He paused, then took it. I am sorry, he wrote. I do not wish to appear petulant.
“Is it because I keep challenging your priests?”
No, he wrote. You have interesting theories, but I think they are just guesses. You do not know that the priests plan what you claim. That doesn’t bother me.
“What is it, then?”
He hesitated, then erased with the sleeve of his robe. You do not believe that the Returned are divine.
“I thought we already talked about this.”
We did. However, I realized now that this is the reason why you treat me as you do. You are different because you do not believe in my godhood. Is that the only reason I find you interesting?
And, if you do not believe, it makes me sad. Because a god is who I am, it is what I am, and if you do not believe in it, it makes me think you do not understand me.
He paused.
Yes. It does sound petulant. I am sorry.
She smiled, then tentatively touched his arm. He froze, looking down, but didn’t pull back as he had times before. So she moved up beside him, resting against his arm.
“I don’t have to believe in you to understand you,” she said. “I’d say that those people who worship you are the ones who don’t understand. They can’t get close to you, see who you really are. They’re too focused on the aura and the divinity.”
He didn’t respond.
“And,” she said, “I’m not different just because I don’t believe in you. There are a lot of people in the palace who don’t believe. Bluefingers, some of the serving girls who wear brown, other scribes. They serve you just as reverently as the priests. I’m just . . . well, I’m an irreverent type. I didn’t really listen to my father or the monks back home, either. Maybe that’s what you need. Someone who would be willing to look beyond your godhood and just get to know you.”
He nodded slowly. That is comforting, he wrote. Though, it is very strange to be a god whose wife does not believe in him.
Wife, she thought. Sometimes that was tough to remember. “Well,” she said, “I should think it would do every man good to have a wife who isn’t as in awe of him as everyone else is. Somebody has to keep you humble.”
Humility is, I believe, somewhat opposite to godhood.
“Like sweetness?” she asked.
He chuckled. Yes, just like that. He put the board down. Then, hesitantly—a little frightened—he put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer as they looked out the window at the lights of a city that remained colorful, even at night.
* * *
BODIES. FOUR OF THEM. They all lay dead on the ground, blood an oddly dark color against the grass.
It was the day after Vivenna’s visit to the D’Denir garden to meet with the forgers. She was back again. Sunlight streamed down, hot upon her head and neck as she stood with the rest of the gawking crowd. The silent D’Denir waited in rows behind her, soldiers of stone who would never march. Only they had seen the four men die.
People chattered with hushed voices, waiting for the city guard to finish their inspection. Denth had brought Vivenna quickly, before the bodies could be cleared. He had done so at her request. Now she wished she’d never asked.
To her enhanced eyes, the colors of the blood on grass were powerfully distinct. Red and green. It made almost a violet in combination. She stared at the corpses, feeling an odd sense of disconnection. Color. So strange to see the colors of skin paled. She could tell the difference—the intrinsic difference—between skin that was alive and skin that was dead.
Dead skin was ten shades whiter than live skin. It was caused by blood seeping down and out of the veins. Almost like . . . like the blood was the color, drained out of its casks. The paint of a human life which had been carelessly spilled, leaving the canvas blank.
She looked away.
“You see it?” Denth said, at her side.
She nodded silently.
“You asked about him. Well, here’s what he does. This is why we’re so worried. Look at those wounds.”
She turned back. In the growing morning light, she could see something she’d missed before. The skin directly around the sword wounds had been completely drained of color. The wounds themselves had a dark black tinge to them. As if they had been infected with some terrible disease.
She turned back to Denth.
“Let’s go,” Denth said, leading her away from the crowd as the city Guards finally began to order people back, annoyed by the number of gawkers.
“Who were they?” she asked quietly.
Denth stared straight ahead. “A gang of thieves. Ones we’d worked with.”
“You think he might come for us?”
“I’m not sure,” Denth said. “He could probably find us if he wanted. I don’t know.”
Tonk Fah approached across the green as they passed through the D’Denir statues. “Jewels and Clod are on alert,” Tonk Fah said. “None of us see him anywhere.”
“What happened to the skin of those men?” Vivenna asked.
“It’s that sword of his,” Denth growled. “We have to find a way to deal with it, Tonks. We’re going to end up crossing him, eventually. I can feel it.”
“But what is the sword?” Vivenna asked. “And how did it drain the color from their skin?”
“We’ll have to steal the thing, Denth,” Tonk Fah said, rubbing his chin as Jewels and Clod filled in around them, making a protective pattern as they moved out into the human river of the street.
“Steal the sword?” Denth asked. “I’m not touching the thing! No, we have to make him use it. Draw it. He won’t be able to keep it out for long. After that, we’ll be able to take him easily. I’ll kill him myself.”
“He beat Arsteel,” Jewels said quietly.
Denth froze. “He did not beat Arsteel! Not in a duel, at least.”
“Vasher didn’t use the sword,” Jewels said. “There was no blackness to Arsteel’s wounds.”
“Then Vasher used a trick!” Denth said. “Ambush. Accomplices. Something. Vasher is no duelist.”
Vivenna let herself get pulled along, thinking of those bodies. Denth and the others had spoken of the deaths this Vasher was causing. She’d wanted to see them. Well, now she had. And it left her feeling disturbed. Unsettled. And . . .
She frowned, itching slightly.
Someone with a lot of Breath was watching her.
* * *
HEY! NIGHTBLOOD SAID. It’s VaraTreledees! We should go talk to him. He’ll be happy to see me.
Vasher stood openly atop the building. He didn’t really care who saw him. He rarely did. An endless flow of people passed on the colorful street. VaraTreledees—Denth, as he called himself now—walked among them with his team. The woman, Jewels. Tonk Fah, as always. The clueless princess. And the abomination.
Is Shashara here? Nightblood asked, excitement in his nebulous voice. We need to go see her! She’ll be worried about what happened to me.
“We killed Shashara long ago, Nightblood,” Vasher said. “Just like we killed Arsteel.” Just like we’ll eventually kill Denth.
As usual, Nightblood refused to acknowledge Shashara’s death. She made me, you know, Nightblood said. Made me to destroy things that were evil. I’m rather good at it. I think she’d be proud of me. We should go talk to her. Show her how well I do my job.
“You are good at it,” Vasher whispered. “Too good.”
Nightblood began to hum quietly, pleased at the perceived praise. Vasher, however, focused on the princess, walking in her obviously exotic dress, standing out like a flake of snow in the tropical heat. He would need to do something about her. Because of her, so many things were falling apart. Plans toppling like badly stacked boxes, creating a racket with their collapse. He didn’t know where Denth had found her or how he kept control of her. However, Vasher was sorely tempted to jump down and let Nightblood take her.
The deaths the night before had already drawn too much attention. Nightblood was right. Vasher wasn’t good at sneaking about. Rumors regarding him were widespread in the city. That was both good and bad.
Later, he thought, turning from the silly girl and her mercenary entourage. Later.
30
Lightsong!” Blushweaver said, hands on hips. “What in the name of the Iridescent Tones are you doing?”
Lightsong ignored her, instead applying his hands to the clump of muddy clay in front of him. His servants and priests stood in a large ring, looking nearly as confused as Blushweaver—who had arrived at his pavilion just a few moments before.
The pottery wheel spun. He held the clay, trying to get it to stay in place. Sunlight shone in through the sides of the pavilion, and the neatly manicured grass under his table was flecked with clay. As the wheel sped up, the clay twirled round, flipping out clods and clumps. Lightsong’s hands became soaked with grimy, slick clay, and it didn’t take long for the entire mess to flip off the wheel and squish to the ground.
“Hum,” he said, regarding it.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Blushweaver asked. She wore one of her customary dresses—which meant nothing on the sides, very little at the top, and only slightly more through the front and back. She had her hair up in an intricately twisting woven pattern of braids and ribbon. Likely the work of a master stylist, who had been invited into the court to perform for one of the gods.
Lightsong hopped to his feet, holding his hands out to either side as servants rushed to wash them off. Others came and wiped the bits of clay from his fine robes. He stood thoughtfully as other servants removed the pottery wheel.
“Well?” Blushweaver asked. “What was that?”
“I just discovered that I am no good at pottery,” Lightsong said. “Actually, I am worse than ‘no good.’ I am pathetic. Ridiculously bad. Can’t even get the blasted clay to stay on the wheel.”
“Well what did you expect?”
“I’m not sure,” Lightsong said, walking across the pavilion toward a long table. Blushweaver—obviously annoyed at being led along—followed. Lightsong suddenly grabbed five lemons off of the table and threw them into the air. He proceeded to juggle them.
Blushweaver watched. And, for just a moment, she looked honestly concerned. “Lightsong?” she asked. “Dear. Is . . . everything all right?”
“I have never practiced juggling,” he said, watching the lemons. “Now, please grab that guava fruit.”
She hesitated, then carefully picked up the guava.
“Throw it,” Lightsong said.
She tossed it at him. He deftly plucked it from the air, then threw it into the pattern with the lemons. “I didn’t know I could do this,” he said. “Not before today. What do you make of it?”
“I . . .” she cocked her head.
He laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words, my dear.”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen another god throwing fruit into the air.”
“It’s more than this,” Lightsong said, dipping down as he nearly lost one of the lemons. “Today I have discovered that I know a surprising number of sailing terms, that I am fantastic at mathematics, and that I have a fairly good eye for sketching. On the other hand, I know nothing about the dyeing industry, horses, or gardening. I have no talent for sculpting, I can’t speak any foreign languages, and—as you’ve seen—I’m terrible at pottery.”
