“What?”
“Kidnapping that girl is something Denth would have done, even if you hadn’t come to T’Telir,” Vasher said. “I would never have found her. Denth worked with too many different groups of thieves, and I thought that burglary was simply intended to disrupt supplies. Like everyone else, I ignored the carriage.”
He stopped then looked at Vivenna in the darkness. “You saved that girl’s life.”
“By happenstance,” she said. She couldn’t see her hair in the dark, but she could feel it going red.
“Regardless.”
Vivenna smiled, the compliment affecting her—for some reason—far more than it should have. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he said. “Back in that lair. A warrior is supposed to be calm. When you duel or fight, you can’t let anger control you. That’s why I’ve never been that good a duelist.”
“You did the job,” she said, “and Denth has lost another pawn.” They moved out onto the street. “Though,” she added, “I wish I hadn’t seen that lavish mansion. Doesn’t raise my opinion of the Hallandren priests.”
Vasher shook his head. “Nanrovah’s father was one of the wealthiest merchants in the city. The son dedicated himself to serving the gods out of gratitude for their blessings. He takes no pay for his service.”
Vivenna paused. “Oh.”
Vasher shrugged in the darkness. “Priests are always easy to blame. They make convenient scapegoats—after all, anyone with a strong faith different from your own must either be a crazy zealot or a lying manipulator.”
Vivenna flushed yet again.
Vasher stopped in the street, then turned to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to say it that way.” He cursed, turning and walking again. “I told you I’m no good at this.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m getting used to it.”
He nodded in the darkness, seeming distracted.
He is a good man, she thought. Or, at least, an earnest man trying to be good. A part of her felt foolish for making yet another judgment.
Yet she knew she couldn’t live—couldn’t interact—without making some judgments. So she judged Vasher. Not as she’d judged Denth, who had said amusing things and given her what she’d expected to see. She judged Vasher by what she had seen him do. Cry when he saw a child being held captive. Return that child to her father, his only reward an opportunity to make a rough plea for peace. Living with barely any money, dedicating himself to preventing a war.
He was rough. He was brutal. He had a terrible temper. But he was a good man. And, walking beside him, she felt safe for the first time in weeks.
50
And so we each have twenty thousand,” Blushweaver said, walking beside Lightsong on the stone pathway that led in a circle around the arena.
“Yes,” Lightsong said.
Their priests, attendants, and servants followed in a holy herd, though the two gods had refused palanquin or parasol. They walked alone, side by side. Lightsong in gold and red. Blushweaver, for once, wearing a gown that actually covered her.
Amazing, how good she looks in something like that, he found himself thinking, when she takes the time to respect herself. He wasn’t certain what made him dislike her revealing outfits. Maybe he’d been a prude in his former life.
Or maybe he simply was one now. He smiled ruefully to himself. How much can I really blame on my “old” self? That man is dead. He wasn’t the one who got himself involved in the kingdom’s politics.
The arena was filling, and—in a rare show—all of the gods would be in attendance. Only Weatherlove was late, but he was often unpredictable.
Important events are imminent, Lightsong thought. They have been building for years now. Why should I be at the center of them?
His dreams the night before had been so odd. Finally, no visions of war. Just the moon. And some odd twisting passages. Like . . . tunnels.
Many of the gods nodded in respect as he passed their pavilions—though, admittedly, some scowled at him, and a few just ignored him. What a strange system of rule, he thought. Immortals who only last a decade or two—and who have never seen the outside world. And yet the people trust us.
The people trust us.
“I think we should share the Command phrases with each other, Lightsong,” Blushweaver said. “So that we each have all four, just in case.”
He didn’t say anything.
She turned away from him, looking at the people in their colorful clothing, clogging the benches and seats. “My, my,” Blushweaver said, “quite the crowd. And so few of them paying attention to me. Quite rude of them, wouldn’t you say?”
Lightsong shrugged.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “Perhaps they’re just . . . what was it? Stunned, dazzled, and dumbfounded?”
Lightsong smiled faintly, remembering their conversation a few months back. The day this all had started. Blushweaver looked at him, a longing in her eyes.
“Indeed,” Lightsong said. “Or, perhaps, they’re really just ignoring you. In order to compliment you.”
Blushweaver smiled. “And how, exactly, does ignoring me make a compliment?
“It provokes you to be indignant,” Lightsong said. “And we all know that is when you are in best form.”
“You like my form, then?”
“It has its uses. Unfortunately, I cannot compliment you by ignoring you as the others do. You see, only truly, sincerely ignoring you would provide the intended compliment. I am, actually, helpless and unable to ignore you. I do apologize.”
“I see,” Blushweaver said. “I’m flattered. I think. Yet you seem very good at ignoring some things. Your own divinity. General good manners. My feminine wiles.”
“You’re hardly wily, my dear,” Lightsong said. “A wily man is one who fights with a small, carefully hidden dagger in reserve. You are more like a man who crushes his opponent with a stone block. Regardless, I do have another method of dealing with you, one that you shall likely find quite flattering.”
“Somehow I find myself doubting.”
“You should have more faith in me,” he said with a suave wave of the hand.
“I am, after all, a god. In my divine wisdom, I have realized that the only way to truly compliment one such as you—Blushweaver—is to be far more attractive, intelligent, and interesting than you.”
She snorted. “Well, then, I feel rather insulted by your presence.”
“Touché,” Lightsong said.
“And are you going to explain why you consider competing with me to be the most sincere form of compliment?”
“Of course I am,” Lightsong said. “My dear, have you ever known me to make an inflammatorily ridiculous statement without providing an equally ridiculous explanation to substantiate it?”
“Of course not,” she agreed. “You are nothing if not exhaustive in your self-congratulatory made-up logic.”
“I am rather exceptional in that regard.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Anyway,” Lightsong said, holding up a finger, “by being far more stunning than you are, I invite people to ignore you and pay attention to me. That, in turn, invites you to be your usual charming self—throwing little tantrums and being overly seductive—to draw their attention back to you. And that, as I explained, is when you are most majestic. Therefore, the only way to make certain you receive the attention you deserve is to draw it all away from you. It’s really quite difficult. I hope you appreciate all the work I do to be so wonderful.”
“Let me assure you,” she said, “I do appreciate it. In fact, I appreciate it so very much that I would like to give you a break. You can back off. I will bear the awful burden of being the most wonderful of the gods.”
“I couldn’t possibly let you.”
“But if you are too wonderful, my dear, you will completely destroy your image.”
“That image is getting tiresome anyway,” Lightsong said. “I’ve long sought to be the most notoriously laziest of the gods, but I’m realizing more and more that the task is beyond me. The others are all naturally so much more delightfully useless than I am. They just pretend not to be aware of it.”
“Lightsong!” she said. “One could say you begin to sound jealous!”
“One could also say that my feet smell like guava fruit,” he said. “Just because one could say it doesn’t mean it’s relevant.”
She laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Really? I thought I was in T’Telir. When did we move?”
She held up a finger. “That pun was a stretch.”
“Perhaps it was just a feint.”
“A feint?”
“Yes, an intentionally weak joke to distract from the real one.”
“Which is?”
Lightsong hesitated, glancing at the arena. “The joke that has been played on all of us,” he said, voice growing softer. “The joke the others in the pantheon have played by giving me so much influence over what our kingdom will do.”
Blushweaver frowned at him, obviously sensing the growing bitterness in his voice. They stopped on the walkway, Blushweaver facing him, her back to the arena floor. Lightsong feigned a smile, but the moment was dying. They couldn’t go on as they had. Not amidst the weighty matters in motion all around them.
“Our brothers and sisters aren’t as bad as you imply,” she said quietly.
“Only a matchless group of idiots would give me control of their armies.”
“They trust you.”
“They’re lazy,” Lightsong said. “They want others to make the difficult decisions. That’s what this system encourages, Blushweaver. We’re all locked in here, expected to spend our time in idleness and pleasure. And then we’re supposed to know what is best for our country?” He shook his head. “We’re more afraid of the outside than we’re willing to admit. All we have are artworks and dreams. That’s why you and I ended up with these armies. Nobody else wants to be the one who actually sends our troops out to kill and die. They all want to be involved, but nobody wants to be responsible.”
He fell silent. She looked up at him, a goddess of perfect form. So much stronger than the others, but she hid it behind her own veil of triviality. “I know one thing that you said is true,” she said quietly.
“And that is?”
“You are wonderful, Lightsong.”
He stood there, looking into her eyes for a time. Widely set, beautiful green eyes.
“You’re not going to give me your Command Phrases, are you?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I brought you into this,” she said. “You always talk about being useless, but we all know that you’re one of the few who always goes through every picture, sculpture, and tapestry in his gallery. The one who hears every poem and song. The one who listens most deeply to the pleas of his petitioners.”
