Warbreaker Part 31

"Fancy that," Lightsong said, nodding to his servants as they stepped back, leaving him dressed.

"Shall we go over your dreams, then?" Llarimar asked.

Lightsong paused, an image flashing in his head. Rain. Tempest. Storms. And a brilliant red panther.

"Nope," Lightsong said, walking toward the doorway.

"Your grace..."

"We'll talk about the dreams another time, Scoot," Lightsong said. "We have more important work.

"More important work?"

Lightsong smiled, reaching the doorway and turning back. "I want to go back to Mercystar's palace."

"Whatever for?"

"I don't know," Lightsong said happily.

Llarimar sighed. "Very well, your grace. But can we at least look over some art, first? There are people who paid good money to get your opinion, and some are waiting quite eagerly to hear what you think of their pieces."

"All right," Lightsong said. "But let's be quick about it."

Lightsong stared at the painting.

Red upon red, shades so subtle that the painter must have been of the First Heightening at least. Violent, terrible reds, clashing against each other like waves-waves that only vaguely resembled men, yet somehow managed to get across the idea of armies fighting much better than any detailed representation could have.

Chaos. b.l.o.o.d.y wounds upon b.l.o.o.d.y uniforms upon b.l.o.o.d.y skin. There was so much violence in red. His own color. He almost felt as if he were in the painting-felt its turmoil shaking him, disorienting him, pulling on him.

The waves of men pointed toward one figure at the center. A woman, vaguely depicted by a couple of brush strokes with too many curves. And yet it was obvious. She stood high, as if atop a crest formed by crashing soldiers, in a posture of motion, head flung back, hand upraised.

Holding a deep black sword that darkened the red sky around it.

"The battle of Twilight Falls," Llarimar said quietly, standing beside him in the white hallway. "Last conflict of the Manywar."

Lightsong nodded. He'd known that, somehow. The faces of many of the soldiers were tinged with grey. Lifeless. The Manywar had marked the first time they had been used in large numbers on the battlefield.

"I know you don't prefer war scenes," Llarimar said. "But-"

"I like it," Lightsong said, cutting of the priest. "I like it a lot."

Llarimar fell silent.

Lightsong stared into the painting with its flowing reds, painted so subtly that they gave a feeling of war, rather than just an image. "It might be the best painting that has ever pa.s.sed through my hall."

The priests on the other side of the room began writing furiously. Llarimar just stared at him, troubled.

"What?" Lightsong asked.

"It's nothing," Llarimar said.

"Scoot..." Llarimar said, eying him.

The priest sighed. "I can't speak, your grace. I cannot taint your impression of the paintings."

"A lot of G.o.ds have been giving favorable reviews of war paintings lately, eh?" Lightsong said, looking back at the piece of art.

Llarimar didn't answer.

"It's probably nothing," Lightsong said. "Just us responding to those arguments in the court, I'd guess."

"Likely," Llarimar said.

Lightsong fell silent. It wasn't 'nothing' to Llarimar. To him, Lightsong wasn't just giving his impression of art-he was foretelling the future. What did it foretell to like a depiction of war with such vibrant, brutal colorings?

I shouldn't have spoken, he thought. And yet, reading the art seemed like the only important thing he did.

He stared at the sharp smears of paint, each person a just a couple triangular strokes. It was beautiful. Could war be beautiful? How could he find beauty in those grey faces meeting flesh, the Lifeless killing men? This battle hadn't even meant anything. It hadn't decided the fate of the war, even if the leader of the Pahn Unity-the kingdoms united against Hallandren-had been killed in the battle. Diplomacy had finally ended the Manywar, not bloodshed.

And I'm thinking of starting this up again, Lightsong thought, still transfixed by the beauty.

No, he thought. No, I'm just being careful. Helping Blushweaver secure a political faction. Better that, than let things just pa.s.s me by. The Manywar started because the Royal family wasn't careful.

The painting continued to call to him. "What's that sword?" Lightsong asked.

"Sword?"

"The black one," Lightsong said. "In the woman's hand."

"I... I don't see a sword, your grace," Llarimar said. "To tell you the truth, I don't see a woman, either. It's all just wild strokes of paint, to me."

"You called it the Battle of Twilight Falls."

"The t.i.tle of the piece, your grace," Llarimar said. "I a.s.sumed that you were as confused by it as I was, so I told you what the artist had named it."

The two fell silent. Finally, Lightsong turned, walking away from the painting. "I'm done reviewing art for the day." He hesitated. "Don't burn that painting. Keep it for my collection."

Llarimar offered no objection. As Lightsong made his way out of the palace, he tried to regain some of his excitement, and he was mostly successful-though memory of the terrible, beautiful scene stayed with him. Mixing with his memories of the last night's dream, the clashing tempest of winds.

Not even that could dampen his mood completely. The truth was-odd dream notwithstanding-he had awoken more eager this day than he had in years. Something was different. Something excited him.

There had been a murder in the Court of G.o.ds.

He didn't know why he should find that so intriguing. If anything, he should find it tragic. And yet, for so many years-as long as he had lived-everything had been provided for him. Answers to his questions, entertainment to sate his whims. He had become a glutton almost by accident. Only two things had been withheld him: Knowledge of his past and the ability to leave the Court.

Neither of those restrictions were going to change soon. But here, inside the court-the place of too much safety and comfort-something had gone wrong. A little thing. A thing most people would probably ignore. n.o.body cared. n.o.body wanted to care. Who, therefore, would mind Lightsong's questions?

"You're acting very oddly, your grace," Llarimar said, catching up to him as they crossed the gra.s.s, servants following behind in a chaotic cl.u.s.ter as they worked to get a parasol open.

"I know," Lightsong said. "However, can we not agree that I have always been rather odd, for a G.o.d?"

"I guess that is true."

"Then I'm actually very like myself," Lightsong said. "And all is right in the universe."

"Are we really going back to Mercystar's palace?"

"Indeed we are. Do you suppose she'll be annoyed at us? That might prove interesting."

Llarimar just sighed. "Are you ready to talk about your dreams yet?"

Lightsong fell silent as he walked. The servants finally got the parasol up and held it above him. "I dreamed of a storm," Lightsong finally said. "I was standing in it, without anything to brace myself. It was raining and blowing against me, trying to force me backward. In fact, it was so strong that even the ground beneath me seemed to undulate."

Llarimar looked disturbed.

More signs of war, Lightsong thought. Or, at least, that's how he'll see it.

"Anything else?"

"Yes," Lightsong said. "A red panther. It seemed to shine, reflective, like it was made of gla.s.s or something like that. It was in the storm."

Llarimar eyed him. "Are you making things up, your grace?"

"What? No! That's what I really dreamed."

Llarimar sighed, but nodded to a lesser priest, who rushed up to do the transcribing. It wasn't long before they reached Mercystar's palace of yellow and gold. Lightsong paused before the building, realizing that he'd never paid a visit to another G.o.d's palace without first sending a messenger.

"Do you want me to send someone in to announce you, your grace?" Llarimar asked.

Lightsong stood for a moment. "No," he finally said, noticing a pair of guards standing at one of the doorways. The two men looked far more muscular than the average servant and they wore swords. Dueling blades, Lightsong a.s.sumed-though he'd never actually seen one.

He walked up to the men. "Is your mistress here?"

"I am afraid not, your grace," one of them said. "She went to visit Allmother for the afternoon."

Allmother, Lightsong thought. Another with Lifeless Commands. Blushweaver's doing? Perhaps he would drop by later-he missed chatting with Allmother. She, unfortunately, hated him violently. "Ah," Lightsong said to the guard. "Well, regardless, I need to inspect the corridor just inside here, where the attack happened the other night."

The guards glanced at each other. "I... don't know if we can let you do that, your grace."

"Scoot!" Lightsong said. "Can they forbid me?"

"Only if they have direct commands forbidding you, given to them by Mercystar."

Lightsong looked back at the men. Reluctantly, they stepped aside. "It's perfectly all right," he told them. "She asked me to take care of things. Kind of. Coming, Scoot?"

Llarimar followed him into the corridors. Once again, Lightsong felt an odd satisfaction. Instincts he didn't know he had drove him to seek out the place where the servant had died.

The wood had been replaced-his eyes, Heightened to recognize colors-could easily tell the difference between the new wood and the old, used wood. He walked a little further. The patch where the wood had turned grey was gone as well, replaced with new wood.

Interesting, he thought. But not unexpected. I wonder... are there any other patches? He walked a little further and was rewarded by another patch of new wood. It formed an exact square.

"Your grace?" a new voice asked.

Lightsong looked up to see the curt young priest he had spoken with the day before. Lightsong smiled. "Ah, good. I was hoping that you would arrive."

"This is most irregular, your grace," the man said.

"I know," Lightsong said. "Look, I need to speak with the guards who saw the intruder the other night."

"But why?" the priest said.

"Because I'm eccentric," Lightsong said. "Now send for them. I need to speak to all of the servants or guards who saw the man who committed the murder."

"Your grace," the priest said sufferingly. "The authorities have already taken care of this. They have determined that the intruder was a thief after Mercystar's art, and they have committed to-"

"Scoot," Lightsong said, turning. "Can this man ignore my demand?"

"Only at great peril to his soul, your grace," Llarimar said. "You are, after all, one of his G.o.ds."

The priest eyed them both angrily, then turned and sent a servant to do as Lightsong asked. Lightsong knelt down, causing several servants to whisper in alarm. They obviously thought it improper for a G.o.d to stoop.

Lightsong ignored them, looking at the square of new wood. It wasn't like the other two that had been replaced. Those boards had all been ripped up, creating an uneven patch on the. Here, the distinction was very specific-a square patch of wood that was just slightly a different color from the others. Without Breath-and a lot of it-he wouldn't have even noticed the distinction.

A trap door, he thought with sudden shock. The priest was watching him closely. This patch isn't as new as the other ones back there. It's only new in relation to the other boards.

Lightsong crawled along the floor, intentionally ignoring to the door in the wood. Once again, unexpected instincts warned him not to reveal what he'd discovered. So, instead, he looked as if he were searching for threads that might have been caught on the wood. He picked up one that had obviously come from a servant's robe and held it up.

The priest seemed to relax slightly.

So he knows about the trap door, Lightsong thought. And... perhaps the intruder did as well?

Lightsong crawled about on the ground some more, causing great discomfort in the servants until the men he had requested were a.s.sembled. He stood-letting a couple of his servants dust off his robes-then walked over to the newcomers. The hallway was growing quite crowded, so he shooed them back out into the sunlight.

Outside, he regarded the group of six men. "Identify yourselves. You on the left, who are you?"

"My name is Gagaril," the man said.

"I'm sorry," Lightsong said. "And how are you involved?"

"I was one of the guards at the door when the intruder broke in."

"Were you alone?" Lightsong asked.

"No," said another of the men. "I was with him."

"Good," Lightsong said. "You two, go over there somewhere." He waved his hand at the lawn. The men looked at each other, then walked away as indicated.