I shouldn’t have spoken, he thought. And yet, reacting to the art seemed like the only truly important thing he did.
He stared at the sharp smears of paint, each figure a just a couple of triangular strokes. It was beautiful. Could war be beautiful? How could he find beauty in those grey faces confronting flesh, the Lifeless killing men? This battle hadn’t even meant anything. It hadn’t decided the outcome of the war, even though the leader of the Pahn Unity—the kingdoms united against Hallandren—had been killed in the battle. Diplomacy had finally ended the Manywar, not bloodshed.
Are we thinking of starting this up again? Lightsong thought, still transfixed by the beauty. Is what I do going to lead to war?
No, he thought to himself. No, I’m just being careful. Helping Blushweaver secure a political faction. Better that than letting things just pass me by. The Manywar started because the royal family wasn’t careful.
The painting continued to call to him. “What’s that sword?” Lightsong asked.
“Sword?”
“The black one,” Lightsong said. “In the woman’s hand.”
“I . . . I don’t see a sword, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t see a woman, either. It’s all just wild strokes of paint, to me.”
“You called it the Battle of Twilight Falls.”
“The title of the piece, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “I assumed that you were as confused by it as I was, so I told you what the artist had named it.”
The two fell silent. Finally, Lightsong turned, walking away from the painting. “I’m done reviewing art for the day.” He hesitated. “Don’t burn that painting. Keep it for my collection.”
Llarimar acknowledge the command with a nod. As Lightsong made his way out of the palace, he tried to regain some of his eagerness, and he succeeded—though memory of the terrible, beautiful scene stayed with him. Mixing with his memories of last night’s dream, with its clashing tempest of winds.
Not even that could dampen his mood. Something was different. Something excited him. There had been a murder in the Court of Gods.
He didn’t know why he should find that so intriguing. If anything, he should find it tragic or upsetting. And yet for as long as he had lived, everything had been provided for him. Answers to his questions, entertainment to sate his whims. Almost by accident, he had become a glutton. Only two things had been withheld from him: knowledge of his past and freedom to leave the court.
Neither of those restrictions was going to change soon. But here, inside the court—the place of too much safety and comfort—something had gone wrong. A little thing. A thing most Returned would ignore. Nobody cared. Nobody wanted to care. Who, therefore, would object to Lightsong’s questions?
“You’re acting very oddly, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, catching up to him as they crossed the grass, servants following behind in a chaotic cluster as they worked to get a large red parasol open.
“I know,” Lightsong said. “However, I believe we can agree that I have always been rather odd, for a god.”
“I must admit that is true.”
“Then I’m actually being very like myself,” Lightsong said. “And all is right in the universe.”
“Are we really going back to Mercystar’s palace?”
“Indeed we are. Do you suppose she’ll be annoyed at us? That might prove interesting.”
Llarimar just sighed. “Are you ready to talk about your dreams yet?”
Lightsong did not immediately reply. The servants finally got the parasol up and held it over him. “I dreamed of a storm,” Lightsong finally said. “I was standing in it, without anything to brace myself. It was raining and blowing against me, forcing me backward. In fact, it was so strong that even the ground beneath me seemed to undulate.”
Llarimar looked disturbed.
More signs of war, Lightsong thought. Or, at least, that’s how he’ll see it.
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” Lightsong said. “A red panther. It seemed to shine, reflective, like it was made of glass or something like that. It was waiting in the storm.”
Llarimar eyed him. “Are you making things up, Your Grace?”
“What? No! That’s really what I dreamed.”
Llarimar sighed, but nodded to a lesser priest, who rushed up to take his dictation. It wasn’t long before they reached Mercystar’s palace of yellow and gold. Lightsong paused before the building, realizing that he’d never before visited another god’s palace without first sending a messenger.
“Do you want me to send in someone to announce you, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked.
Lightsong hesitated. “No,” he finally said, noticing a pair of guards standing at the main doorway. The two men looked far more muscular than the average servant and they wore swords. Dueling blades, Lightsong assumed—though he’d never actually seen one.
He walked up to the men. “Is your mistress here?”
“I am afraid not, Your Grace,” one of them said. “She went to visit Allmother for the afternoon.”
Allmother, Lightsong thought. Another with Lifeless Commands. Blushweaver’s doing? Perhaps he would drop by later—he missed chatting with Allmother. She, unfortunately, hated him violently. “Ah,” Lightsong said to the guard. “Well, regardless, I need to inspect the corridor just inside here, where the attack happened the other night.”
The guards glanced at each other. “I . . . don’t know if we can let you do that, Your Grace.”
“Scoot!” Lightsong said. “Can they forbid me?”