The woman shuffled uncomfortably, then glanced at one of her companions. That woman rushed away. A few moments later, the servant returned with Treledees. Siri frowned slightly. She did not like speaking with the man.
“Yes, Vessel?” the tall man said, eyeing her with his usual air of disdain.
She swallowed, refusing to be intimidated. “The priests,” she said. “What were they just discussing?”
“Your homeland of Idris, Vessel.”
“I know that much,” Siri said. “What do they want with Idris?”
“It seemed to me, Vessel, that they were arguing about whether or not to attack the rebel province and bring it back under proper royal control.”
“Rebel province?”
“Yes, Vessel. Your people are in a state of rebellion against the rest of the kingdom.”
“But you rebelled against us!”
Treledees raised an eyebrow.
Different viewpoints on history indeed, Siri thought. “I can see how somebody might think as you do,” she said. “But . . . you wouldn’t really attack us, would you? We sent you a queen, just as you demanded. Because of that, the next God King will have royal blood.”
Assuming the current God King ever decides to consummate our marriage. . . .
Treledees simply shrugged. “It is likely nothing, Vessel. The gods simply needed to be apprised of the current political climate of T’Telir.”
His words didn’t offer Siri much comfort. She shivered. Should she be doing something? Trying to politic in Idris’s defense?
“Vessel,” Treledees said.
She glanced at him. His peaked hat was so tall it brushed the top of the canopy. In a city full of colors and beauty, for some reason Treledees’s long face seemed even bleaker for the contrast. “Yes?” she asked.
“There is a matter of some delicacy I fear that I must discuss with you.”
“What is that?”
“You are familiar with monarchies,” he said. “Indeed, you are the daughter of a king. I assume that you know how important it is to a government that there be a secure, stable plan for succession.”
“I guess.”
“Therefore,” Treledees said, “you realize that it is of no small importance that an heir be provided as quickly as possible.”
Siri blushed. “We’re working on that.”
“With all due respect, Vessel,” Treledees said. “There is some degree of disagreement upon whether or not you actually are.”
Siri blushed further, hair reddening as she glanced away from those callous eyes.
“Such arguments, of course, are limited to those inside the palace,” Treledees said. “You can trust in the discretion of our staff and priests.”
“How do you know?” Siri said, looking up. “I mean, about us. Maybe we are . . . working on it. Maybe you’ll have your heir before you know it.”
Treledees blinked once, slowly, regarding her as if she were a ledger to be added up and accounted. “Vessel,” he said. “Do you honestly think that we would take an unfamiliar, foreign woman and place her in close proximity to our most holy of gods without keeping watch?”
Siri felt her breath catch, and she had a moment of horror. Of course! she thought. Of course they were watching. To make sure I didn’t hurt the God King, to make certain things went according to plan.
Being naked before her husband was bad enough. To be so exposed before men like Treledees—men who saw her not as a woman, but as an annoyance—felt even worse, somehow. She found herself slouching, arms wrapping around her chest and its revealing neckline.
“Now,” Treledees said, leaning in. “We understand that the God King may not be what you expected. He may even be . . . difficult to work with. You are a woman, however, and should know how to use your charms to motivate.”
“How can I ‘motivate’ if I can’t talk to him or look at him?” she snapped.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Treledees said. “You only have one task in this palace. You want to make certain Idris is protected? Well, give the God King’s priesthood what we desire, and your rebels will earn our appreciation. My colleagues and I have no small influence in the court, and we can do much to safeguard your homeland. All we ask is that you perform this single duty. Give us an heir. Give the kingdom stability. Not everything in Hallandren is as . . . cohesive as it may appear to you at first.”
Siri remained slouched down, not looking at Treledees.
“I see that you understand,” he said. “I feel that . . .” He trailed off, turning to the side. A procession was approaching Siri’s box. Its members wore gold and red, and a tall figure at the front caused them to shine with vibrant color.
Treledees frowned, then glanced at her. “We will speak further, if it becomes necessary. Do your duty, Vessel. Or there will be consequences.”
With that, the priest withdrew.
* * *
SHE DIDN’T LOOK DANGEROUS. That, more than anything else, made Lightsong inclined to believe Blushweaver’s concerns. I’ve been in the court for far too long, he thought to himself as he smiled pleasantly at the queen. All my life, actually.
She was a small thing, much younger than he had expected. Barely a woman. She looked intimidated as he nodded to her, waiting while his priests arranged furniture for him. Then he sat, accepting some grapes from the queen’s serving women, even though he wasn’t hungry.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.”
The girl hesitated. “You’re sure?”
“Figure of speech, my dear,” Lightsong said. “A rather redundant one—which is quite appropriate, since I am a rather redundant person.”
The girl cocked her head. Colors, Lightsong thought, remembering that she’d just finished with her period of isolation. I’m probably the only Returned that she’s met besides the God King. What a bad first impression. Still, there was nothing to be done about it. Lightsong was who he was. Whoever that was.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” the queen said slowly. She turned as a serving woman whispered his name to her. “Lightsong the Brave, Lord of Heroes,” she said, smiling at him.
There was a hesitancy about her. Either she had not been trained for formal situations—which Lightsong found difficult to believe, since she’d been raised in a palace—or she was a quite a good actress. He frowned inwardly.
The woman’s arrival should have put an end to the discussions of war, but instead she had only exacerbated them. He kept his eyes open, for he feared the images of destruction he would see flashing inside his mind’s eye if he so much as blinked. They waited like Kalad’s Phantoms, hovering just beyond his vision.
He couldn’t accept those dreams as foretellings. If he did, it meant that he was a god. And if that were the case, then he feared greatly for them all.
On the outside, he simply gave the queen his third most charming smile and popped a grape into his mouth. “No need to be so formal, Your Majesty. You will soon realize that among Returned, I am by far the least. If cows could Return, they’d undoubtedly be ranked higher than I.”
She wavered again, obviously uncertain how to deal with him. It was a common reaction. “Might I inquire as to the nature of your visitation?” she asked.
Too formal. Not at ease. Uncomfortable around those of high rank. Could it be possible that she was genuine? No. It was likely an act to put him at ease. To make him underestimate her. Or was he just thinking too much?
Colors take you, Blushweaver! he thought. I really don’t want to be part of this.
He almost withdrew. But, then, that wouldn’t be very pleasant of him—and contrary to some of the things he said, Lightsong did like being pleasant. Best to be kind, he thought, smiling idly to himself. That way, if she ever does take over the kingdom, perhaps she’ll behead me last. “You ask after the nature of my visitation?” he said. “I believe it has no nature, Your Majesty, other than to appear natural—at which I have already failed by staring at you for far too long while thinking to myself about your place in this mess.”
The queen frowned again.
Lightsong popped a grape in his mouth. “Wonderful things,” he said, holding up another one. “Delightfully sweet, wrapped in their own little package. Deceptive, really. So hard and dry on the outside, but so delectable on the inside. Don’t you think?”
“We . . . don’t have many grapes in Idris, Your Grace.”
“I’m rather the opposite, you know,” he said. “Fluffy and pretty on the outside, without much of import on the inside. But I guess that is beside the point. You, my dear, are a very welcome sight. Much more so than a grape.”
“I . . . How is that, Your Grace?”
“We haven’t had a queen in such a long time,” Lightsong said. “Since before my Return, in fact. And old Susebron up there really has been moping about the palace lately. Looking forlorn. It’s good he has a woman in his life.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Your Grace,” the queen said.
“You’re welcome. I’ll make up a few more, if you like.”
She fell silent.
Well, then, that’s it, he thought, sighing. Blushweaver was right. I probably shouldn’t have come.
“All right,” the queen said, hair suddenly turning red as she threw her hands up in the air. “What is going on here?”
He hesitated. “Your Majesty?”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Probably.”
“But you’re supposed to be a god!” she said, leaning back, staring up at the canopy. “Just when I thought things in this city were starting to make sense, the priests start yelling at me, then you come along! What am I supposed to do with you? You seem more like a schoolboy than a god!”
Lightsong paused, then settled back into his seat, smiling. “You have me found out,” he said, opening his hands. “I killed the real god and took his place. I’ve come to hold you ransom for your sweets.”
“There,” the queen said, pointing. “Aren’t you supposed to be . . . I don’t know, distinguished or something?”
He spread his hands out. “My dear, this is what passes for being distinguished in Hallandren.”
She didn’t seem convinced.
“I am, of course, lying through my teeth,” he said, eating another grape. “You shouldn’t base your opinion of the others upon what you think of me. They’re all much more deific than I am.”
The queen sat back. “I thought you were the god of bravery.”
“Technically.”
“You seem more like the god of jesters to me.”
“I’ve applied for the position and been turned down,” he said. “You should see the person they have doing the job. Dull as a rock and twice as ugly.”
Siri paused.
“I wasn’t lying that time,” Lightsong said. “Mirthgiver, god of laughter. If ever there was a god more poorly suited to his position than I, it’s he.”
