Warbreaker Part 33

Lightsong nodded slowly. "Very well, then. Thank you."

The young priest moved as if to walk over to the main group.

"Oh, wait," Lightsong said. "Did you, by chance, get a good enough look at the intruder?"

"Not really, your grace," the priest said. "He was in dark clothing, kind of nondescript. It was too far away to see well."

Lightsong waved the man away. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then eyed Llarimar. "Well?"

The priest raised an eyebrow. "Well what, your grace?"

"What do you think?"

Llarimar shook his head. "I... honestly don't know, your grace. This is obviously important, however."

Lightsong paused. "It is?"

Llarimar nodded. "Yes, your grace. Because of what that man said-the one who was wounded in the hand. He mentioned a black sword. You predicted it, remember? In the painting this morning?"

"That wasn't a prediction," Lightsong said. "That was really there, in the painting."

"That's the way foretelling works, your grace," Llarimar said. "Don't you see? You look at a painting and an entire image appears to your eyes. All I see is random strokes of a red brush. The scene you describe-the things you see-are prophetic. You are a G.o.d."

"But I saw exactly what the painting was said to depict!" Lightsong said. "Before you even told me what the t.i.tle was!"

Llarimar nodded knowingly, as if that proved his point.

"Oh, never mind. Priests. Insufferable fanatics, every one of you. Either way, you agree with me that there is something strange here."

"Definitely, your grace."

"Good," Lightsong said. "Then you'll kindly stop complaining when I investigate it."

"Actually, your grace," Llarimar said, "it's even more imperative that you not get involved. You predicted this would occur, but you are an oracle. If you get involved, you could unbalance a great many things."

"I always like being unbalanced," Lightsong said. "Besides, this is far too much fun."

As usual, Llarimar didn't react to having his advice ignored. As they began to walk back toward the main group, however, the priest did ask a question. "Your grace. Just to sate my own curiosity, what do you think about the murder?"

"It's obvious," Lightsong said idly. "There were two intruders. The first is the large man with the sword-he knocked out the guards, attacked those servants, released the Lifeless, then disappeared. The second man-the one the young priest saw-came in after the first intruder. This second man is the murderer."

Llarimar frowned. "Why do you suppose that?"

"The first man took care not to kill," Lightsong said. "He left the guards alive at risk to himself, since they could have woken back up at any moment to raise the alarm. He didn't draw his sword against the servants but simply tried to subdue them. There was no reason for him to kill a tied up captive-particularly since he'd already left witnesses. It wouldn't make sense.

"If there were a second man, however... well, that would make sense. The servant who was killed, he was the one who was conscious when this second intruder came through. That awake servant was the only one who saw the second intruder."

"So, you think someone else followed the man with the sword, killed the only witness, and then..."

"Both of them vanished," Lightsong said. "I'm thinking a trapdoor beneath the palace. Seems fairly obvious to me. One thing, however, is not obvious." He glanced at Llarimar, slowing before they reached the main group of priests and servants.

"And... what is that, your grace?" Llarimar asked.

"How in the name of the Colors I figured all of this out?"

"I'm trying to decide that myself, your grace."

Lightsong shook his head. "This comes from before, Scoot. Everything I'm doing, it feels natural. Who was I before I died?"

"I don't know what you mean, your grace," Llarimar said, turning away.

"Oh, come now, Scoot. The answer seems obvious to even me, and we both know I'm an idiot. I spend most of my Returned life lounging about, but then the moment someone is killed, I leap up and can't help but start poking around. Doesn't that sound a little suspicious to you?"

Llarimar didn't look at him.

"Colors!" Lightsong swore. "You mean to tell me I was someone useful? I was just beginning to convince myself that I'd died in a reasonable way-such as falling off a stump when I was drunk."

"I said nothing," Llarimar said.

"Well, these instincts came from somewhere," Lightsong said as they walked over to the main group of watching priests and servants. The head priest from before stood with a wooden box. Wild scratching came from inside. "Thank you," Lightsong snapped, grabbing the box and pa.s.sing by without even breaking stride. "I'm telling you, Scoot, I am not pleased."

"You seemed rather happy this morning, your grace," Llarimar noted as they walked away from Mercystar's palace. Her priest stood behind, a complaint dying on his lips, Lightsong's entourage joining their G.o.d.

"I was happy," Lightsong said, "because I didn't know what was going on. How am I going to be properly indolent if I keep itching to go investigate things? Honestly, this murder is completely destroying my hard-earned reputation."

"I'm sorry, your grace, that you have to be inconvenienced by a semblance of motivation."

"You should be," Lightsong said, sighing. He handed over the box with its furious Lifeless rodent. "Here. You think my Awakeners can break its security phrase?"

"Eventually," Llarimar said. "Though it's an animal, your grace. It won't be able to tell us information."

"Have them do it anyway," Lightsong said. "I need to think about this case some more."

They walked back to his palace. However, the thing that struck Lightsong the most was the fact that he'd used the word 'case' in reference to the murder. It was a word he'd never heard used in that particular context. Yet he knew that it fit. Instinctively, automatically.

I didn't have to learn to speak again when I Returned, he thought. I didn't have to learn to walk again, or read again, or anything like that. Only my memory was lost.

But not all of it, apparently.

And that left him wondering what else he could do, if he tried.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Something happened to those previous G.o.d Kings, Siri thought, walking through the near-endless rooms of the G.o.d King's palace, her servants scuttling behind. Something that Bluefingers fears will happen to Susebron. It will be dangerous to both the G.o.d King and myself. Or so Bluefingers claims.

She continued to walk, trailing a train made from hundred ta.s.sels of translucent green silk behind her. The day's gown was nearly gossamer-she'd chosen it, then had asked her servants to fetch an opaque slip for her. It was funny how quickly she'd stopped worrying about what was 'ostentatious' and what was not.

There were simply much more important problems that she needed to worry about.

The priests do fear that something will happen to Susebron, she thought firmly. They are so eager for me to produce an heir. They claim it's about the succession, but they went fifty years without bothering. They were willing to wait twenty years to get their bride from Idris. Whatever the danger is, it's not urgent.

And yet the priests act like it is.

Perhaps they'd wanted a bride of the Royal line so badly that they'd been willing to risk the danger. Surely they needn't have waited twenty years, though. Vivenna could have born children years ago.

Though... perhaps the treaty specified a time and not an age. Maybe it just said that the king of Idris had twenty years to provide a bride for the G.o.d King. That would explain why her father had been able to send Siri instead. Gritting her teeth, Siri cursed herself for ignoring her lessons about the treaty. She didn't really know what it said. For all she knew, the danger could be spelled out in the doc.u.ment itself.

She needed more information. Unfortunately, the priests were indifferent, the servants silent, and Bluefingers, well...

She finally caught sight of him walking through one of the rooms, writing on his ledger. Siri hurried up, train rustling. He turned, glimpsing her. His eyes opened wide, and he scuttled away with increased speed, ducking through the open doorway into another room. Siri called after him, moving as quickly as the dress would allow. When she arrived, the room was empty.

"Colors!" she swore, feeling her hair grow a deep red in annoyance. "You still think he isn't avoiding me?" she demanded, turning to the leader of her servants.

The woman lowered her gazed. "It would be improper for a servant of the palace to avoid his queen, Vessel. He must not have seen you."

Right, Siri thought, just like every other time. When she sent for him, he always arrived after she'd left. When she had a letter scribed to him, and he responded with such vague language as to frustrate her even further.

She couldn't take books from the palace library, and the priests were disruptively distracting if she tried to read inside the library chamber itself. She'd requested books from the city, but the priests had insisted that they be brought by a priest, then read to her, as to not "strain her eyes." She was pretty sure that if there was anything in the book that the priests didn't want her to know, the reader would simply skip it.

She depended so much upon the priests and scribes for everything, including information.

Except... she thought, still standing in the bright red room. There was another source of information. She turned to her servant leader. "What activities are going on today in the courtyard?"

"Many, Vessel," the woman said. "Some artists have come and are doing paintings and sketches. There are some animal handlers showing exotic pets, several dye merchants displaying their newest color combinations, and-of course-there are minstrels."

"What about at that building we went to before?"

"The arena, Vessel? I believe there will be games there later in the evening. Contests of physical prowess."

Siri nodded. "Prepare a box. I want to attend."

Back in her homeland, Siri had occasionally watched running contests. They were usually spontaneous, as the monks did not approve of men showing off. Austre gave all men talents. Flaunting them was seen as arrogance.

Still, boys cannot be so easily contained. She had seen them run, had even encouraged them. Those contests, however, had been nothing like what the Hallandren men now displayed.

There were a half dozen different events going on at once. Some men threw large stones, competing for distance. Others raced in a wide circle around the interior of the arena floor, kicking up sand, sweating heavily in the muggy Hallandren heat. Others tossed javelins, shot arrows, or engaged in jumping contests.

Siri watched with a deepening blush-one that ran all the way to the ends of her hair. The men wore only loincloths. During her weeks in the grand city, she had never seen anything quite so... interesting.

A lady shouldn't stare at young men, her mother had taught. It's unseemly.

Yet what was the point, if not to stare? Siri couldn't help herself, and it wasn't just because of the naked skin. These were men who had trained extensively to compete-who had mastered their physical abilities to wondrous results. As Siri watched, she saw that relatively little regard was given to the winners of each particular event. The contests weren't about victory, but about the skill required to compete.

In that way, these contests were almost in line with Idris sensibilities-yet, at the same time, they were ironically opposite.

The beauty of the games kept her distracted for much longer than she'd intended, her hair permanently locked into a deep maroon blush, even after she got used to the idea of men competing in such scant clothing. Eventually, she forced herself to stand and turn away from the performance. She had work to do.

Her servants perked up. They had brought all kinds of luxuries. Full couches and cushions, fruits and wines, even a few men with fans to keep her cool. Even after only a few weeks in the palace, such comfort was beginning to seem commonplace to her.

"There was a G.o.d who came and spoke to me before," Siri said, scanning the amphitheater, where many of the stone box sections were decorated with colorful pavilions. "Which one was it?"

"Lightsong the Bold, Vessel," one of the serving women said. "G.o.d of bravery."

Siri nodded. "And his colors are?"

"Gold and red, Vessel."

Siri smiled. His pavilion showed that he was there. He wasn't the only G.o.d to have introduced himself to her during her weeks in the palace, but he was the only one who had spent any amount of time chatting with her. He'd been confusing, but at least he'd been willing to talk. She left her box, beautiful dress trailing on the stone. She'd had to force herself to stop feeling guilty for ruining them, since apparently each dress was burned the day after she wore it.

Her servants burst into anxious motion, gathering up furniture and foods, following behind Siri. As before, there were people on the benches below-merchants rich enough to buy entrance to the Court or peasants who had won a certain lottery drawing. Many turned and looked up as she pa.s.sed, whispering among themselves.

It's the only way they get to see me, she realized. Their queen.

That was one thing that Idris certainly did better than Hallandren. The Idrians had easy access to their king and their government, while in Hallandren the leaders were held aloof-and therefore made remote, even mysterious.

She approached the red and gold pavilion. The G.o.d she had seen before lounged inside, relaxing on a couch, sipping a large gla.s.s cup filled with an icy red liquid. He looked much as he had before-chiseled masculine features that she was coming to a.s.sociate with G.o.dhood, styled black hair, golden tan skin, and a rather indifferent att.i.tude.

That's something else Idris was right about, she thought. My people may be too stern, but it also isn't good to become as indulgent as some of these Returned.

The G.o.d, Lightsong, eyed her. "My queen."

"Lightsong the Bold," she said as one of her servants brought her chair. "I trust your day has been pleasant?"

"So far this day I have discovered several disturbing and redefining elements of my soul which are slowly restructuring the very nature of my existence." He took a sip from his drink. "Other than that, it was uneventful. You?"

"Fewer revelations," Siri said, sitting. "More confusion. I'm still inexperienced in the way things work here. I was kind of hoping you could answer some of my questions, give me some information, perhaps..."

"Afraid not," Lightsong said happily.

Siri paused, then flushed, embarra.s.sed. "I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong. I-"

"No, nothing wrong, child," Lightsong said, his smile deepening. "The reason I cannot help you is because I, unfortunately, know nothing. I'm useless. Haven't you heard?"

"Um... I'm afraid I haven't."

"You should pay better attention," he said, raising his cup toward her. "Shame on you."

Siri frowned, growing more embarra.s.sed. Lightsong's high priest-distinguished by his oversized headgear-looked on disapprovingly, and that only caused her to be more self-conscious. Why should I be the self-conscious one? she thought, growing annoyed. Lightsong is the one who is making veiled insults against me-and making overt ones against himself! It's like he enjoys being degraded.