doubt we’d be able to get you a Breath every week. Without them, you’d die.” He looked hesitant. “What?” she asked. I would not die without Breath, he wrote. But that is not an argument in favor of ﬂight. “You mean the stories of Returned needing Breath to live are lies?” Siri asked incredulously. Not at all, he wrote quickly. We do need Breath—but you forget that I hold the wealth of Breath passed down for generations in my family. I heard my priests speak of this once. If it were necessary to move me, I could survive on the extra Breaths I hold. Those over and above the Breath that makes me Returned. My body would simply feed off those extra Breaths, absorbing one a week. Siri sat back thoughtfully. That seemed to imply something about Breath that she couldn’t quite figure out. Unfortunately, she just didn’t have the experience to sort through it. “All right,” she said. “So we could go into hiding if we needed to.” I said this was not an argument for ﬂeeing, Susebron wrote. My treasure of Breaths might keep me alive, but it would also make me a very valuable target. Everyone will want those Breaths—even if I weren’t the God King, I would be in danger. That was very true. Siri nodded. “All right,” she said. “If we’re really going to try exposing what the priests have done, I think we make our move soon. If I display any signs of being pregnant, I bet it will take the priests all of two heartbeats to sequester me.” Susebron nodded. There will be a general assembly of the court in a couple of days. I have heard my priests say that this will be an important meeting—it is rare that the gods are all called together to vote. That meeting will decide whether or not we march on Idris. Siri nodded nervously. “I could sit with Lightsong,” she said, “and plead for his help. If we go to several of the other gods, perhaps they—in front of the crowds—can demand to know whether or not I am lying.” And I will open my mouth and reveal that I have no tongue, he wrote. Then let us see what the priests do. They will be forced to bow to the will of their own pantheon. Siri nodded. “All right,” she said. “Let’s try it.” Annotations for Chapter 48 Forty-Nine Annotations for Chapter 49 Vasher found her practicing again. He hovered outside the window, lowered down from the roof via an Awakened rope which gripped him about the waist. Inside, Vivenna repeatedly Awakened a strip of cloth, unaware of Vasher. She Commanded the cloth to wiggle across the room, wrap around a cup, then bring that cup back without spilling. She’s learning so quickly, he thought. The Commands themselves were simple to say, but providing the right mental impulse
was difficult. It was like learning to control a second body. Vivenna was quick. Yes, she had a lot of Breath. That made it easier, but true Instinctive Awakening—the ability to Awaken objects without training or practice—was a gift granted only by the Sixth Heightening. That was one step beyond even what Returned had, with their single deific Breath. Vivenna was far from that stage. She learned faster than she should have, even if he knew she was frustrated by how often she got things wrong. Even as he watched, she made a mistake. The cloth wiggled across the room, but climbed into the cup instead of wrapping around it. It shook, making the cup fall over, then the cloth finally returned, leaving a soggy trail. Vivenna cursed and walked over to refill the cup. She never noticed Vasher hanging just outside. He wasn’t surprised—he was currently a Drab, his excess Breath stored in his shirt. She replaced the cup, and he pulled himself up as she walked back. Of course, the mechanics of how he moved about with the ropes were far more complicated than they seemed. His Command incorporated making the rope respond to taps of his finger along its length. Awakening was different from creating a Lifeless—Lifeless had brains and could interpret Commands and requests. The rope had none of that; it could only act on its original instructions. With a few taps, he lowered himself again, Vivenna faced away from him as she picked up another colored swatch to use as fuel when she Awakened her cup-fetching ribbon. I like her, Nightblood said. I’m glad we didn’t kill her. Vasher didn’t respond. She’s very pretty, don’t you think? Nightblood asked. You can’t tell, Vasher replied. I can tell, Nightblood said. I’ve decided that I can. Vasher shook his head. Pretty or not, the woman should never have come to Hallandren. She’d given Denth a perfect tool. Of course, he admitted wryly, Denth probably didn’t need that tool. Hallandren and Idris were close to snapping. Vasher had stayed away too long. He knew that. He also knew that there was no way he would have come back earlier. Inside the room, Vivenna successfully managed to get the cloth to bring her cup, and she drank from it with a satisfied look that Vasher could just barely see from the side. He had the rope lower him to the ground. He ordered it to let go up above, then—once it had twisted down around his arm—he recovered his Breath and climbed the external steps to the room. ~ Vivenna turned as Vasher entered. She set down the cup, hurriedly stuffing the cloth in her pocket. What does it matter if he sees me practicing? she thought, ﬂushing. It’s not like I have anything to hide. But practicing before him was embarrassing. He was so stern, so unforgiving of faults. She didn’t like him to see her fail. “Well?” she asked. He shook his head. “Both the house you were using and the safe house in the slums are empty,” he
said. “Denth is too clever to get caught like that. He must have figured that you would reveal his location.” Vivenna ground her teeth in frustration, settling back against the wall. Like the other rooms they had stayed in, this one was utterly simple. Their only possessions were a pair of bedrolls and their changes of clothing, all of which Vasher carried about in his duffel. Denth lived far more luxuriously. He could afford to—he now held all of Lemex’s money. Clever bit, that, she thought. Giving me the money, making me feel like I was in charge. He knew all along that the gold was never out of his hands, just as I never was. “I was hoping we’d be able to watch him,” she said. “Maybe get a jump on what he’s planning next.” Vasher shrugged. “Didn’t work. No use crying about it. Come on. I think I can get us in to meet with some of the Idrian workers at one of the orchards, assuming we arrive during the lunch break.” Vivenna frowned as he turned to go. “Vasher,” she said. “We can’t keep doing this.” “This?” “When I was with Denth, we met with crime lords and politicians. You and I are meeting with peasants on corners and in fields.” “They’re good people!” “I know they are,” Vivenna said quickly. “But, do you really think we’re making a difference? Compared to what Denth is probably doing, I mean?” He frowned, but instead of arguing with her, he just pounded his fist against the side of the wall. “I know,” he said. “I’ve tried other leads, but most everything I do seems a step behind Denth. I can kill his gangs of thieves, but he has more of them than I can find. I’ve tried to figure out who is behind the war—even followed leads in the Court of Gods itself—but everyone is growing more and more tight-lipped. They assume the war to be inevitable, now, and don’t want to be seen as being on the losing side of the argument.” “What about priests?” Vivenna said. “Aren’t they the ones who bring things to the attention of the gods? If we can get more of them to argue against the war, then maybe we can stop it.” “Priests are fickle,” Vasher said with a shake of his head. “Most of those who argued against the war have caved in. Even Nanrovah switched sides on me.” “Nanrovah?” “High priest of Stillmark,” Vasher said. “I thought he was solid—he even met with me a few times to talk about his opposition of the war. Now he refuses to see me anymore and has switched sides. Colorless liar.” Vivenna frowned. Nanrovah...“Vasher,” she said. “We did something to him.” “What?” “Denth and his team,” Vivenna said. “We helped a gang of thieves rob from a salt peddler. We used a couple of distractions to cover the burglary. We set a fire in a nearby building and overturned a carriage that was passing through the garden. The carriage belonged to a high priest. I
think his name was Nanrovah.” Vasher cursed quietly. “You think it might be connected?” she asked. “Maybe. You know which thieves were actually doing the robbery?” She shook her head. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Wait here.” ~ So she did. She waited for hours. She tried practicing her Awakening, but she’d already spent most of the day working on that. She was mentally exhausted and found it difficult to concentrate. Eventually, she found herself staring out the window in annoyance. Denth had always let her go along on his information gathering forays. That was just because he wanted to keep me close, she thought. Now that she looked back, there were obviously lots of things Denth had been hiding from her. Vasher just didn’t care to placate her. He wasn’t stingy with information, though, when she asked. His answers were grumpy, but he did usually answer. She still mulled over their conversation about Awakening. Less because of what he’d said. More because of the way he’d said it. She’d been wrong about him. She was almost certain of that now. She had to stop judging people. But was that possible? Wasn’t interaction based, in part, on judgments? A person’s background and attitudes inﬂuenced how she responded to them. The answer, then, wasn’t to stop judging. It was to hold those judgments as mutable. She’d judged Denth to be a friend, but she shouldn’t have ignored the way he talked about mercenaries having no friends. The door slammed open. Vivenna jumped, putting a hand to her chest. Vasher walked in. “Start reaching for that sword when you’re startled,” he said. “There’s little reason to grab your shirt, unless you’re planning to rip it off.” Vivenna ﬂushed, hair twinging red. The sword he had bought her lay on the side of the room; they hadn’t had much opportunity to practice, and she still barely even knew how to hold the thing properly. “Well?” she asked as he closed the door. It was already dark outside, and the city was beginning to sparkle with lights. “The robbery was a cover,” Vasher said. “The real hit was that carriage. Denth promised the thieves something valuable if they committed a robbery and started a fire, both as distractions to get at the carriage.” “Why?” Vivenna asked. “I’m not sure.” “Coins?” Vivenna asked. “When Clod hit the horse, it knocked a chest off the top. It was filled with gold.” “What happened then?” Vasher asked. “I left with some others. I thought the carriage itself was the distraction, and once it went down, I was supposed to pull out.” “Denth?” “He wasn’t there, come to think of it,” Vivenna said. “The others told me he was working with the thieves.” Vasher nodded, walking over to his pack. He threw aside the bedrolls then took out several articles of clothing. He pulled off his shirt, exposing a well-muscled—and rather hairy—torso. Vivenna blinked in surprise, then blushed. She probably should have turned aside, but the curious part of her was too strong. What was he doing? He didn’t remove
his trousers, thankfully, but instead threw on a different shirt. The sleeves of this one were cut into long ribbons near the wrists. “Upon call,” he said, “become my fingers and grip that which I must.” The cuff tassels wiggled. “Wait,” Vivenna said. “What was that? A Command?” “Too complicated for you,” he said, kneeling and undoing the cuff of his trousers. She could see that here, too, there were extra lengths of cloth. “Become as my legs and give them strength,” he Commanded. The leg-tassels crossed under his feet, growing tight. Vivenna didn’t argue with his insistence that the Commands were “too complicated.” She just memorized them anyway. Finally, Vasher threw on his tattered cloak, which was ripped in places. “Protect me,” he Commanded, and she could see a lot of his remaining Breath drain into the cloak. He wrapped his rope belt around his waist—it was thin, for a rope, but strong, and she knew its purpose was not to keep his trousers up. Finally, he picked up Nightblood. “You coming?” “Where?” “We’re going to go capture a few of those thieves. Ask them exactly what Denth wanted with that carriage.” Vivenna felt a stab of fear. “Why invite me? Won’t I just make it harder for you?” “Depends,” he said. “If we get into a fight, and you get in the way, then it will be more difficult. If we get into a fight and half of them attack you instead of me, it will make things easier.” “Assuming you don’t defend me.” “That’s a good assumption,” he said, looking into her eyes. “If you want to come, come. But don’t expect me to protect you, and—whatever you do—don’t try and follow on your own.” “I wouldn’t do such a thing,” she said. He shrugged. “I thought I’d make the offer. You’re no prisoner here, Princess. You can do whatever you want. Just don’t get in my way when you do it, understand?” “I understand,” she said, feeling a chill as she made her decision. “And I’m coming.” He didn’t try to dissuade her. He simply pointed at her sword. “Keep that on.” She nodded, tying it on. “Draw it,” he said. She did so, and he corrected her grip. “What good will holding it properly do?” she asked. “I still don’t know how to use it.” “Look threatening and it might make someone attacking you pause. Make them hesitate for a couple seconds in a fight, and that could mean a lot.” She nodded nervously, sliding the weapon back in its sheath. Then she grabbed several lengths of rope. “Hold when thrown,” she said to the smaller one, then stuffed it into her pocket. Vasher eyed her. “Better to lose the Breath than get killed,” she said. “Few Awakeners agree with you,” he noted. “To most of them, the thought of losing Breath is far more frightening than the prospect of death.” “Well, I’m not like most Awakeners,” she said. “Half of me still finds the process blasphemous.” He nodded. “Put the rest of your Breath somewhere else,”
he said, opening the door. “We can’t afford to draw attention.” She grimaced, then did as told, putting her Breath into her shirt with a basic, and non-active, Command. It was actually the same as giving a half-spoken Command, or one that was mumbled. Those would draw out the Breath, but leave the item unable to act. As soon as she placed the Breath, the dullness returned. Everything seemed dead around her. “Let’s go,” Vasher said, moving out into the darkness. Night in T’Telir was very different from her homeland. There, it had been possible to see so many stars overhead that it looked like a bucket of white sand had been dashed into the air. Here, there were street lamps, taverns, restaurants, and houses of entertainment. The result was a city full of lights—a little like the stars themselves had come down to inspect grand T’Telir. And yet, Vivenna was still saddened by how few real stars she saw in the sky. None of that meant that the places they were going were by any means bright. Vasher led her through the streets, and he quickly became little more than a hulking shadow. They left behind places with street lights, and even lit windows, moving into an unfamiliar slum. This was one of those she’d been afraid to enter, even when she lived on the streets. The night seemed to grow even darker as they entered and walked down one of the twisting, dark alleys that passed for streets in such places. They remained silent. Vivenna knew not to speak and draw attention. Eventually, Vasher pulled to a stop. He pointed toward a building: single-story, ﬂat-topped, and wide. It sat alone, in a depression, shanties built from refuse covering the low hill behind it. Vasher waved for her to stay back, then quietly put the rest of his Breath into his rope and crept forward up the hill. Vivenna waited, nervous, kneeling beside a decaying shanty that appeared to have been built from half-crumbling bricks. Why did I come? she thought. He didn’t tell me to—he simply said that I could. I could just as easily have stayed behind. But she was tired of things happening to her. She had been the one to point out that maybe there was a connection between the priest and Denth’s plan. She wanted to see this to the end. Do something. That had been easy to think back in the lit room. It didn’t help her nerves that, looming to the left side of the shanty was one of the D’Denir statues. There had been some of them in the Highland slums as well, though most of those had been defaced or broken. She couldn’t feel anything with her life sense. She felt almost as if she’d been blinded. The Breath’s absence brought memories of nights sleeping in the mud of a cold alleyway. Beatings administered by urchins half her size but with twice her competence. Hunger. Terrible, omnipresent, depressing, and draining hunger. A footstep cracked and a shadow loomed. She nearly gasped in
shock, but managed to keep it in as she recognized Nightblood in the figure’s hand. “Two guards,” Vasher said. “Both silenced.” “Will they do for answering our questions?” Vasher shook a silhouetted head. “Practically kids. We need someone more important. We’ll have to go in. Either that, or sit and watch for a few days to determine who is in charge, then grab him when he’s alone.” “That would take too long,” Vivenna whispered. “I agree,” he said. “I can’t use the sword, though. When Nightblood is done with a group, there’s never anyone to question.” Vivenna shivered. “Come on,” he whispered. She followed as quietly as she could, moving for the front door. Vasher grabbed her arm and shook his head. She followed him around to the side, barely noticing the two lumps of unconscious bodies rolled into a ditch. At the back of the building, Vasher began to feel around on the ground. After a few moments without success, he cursed quietly and pulled something from his pocket. A handful of straw. In just a few seconds, he had constructed three little men from the straw and some thread, then used Breath reclaimed from his cloak to animate them. He gave each one the same command: “find tunnels.” Vivenna watched with fascination. That’s far more abstract a Command than he led me to believe was possible, she thought as the little men scuttled around on the ground. Vasher himself returned to his searching. Apparently experience—and ability to use mental images—is the most important aspect of Awakening. He’s been doing this a long time, and the way he spoke before—like a scholar—indicates he’s studied Awakening very seriously. One of the straw men began to jump up and down. The other two rushed over to it and then they began to bounce as well. Vasher joined them, as did Vivenna, and she watched as he uncovered a trapdoor hidden beneath a thick layer of dirt. He raised it a tad, then reached underneath. His hand came back out with several small bells, which had apparently been rigged there to ring if the door were opened all the way. “No group like this has a hideout without bolt-holes,” Vasher said. “Usually a couple of them. Always trapped.” Vivenna watched as he recovered the Breath from the straw men, quietly thanking each one. She frowned at the curious words. They were just piles of straw. Why thank them? He put the Breath back into his cloak with a protection Command, then led the way down through the trapdoor. Vivenna followed, stepping softly, skipping a particular step when Vasher indicated. The bottom was a roughly cut tunnel—or, so she got from feeling along the sides of the lightless earthen chamber. Vasher moved forward; she could only tell because of the quiet rustling of his clothing. She followed and was curious to see light ahead. She could also hear voices. Men talking, and laughing. Soon she could see Vasher’s silhouette; she moved up next to him, peeking out of their tunnel and into an earthen room.
There was a fire burning at the center, the smoke twisting up through a hole in the ceiling. The upper chamber—the building itself—was probably just a front, for the chamber down here looked very lived-in. There were piles of cloth, bed rolls, pots and pans. All of it as dirty as the men who sat around the fire, laughing. Vasher gestured to the side. There was another tunnel a few feet to the side of the one they were hiding in. Vivenna’s heart jumped in shock as Vasher crept into the room and toward the second tunnel. She glanced at the fire. The men were very focused on their drinking, and were blinded by the light. They didn’t seem to notice Vasher. She took a deep breath, then followed into the shadows of the large room, feeling exposed with the firelight to her back. Vasher didn’t go far, however, before stopping. Vivenna nearly collided with him. He stood there for a few moments; finally, Vivenna poked him in the back, trying to get him to move aside so that she could see what he was doing. He shufﬂed, letting her see what was before him. This tunnel ended abruptly—apparently, it wasn’t so much a tunnel as a nook. Nestled against the back of the nook was a cage, about as high as Vivenna’s waist. Inside the cage was a child. Vivenna gasped softly, pushing past Vasher and kneeling down beside the cage. The valuable thing in the carriage, she thought, making the connection. It wasn’t the coins. It was the priest’s daughter. The perfect bargaining chip if you wanted to blackmail someone into changing their position at court. As Vivenna knelt, the girl pulled back in the cage, snifﬂing quietly and quivering. The cage stank of human waste, and the child was covered in grime—all except for lines on her cheeks, which had been streaked clean by tears. Vivenna looked up at Vasher. His eyes were shadowed, his back to the fire, but she could see him gritting his teeth. She could see tension in his muscles. He turned his head to the side, half-illuminating his face with the light of the red fire. In that single lit eye, Vivenna saw fury. “Hey!” one of the thieves called. “Get the child out,” Vasher said in a harsh whisper. “How did you get here!” another man yelled. Vasher met her eyes with his single illuminated one, and she felt herself shrink before him. She nodded, and Vasher turned away from her, one hand clenching into a fist, the other grabbing Nightblood in a hard-knuckled grip. He stepped slowly, deliberately, as he approached the men, his cloak rustling. Vivenna intended to do as asked, but she found it hard to look away from him. The men drew blades. Vasher moved suddenly. Nightblood, still sheathed, took one man in the chest, and Vivenna heard bones snap. Another man attacked, and Vasher spun, whipping out a hand. The tassels on his sleeve moved on their own, wrapping around the blade of the thief’s sword, catching it.
Vasher’s momentum ripped the blade free, and he tossed it aside, the tassels releasing it. The sword hit the dirt of the cellar ﬂoor; Vasher’s hand snapped up, grabbing the thief’s face. The tassels wrapped around the man’s head like a squid’s tentacles. Vasher slammed the man backward and down into the ground— kneeling as he did to add momentum—even as he rammed the sheathed Nightblood into another man’s legs, dropping him. A third tried to cut Vasher from behind, and Vivenna cried a warning. Vasher’s cloak, however, suddenly whipped out—moving on its own—and grabbed the surprised man by the arms. Vasher turned, anger in his face, and swung Nightblood toward the entangled man. Vivenna cringed at the sound of the cracking bones, and she turned away from the fight as the screaming continued. With shaking fingers, she tried to open the cage. It was locked, of course. She drew out some Breath from a rope, then tried to Awaken the lock, but nothing happened. Metal, she thought. Of course. It hasn’t been alive, so it can’t be Awakened. Instead she pulled a thread free from her shirt, trying to ignore the cries of pain from behind. Vasher began to bellow as he fought, losing any semblance of being a cold, professional killer. This was a man enraged. She raised the thread. “Unlock things,” she Commanded. The thread wiggled a bit, but when she stuck it into the lock, nothing happened. She withdrew the Breath, took a few calming breaths of her own, then closed her eyes. Have to get the intention right. Need it to go inside, twist the tumbler free. “Twist things,” she said, feeling the Breath leave her. She stuck the thread into the lock. It spun about, and she heard a click. The door opened. The sounds of fighting from behind stopped, though men continued to moan. Vivenna recovered her Breath then reached into the cage. The girl cringed, crying out and hiding her face. “I’m a friend,” Vivenna said soothingly. “Please, I’m here to help you.” But the girl wiggled, screaming when touched. Frustrated, Vivenna turned back toward Vasher. He stood beside the fire, head bowed, bodies strewn around him. He held Nightblood in one hand, sheathed tip resting back against the dirty ﬂoor. And, for some reason, he seemed larger than he had a few moments ago. Taller. Broader of shoulders. More threatening. Vasher’s other hand was on Nightblood’s hilt. The sheath clasp was undone, and black smoke crept out, off of the blade, some pouring toward the ground, some ﬂoating up toward the ceiling. As if it couldn’t decide. Vasher’s arm was quivering. Draw...me...a distant voice seemed to say in Vivenna’s head. Kill them... Many of the men still twitched on the ground. Vasher began to slide the blade free. It was dark black, and it seemed to suck in the firelight. This isn’t good, she thought. “Vasher!” she yelled. “Vasher, the girl won’t come to me!” He froze, then glanced at her, eyes glazed over. “You defeated them, Vasher. No need to draw the
sword.” Yes...yes there is... He blinked, then saw her. He snapped Nightblood back into place, shaking his head and rushing toward her. He kicked a body as he passed, earning a grunt. “Colorless monsters,” he whispered, looking into the cage. He no longer seemed larger, and she decided that what she’d seen must have just been a trick of the light. He reached into the cage, holding out his hands. And, oddly, the child immediately went to him, grabbing his chest and weeping. Vivenna watched with shock. Vasher picked the child up, tears in his own eyes. “You know her?” Vivenna asked. He shook his head. “I’ve met Nanrovah, and knew he had young children, but I never met any of them.” “Then how? Why did she come to you?” He didn’t answer. “Come on,” he said. “I attacked the ones who came running down when they heard screams. But more might return.” He looked like he almost wished that would happen. He turned toward the exit tunnel, and Vivenna followed. ~ They immediately moved toward one of the rich neighborhoods of T’Telir. Vasher didn’t say much as they walked, and the girl was even more unresponsive. Vivenna worried for the child’s mind. She had obviously had a rough couple of months. They passed from shanties, to tenements, to decent homes on tree-lined streets with burning lanterns. As they reached the mansions, Vasher paused on the street, setting the girl down. “Child,” he said. “I’m going to say some words to you. I want you to repeat them. Repeat them, and mean them.” The girl regarded him absently, nodding slightly. He glanced at Vivenna. “Back away.” She opened her mouth to object, but thought better of it. She stepped back out of earshot. Fortunately, Vasher was near a lit streetlamp, so she could see him well. He spoke to the little girl, and she spoke back to him. After opening the cage, Vivenna had taken the Breath back from the thread. She hadn’t stowed it somewhere else. And, with the extra awareness she had, she thought she saw something. The girl’s BioChromatic aura—the normal one that all people had—ﬂickered just slightly. It was faint. Yet with the first Heightening, Vivenna could have sworn she saw it. But Denth told me it was all or nothing, she thought. You have to give away all the Breath you hold. And you certainly can’t give away part of a breath. Denth, it had been proven in other instances, was also a liar. Vasher stood, the girl climbing back into his arms. Vivenna walked up and was surprised to hear the girl talking. “Where’s Daddy?” she asked. Vasher didn’t reply. “I’m dirty,” the girl said, looking down. “Mommy doesn’t like it when I get dirty. The dress is dirty too.” Vasher began walking. Vivenna hurriedly caught up. “Are we going home?” the girl asked. “Where have we been? It’s late, and I shouldn’t be out. Who’s that woman?” She doesn’t remember, Vivenna realized. Doesn’t remember where she’s been...probably doesn’t remember anything of the entire experience. Vivenna
looked again at Vasher, walking with his ragged beard, eyes forward, child in one arm, Nightblood in the other. He walked right up to a mansion’s gates then kicked them open. He moved onto the mansion grounds, Vivenna following more nervously. A pair of guard dogs began barking. They howled and growled, getting closer. Vivenna cringed. Yet, as soon as they saw Vasher, they grew quiet, then trailed along happily, one hopping up and trying to lick his hands. What in the name of the Colors is going on? Some people were gathering at the front of the mansion, holding lanterns, trying to see what had caused the barking. One saw Vasher, said something to the others, then disappeared back inside. By the time Vivenna and Vasher had reached the front patio, a man had appeared at the front doors. He wore a white nightgown and was guarded by a couple of soldiers. They stepped forward to block Vasher, but the man in the nightgown rushed between them, crying out. He wept as he took the child from Vasher’s arms. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.” Vivenna stood quietly, staying back. The dogs continued to lick Vasher’s hands, though they noticeably avoided Nightblood. The man clutched his child before finally surrendering her to a woman who had just arrived—the child’s mother, Vivenna assumed. The woman exclaimed in joy, taking the girl. “Why have you returned her?” the man said, looking at Vasher. “Those who took her have been punished,” Vasher said in his quiet, gruff voice. “That’s all that should matter to you right now.” The man squinted. “Do I know you, stranger?” “We’ve met,” Vasher said. “I asked you to argue against the war.” “That’s right!” the man said. “You didn’t need to encourage me. But when they took Misel away from me...I had to stay quiet about what had happened, had to change my arguments, or they said they’d kill her.” Vasher turned away, moving to walk back down the path. “Take your child, keep her safe.” He paused, turning back. “And make certain this kingdom doesn’t use its Lifeless for a slaughter.” The man nodded, still weeping. “Yes, yes. Of course. Thank you. Thank you so much.” Vasher continued walking. Vivenna rushed after him, eyeing the dogs. “How did you make them stop barking?” He didn’t respond. She glanced back at the mansion. “You have redeemed yourself,” he said quietly, passing the dark gates. “What?” “Kidnapping that girl is something Denth would have done, even if you hadn’t come to T’Telir,” Vasher said. “I would never have found her. Denth worked with too many different groups of thieves, and I thought that burglary was simply intended to disrupt supplies. Like everyone else, I ignored the carriage.” He stopped then looked at Vivenna in the darkness. “You saved that girl’s life.” “By happenstance,” she said. She couldn’t see her hair in the dark, but she could feel it going red. “Regardless.” Vivenna smiled, the compliment affecting her—for some reason—far more than it should have. “Thank you.” “I’m sorry I lost
my temper,” he said. “Back in that lair. A warrior is supposed to be calm. When you duel or fight, you can’t let anger control you. That’s why I’ve never been that good a duelist.” “You did the job,” she said, “and Denth has lost another pawn.” They moved out onto the street. “Though,” she added, “I wish I hadn’t seen that lavish mansion. Doesn’t raise my opinion of the Hallandren priests.” Vasher shook his head. “Nanrovah’s father was one of the wealthiest merchants in the city. The son dedicated himself to serving the gods out of gratitude for their blessings. He takes no pay for his Service.” Vivenna paused. “Oh.” Vasher shrugged in the darkness. “Priests are always easy to blame. They make convenient scapegoats—after all, anyone with a strong faith different from your own must either be a crazy zealot or a lying manipulator.” Vivenna ﬂushed yet again. Vasher stopped in the street, then turned to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to say it that way.” He cursed, turning and walking again. “I told you I’m no good at this.” “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m getting used to it.” He nodded in the darkness, seeming distracted. He is a good man, she thought. Or, at least, an earnest man trying to be good. A part of her felt foolish for making yet another judgment. Yet she knew she couldn’t live—couldn’t interact—without making some judgments. So she judged Vasher. Not as she’d judged Denth, who had said amusing things and given her what she’d expected to see. She judged Vasher by what she had seen him do. Cry when he saw a child being held captive. Return that child to her father, his only reward an opportunity to make a rough plea for peace. Living with barely any money, dedicating himself to preventing a war. He was rough. He was brutal. He had a terrible temper. But he was a good man. And, walking beside him, she felt safe for the first time in weeks. Annotations for Chapter 49 Fifty Annotations for Chapter 50 “And so we each have twenty thousand,” Blushweaver said, walking beside Lightsong on the stone pathway that led in a circle around the arena. “Yes,” Lightsong said. Their priests, attendants, and servants followed in a holy herd, though the two gods had refused palanquin or parasol. They walked alone, side by side. Lightsong in gold and red. Blushweaver, for once, wearing a gown that actually covered her. Amazing, how good she looks in something like that, he found himself thinking, when she takes the time to respect herself. He wasn’t certain what made him dislike her revealing outfits. Maybe he’d been a prude in his former life. Or maybe he simply was one now. He smiled ruefully to himself. How much can I really blame on my “old” self? That man is dead. He wasn’t the one who got himself involved in the kingdom’s politics. The arena was filling, and—in a rare show—all of the gods would be in attendance. Only Weatherlove was
late, but he was often unpredictable. Important events are imminent, Lightsong thought. They have been building for years now. Why should I be at the center of them? His dreams the night before had been so odd. finally, no visions of war. Just the moon. And some odd twisting passages. Like...tunnels. Many of the gods nodded in respect as he passed their pavilions— though, admittedly, some scowled at him, and a few just ignored him. What a strange system of rule, he thought. Immortals who only last a decade or two—and who have never seen the outside world. And yet the people trust us. The people trust us. “I think we should share the Command phrases with each other, Lightsong,” Blushweaver said. “So that we each have all four, just in case.” He didn’t say anything. She turned away from him, looking at the people in their colorful clothing, clogging the benches and seats. “My, my,” Blushweaver said, “quite the crowd. And so few of them paying attention to me. Quite rude of them, wouldn’t you say?” Lightsong shrugged. “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “Perhaps they’re just...what was it? Stunned, dazzled, and dumbfounded?” Lightsong smiled faintly, remembering their conversation a few months back. The day this all had started. Blushweaver looked at him, a longing in her eyes. “Indeed,” Lightsong said. “Or, perhaps, they’re really just ignoring you. In order to compliment you.” Blushweaver smiled. “And how, exactly, does ignoring me make a compliment? “It provokes you to be indignant,” Lightsong said. “And we all know that is when you are in best form.” “You like my form, then?” “It has its uses. Unfortunately, I cannot compliment you by ignoring you as the others do. You see, only truly, sincerely ignoring you would provide the intended compliment. I am, actually, helpless and unable to ignore you. I do apologize.” “I see,” Blushweaver said. “I’m ﬂattered. I think. Yet you seem very good at ignoring some things. Your own divinity. General good manners. My feminine wiles.” “You’re hardly wily, my dear,” Lightsong said. “A wily man is one who fights with a small, carefully hidden dagger in reserve. You are more like a man who crushes his opponent with a stone block. Regardless, I do have another method of dealing with you, one that you shall likely find quite ﬂattering.” “Somehow I find myself doubting.” “You should have more faith in me,” he said with a suave wave of the hand. “I am, after all, a god. In my divine wisdom, I have realized that the only way to truly compliment one such as you—Blushweaver—is to be far more attractive, intelligent, and interesting than you.” She snorted. “Well, then, I feel rather insulted by your presence.” “Touché,” Lightsong said. “And are you going to explain why you consider competing with me to be the most sincere form of compliment?” “Of course I am,” Lightsong said. “My dear, have you ever known me to make an inﬂammatorily ridiculous statement without providing an equally ridiculous explanation to substantiate it?” “Of course not,” she agreed. “You
are nothing if not exhaustive in your self-congratulatory made-up logic.” “I am rather exceptional in that regard.” “Undoubtedly.” “Anyway,” Lightsong said, holding up a finger, “by being far more stunning than you are, I invite people to ignore you and pay attention to me. That, in turn, invites you to be your usual charming self—throwing little tantrums and being overly seductive—to draw their attention back to you. And that, as I explained, is when you are most majestic. Therefore, the only way to make certain you receive the attention you deserve is to draw it all away from you. It’s really quite difficult. I hope you appreciate all the work I do to be so wonderful.” “Let me assure you,” she said, “I do appreciate it. In fact, I appreciate it so very much that I would like to give you a break. You can back off. I will bear the awful burden of being the most wonderful of the gods.” “I couldn’t possibly let you.” “But if you are too wonderful, my dear, you will completely destroy your image.” “That image is getting tiresome anyway,” Lightsong said. “I’ve long sought to be the most notoriously lazy of the gods, but I’m realizing more and more that the task is beyond me. The others are all naturally so much more delightfully useless than I am. They just pretend not to be aware of it.” “Lightsong!” she said. “One could say you begin to sound jealous!” “One could also say that my feet smell like guava fruit,” he said. “Just because one could say it doesn’t mean it’s relevant.” She laughed. “You’re incorrigible.” “Really? I thought I was in T’Telir. When did we move?” She held up a finger. “That pun was a stretch.” “Perhaps it was just a feint.” “A feint?” “Yes, an intentionally weak joke to distract from the real one.” “Which is?” Lightsong hesitated, glancing at the arena. “The joke that has been played on all of us,” he said, voice growing softer. “The joke the others in the pantheon have played by giving me so much inﬂuence over what our kingdom will do.” Blushweaver frowned at him, obviously sensing the growing bitterness in his voice. They stopped on the walkway, Blushweaver facing him, her back to the arena ﬂoor. Lightsong feigned a smile, but the moment was dying. They couldn’t go on as they had. Not amidst the weighty matters in motion all around them. “Our brothers and sisters aren’t as bad as you imply,” she said quietly. “Only a matchless group of idiots would give me control of their armies.” “They trust you.” “They’re lazy,” Lightsong said. “They want others to make the difficult decisions. That’s what this system encourages, Blushweaver. We’re all locked in here, expected to spend our time in idleness and pleasure. And then we’re supposed to know what is best for our country?” He shook his head. “We’re more afraid of the outside than we’re willing to admit. All we have are artworks and dreams. That’s why you and I ended up with these
armies. Nobody else wants to be the one who actually sends our troops out to kill and die. They all want to be involved, but nobody wants to be responsible.” He fell silent. She looked up at him, a goddess of perfect form. So much stronger than the others, but she hid it behind her own veil of triviality. “I know one thing that you said is true,” she said quietly. “And that is?” “You are wonderful, Lightsong.” He stood there, looking into her eyes for a time. Widely set, beautiful green eyes. “You’re not going to give me your Command Phrases, are you?” she asked. He shook his head. “I brought you into this,” she said. “You always talk about being useless, but we all know that you’re one of the few who always goes through every picture, sculpture, and tapestry in his gallery. The one who hears every poem and song. The one who listens most deeply to the pleas of his petitioners.” “You are all fools,” he said. “There is nothing in me to respect.” “No,” she said. “You’re the one who makes us laugh, even while you insult us. Can’t you see what that does? Can’t you see how you’ve inadvertently set yourself above everyone else? You didn’t do it intentionally, Lightsong, and that’s what makes it work so well. In a city of frivolity, you’re the only one who’s shown any measure of wisdom. In my opinion, that’s why you hold the armies.” He didn’t reply. “I knew you might resist me,” she said. “But I thought that I’d be able to inﬂuence you anyway.” “You can,” he said. “As you’ve said, it’s your doing that I’m involved in all of this.” She shook her head, still staring into his eyes. “I can’t decide which feeling for you is stronger, Lightsong. My love or my frustration.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I accept them both, Blushweaver. With honor.” And with that, he turned from her and went to his box. Weatherlove had arrived; that left only the God King and his bride. Lightsong sat down, wondering where Siri was. She usually got to the arena long before it was time to begin. He found it difficult to focus his attention on the young queen. Blushweaver still stood on the walkway where he had left her, watching him. Finally, she turned, and made her way to her own pavilion. ~ Siri walked through the palace corridors, surrounded by her brown-uniformed serving women, a dozen worries circling through her brain. First, go to Lightsong, she told herself, going over the plan. It won’t look odd for me to sit with him—we often spend time together at these things. I wait for Susebron to arrive. Then I ask Lightsong if we can talk in private, without our servants or his priests. I explain what I have discovered about the God King. I tell him about the way Susebron is being held captive. Then we see what he does. Her biggest fear was that Lightsong would already know. Could
he be part of the entire conspiracy? She trusted him as much as she trusted anyone except Susebron, but her nerves had a way of making her question everything and everyone. She passed through room after room, each one decorated in its own color theme. She didn’t notice how bright those were anymore. Assuming Lightsong agrees to help, she thought, I wait for the break. Once the priests leave the sand, Lightsong goes and speaks with several other gods. They each go to their priests and instruct them to begin a discussion in the arena about why the God King never speaks to them. They force the God King’s priests to let him offer his own defense. She didn’t like depending on the priests, even those who weren’t members of Susebron’s priesthood, but this did seem like the best way. Besides, if the priests of the various gods didn’t do as instructed, Lightsong and the others would realize that they were being undermined by their own servants. Either way, Siri realized she was getting into very dangerous territory. I started in dangerous territory, she thought, leaving the formal rooms of the palace and entering the dark outer hallway. The man I love is threatened with death, and any children I bear will be taken from me. She either had to act or let the priests continue to push her around. Susebron and she were in agreement. The best plan was— Siri slowed. At the end of the hallway, in front of the doors out to the court, a small group of priests stood with several Lifeless soldiers. They were silhouetted by the evening light. The priests turned toward her, and one pointed. Colors! Siri thought, spinning. Another group of priests was approaching up the back hallway. No! Not now! The two groups of priests closed on her. Siri considered running, but where? Dashing in her long dress—pushing through servants and Lifeless— was hopeless. She raised her chin—eyeing the priests with a haughty stare— and kept her hair completely under control. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “We’re terribly sorry, Vessel,” the lead priest said. “But it has been decided that you shouldn’t be exerting yourself while in your condition.” “My condition?” Siri asked icily. “What foolishness is this?” “The child, Vessel,” the priest said. “We can’t risk danger to it. There are many who would try to harm you, should they know that you are carrying.” Siri froze. Child? she thought with shock. How could they know that Susebron and I have actually started... But no. She would know if she were with child. However, she’d supposedly been sleeping with the God King for months now. That was just enough time for a pregnancy to have begun to show. It would sound plausible to the people of the city. Fool! She thought to herself in a sudden panic. Assuming they’ve already found their replacement God King, I don’t actually need to bear them a child. They just have to make everyone think I was pregnant! “There is no child,” she
said. “You were just waiting—you just had to stall until you had an excuse to lock me away.” “Please, Vessel,” one of the priests said, gesturing for a Lifeless to take her arm. She didn’t struggle; she forced herself to remain calm, looking the priest in the eyes. He looked away. “This will be for the best,” he said. “It’s for your own good.” “I’m sure it is,” she snapped, but allowed herself to be led back to her rooms. ~ Vivenna sat among the crowds, watching and waiting. Part of her found it foolish to come out into the open so ﬂagrantly. However, that part of her—the cautious Idrian princess—was growing more and more quiet. Denth’s people had found her when she’d been hiding in the slums. She’d probably be safer in the crowds with Vasher than she ever had been in the alleyways, particularly considering how well she now blended in. She hadn’t realized how natural it could feel to sit in trousers and a tunic, brightly colored and completely ignored. Vasher appeared at the railing above the benches. She carefully slipped out of her seat—someone else took it immediately—and walked toward him. The priests had already begun their arguments down below. Nanrovah, his daughter restored to him, had started by announcing the retraction of his previous position. He currently was leading the discussion against war. He had very little support. Vivenna joined Vasher along the railing, and he quite unapologetically elbowed open a space for her. He didn’t carry Nightblood—at her insistence, he had left the sword behind with her own dueling blade. She wasn’t certain how he’d managed to sneak the blade in the last time he’d come to the court, but the last thing they wanted was to draw attention. “Well?” she asked quietly. He shook his head. “If Denth is here, I couldn’t find him.” “No surprise, considering the size of this crowd,” Vivenna said quietly. There were bodies all around them—hundreds lining the railing alone. “Where did they all come from? This is far more jammed than the other assembly sessions.” He shrugged. “People who are granted a one-time visit to the court can hold their token of entry until they want to use it. A lot of them use those at a general Court Assembly, rather than one of the smaller meetings. It’s their one chance to see all of the gods together.” Vivenna turned back to look over the throng. She suspected it also had to do with the rumors she’d heard. People thought that this session would be the one where the Pantheon of Returned finally declared war on Idris. “Nanrovah argues well,” she said, although she was having trouble hearing him because of the crowds—the Returned apparently had messengers relaying transcripts. She wondered why someone just didn’t order all the people to be quiet. That didn’t seem to be the Hallandren way. They liked chaos. Or, at least, they liked the opportunity to sit and chat while important events were in progress. “Nanrovah is being ignored,” Vasher said. “He’s changed his
mind twice now on the same issue. He lacks credibility.” “He should explain why he changed his mind, then.” “He might, but I don’t know. If the people knew his child had been kidnapped, it would make some more afraid and they would decide that Idrian instigators had been behind it, no matter what he said. Plus there’s that stubborn Hallandren pride. Priests are particularly bad. Mentioning that his daughter had been taken, and that he had been pressured into changing his politics...” “I thought you liked the priests,” she said. “Some of them,” he said. “Not others.” When he said that, he eyed the God King’s pedestal. Susebron had yet to arrive, and they had started without him. Siri wasn’t there either. That annoyed Vivenna, since she’d been anticipating checking in on the girl, if only from a distance. I’ll help you, Siri. For real this time. The first step has to be stopping this war. Vasher looked back at the ﬂoor of the arena, leaning on the railing, looking anxious. “What?” she asked. He shrugged. She rolled her eyes. “Tell me.” “I just don’t like leaving Nightblood alone for too long,” he said. “What’s it going to do?” Vivenna asked. “We locked it in the closet.” He shrugged again. “Honestly,” she said. “You would think that you’d admit that bringing a five-foot-long black sword out in public would be rather conspicuous. It doesn’t help, mind you, that said sword bleeds smoke and can talk in people’s minds.” “I don’t mind being conspicuous.” “I do,” she replied. Vasher grimaced, and she thought he’d argue some more, but he finally just nodded. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I’ve just never been good at being unobtrusive. Denth used to make fun of me for that too.” Vivenna frowned. “You were friends?” Vasher turned away and fell silent. Kalad’s Phantoms! she thought in frustration. One of these days, someone in this Colors-cursed city is going to tell me the whole truth. I’ll probably die of shock. “I’m going to go see if I can find out why the God King is taking so long,” Vasher said, leaving the railing. “I’ll be back.” She nodded, and he was gone. She leaned down, wishing she hadn’t relinquished her seat. Once, she would have felt stiﬂed by the large mass of people, but she’d grown used to the busy market streets, and so being surrounded by people wasn’t as intimidating as it had been. Besides, there was her Breath. She’d put some of it into her shirt, but she’d held onto a portion—she needed to be of at least the first Heightening to pass through the gates into the court without being questioned. Her Breath let her feel life as an ordinary person felt the air: always there, cool against the skin. Having so many people in such close proximity left her feeling a little intoxicated. So much life, so many hopes and desires. So much Breath. She closed her eyes, drinking it in, listening to the voices of the priests down below rise over the
crowd. She felt Vasher approach before he arrived. Not only did he have a lot of Breath, but he was watching her, and she could feel the slight familiarity of that gaze. She turned, picking him out of the crowd. He stood out far more than she did, in his darker, ragged clothing. “Congratulations,” he said as he approached, taking her arm. “Why?” “You’ll soon be an aunt.” “What are you...” She trailed off. “Siri?” “Your sister is pregnant,” he said. “The priests are going to make an announcement later this evening. The God King is apparently remaining in his palace to celebrate.” Vivenna stood, stunned. Siri. Pregnant. Siri, who was still a little girl in Vivenna’s mind, bearing the child of that thing in the palace. And yet wasn’t Vivenna now fighting to keep that thing on his throne? No, she thought. I haven’t forgiven Hallandren, even if I am learning not to hate it. I can’t let Idris be attacked and destroyed. She felt a panic. Suddenly, all of her plans seemed meaningless. What would the Hallandren do to her once they had their heir? “We have to get her out,” Vivenna found herself saying. “Vasher, we have to rescue her.” He remained quiet. “Please, Vasher,” she whispered. “She’s my sister. I thought to protect her by ending this war, but if your hunch is right, then the God King himself is one of those who wants to invade Idris. Siri won’t be safe with him.” “All right,” Vasher said. “I will do what I can.” Vivenna nodded, turning back to the arena. The priests were withdrawing. “Where are they going?” “To their gods,” Vasher said. “To seek the Will of the Pantheon in formal vote.” “About the war?” Vivenna asked, feeling a chill. Vasher nodded. “It is time.” ~ Lightsong waited beneath his canopy, a couple of serving men fanning him, a cup of chilled juice in his hand, lavish snacks spread out to his side. Blushweaver brought me into this, he thought. Because she was worried that Hallandren would be taken by surprise. The priests were consulting with their gods. He could see several of them kneeling before their Returned, heads bowed. It was the way that government worked in Hallandren. The priests debated their options then they sought the will of the gods. That would become the Will of the Pantheon. That would become the Will of Hallandren itself. Only the God King could veto a decision of the full Pantheon. And he had chosen not to attend this meeting. So self-congratulatory on spawning a child that he couldn’t even bother with the future of his people? Lightsong thought with annoyance. I had hoped he was better than that. Llarimar approached. Though he had been down below with the other high priests, he had offered no arguments to the court. Llarimar tended to keep his thoughts to himself. The high priest knelt before him. “Please, favor us with your will, Lightsong my god.” Lightsong didn’t respond. He looked up, across the open arena to where Blushweaver’s canopy
stood, verdant in the dimming evening light. “Oh, God,” Llarimar said. “Please. Give me the knowledge I seek. Should we go to war with our kinsmen, the Idrians? Are they rebels who need to be quelled?” Priests were already returning from their supplications. Each held aloft a ﬂag indicating the will of their god or goddess. Green for a favorable response. Red for dissatisfaction with the petition. In this case green meant war. So far, five of the returning seven ﬂew green. “Your Grace?” Llarimar asked, looking up. Lightsong stood. They vote, but what good are their votes? he thought, walking out from beneath his canopy. They hold no authority. Only two votes really matter. More green. Flags ﬂapped as priests ran down the walkways. The arena was abuzz with people. They could see the inevitable. To the side, Lightsong could see Llarimar following him. The man must be frustrated. Why didn’t he ever show it? Lightsong approached Blushweaver’s pavilion. Almost all of the priests had gotten their answers, and the vast majority of them carried ﬂags of green. Blushweaver’s high priestess still knelt before her. Blushweaver, of course, waited upon the drama of the moment. Lightsong stopped outside of her canopy. Blushweaver reclined inside, watching him calmly, though he could sense her true anxiety. He knew her too well. “Are you going to make your will known?” she asked. He looked down at the center of the arena. “If I resist,” he said, “this declaration will be for naught. The gods can shout ‘war’ until they are blue, but I control the armies. If I don’t allow them my Lifeless, then Hallandren will not win any wars.” “You would defy the Will of the Pantheon?” “It is my right to do so,” he said. “Just as any of them have the same right.” “But you have the Lifeless.” “That doesn’t mean I have to do what I’m told.” There was a moment of silence before Blushweaver waved to her priestess. The woman stood, then raised a ﬂag of green and ran down to join the others. This brought forth a roar. The people must know that Blushweaver’s political wranglings had left her in a position of power. Not bad, for a person who had started without command of a single soldier. With her control of that many troops, she’ll be an integral part of the planning, diplomacy, and execution of the war. Blushweaver could emerge from this as one of the most powerful Returned in the history of the kingdom. And so could I. He stared for a long moment. He hadn’t spoken of his dreams the last night to Llarimar. He’d kept them to himself. Those dreams of twisting tunnels and of the rising moon, just barely cresting the horizon. Could it be possible that they actually meant something? He couldn’t decide. About anything. “I need to think about this some more,” Lightsong said, turning to go. “What?” Blushweaver demanded. “What about the vote?” Lightsong shook his head. “Lightsong!” she said as he left. “Lightsong, you can’t leave us hanging
like this!” He shrugged, glancing back. “Actually, I can.” He smiled. “I’m frustrating like that.” And with that, he left the arena, heading back to his palace without giving his vote. Annotations for Chapter 50 Fifty-One Annotations for Chapter 51 I’m glad you came back for me, Nightblood said. It was very lonely in that closet. Vasher didn’t reply as he walked across the top of the wall surrounding the Court of Gods. It was late, dark, and quiet, though a few of the palaces still shone with light. One of those belonged to Lightsong the Bold. I don’t like the darkness, Nightblood said. “You mean darkness like now?” Vasher asked. No. In the closet. “You can’t even see.” A person knows when they’re in darkness, Nightblood said. Even when they can’t see. Vasher didn’t know how to respond to that. He paused atop the wall, overlooking Lightsong’s palace. Red and gold. Bold colors indeed. You shouldn’t ignore me, Nightblood said. I don’t like it. Vasher knelt down, studying the palace. He’d never met the one called Lightsong, but he had heard rumors. The most scurrilous of the gods, the most condescending and mocking. And this was the person who held the fate of two kingdoms in his hands. There was an easy way to inﬂuence that fate. We’re going to kill him, aren’t we? Nightblood said, eagerness sharp in his voice. Vasher just stared at the palace. We should kill him, Nightblood continued. Come on. We should do it. We really should do it. “Why do you care?” Vasher whispered. “You don’t know him.” He’s evil, Nightblood said. Vasher snorted. “You don’t even know what that is.” For once, Nightblood was silent. That was the great crux of the problem, the issue that had dominated most of Vasher’s life. A thousand Breaths. That was what it took to Awaken an object of steel and give it sentience. Even Shashara hadn’t fully understood the process, though she had first devised it. It took a person who had reached the Ninth Heightening to Awaken stone or steel. Even then, this process shouldn’t have worked. It should have created an Awakened object with no more of a mind than the tassels on his cloak. Nightblood should not be alive. And yet he was. Shashara had always been the most talented of them, far more capable than Vasher himself, who had used tricks—like encasing bones in steel or stone—to make his creations. Shashara had been spurred on by the knowledge that she’d been shown up by Yesteel and the development of ichor-alcohol. She had studied, experimented, practiced. And she’d done it. She’d learned to forge the Breath of a thousand people into a piece of steel, Awaken it to sentience, and give it a Command. That single Command took on immense power, providing a foundation for the personality of the object Awakened. With Nightblood, she and Vasher had spent much time in thought, then finally chosen a simple, yet elegant, Command. “Destroy evil.” It had seemed like such a perfect, logical choice. There was only
one problem, something neither of them had foreseen. How was an object of steel—an object that was so removed from life that it would find the experience of living strange and alien—supposed to understand what “evil” was? I’m figuring it out, Nightblood said. I’ve had a lot of practice. The sword wasn’t really to blame. It was a terrible, destructive thing— but it had been created to destroy. It still didn’t understand life or what that life meant. It only knew its Command, and it tried so very hard to fulfill it. That man down there, Nightblood said. The god in the palace. He holds the power to start this war. You don’t want this war to start. That’s why he’s evil. “Why does that make him evil?” Because he will do what you don’t want him to. “We don’t know that for certain,” Vasher said. “Plus, who is to say that my judgment is best?” It is, Nightblood said. Let’s go. Let’s kill him. You told me war is bad. He will start a war. He’s evil. Let’s kill him. Let’s kill him. The sword was getting excited; Vasher could feel it—feel the danger in its blade, the twisted power of Breaths that had been pulled from living hosts and shoved into something unnatural. He could picture them breathing out, black and corrupted, twisting in the wind. Drawing him toward Lightsong. Pushing him to kill. “No,” Vasher said. Nightblood sighed. You locked me in a closet, he reminded. You should apologize. “I’m not going to apologize by killing someone.” Just throw me in there, Nightblood said. If he’s evil, he’ll kill himself. This gave Vasher pause. Colors, he thought. The sword seemed to be getting more subtle each year, though Vasher knew he was just imagining things, projecting. Awakened objects didn’t change or grow, they simply were what they were. It was still a good idea. “Maybe later,” Vasher said, turning away from the building. You are afraid, Nightblood said. “You don’t know what fear is,” Vasher replied. I do. You don’t like killing Returned. You’re afraid of them. The sword was wrong, of course. But, on the outside, Vasher supposed that his hesitation did look like fear. It had been a long time since he’d dealt with the Returned. Too many memories. Too much pain. He made his way to the God King’s palace. The structure was old, far older than the palaces that surrounded it. Once, this place had been a seaside outpost, overlooking the bay. No city. No colors. Just the stark, black tower. It amused Vasher that it had become the home of the God King of the Iridescent Tones. Vasher slid Nightblood into a strap on his back then jumped from the wall toward the palace. Awakened tassels around his legs gave him extra strength, letting him leap some twenty feet. He slammed against the side of the building, smooth onyx blocks rubbing his skin. He twitched his fingers, and the tassels on his sleeves grabbed on to the ledge above him, holding him tight. He
Breathed. The belt at his waist—touching his skin, as always—Awakened. Color drained from the kerchief tied to his leg beneath his trousers. “Climb things, then grab things, then pull me up,” he Commanded. Three Commands in one Awakening, a difficult task for some. For him, however, it had become as simple as blinking. The belt untied itself, revealing it to be far longer than it looked when wrapped around him. The twenty-five feet of rope snaked up the side of the building, curling inside of a window. Seconds later, the rope hauled Vasher up and into the air. Awakened objects could, if created well, have much more strength than regular muscles. He’d once seen a small group of ropes not much thicker than his own lift and toss boulders at an enemy fortification. He released his tassel grips, then pulled Nightblood free as the rope deposited him inside the building. He knelt silently, eyes searching the darkness. The room was unoccupied. Carefully, he drew back his Breath, then wrapped the rope around his arm and held it in a loose coil. He stalked forward. Who are we going to kill? Nightblood asked. It’s not always about killing, Vasher said. Vivenna. Is she in here? The sword was trying to interpret his thoughts again. It had trouble with things that weren’t fully formed in Vasher’s head. Most thoughts passed through a man’s mind were ﬂeeting and momentary. Flashes of image, sound, or scent. Connections made, then lost, then recovered again. That sort of thing was difficult for Nightblood to interpret. Vivenna. The source of a lot of his troubles. His work in the city had been easier when he’d been able to assume that she was working willingly with Denth. Then, at least, he’d been able to blame her. Where is she? Is she here? She doesn’t like me, but I like her. Vasher hesitated in the dark hallway. You do? Yes. She’s nice. And she’s pretty. Nice and pretty—words that Nightblood didn’t really understand. He had simply learned when to use them. Still, the sword did have opinions, and it rarely lied. It must like Vivenna, even if it couldn’t explain why. She reminds me of a Returned, the sword said. Ah, Vasher thought. Of course. That makes sense. He moved on. What? Nightblood said. She’s descended from one, he thought. You can tell by the hair. There’s a bit of Returned in her. Nightblood didn’t respond to that, but Vasher could feel it thinking. He paused at an intersection. He was pretty sure he knew where the God King’s chambers would be. However, a lot of the interior seemed different now. The fortress had been stark, built with odd twists and turns to confuse an invading foe. Those remained—all the stonework was the same—but the open dining halls or garrison rooms had been split into many, smaller rooms, colorfully decorated in the mode of the Hallandren upper class. Where would the God King’s wife be? If she was pregnant, she’d be under the care of servants. One of the larger complex
of chambers, he assumed, on a higher level. He made his way to a stairwell. Fortunately, it seemed late enough that there were very few people awake. The sister, Nightblood said. That’s who you’re after. You’re rescuing Vivenna’s sister! Vasher nodded quietly in the darkness, feeling his way up the stairs, counting on his BioChroma to let him know if he approached anyone. Though most of his Breath was stored in his clothing, he had just enough to awaken the rope and to keep him aware. You like Vivenna too! Nightblood said. Nonsense, Vasher thought. Then why? Her sister, he thought. She’s a key to all of this, somehow. I realized it today. As soon as the queen arrived, the real move to start the war surged. Nightblood fell silent. That kind of logical leap was a bit too complex for it. I see, he said, though Vasher smiled at the confusion he sensed in the voice. At the very least, Vasher thought, she’s a very handy hostage for the Hallandren. The God King’s priests—or whoever’s behind this—can threaten the girl’s life, should the war go poorly for them. She makes an excellent tool. One you intend to remove, Nightblood said. Vasher nodded, reaching the top of the stairwell and slinking through one of the corridors. He walked until he sensed someone nearby—a maid servant approaching. Vasher Awakened his rope, stood in the shadows of an alcove, and waited. As she passed, the rope shot from the shadows, wrapped around her waist, and yanked her into the darkness. Vasher had one of his tassel hands wrapped around her mouth before she could scream. She squirmed, but the rope tied her tightly. He felt a little stab of guilt as he loomed over her, her terrified eyes tearing up. He reached for Nightblood and pulled the sword slightly out of its sheath. The girl immediately looked sick. A good sign. “I need to know where the queen is,” Vasher said, forcing Nightblood up so that his hilt touched her cheek. “You’re going to tell me.” He held her like that for a time, watching her squirm, feeling unhappy with himself. finally, he relaxed the tassels, keeping the sword against her cheek. She began to vomit, and he turned her to the side. “Tell me,” he whispered. “Southern corner,” the girl whispered, trembling, spittle on her cheek. “This ﬂoor.” Vasher nodded, then tied her up with the rope, gagged her, and took his Breath back. He pushed Nightblood back into the sheath then rushed down the hallway. You won’t kill a god who plans to march his armies to war? Nightblood asked. But you’ll nearly choke a young woman to death? It was a complicated statement for the sword. However, it lacked the accusation that a human would have put into the words. To Nightblood it really was just a question. I don’t understand my morality either, Vasher thought. I’d suggest you avoid confusing yourself. He found the place easily. It was guarded by a large group of brutish men who seemed rather out
of place in the fine palace hallways. Vasher paused. Something strange is going on here. What do you mean? Nightblood asked. He hadn’t meant to address the sword, but that was the trouble with an object that could read minds. Any thoughts Vasher formed in his head, Nightblood thought were directed at it. After all, in the sword’s opinion, everything really should have been directed toward it. Guards at the door. Soldiers, not servants. So they had already taken her captive. Was she really even pregnant? Were the priests just securing their power? That many men would be impossible to kill without making noise. The best he could hope for was to take them fast. Maybe they were far enough from anyone else that a brief fight wouldn’t be heard. He sat for a few minutes, jaw clenched. Then, finally, he stepped closer and tossed Nightblood in amongst the men. He’d let them fight each other and then be ready to deal with any who weren’t taken into the sword’s inﬂuence. Nightblood clanged to the stones. All of the men’s eyes turned toward it. And, at that moment, something grabbed Vasher by the shoulder and yanked him backward. He cursed, spinning, throwing his hands up to wrestle with whatever had him. An Awakened rope. Men started to fight behind him. Vasher grunted, pulling out the knife in his boot, then slicing the Awakened rope. Someone tackled him as he got free, and he was thrown back against the wall. He grabbed his attacker by the face with one of his arm tassels, then twisted the man back and threw him into the wall. Another figure charged him from behind, but Vasher’s Awakened cloak caught that one, tripping him. “Grab things other than me,” Vasher said quickly, snatching the cloak of one of the fallen men and Awakening it. That cloak whipped about, taking down another man, whom Vasher then killed with a swipe of his dagger. He kicked another man, throwing him backward, opening a pathway. Vasher lunged, making for Nightblood, but three more figures burst out the rooms around him, cutting him off. They were the same kind of brutish men that were now fighting over the sword. Men were all around. Dozens of them. Vasher kicked out, breaking a leg, but one man pulled Vasher’s cloak off with a lucky twist. Others piled on top of him. And then, another Awakened rope snapped out, tying his legs together. Vasher reached for his vest. “Your Breath to—” he began, trying to draw in some Breath to use for an attack, but three men grabbed his hand and pulled it away. Within seconds, he was wrapped up in the Awakened rope. His cloak still fought against three men who were struggling to cut it up, but Vasher himself was pinned. Someone emerged from the room to his left. “Denth,” Vasher spat, struggling. “My good friend,” Denth said, nodding for one of his lackeys—the one known as Tonk Fah—to move down the hallway toward the queen’s room. Denth knelt beside Vasher. “Very good
to see you.” Vasher spat again. “Still as eloquent as ever, I see,” Denth said with a sigh. “You know the best thing about you, Vasher? You’re solid. Predictable. I guess I am too, in a way. Hard to live as long as we have without falling into patterns, eh?” Vasher didn’t reply, though he did try to yell as some men gagged him. He noticed with satisfaction that he’d taken down a good dozen opponents before they’d managed to stop him. Denth eyed the fallen soldiers. “Mercenaries,” he said. “No risk is too great, assuming the pay is right.” He said it with a twinkle in his eye. Then he leaned down, his joviality gone as he met Vasher’s eyes. “And you were always to be my payment, Vasher. I owe you. For Shashara, even still. We’ve been waiting, hidden in the palace here for a good two weeks, knowing that eventually the good Princess Vivenna would send you to save her sister.” Tonk Fah returned with a bundle held in a blanket. Nightblood. Denth eyed it. “Throw that out somewhere far away,” he said, grimacing. “I don’t know, Denth,” Tonk Fah said. “I kind of think we should keep it. It could be very useful...” The beginnings of the lust began to show in his eyes, the desire to draw Nightblood, to use the sword. To destroy evil. Or, really, just to destroy. Denth stood and snatched the bundle away. Then he smacked Tonk Fah on the back of the head. “Ow!” Tonk Fah said. Denth rolled his eyes. “Stop whining; I just saved your life. Go check on the queen and then clean up that mess. I’ll take care of the sword myself.” “You always get so nasty when Vasher’s around,” Tonk Fah grumbled, waddling away. Denth wrapped up Nightblood securely; Vasher watched, hoping to see the lust appear in Denth’s eyes. Unfortunately, Denth was far too strong-willed to be taken by the sword. He had nearly as much history with it as Vasher did. “Take away all his Awakened clothing,” Denth said to his men, walking away. “Then hang him up in that room over there. He and I are going to have a long talk about what he did to my sister.” Annotations for Chapter 51 Fifty-Two Annotations for Chapter 52 Lightsong sat in one of the rooms of his palace, surrounded by finery, a cup of wine in his hand. Despite the very late hour, servants moved in and out, piling up furniture, paintings, vases, and small sculptures. Anything that could be moved. The riches sat in heaps. Lightsong lounged back on his couch, ignoring empty plates of food and broken cups, which he refused to let his servants take away. A pair of servants entered, carrying a red and gold couch. They propped it up by the far wall, nearly toppling a pile of rugs. Lightsong watched them leave then downed the rest of his wine. He dropped the empty cup to the ﬂoor beside the others, and held out his hand for another full
one. A servant provided, as always. He wasn’t drunk. He couldn’t get drunk. “Do you ever feel,” Lightsong said, “like something is going on? Something far greater than you are? Like a painting you can only see the corner of, no matter how you squint and search?” “Every day, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. He sat on a stool beside Lightsong’s couch. As always, he watched events calmly, though Lightsong could sense the man’s disapproval as another group of servants piled several marble figurines in the corner. “How do you deal with it?” Lightsong asked. “I have faith, Your Grace, that someone understands.” “Not me, I hope,” Lightsong noted. “You are part of it. But it is much larger than you.” Lightsong frowned to himself, watching more servants enter. Soon the room would be so piled with his wealth that his servants wouldn’t be able to move in and out. “It’s odd, isn’t it,” Lightsong said, gesturing toward a pile of paintings. “Arranged like this, none of it looks beautiful anymore. When you put it together in piles, it just seems like junk.” Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “The value in something relates to how it is treated, Your Grace. If you see these items as junk, then they are, regardless of what someone else would pay for them.” “There’s a lesson in there somewhere, isn’t there?” Llarimar shrugged. “I am a priest, after all. We have a tendency to preach.” Lightsong snorted, then waved toward the servants. “That’s enough,” he said. “You can go now.” The servants, having grown resigned to being banished, left the room promptly. Soon Lightsong and Llarimar were alone with piles and piles of riches, all stolen from other parts of his palace and brought into this one room. Llarimar surveyed the mounds. “So what is the point of all this, Your Grace?” “This is what I mean to them,” Lightsong said, gulping down some more wine. “The people. They’ll give up their riches for me. They sacrifice the Breath of their souls to keep me alive. I suspect that many would even die for me.” Llarimar nodded quietly. “And,” Lightsong said, “all I’m expected to do at the moment is choose their fates for them. Do we go to war or do we remain at peace? What do you think?” “I could argue for either side, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “It would be easy to sit here and condemn the war on mere principle. War is a terrible, terrible thing. And yet, it seems that few great accomplishments in history ever occur without the unfortunate fact of military action. Even the Many-war, which caused so much destruction, can be regarded as the foundation of modern Hallandren power in the Inner Sea region.” Lightsong nodded. “But,” Llarimar continued. “To attack our brethren? Despite provocation, I cannot help but think that invading is too extreme. How much death, how much suffering, are we willing to cause simply to prove that we won’t be pushed around?” “And what would you decide?” “Fortunately, I don’t have to.” “And if you were forced
to?” Lightsong asked. Llarimar sat for a moment. Then, carefully, he removed the large miter from his head, revealing his thinning black hair plastered to the skull with sweat. He set aside the ceremonial headgear. “I speak to you as a friend, Lightsong, not your priest,” Llarimar said quietly. “The priest cannot inﬂuence his god for fear of disrupting the future.” Lightsong nodded. “And as a friend,” Llarimar said, “I honestly have trouble deciding what I would do. I didn’t argue on the ﬂoor of the court.” “You rarely do,” Lightsong said. “I’m worried,” Llarimar said, wiping his brow with a kerchief, shaking his head. “I don’t think we can ignore the threat to our kingdom. The fact of the matter is, Idris is a rebel faction living within our borders. We’ve ignored them for years, enduring their almost tyrannical control of the northern passes.” “So you’re for attacking?” Llarimar paused, then shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think that even Idris’s rebellion can justify the slaughter it would take to get those passes back.” “Great,” Lightsong said ﬂatly. “So, you think we should go to war, but not attack.” “Actually, yes,” Llarimar said. “We declare war, we make a show of force, and we frighten them into realizing just how precarious their position is. If we then hold peace talks, I’ll bet we could forge more favorable treaties for use of the passes. They formally renounce their claim to our throne; we recognize their independent sovereignty. Wouldn’t we both get what we want?” Lightsong sat thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s a very reasonable solution, but I don’t think those who are calling for war would accept it. It seems that we’re missing something, Scoot. Why now? Why are tensions so high after the wedding, which should have unified us?” “I don’t know, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. Lightsong smiled, standing. “Well then,” he said, eyeing his high priest. “Let’s find out.” ~ Siri would have been annoyed if she hadn’t been so terrified. She sat alone in the black bedchamber. It felt wrong for Susebron to not be there with her. She’d hoped that maybe he would still be allowed come to her when night fell. But, of course, he didn’t arrive. Whatever the priests were planning, it didn’t require her to actually be pregnant. Not now that they’d played their hand and locked her up. The door creaked, and she sat up on the bed, hope reviving. But it was only the guard checking on her again. One of the crass, soldierlike men who had been guarding her in recent hours. Why did they change to these men? she wondered as the guard closed the door. What happened to the Lifeless and the priests who were watching me before? She lay back down on the bed, staring up at the canopy, still dressed in her fine gown. Her mind kept ﬂashing to her first week in the palace, when she’d been locked inside for her “Wedding Jubilation.” It had been difficult enough then, and she’d known when it
would be over. Now she didn’t even have an assurance that she’d live through the next few days. No, she thought. They’ll keep me around long enough for my “baby” to be born. I’m insurance. If something goes wrong, they’ll still need me to show off. That was little comfort. The thought of six months cooped up inside the palace—not allowed to see anyone lest they see that she wasn’t really pregnant—was frightening enough to make her want to scream. But what could she do? Hope in Susebron, she thought. I taught him to read, and I gave him the determination that he needed to break free from his priests. That will have to be enough. ~ “Your Grace,” Llarimar said, his voice hesitant, “are you certain you want to do this?” Lightsong crouched down, peeking through the bushes toward Mercystar’s palace. Most of the windows were dark. That was good. However, she still had a number of guards patrolling the palace. She was afraid of another break-in. And rightly so. In the distance, he saw the moon just barely rising into the night sky. It almost matched the position he had seen in his dream the night before, the same dream where he’d seen the tunnels. Were these things really symbols? Signs from the future? He still resisted. The truth was, he didn’t want to believe he was a god. It implied too many things. But he couldn’t ignore the images, even if they were just spoken from his subconscious. He had to get into those passages beneath the Court of Gods. Had to see if, at last, there was something prophetic about what he had seen. The timing seemed important. The rising moon...just another degree or so. There, he thought, looking down from the sky. A guard patrol was approaching. “Your Grace?” Llarimar asked, sounding more nervous. The portly high priest knelt on the grass beside Lightsong. “I should have brought a sword,” Lightsong said thoughtfully. “You don’t know how to use one, Your Grace.” “We don’t know that,” Lightsong said. “Your Grace, this is foolishness. Let’s go back to your palace. If we must see what is in those tunnels, we can hire someone from the city to sneak in.” “That would take too long,” Lightsong said. A guard patrol passed their side of the palace. “You ready?” he asked once the patrol had passed. “No.” “Then wait here,” Lightsong said, taking off in a dash toward the palace. After a moment, he heard a hissed “Kalad’s Phantoms!” from Llarimar, followed by bushes rustling as the priest followed. Why, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him curse before, Lightsong thought with amused energy. He didn’t look back; he just kept running toward the open window. As in most Returned palaces, the doorways and windows were open. The tropical climate encouraged such designs. Lightsong reached the side of the building, feeling exhilarated. He climbed up through the window, then reached a hand out to help Llarimar when he arrived. The hefty priest puffed and sweated, but Lightsong managed to pull
him up and into the room. They took a few moments, Llarimar resting with his back to the outer wall, gasping for breath. “You really need to exercise more regularly, Scoot,” Lightsong said, creeping toward the doorway and peeking out into the hall beyond. Llarimar didn’t answer. He just sat, puffing, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. “I wonder why the man who attacked the building didn’t come in through the window,” Lightsong said. Then he noticed that the guards standing at the inner doorway had an easy view of this particular room. Ah, he thought. Well, then. Time for the backup plan. Lightsong stood up, walking out into the hallway. Llarimar followed, then jumped when he saw the guards. They had similar expressions of amazement on their faces. “Hello,” Lightsong said to the guards, then turned from them and walked down the hallway. “Wait!” one said. “Stop!” Lightsong turned toward them, frowning. “You dare command a god?” They froze. Then they glanced at each other. One took off running in the opposite direction. “They’re going to alert others!” Llarimar said, rushing up. “We’ll be caught.” “Then we should move quickly!” Lightsong said, taking off in another run. He smiled, hearing Llarimar grudgingly break into a jog behind him. They quickly reached the trapdoor. Lightsong knelt, feeling around for a few moments before finding the hidden clasp. He triumphantly pulled the trapdoor open, then pointed down. Llarimar shook his head in resignation, then climbed down the ladder into darkness. Lightsong grabbed a lamp off the wall and followed. The remaining guard—unable to interfere with a god—simply watched with concern. The bottom wasn’t very far down. Lightsong found a tired Llarimar sitting on some boxes in what was obviously a small storage cellar. “Congratulations, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “We’ve found the secret hiding place of their ﬂour.” Lightsong snorted, moving through the chamber, poking at the walls. “Something living,” he said, pointing at one wall. “That direction. I can feel it with my life sense.” Llarimar raised an eyebrow, standing. They pulled back a few boxes, and behind them was a small tunnel entrance cut into the wall. Lightsong smiled, then crawled down through it, pushing the lamp ahead of him. “I’m not sure I’ll fit,” Llarimar said. “If I fit, you will,” Lightsong said, voice mufﬂed by the close confines. He heard another sigh from Llarimar, followed by shufﬂing as the portly man entered the hole. Eventually, Lightsong passed out of another hole into a much larger tunnel, lit by several lanterns hanging from one of the walls. He stood up, feeling self-satisfied as Llarimar squeezed through. “There,” Lightsong said, throwing a lever and letting a grate drop down over the opening. “They’ll have trouble following now!” “And we’ll have trouble escaping,” Llarimar said. “Escape?” Lightsong said, raising his lamp, inspecting the tunnel. “Why would we want to do that?” “Pardon me, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “But it seems to me that you are getting far too much enjoyment from this experience.” “Well, I’m called Lightsong the
Bold,” Lightsong said. “It feels good to finally be living up to the title. Now, hush. I can still feel life nearby.” The tunnel was obviously man-made, and resembled Lightsong’s idea of a mine shaft. Just like the image from his dreams. The tunnels had several branches, and the life he sensed was straight ahead. Lightsong didn’t go that way, but instead turned left, toward a tunnel that sloped steeply downward. He followed it for a few minutes to judge its likely trajectory. “Figured it out yet?” Lightsong asked, turning to Llarimar, who had taken one of the lanterns, as this tunnel didn’t have any light of its own. “The Lifeless barracks,” Llarimar said. “If this tunnel continues this way, it will lead directly to them.” Lightsong nodded. “Why would they need a secret tunnel to the barracks? Any god can go there whenever he wants.” Llarimar shook his head, and they continued down the tunnel. Sure enough, after a short time, they arrived at a trapdoor in the ceiling which—when pushed up—led into one of the dark, Lifeless warehouses. Lightsong shivered, looking out at the endless rows of legs, barely illuminated by his lamp. He pulled his head back down, closed the trapdoor, and they followed the tunnel further. “It goes in a square,” he said quietly. “With doors up into each of the Lifeless barracks I’ll bet,” Llarimar said. He reached out, taking a piece of dirt from the wall and crumbling it between his fingers. “This tunnel is newer than the one we were in up above.” Lightsong nodded. “We should keep moving,” he said. “Those guards in Mercystar’s palace know we’re down here. I don’t know who they’ll tell, but I’d rather finish exploring before we get chased out.” Llarimar shivered visibly at that. They walked back up the steep tunnel to the main one just below the palace. Lightsong still felt life down a side tunnel, but he chose the other branch to explore. It soon became apparent that this one split and turned numerous times. “Tunnels to some of the other palaces,” he guessed, poking at a wooden beam used to support the shaft. “Old—much older than the tunnel to the barracks.” Llarimar nodded. “All right, then,” Lightsong said. “Time to find out where the main tunnel goes.” Llarimar followed as Lightsong approached the main tunnel. Lightsong closed his eyes, trying to determine how close the life was. It was faint. Almost beyond his ability to sense. If everything else in this catacomb hadn’t been merely rocks and dirt, he wouldn’t even have noticed the life in the first place. He nodded to Llarimar, and they continued down the tunnel as quietly as possible. Did it seem that he was able to move with surprising stealth? Did he have unremembered experience with sneaking about? He was certainly better at it than Llarimar. Of course, a tumbling boulder was probably better at moving quietly than Llarimar, considering his bulky clothing and his puffing exhalations. The tunnel went on straight for a time without branches. Lightsong looked up,
trying to estimate what was above them. The God King’s palace? he guessed. He couldn’t be certain; it was difficult to judge direction and distance under the ground. He felt excited. Thrilled. This was something no god was supposed to do. Sneaking at night, moving through secret tunnels, looking for secrets and clues. Odd, he thought. They give us everything they think that we might want; they glut us with sensation and experience. And yet real feelings—fear, anxiety, excitement—are completely lost to us. He smiled. In the distance, he could hear voices. He turned down the lamp and crept forward extra quietly, waving for Llarimar to stay behind. “...have him up above,” a masculine voice was saying. “He came for the princess’s sister, as I said he would.” “You have what you want, then,” said another voice. “Really, you pay far too much attention to that one.” “Do not underestimate Vasher,” the first voice said. “He has accomplished more in his life than a hundred men, and has done more for the good of all people than you will ever be able to appreciate.” Silence. “Aren’t you planning to kill him?” said the second voice. “Yes.” Silence. “You’re a strange one, Denth,” the second voice said. “However, our goal is accomplished.” “You people don’t have your war yet.” “We will.” Lightsong crouched beside a small pile of rubble. He could see light up ahead, but couldn’t distinguish much beyond some moving shadows. His luck seemed remarkably good in arriving to hear this conversation. Was that proof that his dreams were, indeed, fortellings? Or was it just coincidence? It was very late at night, and anyone still up was likely to be engaged in clandestine activities. “I have a job for you,” the second voice said. “We’ve got someone I need you to interrogate.” “Too bad,” the first voice said, growing distant. “I’ve got an old friend to torture. I just had to pause to dispose of his monstrosity of a sword.” “Denth! Come back here!” “You didn’t hire me, little man,” the first voice said, growing fainter. “If you want to make me do something, go get your boss. Until then, you know where to find me.” Silence. And then, something moved behind Lightsong. He spun, and could just barely make out Llarimar creeping forward. Lightsong waved him back, then joined him. “What?” Llarimar whispered. “Voices, ahead,” Lightsong whispered back, the tunnel dark around them. “Talking about the war.” “Who were they?” Llarimar asked. “I don’t know,” Lightsong whispered. “But I’m going to find out. Wait here while I—” He was interrupted by a loud scream. Lightsong jumped. The sound came from the same place he had heard the voices, and it sounded like... “Let go of me!” Blushweaver yelled. “What do you think you’re doing! I’m a goddess!” Lightsong stood up abruptly. A voice said something back to Blushweaver, but Lightsong was too far down the tunnel to make out the words. “You will let me go!” Blushweaver yelled. “I—” she cut off sharply, crying out in pain. Lightsong’s heart was
pounding. He took a step. “Your Grace!” Llarimar said, standing. “We should go for help!” “We are help,” Lightsong said. He took a deep breath. Then—surprising himself—he charged down the tunnel. He quickly approached the light, rounding a corner and coming into a section of tunnel that had been worked with rock. In seconds, he was running on a smooth stone ﬂoor and burst into what appeared to be a dungeon. Blushweaver was tied into a chair. A group of men wearing the robes of the God King’s priests stood around her with several uniformed soldiers. Blushweaver’s lip was bleeding, and she was crying through a gag that had been placed over her mouth. She wore a beautiful nightgown, but it was dirty and disheveled. The men in the room looked up in surprise, obviously shocked to see someone come up behind them. Lightsong took advantage of this shock and threw his shoulder against the soldier nearest to him. He sent the man ﬂying back into the wall, Lightsong’s superior size and weight knocking him aside with ease. Lightsong knelt down and quickly pulled the fallen soldier’s sword from its sheath. “Aha!” Lightsong said, pointing the weapon at the men in front of him. “Who’s first?” The soldiers regarded him dumbly. “I say, you!” Lightsong said, lunging at the next-closest guard. He missed the man by a good three inches, fumbling and off-balance from the lunge. The guard finally realized what was going on and pulled out his own sword. The priests backed against the wall. Blushweaver blinked at her tears, looking shocked. The soldier nearest Lightsong attacked, and Lightsong raised his blade awkwardly, trying to block, doing a horrible job of it. The guard at his feet suddenly threw himself at Lightsong’s legs, toppling him to the ground. Then one of the standing guards thrust his sword into Lightsong’s thigh. The leg bled blood as red as that of any mortal. Suddenly, Lightsong knew pain. Pain literally greater than any he’d known in his short life. He screamed. He saw, through tears, Llarimar heroically trying to tackle a guard from behind, but the attack was almost as poorly executed as Lightsong’s own. The soldiers stepped away, several guarding the tunnel, another holding his bloodied blade toward Lightsong’s throat. Funny, Lightsong thought, gritting his teeth against the pain. That was not at all how I imagined this going. Annotations for Chapter 52 Fifty-Three Annotations for Chapter 53 Vivenna waited up for Vasher. He did not return. She paced in the small, one-room hideout—the sixth in a series. They never spent more than a few days in each location. Unadorned, it held only their bedrolls, Vasher’s pack, and a single ﬂickering candle. Vasher would have chastised her for wasting the candle. For a man who held a king’s fortune in Breaths, he was surprisingly frugal. She continued pacing. She knew that she should probably just go to sleep. Vasher could take care of himself. It seemed that the only one in the city who couldn’t do that was Vivenna. And yet he’d told
her he was only going on a quick scouting mission. Though he was a solitary person himself, he apparently understood her desire to be a part of things, so he usually let her know where he was going and when to expect him back. She’d never waited up for Denth to come back from a night mission, and she’d been working with Vasher for a fraction of the time she’d spent with the mercenaries. Why did she worry so much now? Though she had felt like she was Denth’s friend, she hadn’t really cared about him. He’d been amusing and charming, but distant. Vasher was...well, who he was. There was no guile in him. He wore no false mask. She’d only met one other person like that: her sister, the one who would bear the God King’s child. Lord of Colors! Vivenna thought, still pacing. How did things turn into such a mess? ~ Siri awoke with a start. There was shouting coming from outside her room. She roused herself quickly, moving over to the door and putting her ear to it. She could hear fighting. If she were going to run, perhaps now would be the time. She rattled the door, hoping for some reason that it was unlocked. It wasn’t. She cursed. She’d heard fighting earlier—screaming, and men dying. And now again. Someone trying to rescue me, perhaps? she thought hopefully. But who? The door shook suddenly, and she jumped back as it opened. Treledees, high priest of the God King, stood in the doorway. “Quickly, child,” he said, waving to her. “You must come with me.” Siri looked desperately for a way to run. She backed away from the priest, and he cursed quietly, waving for a couple of soldiers in city guard uniforms to rush in and grab her. She screamed for help. “Quiet, you fool!” Treledees said. “We’re trying to help you.” His lies rang hollow in her ears, and she struggled as the soldiers pulled her from the room. Outside, bodies were lying on the ground, some in guard uniforms, others in nondescript armor, still others with grey skin. She heard fighting down the hallway, and she screamed toward it as the soldiers roughly pulled her away. ~ Old Chapps, they called him. Those who called him anything, that is. He sat in his little boat, moving slowly across the dark water of the bay. Night fishing. During the day, one had to pay a fee to fish in T’Telir waters. Well, technically, during the night you were supposed to pay too. But the thing about night was, nobody could see you. Old Chapps chuckled to himself, lowering his net over the side of the boat. The waters made their characteristic lap, lap, lap against the side of the boat. Dark. He liked it dark. Lap, lap, lap. Occasionally, he was given better work. Taking bodies from one of the city’s slumlords, weighting them down with rocks tied in a sack to the foot, then tossing them into the bay. There were probably hundreds of them
down there, ﬂoating in the current with their feet weighed to the ﬂoor. A party of skeletons, having a dance. Dance, dance, dance. No bodies tonight, though. Too bad. That meant fish. Free fish, he didn’t have to pay tariffs on. And free fish were good fish. No...a voice said to him. A little bit more to your right. The sea talked to him sometimes. Coaxed him this way or that. He happily made his way in the direction indicated. He was out on the waters almost every night. They should know him pretty well by now. Good. Drop the net. He did so. It wasn’t too deep in this part of the bay. He could drag the net behind his boat, pulling the weighted edges along the bottom, catching the smaller fish that came up into the shallows to feed. Not the best fish, but the sky was looking too dangerous to be out far from the shore. A storm brewing? His net struck something. He grumbled, yanking it. Sometimes it got caught on debris or coral. It was heavy. Too heavy. He pulled the net back up over the side, then opened the shield on his lantern, risking a bit of light. Tangled in the net, a sword lay in the bottom of his boat. Silvery, with a black handle. Lap, lap, lap. Ah, very nice, the voice said, much clearer now. I hate the water. So wet and icky down there. Transfixed, Old Chapps reached out, picking up the weapon. It felt heavy in his hand. I don’t suppose you’d want to go destroy some evil, would you? the voice said. I’m not really sure what that means, to be honest. I’ll just trust you to decide. Old Chapps smiled. Oh, all right, the sword said. You can admire me a little bit longer, if you must. After that, though, we really need to get back to shore. ~ Vasher awoke groggily. He was tied by his wrists to a hook in the ceiling of a stone room. The rope that had been used to tie him, he noticed, was the same one he’d used to tie up the maid. It had been completely drained of color. In fact, everything around him was a uniform grey. He had been stripped save for his short, white underbreeches. He groaned, his arms feeling numb from the awkward angle of being hung by his wrists. He wasn’t gagged, but he had no Breath left—he’d used the last of it in the fight, to Awaken the cloak of the fallen man. He groaned. A lantern burned in the corner. A figure stood next to it. “And so we both return,” Denth said quietly. Vasher didn’t reply. “I still owe you for Arsteel’s death, too,” Denth said quietly. “I want to know how you killed him.” “In a duel,” Vasher said in a croaking voice. “You didn’t beat him in a duel, Vasher,” Denth said, stepping forward. “I know it.” “Then maybe I snuck up and stabbed him from behind,” Vasher said. “It’s what
he deserved.” Denth backhanded him across the face, causing him to swing from the hook. “Arsteel was a good man!” “Once,” Vasher said, tasting blood. “Once, we were all good men, Denth. Once.” Denth was quiet. “You think your little quest here will undo what you’ve done?” “Better than becoming a mercenary,” Vasher said. “Working for whomever will pay.” “I am what you made me,” Denth said quietly. “That girl trusted you. Vivenna.” Denth turned, eyes darkened, the lanternlight not quite reaching his face. “She was supposed to.” “She liked you. Then you killed her friend.” “Things got a little out of hand.” “They always do, with you,” Vasher said. Denth raised an eyebrow, his face growing amused in the wan light. “I get out of hand, Vasher? Me? When’s the last time I started a war? Slaughtered tens of thousands? You’re the one who betrayed his closest friend and killed the woman who loved him.” Vasher didn’t respond. What argument could he offer? That Shashara had needed to die? It had been bad enough when she’d revealed the Commands to make Lifeless from a single breath. What if the way of making Awakened steel, like Nightblood, had entered the Manywar? Undead monsters slaughtering people with Awakened swords thirsting for blood? None of that mattered to a man who’d seen his sister murdered by Vasher’s hand. Besides, Vasher knew he had little credibility to stand on. He’d created his own monsters to fight in that war. Not Awakened steel like Nightblood, but deadly enough in their own right. “I was going to let Tonk Fah have you,” Denth said, turning away again. “He likes hurting things. It’s a weakness he has. We all have weaknesses. With my direction, he’s been able to restrict it to animals.” Denth turned to him, holding up a knife. “I’ve always wondered what he finds so enjoyable about causing pain.” ~ Dawn was approaching. Vivenna threw off her blanket, unable to sleep. She dressed, frustrated, but not sure why. Vasher was probably just fine. He was likely out carousing somewhere. Of course, she thought wryly, carousing. That sounds just like him. He’d never stayed out an entire night before. Something had gone wrong. She slowed as she pulled on her belt, glancing over at Vasher’s pack and the change of clothing he had inside of it. Every single thing I’ve tried since I left Idris has failed miserably, she thought, continuing to dress. I failed as a revolutionary, I failed as a beggar, and I failed as a sister. What am I supposed to do? find him? I don’t even know where to start. She looked away from the pack. Failure. It wasn’t something she’d been accustomed to, back in Idris. Everything she’d done there had turned out well. Maybe that’s what this is all about, she thought, sitting. My hatred of Hallandren. My insistence on saving Siri, on taking her place. When their father had chosen Siri over her, it had been the first time in her life she’d felt that she wasn’t good enough. So

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