“Ow!” Tonk Fah said.
Denth rolled his eyes. “Stop whining; I just saved your life. Go check on the queen and then clean up that mess. I’ll take care of the sword myself.”
“You always get so nasty when Vasher’s around,” Tonk Fah grumbled, waddling away. Denth wrapped up Nightblood securely; Vasher watched, hoping to see the lust appear in Denth’s eyes. Unfortunately, Denth was far too strong-willed to be taken by the sword. He had nearly as much history with it as Vasher did.
“Take away all his Awakened clothing,” Denth said to his men, walking away. “Then hang him up in that room over there. He and I are going to have a long talk about what he did to my sister.”
52
Lightsong sat in one of the rooms of his palace, surrounded by finery, a cup of wine in his hand. Despite the very late hour, servants moved in and out, piling up furniture, paintings, vases, and small sculptures. Anything that could be moved.
The riches sat in heaps. Lightsong lounged back on his couch, ignoring empty plates of food and broken cups, which he refused to let his servants take away.
A pair of servants entered, carrying a red and gold couch. They propped it up by the far wall, nearly toppling a pile of rugs. Lightsong watched them leave then downed the rest of his wine. He dropped the empty cup to the floor beside the others, and held out his hand for another full one. A servant provided, as always.
He wasn’t drunk. He couldn’t get drunk.
“Do you ever feel,” Lightsong said, “like something is going on? Something far greater than you are? Like a painting you can only see the corner of, no matter how you squint and search?”
“Every day, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. He sat on a stool beside Lightsong’s couch. As always, he watched events calmly, though Lightsong could sense the man’s disapproval as another group of servants piled several marble figurines in the corner.
“How do you deal with it?” Lightsong asked.
“I have faith, Your Grace, that someone understands.”
“Not me, I hope,” Lightsong noted.
“You are part of it. But it is much larger than you.”
Lightsong frowned to himself, watching more servants enter. Soon the room would be so piled with his wealth that his servants wouldn’t be able to move in and out. “It’s odd, isn’t it,” Lightsong said, gesturing toward a pile of paintings. “Arranged like this, none of it looks beautiful anymore. When you put it together in piles, it just seems like junk.”
Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “The value in something relates to how it is treated, Your Grace. If you see these items as junk, then they are, regardless of what someone else would pay for them.”
“There’s a lesson in there somewhere, isn’t there?”
Llarimar shrugged. “I am a priest, after all. We have a tendency to preach.”
Lightsong snorted, then waved toward the servants. “That’s enough,” he said. “You can go now.”
The servants, having grown resigned to being banished, left the room promptly. Soon Lightsong and Llarimar were alone with piles and piles of riches, all stolen from other parts of his palace and brought into this one room.
Llarimar surveyed the mounds. “So what is the point of all this, Your Grace?”
“This is what I mean to them,” Lightsong said, gulping down some more wine. “The people. They’ll give up their riches for me. They sacrifice the Breath of their souls to keep me alive. I suspect that many would even die for me.”
Llarimar nodded quietly.
“And,” Lightsong said, “all I’m expected to do at the moment is choose their fates for them. Do we go to war or do we remain at peace? What do you think?”
“I could argue for either side, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “It would be easy to sit here and condemn the war on mere principle. War is a terrible, terrible thing. And yet, it seems that few great accomplishments in history ever occur without the unfortunate fact of military action. Even the Manywar, which caused so much destruction, can be regarded as the foundation of modern Hallandren power in the Inner Sea region.”
Lightsong nodded.
“But,” Llarimar continued. “To attack our brethren? Despite provocation, I cannot help but think that invading is too extreme. How much death, how much suffering, are we willing to cause simply to prove that we won’t be pushed around?”
“And what would you decide?”
“Fortunately, I don’t have to.”
“And if you were forced to?” Lightsong asked.
Llarimar sat for a moment. Then, carefully, he removed the large miter from his head, revealing his thinning black hair plastered to the skull with sweat. He set aside the ceremonial headgear.
“I speak to you as a friend, Lightsong, not your priest,” Llarimar said quietly. “The priest cannot influence his god for fear of disrupting the future.”
Lightsong nodded.
“And as a friend,” Llarimar said, “I honestly have trouble deciding what I would do. I didn’t argue on the floor of the court.”
“You rarely do,” Lightsong said.
“I’m worried,” Llarimar said, wiping his brow with a kerchief, shaking his head. “I don’t think we can ignore the threat to our kingdom. The fact of the matter is, Idris is a rebel faction living within our borders. We’ve ignored them for years, enduring under their almost tyrannical control of the northern passes.”
“So you’re for attacking?”
Llarimar paused, then shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think that even Idris’s rebellion can justify the slaughter it would take to get those passes back.”
“Great,” Lightsong said flatly. “So, you think we should go to war, but not attack.”
“Actually, yes,” Llarimar said. “We declare war, we make a show of force, and we frighten them into realizing just how precarious their position is. If we then hold peace talks, I’ll bet we could forge more favorable treaties for use of the passes. They formally renounce their claim to our throne; we recognize their in de pen dent sovereignty. Wouldn’t we both get what we want?”
Lightsong sat thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s a very reasonable solution, but I don’t think those who are calling for war would accept it. It seems that we’re missing something, Scoot. Why now? Why are tensions so high after the wedding, which should have unified us?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Llarimar said.
Lightsong smiled, standing. “Well then,” he said, eyeing his high priest. “Let’s find out.”
* * *
SIRI WOULD HAVE BEEN ANNOYED if she hadn’t been so terrified. She sat alone in the black bedchamber. It felt wrong for Susebron to not be there with her.
She’d hoped that maybe he would still be allowed come to her when night fell. But, of course, he didn’t arrive. Whatever the priests were planning, it didn’t require her to actually be pregnant. Not now that they’d played their hand and locked her up.
The door creaked, and she sat up on the bed, hope reviving. But it was only the guard checking on her again. One of the crass, soldierlike men who had been guarding her in recent hours. Why did they change to these men? she wondered as the guard closed the door. What happened to the Lifeless and the priests who were watching me before?
She lay back down on the bed, staring up at the canopy, still dressed in her fine gown. Her mind kept flashing to her first week in the palace, when she’d been locked inside for her “Wedding Jubilation.” It had been difficult enough then, and she’d known when it would be over. Now she didn’t even have an assurance that she’d live through the next few days.
No, she thought. They’ll keep me around long enough for my “baby” to be born. I’m insurance. If something goes wrong, they’ll still need me to show off.
That was little comfort. The thought of six months cooped up inside the palace—not allowed to see anyone lest they see that she wasn’t really pregnant—was frightening enough to make her want to scream.
But what could she do?
Hope in Susebron, she thought. I taught him to read, and I gave him the determination that he needed to break free from his priests.
That will have to be enough.
* * *
“YOUR GRACE,” LLARIMAR SAID, his voice hesitant, “are you certain you want to do this?”
Lightsong crouched down, peeking through the bushes toward Mercystar’s palace. Most of the windows were dark. That was good. However, she still had a number of guards patrolling the palace. She was afraid of another break-in.
And rightly so.
In the distance, he saw the moon just barely rising into the night sky. It almost matched the position he had seen in his dream the night before, the same dream where he’d seen the tunnels. Were these things really symbols? Signs from the future?
He still resisted. The truth was, he didn’t want to believe he was a god. It implied too many things. But he couldn’t ignore the images, even if they were just spoken from his subconscious. He had to get into those passages beneath the Court of Gods. Had to see if, at last, if there was something prophetic about what he had seen.
The timing seemed important. The rising moon . . . just another degree or so.
There, he thought, looking down from the sky. A guard patrol was approaching.
“Your Grace?” Llarimar asked, sounding more nervous. The portly high priest knelt on the grass beside Lightsong.
“I should have brought a sword,” Lightsong said thoughtfully.
“You don’t know how to use one, Your Grace.”
“We don’t know that,” Lightsong said.
“Your Grace, this is foolishness. Let’s go back to your palace. If we must see what is in those tunnels, we can hire someone from the city to sneak in.”
“That would take too long,” Lightsong said. A guard patrol passed their side of the palace. “You ready?” he asked once the patrol had passed.
“No.”
“Then wait here,” Lightsong said, taking off in a dash toward the palace.
After a moment, he heard a hissed “Kalad’s Phantoms!” from Llarimar, followed by bushes rustling as the priest followed.
Why, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him curse before, Lightsong thought with amused energy. He didn’t look back; he just kept running toward the open window. As in most Returned palaces, the doorways and windows were open. The tropical climate encouraged such designs. Lightsong reached the side of the building, feeling exhilarated. He climbed up through the window, then reached a hand out to help Llarimar when he arrived. The hefty priest puffed and sweated, but Lightsong managed to pull him up and into the room.
They took a few moments, Llarimar resting with his back to the outer wall, gasping for breath.
“You really need to exercise more regularly, Scoot,” Lightsong said, creeping toward the doorway and peeking out into the hall beyond.
Llarimar didn’t answer. He just sat, puffing, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.
