Warbreaker (30 page)

The priests of the Iridescent Tones, it appeared, were hiding things from the rest of the kingdom. And from their gods.

Annotations for Chapter 21

Twenty-Two

Annotations for Chapter 22

Weatherlove, god of storms, selected one of the wooden spheres from the rack, then hefted it in his hand. It had been built to fill the palm of a god, and was weighted in the middle with lead. Carved with rings across the surface, it was painted a deep blue.

“A doubling sphere?” asked Lifeblesser. “A bold move.”

Weatherlove eyed the small group of gods behind him. Lightsong was among them, sipping on a sweet orange fruited drink with some kind of alcohol enhancement. It had been several days since he’d allowed Llarimar to talk him out of bed, but he still had come to no conclusion on how to proceed.

“A bold move indeed,” Weatherlove said, tossing the sphere up into the air, then catching it. “Tell me, Lightsong the Bold. Do you favor this throw?”

The other gods chuckled. There were four of them playing. As usual, Weatherlove wore a green and gold robe that hung from only one shoulder with a wrap around his waist that came down to mid-thigh. The outfit— patterned after the ancient dress of the Returned from paintings centuries past—revealed his sculpted muscles and divine figure. He stood at the edge of the balcony, as it was his turn to throw.

Seated behind him were the three others. Lightsong on the left and Lifeblesser—god of healing—in the middle. Truthcall, god of nature, sat on the far right, wearing his ornate cloak and uniform of maroon and white.

The three gods were variations on a theme. If Lightsong hadn’t known them well, he would have had trouble telling them apart. Each stood almost exactly seven feet tall, with bulging muscles that any mortal would have envied. True, Lifeblesser had brown hair, while Weatherlove had blond and Truthcall had black. But all three had that same set of square-jawed features, perfect coiffure, and innate seamless grace that marked them as Returned divinities. Only their costumes really offered any variety.

Lightsong sipped his drink. “Do I bless your throw, Weatherlove?” he asked. “Are we not in competition against one another?”

“I suppose,” the god said, tossing the wooden ball up and down.

“Then why would I bless you when you throw against me?”

Weatherlove just smirked, then pulled back his arm and launched the ball out across the pitch. It bounced, then rolled over the grass, eventually coming to rest. This section of the courtyard had been divided into an expansive game board with ropes and stakes. Priests and servants scurried about on the sides, making notations and keeping track of the score so that the gods wouldn’t have to. Tarachin was a complex game, played only by the wealthy. Lightsong had never bothered to learn the rules.

He found it more amusing to play when he had no idea what he was doing.

It was his throw next. He stood up, selecting one of the wooden spheres from the rack because it matched the color of his drink. He tossed the orange sphere up and down; then—not paying attention to where he was throwing— he tossed it out onto the field. The sphere flew much farther than it probably should have; he had the strength of a perfect body. That was part of the reason the field was so vast; it had to be built to the scale of gods, and so when they played, they required the elevated perspective of a balcony to view their game.

Tarachin was supposed to be one of the most difficult games in the world; it required strength to throw the spheres correctly, keen wit to understand where to place them, coordination to do so with the necessary precision, and a great understanding of strategy to pick the proper sphere and dominate the game field.

“Four hundred and thirteen points,” a servant announced after being fed the number by scribes working below.

“Another magnificent throw,” Truthcall said, perking up in his wooden lounging chair. “How do you do it? I’d
never
have thought to use a reversal sphere for that throw.”

Is that what the orange ones are called?
Lightsong thought, returning to his seat. “You just have to understand the playing field,” he said, “and learn to get inside the mind of the sphere. Think like it does, reason as it might.”

“Reason like a sphere?” Lifeblesser said, standing up. He wore flowing robes of his colors, blue and silver. He selected a green sphere off the rack, then stared at it. “What type of reasoning does a wooden sphere do?”

“The circular type, I should think,” Lightsong said lightly. “And, by coincidence, it is my favorite type as well. Perhaps that’s why I’m so good at the game.”

Lifeblesser frowned, opening his mouth to reply. He finally shut it, looking confused by Lightsong’s comment. Becoming a god did not, unfortunately, increase one’s mental capacity along with one’s physical attributes. Lightsong didn’t mind. For him, the real sport of a game of Tarachin never involved where the spheres landed.

Lifeblesser made his throw, then sat down. “I do say, Lightsong,” he said, smiling. “I mean this as a compliment, but having you around can be draining!”

“Yes,” Lightsong said, sipping his drink, “I’m remarkably like a mosquito in that regard. Truthcall, isn’t it your throw?”

“Actually, it’s yours again,” Weatherlove said. “You achieved the crown pairing during your last toss, remember?”

“Ah yes, how could I forget,” Lightsong said, rising. He took another sphere, tossed it over his shoulder out onto the green, then sat down.

“Five hundred and seven points,” the priest announced.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Truthcall said.

Lightsong said nothing. In his opinion, it revealed an inherent flaw in the game that the one who knew least about it tended to do the best. He doubted, however, that the others would take it that way. All three were very dedicated to their sport, and they played every week. There was blessed little else for them to do with their time.

Lightsong suspected that they kept inviting him only because they wanted to prove, at last, that they could defeat him. If he’d fathomed the rules, he’d have tried to lose on purpose to keep them from insisting that he come play with them. Still, he liked the way his victories annoyed them—though, of course, they never showed him anything other than perfect decorum. Either way, under the circumstances, he suspected that he couldn’t lose if he wanted to. It was rather difficult to throw a game when you had no idea what you were doing to win it in the first place.

Truthcall finally stepped up to throw. He always wore clothing of a martial style, and the colors maroon and white were very handsome on him. Lightsong suspected that he’d always been jealous that instead of being given Lifeless Commands as his duty to the court, he’d been given a vote over issues of trade with other kingdoms.

“I hear that you spoke with the queen a few days back, Lightsong,” Truth-call said as he threw.

“Yes, indeed,” Lightsong said, sipping his drink. “She was extraordinarily pleasant, I must say.”

Weatherlove gave a quiet laugh, obviously thinking that last comment to be sarcasm—which was a little annoying, since Lightsong had meant it sincerely.

“The entire court is abuzz,” Truthcall said, turning and flipping back his cape, then leaning against the balcony railing as he waited for the points from his throw to be tabulated. “The Idrians betrayed the treaty, one could say.”

“The wrong princess,” Weatherlove agreed. “It gives us an opening.”

“Yes,” Truthcall said musingly, “but an opening for what?”

“To attack!” Lifeblesser said in his usual, dense way. The other two regarded him wincingly.

“There is so much more to be gained than that, Lifeblesser.”

“Yes,” Weatherlove said, idly spinning the last bit of wine in his cup. “My plans are already in motion, of course.”

“And what plans would those be, divine brother?” Truthcall said.

Weatherlove smiled. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, now, would I?”

“That depends,” Truthcall said evenly. “Will it keep me from demanding the Idrians give us more access to the passes? I’m willing to bet that some...pressures could be placed on the new queen to gain her favor for such a proposal. She’s said to be rather naive.”

Lightsong felt a slight nausea as they spoke. He knew how they plotted, always scheming. They played their game with spheres, but just as much of their reason for seeing one another at these events was to posture and make deals.

“Her ignorance must be an act,” Lifeblesser said in a rare moment of thoughtfulness. “They wouldn’t have sent her if she was really that inexperienced.”

“She’s Idrian,” Truthcall said dismissively. “Their most important city has fewer people than a small T’Telir neighborhood. They barely understand the concept of politics, I’ll warrant. They are more used to talking to sheep than humans.”

Weatherlove nodded. “Even if she’s ‘well trained’ by their standards, she’ll be easy to manipulate here. The real trick is going to be to make certain others don’t get to her first. Lightsong, what was your impression? Will she be quick to do as the gods tell her?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” he said, waving for more juice. “As you know, I’m not much interested in political games.”

Weatherlove and Truthcall shared a smirking look; like most in the court, they considered Lightsong hopeless when it came to practical matters. And by their definition, “practical” meant “taking advantage of others.”

“Lightsong,” Lifeblesser said with his tactlessly honest voice. “You really need to take more of an interest in politics. It can be very diverting. Why, if you only knew the secrets to which I’m privy!”

“My dear Lifeblesser,” Lightsong replied, “please trust me when I say that I have
no
desire to know any secrets which involve you and a privy.”

Lifeblesser frowned, obviously trying to work through that one.

The other two began to discuss the queen again as the priests reported the score from the last throw. Oddly, Lightsong found himself increasingly troubled. As Lifeblesser stood up to take his next toss, Lightsong found himself rising as well.

“My divine brothers,” he said, “I suddenly feel quite weary. Perhaps it was something I ingested.”

“Not something I served, I hope?” Truthcall said. It was his palace.

“Food, no,” Lightsong said. “The other things you’re serving today, perhaps. I really must be on my way.”

“But you’re in the lead!” Truthcall said. “If you leave now, we’ll have to play again next week!”

“Your threats roll off of me like water, my divine brother,” Lightsong said, nodding respectfully to each in turn. “I bid you farewell until such time as you drag me up here again to play this tragic game of yours.”

They laughed. He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or insulted that they so often confused his jokes for serious statements and the other way around.

He collected his priests—Llarimar included—from the room just inside the balcony, but didn’t feel like speaking with any of them. He just made his way through the palace of deep reds and whites, still troubled. The men on the balcony were rank amateurs compared to the real political masters, like Blushweaver. They were so blunt and obvious with their plans.

But even men who were blunt and obvious could be dangerous, particularly to a woman like the queen, who obviously had little experience with such things.

I’ve already determined that I can’t help her
, Lightsong thought, leaving the palace and entering the green outside. To the right, a complex network of rope squares and patterns marked the Tarachin pitch. A sphere bounced with a distant thud in the grass. Lightsong walked the other direction on the springy lawn, not even waiting for his priests to erect a canopy to shade him from the afternoon sun.

He still worried that if he tried to help, he’d just make things worse. But then there were the dreams. War and violence. Over and over again, he saw the fall of T’Telir itself, the destruction of his homeland. He couldn’t continue to ignore the dreams, even if he didn’t accept them as prophetic.

Blushweaver thought that war was important. Or, at least, that it was important to prepare for. He trusted her more than any other god or goddess, but he also worried about how aggressive she was. She had come to him, asking him to be a part of her plans. Had she done it, perhaps, because she knew he would be more temperate than she? Was she intentionally balancing herself?

He heard petitions, even though he didn’t intend to ever give up his Breath and die. He interpreted paintings, even though he didn’t think he was seeing anything prophetic in them. Couldn’t he help secure power in the court in order to be prepared when he didn’t believe that his visions meant anything? Particularly if those preparations helped protect a young woman who, undoubtedly, would have no other allies?

Llarimar had told him to do his best. That sounded like an awful lot of work. Unfortunately, doing nothing was beginning to seem like even
more
work. Sometimes, when you stepped in something foul, the only thing to do was to stop walking and make the effort to clean it off.

He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m probably going to regret this,” he muttered to himself.

Then he went looking for Blushweaver.

~

The man was slight, almost skeletal, and each shellfish he slurped made Vivenna cringe for two reasons. Not only did she have trouble believing that anyone would enjoy such slimy, sluglike food, but the mussels were also of a very rare and expensive variety.

And she was paying.

The afternoon restaurant crowd was large—people usually ate out at midday, when it made more sense to buy food than return home for a meal. The entire concept of restaurants still seemed strange to her. Didn’t these men have wives or servants to make them meals? Didn’t they feel uncomfortable eating in such a public place? It was so...impersonal.

Denth and Tonk Fah sat on either side of her. And, of course, they helped themselves to the plate of mussels as well. Vivenna wasn’t certain— she’d pointedly not asked—but she thought that the shellfish were raw.