Authors: Brandon Sanderson
Warbreaker (40 page)
“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 grasp 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. I’ve spent most of my Returned life just lounging about, but then the
moment
someone is killed, I leap out of bed and can’t resist poking around. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?”
Llarimar didn’t look at him.
“Colors!” Lightsong swore. “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.”
“You know you died in a brave way, Your Grace.”
“It could have been a really high stump.”
Llarimar just shook his head. “Either way, Your Grace, you know I can’t say anything about who you were before.”
“Well, these instincts came from somewhere,” Lightsong said as they walked over to the main group of watching priests and servants. The head priest had returned with a small wooden box. Wild scratching came from inside. “Thank you,” Lightsong snapped, grabbing the box and passing 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 was left behind, a complaint dying on his lips, Lightsong’s entourage trailing after their god.
“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 investigate things? Honestly, this murder will completely destroy my hard-won reputation.”
“My sympathies, Your Grace, that you have been inconvenienced by a semblance of motivation.”
“Quite right,” 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 anything directly.”
“Have them do it anyway,” Lightsong said. “Meanwhile, I need to think about this case some more.”
They walked back to his palace. However, the thing that now struck Lightsong 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 personal memory was lost.
But not all of it, apparently.
And that left him wondering what else he could do, if he tried.
Twenty-Seven
Something happened to those previous God Kings
, Siri thought, striding through the endless rooms of the God King’s palace, her servants scurrying behind.
Something that Bluefingers fears will happen to Susebron. It will be dangerous to both the God King and myself.
She continued to walk, trailing a train made from countless tassels of translucent green silk behind her. The day’s gown was nearly gossamer thin—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 many much more important problems 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 borne 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 God King. That would explain why her father had been able to send Siri instead.
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 document itself.
She needed more information. Unfortunately, the priests were obstructive, the servants silent, and Bluefingers, well...
She finally caught sight of him moving through one of the rooms, writing on his ledger. Siri hurried up, train rustling. He turned, glimpsing her. His eyes opened wide, and he increased his speed, ducking through the open doorway into another room. Siri called after him, moving as quickly as the dress would allow, but 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 most senior of her servants.
The woman lowered her gaze. “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 given up and left. When she had a letter scribed to him, he responded so vaguely that it only frustrated 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, so 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 head servant. “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 creatures from the South—I believe they have both elephants and zebras on display. There are also several dye merchants showing off 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.
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 put on.
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 leaping 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—who had mastered their physical abilities to wondrous effect. As Siri watched, she saw that relatively little regard was given to the winners of each particular event. The contests weren’t really about victory, but about the skill required to compete.
In that respect, 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 so little 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. After only a few weeks in the palace, such comfort was beginning to seem commonplace to her.
“There was a god who came and spoke to me before,” Siri said, scanning the amphitheater, where many of the stone boxes were decorated with colorful canopies. “Which one was it?”
“Lightsong the Bold, Vessel,” one of the serving women said. “God of bravery.”
Siri nodded. “And his colors are?”
“Gold and red, Vessel.”
Siri smiled. His canopy showed that he was there. He wasn’t the only god 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 frantic 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 special lottery. Many turned and looked up as she passed, whispering among themselves.
It’s the only way they get to see me
, she realized.
Their queen.
That was one thing that Idris certainly handled better than Hallandren. The Idrians had easy access to their king and their government, while in Hallandren the leaders were kept aloof—and therefore made remote, even mysterious.
She approached the red and gold pavilion. The god she had seen before lounged inside, relaxing on a couch, sipping from a large, beautifully engraved glass cup filled with an icy red liquid. He looked much as he had before—the chiseled masculine features that she was already coming to associate with godhood, perfectly styled black hair, golden tan skin, and a distinctly blasé attitude.
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 self-indulgent as some of these Returned.
The god, Lightsong, eyed her and nodded in deference. “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 hoping you could answer some of my questions, give me some information, perhaps...”
“Afraid not,” Lightsong said.
Siri paused, then flushed, embarrassed. “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,” he said, smilingly.
Siri frowned, growing more embarrassed. 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 ashamed 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 self-deprecation.
“Actually,” Siri said, looking over at him, lifting her chin, “I have heard of your reputation, Lightsong the Bold. ‘Useless’ wasn’t the word I heard used, however.”
“Oh?” he said.
“No. I was told you were harmless, though I can see that is not true—for in speaking to you, my sense of reason has certainly been harmed. Not to mention my head, which is beginning to ache.”
“Both common symptoms of dealing with me, I’m afraid,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.
“That could be solved,” Siri said. “Perhaps it would help if you refrained from speaking when others are present. I think I should find you quite amiable in those circumstances.”
Lightsong laughed. Not a belly laugh, like her father or some of the men back in Idris, but a more refined laugh. Still, it seemed genuine.
“I
knew
I liked you, girl,” he said.
“I’m not sure if I should feel complimented or not.”
“Depends upon how seriously you take yourself,” Lightsong said. “Come, abandon that silly chair and recline on one of these couches. Enjoy the evening.”
“I’m not sure that would be proper,” Siri said.
“I’m a god,” Lightsong said with a wave of his hand. “I define propriety.”
“I think I’ll sit anyway,” Siri said, smiling, though she did stand and have her servants bring the chair farther under the canopy so that she didn’t have to speak so loudly. She also tried not to pay too much attention to the contests, lest she be drawn in by them again.
Lightsong smiled. He seemed to enjoy making others uncomfortable. But, then, he also seemed to have no concern for how he himself appeared.
