Warbreaker (38 page)

Lightsong awoke and immediately climbed from bed. He stood up, stretched, and smiled.
“Beautiful day,” he said.

His servants stood at the edges of the room, watching uncertainly.

“What?” Lightsong asked, holding out his arms. “Come on, let’s get dressed.”

They rushed forward. Llarimar entered shortly after. Lightsong often wondered how early he got up, since each morning when Lightsong rose, Llarimar was always there.

Llarimar watched him with a raised eyebrow. “You’re chipper this morning, Your Grace.”

Lightsong shrugged. “It just felt like it was time to get up.”

“A full hour earlier than usual.”

Lightsong cocked his head as the servants tied off his robes. “Really?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

“Nope,” Lightsong said, walking toward the doorway.

“Your Grace...”

“We’ll talk about the dreams another time, Scoot,” Lightsong said. “We have more important work.”

“More important work?”

Lightsong smiled, reaching the doorway and turning back. “I want to go back to Mercystar’s palace.”

“Whatever for?”

“I don’t know,” Lightsong said happily.

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

“All right,” Lightsong said. “But let’s be quick about it.”

~

Lightsong stared at the painting.

Red upon red, shades so subtle that the painter must have been of the Third Heightening at least. Violent, terrible reds, clashing against one another like waves—waves that only vaguely resembled men, yet that somehow managed to convey the idea of armies fighting much better than any detailed realistic depiction could have.

Chaos. Bloody wounds upon bloody uniforms upon bloody skin. There was so much violence in red. His own color. He almost felt as if he were
in
the painting—felt its turmoil shaking him, disorienting him,
pulling
on him.

The waves of men pointed toward one figure at the center. A woman, vaguely depicted by a couple of curved brushstrokes. And yet it was obvious. She stood high, as if atop a cresting wave of crashing soldiers, caught in mid-motion, head flung back, her arm upraised.

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

“The Battle of Twilight Falls,” Llarimar said quietly, standing beside him in the white hallway. “Last conflict of the Manywar.”

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

“I know you don’t prefer war scenes,” Llarimar said. “But—”

“I like it,” Lightsong said, cutting off the priest. “I like it a lot.”

Llarimar fell silent.

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

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

“What?” Lightsong asked.

“It’s nothing,” Llarimar said.

“Scoot...” Lightsong said, eyeing him.

The priest sighed. “I can’t speak, Your Grace. I cannot taint your impression of the paintings.”

“A lot of gods have been giving favorable reviews of war paintings lately, eh?” Lightsong said, looking back at the artwork.

Llarimar didn’t answer.

“It’s probably nothing,” Lightsong said. “Just our response to those arguments in the court, I’d guess.”

“Likely,” Llarimar said.

Lightsong fell silent. He knew it wasn’t “nothing” to Llarimar. To him, Lightsong wasn’t just giving his impression of art—he was foretelling the future. What did it augur that he liked a depiction of war with such vibrant, brutal colorings? Was it a reaction to his dreams? But last night, he hadn’t dreamed of a war. finally. He’d dreamed of a storm, true, but that wasn’t the same thing.

I shouldn’t have spoken
, he thought. And yet, reacting to the art seemed like the only truly important thing he did.

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

Are we thinking of starting this up again?
Lightsong thought, still transfixed by the beauty.
Is what I do going to lead to war?

No
, he thought to himself.
No, I’m just being careful. Helping Blushweaver secure a political faction. Better that than letting things just pass me by. The Manywar started because the royal family wasn’t careful.

The painting continued to call to him. “What’s that sword?” Lightsong asked.

“Sword?”

“The black one,” Lightsong said. “In the woman’s hand.”

“I...I don’t see a sword, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t see a woman, either. It’s all just wild strokes of paint, to me.”

“You called it the Battle of Twilight Falls.”

“The title of the piece, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “I assumed that you were as confused by it as I was, so I told you what the artist had named it.”

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

Llarimar acknowledge the command with a nod. As Lightsong made his way out of the palace, he tried to regain some of his eagerness, and he succeeded—though memory of the terrible, beautiful scene stayed with him. Mixing with his memories of last night’s dream, with its clashing tempest of winds.

Not even that could dampen his mood. Something was different. Something excited him. There had been a murder in the Court of Gods.

He didn’t know why he should find that so intriguing. If anything, he should find it tragic or upsetting. And yet for as long as he had lived, everything had been provided for him. Answers to his questions, entertainment to sate his whims. Almost by accident, he had become a glutton. Only two things had been withheld from him: knowledge of his past and freedom to leave the court.

Neither of those restrictions was going to change soon. But here, inside the court—the place of too much safety and comfort—something had gone wrong. A little thing. A thing most Returned would ignore. Nobody cared. Nobody wanted to care. Who, therefore, would object to Lightsong’s questions?

“You’re acting very oddly, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, catching up to him as they crossed the grass, servants following behind in a chaotic cluster as they worked to get a large red parasol open.

“I know,” Lightsong said. “However, I believe we can agree that I have
always
been rather odd, for a god.”

“I must admit that is true.”

“Then I’m actually being very like myself,” Lightsong said. “And all is right in the universe.”

“Are we really going back to Mercystar’s palace?”

“Indeed we are. Do you suppose she’ll be annoyed at us? That might prove interesting.”

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

Lightsong did not immediately reply. The servants finally got the parasol up and held it over him. “I dreamed of a storm,” Lightsong finally said. “I was standing in it, without anything to brace myself. It was raining and blowing against me, forcing me backward. In fact, it was so strong that even the ground beneath me seemed to undulate.”

Llarimar looked disturbed.

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

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” Lightsong said. “A red panther. It seemed to shine, reflective, like it was made of glass or something like that. It was waiting in the storm.”

Llarimar eyed him. “Are you making things up, Your Grace?”

“What? No! That’s really what I dreamed.”

Llarimar sighed, but nodded to a lesser priest, who rushed up to take his dictation. It wasn’t long before they reached Mercystar’s palace of yellow and gold. Lightsong paused before the building, realizing that he’d never before visited another god’s palace without first sending a messenger.

“Do you want me to send in someone to announce you, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked.

Lightsong hesitated. “No,” he finally said, noticing a pair of guards standing at the main doorway. The two men looked far more muscular than the average servant and they wore swords. Dueling blades, Lightsong assumed— though he’d never actually seen one.

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

“I am afraid not, Your Grace,” one of them said. “She went to visit All-mother for the afternoon.”

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

The guards glanced at each other. “I...don’t know if we can let you do that, Your Grace.”

“Scoot!” Lightsong said. “Can they forbid me?”

“Only if they have a direct command to do so from Mercystar.”

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

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

The wood had been replaced—his Heightened eyes could easily tell the difference between the new wood and the old. He walked a little farther. The patch where the wood had turned grey was gone as well, seamlessly replaced with new material.

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

“Your Grace?” a new voice asked.

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

“This is most irregular, Your Grace,” the man said.

“I hear that eating a lot of figs can cure you of that,” Lightsong said. “Now, I need to speak with the guards who saw the intruder the other night.”

“But why, Your Grace?” the priest said.

“Because I’m eccentric,” Lightsong said. “Send for them. I need to speak to
all
of the servants or guards who saw the man who committed the murder.”

“Your Grace,” the priest said uncomfortably. “The city authorities have already dealt with this. They have determined that the intruder was a thief after Mercystar’s art, and they have committed to—”

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

“Only at great peril to his soul, Your Grace,” Llarimar said.

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

Lightsong ignored them, looking at the square of new wood. It was larger than the other two that had been ripped up, and the colors matched far better. It was just a square patch of wood that was just a
slightly
different color than its neighbors. Without Breath—and a lot of it—he wouldn’t even have noticed the distinction.

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

Lightsong crawled along the floor, deliberately ignoring the door in the floor. Once again, unexpected instincts warned him not to reveal what he’d discovered. Why was he so wary all of a sudden? Was it the influence of his violent dreams and imagery from the painting earlier? Or was it something more? He felt as if he were dredging deep within himself, pulling forth an awareness he had never before needed.

Either way, he moved on from the patch, pretending that he hadn’t noticed the trapdoor, and was instead searching for threads that might have been caught on the wood. He picked up one that had obviously come from a servant’s robe and held it up.

The priest seemed to relax slightly.

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

Lightsong crawled some more, discomforting the servants until the men he had requested were assembled. He stood—letting a couple of his servants dust off his robes—then walked over to the newcomers. The hallway was growing quite crowded, so he shooed them back out into the sunlight.

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

“My name is Gagaril,” the man said.

“I’m sorry,” Lightsong said.

The man flushed. “I was named after my father, Your Grace.”

“After he what? Spent an unusual amount of time at the local tavern? Anyway, how are you involved in this mess?”

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

“Were you alone?” Lightsong asked.

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