Warbreaker (75 page)

“Things got a little out of hand.”

“They always do, with you,” Vasher said.

Denth raised an eyebrow, his face growing amused in the wan light. “
I
get out of hand, Vasher? Me? When’s the last time
I
started a war? Slaughtered tens of thousands? You’re the one who betrayed his closest friend and killed the woman who loved him.”

Vasher didn’t respond. What argument could he offer? That Shashara had needed to die? It had been bad enough when she’d revealed the Commands to make Lifeless from a single breath. What if the way of making Awakened steel, like Nightblood, had entered the Manywar? Undead monsters slaughtering people with Awakened swords thirsting for blood?

None of that mattered to a man who’d seen his sister murdered by Vasher’s hand. Besides, Vasher knew he had little credibility to stand on. He’d created his own monsters to fight in that war. Not Awakened steel like Nightblood, but deadly enough in their own right.

“I was going to let Tonk Fah have you,” Denth said, turning away again. “He likes hurting things. It’s a weakness he has. We all have weaknesses. With my direction, he’s been able to restrict it to animals.”

Denth turned to him, holding up a knife. “I’ve always wondered what he finds so enjoyable about causing pain.”

~

Dawn was approaching. Vivenna threw off her blanket, unable to sleep. She dressed, frustrated, but not sure why. Vasher was probably just fine. He was likely out carousing somewhere.

Of course
, she thought wryly,
carousing. That sounds
just
like him.

He’d never stayed out an entire night before. Something had gone wrong. She slowed as she pulled on her belt, glancing over at Vasher’s pack and the change of clothing he had inside of it.
Every single thing I’ve tried since I left Idris has failed miserably
, she thought, continuing to dress.
I failed as a revolutionary, I failed as a beggar, and I failed as a sister. What am I supposed to do? find him? I don’t even know where to start.

She looked away from the pack. Failure. It wasn’t something she’d been accustomed to, back in Idris. Everything she’d done there had turned out well.

Maybe that’s what this is all about
, she thought, sitting.
My hatred of Hallandren. My insistence on saving Siri, on taking her place.
When their father had chosen Siri over her, it had been the first time in her life she’d felt that she wasn’t good enough. So she’d come to T’Telir, determined to prove the problem wasn’t with her. It’d been with someone else. Anyone else. As long as Vivenna wasn’t flawed.

But Hallandren had repeatedly proved that she was flawed. And now that she’d tried and failed so often, she found it hard to act. By choosing to act, she might fail—and that was so daunting that doing nothing seemed preferable.

It was the crowning arrogance in Vivenna’s life. She bowed her head. One last bit of feathered hypocrisy to adorn her royal hair.

You want to be competent?
she thought.
You want to learn to be in control of what goes on around you, rather than just being pushed around? Then you’ll have to learn to deal with failure.

It was frightening, but she knew it was true. She stood up and walked over to Vasher’s pack. She pulled out a wrinkled overshirt and a pair of leggings. Both had tassels hanging from the cuffs.

Vivenna put them on. Vasher’s spare cloak followed. It smelled like him, and was cut—like his other one—into the vague shape of a man. She understood, at least, one of the reasons his clothing looked so tattered.

She pulled out a couple of colorful handkerchiefs. “Protect me,” she Commanded the cloak, imagining it grabbing people who tried to attack her. She placed a hand on the sleeve of the shirt.

“Upon call,” she Commanded, “become my fingers and grip that which I must.” She’d only heard Vasher give the Command a couple of times, and she still wasn’t quite sure how to visualize what she wanted the shirt to do. She imagined the tassels closing around her hands as she had seen them do for Vasher.

She Awakened the leggings, commanding them to strengthen her legs. The leg tassels began to twist, and she raised each foot in turn, letting the tassels wrap around the bottoms. Her stance felt firmer, the leggings pulled tight against her skin.

Finally, she tied on the sword Vasher had given her. She still didn’t know how to use it, though she could hold it properly. It felt right to bring it. Then she left.

~

Lightsong had rarely seen a goddess cry.

“It wasn’t supposed to go this way,” Blushweaver said, heedless of the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had things under control.”

The dungeon beneath the God King’s palace was a cramped room. Cages— like the kind that might be used for animals—lined both walls. They were large enough to hold a god. Lightsong couldn’t decide if that was just a coincidence.

Blushweaver sniffled. “I thought I had the God King’s priesthood on my side. We were working together.”

Something’s wrong about this
, Lightsong thought, glancing at the group of priests chatting anxiously at the side of the room. Llarimar sat in his own cage—the one next to Lightsong’s—head bowed.

Lightsong looked back at Blushweaver. “How long?” he asked. “How long were you working with them?”

“From the beginning,” Blushweaver said. “I was supposed to get the Command phrases. We came up with the plan together!”

“Why did they turn on you?”

She shook her head, glancing down. “They claimed I didn’t do my part. That I was withholding things from them.”

“Were you?”

She looked away, eyes tearstained. She looked very odd, sitting in her cell. A beautiful woman of deific proportions, wearing a delicate silk gown, sitting on the ground, surrounded by bars. Crying.

We have to get out of here
, Lightsong thought. He crawled over to the bars separating his cage from Llarimar’s ignoring the pain of his thigh. “Scoot,” he hissed. “Scoot!”

Llarimar glanced up. He looked haggard.

“What does one use to pick a lock?” Lightsong asked.

Llarimar blinked. “What?”

“Pick a lock,” Lightsong said, pointing. “Maybe I’ll discover that I know how to do it, if I get my hands into the right position. I still haven’t figured out why my swordsmanship skills were so poor. But surely I can do this. If I can only remember what to use.”

Llarimar stared at him.

“Maybe I—” Lightsong began.

“What is wrong with you?” Llarimar whispered.

Lightsong paused.

“What is wrong with you!” Llarimar bellowed, standing. “You were a
scribe
, Lightsong. A Colors-cursed
scribe
. Not a soldier. Not a detective. Not a thief. You were an accountant for a local moneylender!”

What?
Lightsong thought.

“You were as much an idiot then as you are now!” Llarimar shouted. “Don’t you ever
think
about what you’re going to do before you just saunter off and do it! Why can’t you just stop, occasionally, and ask yourself if you’re being a complete fool or not? I’ll give you a hint! The answer is
usually
yes!”

Lightsong stumbled back from the bars, shocked. Llarimar.
Llarimar
was yelling.

“And every time,” Llarimar said, turning away, “I get in trouble with you. Nothing has changed. You become a god, and I
still
end up in prison!”

The heavy priest slumped down, breathing in deep gasps, shaking his head in obvious frustration. Blushweaver was staring at them. And so were the priests.

What is it I find odd about them?
Lightsong thought, trying to sort out his thoughts and emotions as the group of priests approached.

“Lightsong,” one of them said, stooping down beside his cage. “We need your Command phrases.”

He snorted. “I’m sorry to say that I’ve forgotten them. You probably know my reputation for being weak-minded. I mean, what kind of fool would come charging in here and get himself captured so easily?”

He smiled at them.

The priest by his cage sighed, then waved a hand at the others. They unlocked Blushweaver’s cage and pulled her out. She yelled and fought, and Lightsong smiled at the trouble she gave them. Yet there were six priests, and they finally managed to get her out.

Then one got out a knife and slit her throat.

The shock of the moment hit Lightsong like a physical force. He froze, eyes wide, watching in horror as the red blood spilled out the front of Blushweaver’s throat, staining her beautiful nightgown.

Far more disturbing was the look of panicked terror in her eyes. Such beautiful eyes.

“
No!
” Lightsong screamed, slamming against the bars, reaching helplessly toward her. He strained his godly muscles, pressing himself against the steel as he felt his body begin to shake. It was useless. Even a perfect body couldn’t push its way through steel.

“You bastards!” he yelled. “You Colors-cursed bastards!” He struggled, pounding the bars with one hand as Blushweaver’s eyes began to dim.

And then her BioChroma faded. Like a blazing bonfire dimming down to a single candle. It puffed out.

“No...” Lightsong said, sliding down to his knees, numb.

The priest regarded him. “So you
did
care for her,” he said. “I’m sorry that we had to do that.” He knelt down, solemn. “However, Lightsong, we decided that we had to kill her so that you would understand that we’re serious. I do know your reputation, and I know that you usually take things lightheartedly. That is a fine attribute to have in many situations. Right now, you must realize how dangerous things are. We have shown you that we will kill. If you don’t do as we ask, others will die.”

“Bastard...” Lightsong whispered.

“I need your Command phrases,” the priest said. “This is important. More important than you can understand.”

“You can beat them out of me,” Lightsong growled, feeling rage slowly overwhelm his shock.

“No,” the priest said, shaking his head. “We’re actually new to all of this. We don’t know how to torture very well, and it would take too much time to force you to talk that way. Those who
are
skilled at torture aren’t being very cooperative right now. Never pay a mercenary before the job is done.”

The priest waved, and the others left Blushweaver’s corpse on the ground. Then they moved to Llarimar’s cage.

“No!” Lightsong screamed.

“We are serious, Lightsong,” the man said. “Very, very, serious. We know how much you care for your high priest. You now know that we will kill him if you don’t do as we say.”

“Why?” Lightsong said. “What is this even about? The God King you serve could order us to move the armies if he wanted to! We’d listen to him. Why do you care so much about those Command phrases?”

The priests forced Llarimar from his cage, then pushed him to his knees. One put a knife to his throat.

“Red panther!” Lightsong yelled, weeping. “That’s the Command phrase. Please. Leave him be.”

The priest nodded to the others, and they put Llarimar back in his cell. They left Blushweaver’s corpse on the ground, facedown in the blood.

“I hope that you haven’t lied to us, Lightsong,” the main priest said. “We’re not playing games. It would be unfortunate if we discovered that you still are.” He shook his head. “We are not cruel men. But we are working for something very important. Do not test us.”

With that, he left. Lightsong barely noticed. He was still staring at Blushweaver, trying to convince himself that he was hallucinating, or that she was faking, or that
something
would change to make him realize that it was all just an elaborate scam.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, no....”

Annotations for Chapter 53

Fifty-Four

Annotations for Chapter 54

“What’s the word on the street, Tuft?” Vivenna asked, sidling up to a beggar.

He snorted, holding out his cup to those few who passed in the early light. Tuft was always one of the first to arrive in the mornings. “Why do I care?” he said.

“Come on,” Vivenna said. “You kicked me out of this spot on three different occasions. I figure you owe me something.”

“I don’t owe nobody nothing,” he said, squinting at the passers by with his one eye. The other eye was simply an empty hole. He didn’t wear a patch. “Particularly don’t owe you nothing,” he said. “You were a plant all the time. Not a real beggar.”

“I...” Vivenna paused. “I wasn’t a plant, Tuft. I just thought I should know what it was like.”

“Huh?”

“Living among you,” she said. “I figured your life couldn’t be easy. But I couldn’t know—not really
know
—until I tried it for myself. So I came to the streets. Determined to live here for a time.”

“Foolish thing to do.”

“No,” she said. “The fools are those who pass, without even thinking about what it must be like to live like you. Maybe if they knew, they’d give you something.”

She reached into her pocket, pulling out one of the bright handkerchiefs. She placed one in the cup. “I don’t have any coins, but I know you can sell that.”

He grunted, eyeing it. “What do you mean by word on the street?”

“Disturbances,” Vivenna said. “Ones that are out of the ordinary. Perhaps involving Awakeners.”

“Go to the Third Dock slums,” Tuft said. “Look around the buildings near the wharf. Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for there.”

~

Light peeked through the window.

Morning already?
Vasher thought, head down, still hanging by his wrists.

He knew what to expect from torture. He was not new to it. He knew how to scream, how to give the torturer what he wanted. He knew how to not expend his strength in resisting too much.

He also knew that none of that was likely to do any good. How would he be after a week of torture? Blood dripped down his chest, staining his undershorts. A dozen small pains nagged at his skin, cuts that had been drenched in lemon juice.

Denth stood with his back facing Vasher, bloodied knives on the ground around him.