He smiled, glancing at his high priest. “Suicide by divine manifestation. Very dramatic.”
“Shall I call off the rest of the petitions, Your Grace?” Llarimar gave no sign of being annoyed by the outburst.
“Sure, why not,” Lightsong said, waving a hand. “They really need a lesson in theology. They should already know what a useless god I am. Send them away, tell them to come back tomorrow—assuming that they are foolish enough to do so.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, bowing.
Doesn’t that man ever get mad at me? Lightsong thought. He, more than any, should know that I’m not a person to rely upon!
Lightsong turned, walking away as Llarimar went back into the petition room. No servants tried to follow him. Lightsong pushed his way through red-hued room after red-hued room, eventually finding his way to a stairwell and climbing up to the second story. This floor was open on all sides, really nothing more than a large covered patio. He walked to the far side—the one opposite the line of people.
The breeze was strong here. He felt it plucking at his robes, bringing with it scents that had traveled hundreds of miles, crossed the ocean, twisting around palm trees and finally entering the Court of Gods. He stood there for a long time, looking out over the city, toward the sea beyond. He had no desire, despite what he sometimes said, to leave his comfortable home in the court. He was not a man of jungles; he was a man of parties.
But sometimes he wished that he could at least want to be something else. Blushweaver’s words still weighed upon him. You’ll have to stand for something eventually, Lightsong. You’re a god to these people. . . .
He was. Whether he wanted to be or not. That was the frustrating part. He’d tried his best to be useless and vain. And still they came.
We could use your confidence . . . you’re a better man than you give yourself credit for being.
Why did it seem that the more he demonstrated himself to be an idiot, the more convinced people became that he had some kind of hidden depths? By implication, they called him a liar in the same breath that they complimented his presumed inner virtue. Did no one understand that a man could be both likable and useless? Not every quick-tongued fool was a hero in disguise.
His life sense alerted him of Llarimar’s return long before footsteps did. The priest walked up to join Lightsong alongside the wall. Llarimar rested his arms on the railing—which, being built for a god, was about a foot too high for the priest.
“They’re gone,” Llarimar said.
“Ah, very good,” Lightsong said. “I do believe that we’ve accomplished something today. I’ve fled from my responsibilities, screamed at my servants, and sat about pouting. Undoubtedly, this will convince everyone that I’m even more noble and honorable than they previously assumed. Tomorrow, there will be twice as many petitions, and I shall continue my inexorable march toward utter madness.”
“You can’t go mad,” Llarimar said softly. “It’s impossible.”
“Sure I can,” Lightsong said. “I just have to concentrate long enough. You see, the great thing about madness is that it’s all in your head.”
Llarimar shook his head. “I see you’ve been restored to your normal humor.”
“Scoot, you wound me. My humor is anything but normal.” They stood silently for a few more minutes, Llarimar offering no chastisement or commentary on his god’s actions. Just like a good little priest.
That made Lightsong think of something. “Scoot, you’re my high priest.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Lightsong sighed. “You really need to pay attention to the lines I’m feeding you, Scoot. You really should have said something pithy there.”
“I apologize, Your Grace.”
“Just try harder next time. Anyway, you know about theology and that sort of thing, correct?”
“I’ve studied my share, Your Grace.”
“Well then, what is the point—religiously—of having gods that can only heal one person, then die? It seems counterproductive to me. Easy way to depopulate your pantheon.”
Llarimar leaned forward, staring out over the city. “It’s complicated, Your Grace. Returned aren’t just gods—they’re men who died, but who decided to come back and offer blessings and knowledge. After all, only one who has died can have anything useful to say about the other side.”
“True, I suppose.”
“The thing is, Your Grace, Returned aren’t meant to stay. We extend their lives, giving them extra time to bless us. But they’re really only supposed to remain alive as long as it takes them to do what they need to.”
“Need to?” Lightsong said. “That seems rather vague.”
Llarimar shrugged. “Returned have . . . goals. Objectives which are their own. You knew of yours before you decided to come back, but the process of leaping across the Iridescent Wave leaves the memory fragmented. Stay long enough, and you’ll remember what you came to accomplish. The petitions . . . they’re a way of helping you to remember.”
“So I’ve come back to save one person’s life?” Lightsong said, frowning, but feeling embarrassed. In five years, he’d spent little time studying his own theology. But, well, that was the sort of thing priests were for.
“Not necessarily, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “You may have come back to save one person. But, more likely, there is information about the future or the afterlife that you felt you needed to share. Or perhaps some great event in which you felt you needed to participate. Remember, it was the heroic way in which you died that gave you the power to Return in the first place. What you are to do might relate to that, somehow.”
Llarimar trailed off slightly, his eyes growing unfocused. “You saw something, Lightsong. On the other side, the future is visible, like a scroll that stretches into the eternal harmonics of the cosmos. Something you saw—something about the future—worried you. Rather than remaining at peace, you took the opportunity that your brave death afforded you, and you Returned to the world. Determined to fix a problem, share information, or otherwise help those who continued to live.
“Someday, once you feel that you’ve accomplished your task, you can use the petitions to find someone who deserves your Breath. Then you can continue your journey across the Iridescent Wave. Our job, as your followers, is to provide Breath for you and keep you alive until you can accomplish your goal, whatever it may be. In the meantime, we pry for auguries and blessings, which can be gleaned only from one who has touched the future as you have.”
Lightsong didn’t respond immediately. “And if I don’t believe?”
“In what, Your Grace?”
“In any of it,” Lightsong said. “That Returned are gods, that these visions are anything more than random inventions of my brain. What if I don’t believe that I had any purpose or plan in Returning?”
“Then maybe that’s what you came back to discover.”
“So . . . wait. You’re saying that on the other side—where I obviously believed in the other side—I realized that if I Returned I wouldn’t believe in the other side, so I came back with the purpose of discovering faith in the other side, which I only lost because I Returned in the first place?”
Llarimar paused. Then he smiled. “That last one breaks down a little bit in the face of logic, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, a little bit,” Lightsong said, smiling back. He turned, eyes falling on the God King’s palace, standing like a monument above the other court structures. “What do you think of her?”
“The new queen?” Llarimar asked. “I haven’t met her, Your Grace. She won’t be presented for another few days.”
“Not the person. The implications.”
Llarimar glanced at him. “Your Grace. That smells of an interest in politics!”
“Blah blah, yes, I know. Lightsong is a hypocrite. I’ll do penance for it later. Now answer the blasted question.”
Llarimar smiled. “I don’t know what to think of her, Your Grace. The court of twenty years ago thought bringing a royal daughter here was a good idea.”
Yes, Lightsong thought. But that court is gone. The gods had thought melding the royal line back into Hallandren would be a good idea. But those gods—the ones who believed they knew how to deal with the Idrian girl’s arrival—were now dead. They’d left inferior replacements.
If what Llarimar said was true, then there was something important about the things Lightsong saw. Those visions of war, and the terrible sense of foreboding. For reasons he couldn’t explain, it felt to him like his people were barely headfirst down a mountain slope, completely ignorant of a bottomless chasm hidden in the cleft of the lands before them.
“The full court assembly meets in judgment tomorrow, doesn’t it?” Lightsong said, still looking at the black palace.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Contact Blushweaver. See if I can share a box with her during the judgments. Perhaps she will distract me. You know what a headache politics gives me.”
“You can’t get headaches, Your Grace.”
In the distance, Lightsong could see the rejected petitioners trailing out of the gates, returning to the city, leaving their gods behind. “Could have fooled me,” he said quietly.
SIRI STOOD in the dark black bedroom, wearing her shift, looking out the window. The God King’s palace was higher than the surrounding wall, and the bedroom faced east. Out over the sea. She watched the distant waves, feeling the heat of the afternoon sun. While she was wearing the thin shift, the warmth was actually pleasant, and it was tempered by a cool breeze blowing in off the ocean. The wind teased her long hair, ruffling the fabric of her shift.
She should be dead. She had spoken directly to the God King, had sat up and made a demand of him. She’d waited all morning for punishment. There had been none.
She leaned down against the windowsill, arms crossed on the stone, closing her eyes and feeling the sea breeze. A part of her was still aghast at the way she had acted. That part was growing smaller and smaller. I’ve been going about things wrong here, she thought. I’ve let myself be pushed about by my fears and worries.
She didn’t usually take time to bother with fears and worries. She just did what seemed right. She was beginning to feel that she should have stood up to the God King days ago. Perhaps she wasn’t being cautious enough. Perhaps punishment would still come. However, for the moment, she felt as if she’d accomplished something.
She smiled, opening her eyes, and let her hair change to a determined golden yellow.
It was time to stop being afraid.
13
I’ll give it away,” Vivenna said firmly.
She sat with the mercenaries in Lemex’s home. It was the day after the Breaths had been forced upon her, and she had spent a restless night, letting the mercenaries and the nurse see to the disposal of Lemex’s body. She didn’t remember falling asleep from the exhaustion and stress of the day, but she did remember lying down to rest for a short time in the other upstairs bedroom. When she’d awoken, she’d been surprised to find that the mercenaries were still there. Apparently, they and Parlin had slept downstairs.
