Warbreaker (20 page)

Siri sighed. It was as if they were determined to keep her from having a reasonably simple choice. She just hated seeing so many options disappear each day. If only...

She paused. “Could I try them
all
on?”

The serving women glanced at each other, a little confused. They nodded toward her, their expressions conveying a simple message.
Of course you can.
Siri felt foolish, but in Idris she’d never had a choice before. She smiled, standing and letting them take off her robe and then dress her in the first of the gowns, careful not to mess up her hair. Siri inspected herself, noting that the neckline was rather low. She was willing to splurge on color, but the amount of flesh Hallandren showed still felt scandalous.

She nodded, letting them take off the gown. Then they dressed her in the next one—a two-piece garment with a separate corset. Once they were finished, Siri eyed this new outfit in the mirror. She liked it, but she wanted to try the others as well. So, after spinning about and inspecting the back, she nodded and moved on.

It was frivolous. But why was she so worried about being frivolous? Her father wasn’t around to regard her with that stern, disapproving face of his. Vivenna was an entire kingdom away. Siri was queen of the Hallandren people. Shouldn’t she try to learn their ways? She smiled at the ridiculous justification, but went on to the next gown anyway.

Annotations for Chapter 13

Fourteen

Annotations for Chapter 14

“It’s raining,” Lightsong noted.

“Very astute, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, walking beside his god.

“I’m not fond of rain.”

“So you have often noted, Your Grace.”

“I’m a god,” Lightsong said. “Shouldn’t I have power over the weather? How can it rain if I don’t want it to?”

“There are currently twenty–five gods in the court, Your Grace. Perhaps there are more who desire rain than those who don’t.”

Lightsong’s robes of gold and red rustled as he walked. The grass was cool and damp beneath his sandaled toes, but a group of servants carried a wide canopy over him. Rain fell softly on the cloth. In T’Telir, rainfalls were common, but they were never very strong.

Lightsong would have liked to have seen a true rainstorm, like people said occurred out in the jungles. “I’ll take a poll then,” Lightsong said. “Of the other gods. See how many of them wanted it to rain today.”

“If you wish, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “It won’t prove much.”

“It’ll prove whose fault this is,” Lightsong said. “And...if it turns out that most of us want it to stop raining, perhaps that will start a theological crisis.”

Llarimar, of course, didn’t seem bothered by the concept of a god trying to undermine his own religion. “Your Grace,” he said, “our doctrine is
quite
sound, I assure you.”

“And if the gods don’t want it to rain, yet it still does?”

“Would you like it to be sunny all the time, Your Grace?”

Lightsong shrugged. “Sure.”

“And the farmers?” Llarimar said. “Their crops would die without the rain.”

“It can rain on the crops,” Lightsong said, “just not in the city. A few selective weather patterns shouldn’t be too much for a god to accomplish.”

“The people need water to drink, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “The streets need to be washed clean. And what of the plants in the city? The beautiful trees—even this grass that you enjoy walking across—would die if the rain did not fall.”

“Well,” Lightsong said, “I could just
will
them to continue living.”

“And that is what you do, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “Your soul knows that rain is best for the city, and so it rains. Despite what your consciousness thinks.”

Lightsong frowned. “By that argument, you could claim that
anyone
was a god, Llarimar.”

“Not just
anyone
comes back from the dead, Your Grace. Nor do they have the power to heal the sick, and they certainly don’t have your ability to foresee the future.”

Good points, those
, Lightsong thought as they approached the arena. The large, circular structure was at the back of the Court of Gods, outside of the ring of palaces that surrounded the courtyard. Lightsong’s entourage moved inside—red canopy still held above him—and entered the sand–covered arena yard. Then they moved up a ramp toward the seating area.

The arena had four rows of seats for ordinary people—stone benches, accommodating T’Telir citizens who were favored, lucky, or rich enough to get themselves into an assembly session. The upper reaches of the arena were reserved for the Returned. Here—close enough to hear what was said on the arena floor, yet far enough back to remain stately—were the boxes. Ornately carved in stone, they were large enough to hold a god’s entire entourage.

Lightsong could see that several of his colleagues had arrived, marked by the colorful canopies that sat above their boxes. Lifeblesser was there, as was Mercystar. They passed by the empty box usually reserved for Lightsong and made their way around the ring and approached a box topped by a green pavilion. Blushweaver lounged inside. Her green and silver dress was lavish and revealing, as always. Despite its rich trim and embroidery, it was little more than a long swath of cloth with a hole in the center for her head and some ties. That left it completely open on both sides from shoulder to calf, and Blushweaver’s thighs curved out lusciously on either side. She sat up, smiling.

Lightsong took a deep breath. Blushweaver always treated him kindly and she certainly did have a high opinion of him, but he felt like he had to be on guard at all times when he was around her. A man could be taken in by a woman such as she.

Taken in, then never released.

“Lightsong, dear,” she said, smiling more deeply as Lightsong’s servants scuttled forward, setting up his chair, footrest, and snack table.

“Blushweaver,” Lightsong replied. “My high priest tells me that you’re to blame for this dreary weather.”
Blushweaver raised an eyebrow, and to the side—standing with the other priests—Llarimar flushed. “I like the rain,” Blushweaver finally said, lounging back on her couch. “It’s...different. I like things that are different.”

“Then you should be thoroughly bored by me, my dear,” Lightsong said, seating himself and taking a handful of grapes—already peeled—from the bowl on his snack table.

“Bored?” Blushweaver asked. “I strive for nothing if not mediocrity, and mediocrity is
hardly
different. In fact, I should say that it’s highly in fashion in court these days.”

“You shouldn’t say such things,” Blushweaver said. “The people might start to believe you.”

“You mistake me. That’s why I say them. I figure if I can’t do properly deific miracles like control the weather, then I might as well settle for the lesser miracle of being the one who tells the truth.”

“Hum,” she replied, stretching back, the tips of her fingers wiggling as she sighed in contentment. “Our priests say that the purpose of the gods is not to play with weather or prevent disasters, but to provide visions and Service to the people. Perhaps this attitude of yours is not the best way to see to their interests.”

“You’re right, of course,” Lightsong said. “I’ve just had a revelation. Mediocrity
isn’t
the best way to serve our people.”

“What is, then?”

“Medium rare on a bed of sweet–potato medallions,” he said, popping a grape in his mouth. “With a slight garnish of garlic and a light white wine sauce.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she said, finishing her stretch.

“I am what the universe made me to be, my dear.”

“You bow before the whims of the universe, then?”

“What else would I do?”

“Fight it,” Blushweaver said. She narrowed her eyes, absently reaching to take one of the grapes from Lightsong’s hand. “fight with everything, force the universe to bow to you instead.”

“That’s a charming concept, Blushweaver. But I believe that the universe and I are in slightly different weight categories.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

She regarded him with a flat glance. “I’m saying that you needn’t be so humble, Lightsong. You’re a
god
.”

“A god who can’t even make it stop raining.”

“
I
want it to storm and tempest. Maybe this drizzle is the compromise between us.”

Lightsong popped another grape in his mouth, squishing it between his teeth, feeling the sweet juice leak onto his palate. He thought for a moment, chewing. “Blushweaver, dear,” he finally said. “Is there some kind of subtext to our current conversation? Because, as you might know, I am absolutely
terrible
with subtext. It gives me a headache.”

“You can’t get headaches,” Blushweaver said.

“Well I can’t get subtext either. Far too subtle for me. It takes effort to understand, and effort is—unfortunately—against my religion.”

Blushweaver raised an eyebrow. “A new tenet for those who worship you?”

“Oh, not that religion,” Lightsong said. “I’m secretly a worshipper of Austre. His is such a delightfully blunt theology—black, white, no bothering with complications. Faith without any bothersome thinking.”

Blushweaver stole another grape. “You just don’t know Austrism well enough. It’s complex. If you’re looking for something
really
simple, you should try the Pahn Kahl faith.”

Lightsong frowned. “Don’t they just worship the Returned, like the rest of us?”

“No. They have their own religion.”

“But everyone knows the Pahn Kahl are practically Hallandren.”

Blushweaver shrugged, watching the stadium floor below.

“And how exactly did we get onto this tangent, anyway?” Lightsong said. “I swear, my dear. Sometimes our conversations remind me of a broken sword.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Sharp as hell,” Lightsong said, “but lacking a point.”

Blushweaver snorted quietly. “You’re the one who asked to meet with me, Lightsong.”

“Yes, but we both know that you wanted me to. What are you planning, Blushweaver?”

Blushweaver rolled her grape between her fingers. “Wait,” she said.

Lightsong sighed, waving for a servant to bring him some nuts. One placed a bowl on the table; then another came forward and began to crack them for him. “first you imply that I should join with you, now you won’t tell me what you want me to do? I swear, woman. Someday, your ridiculous sense of drama is going to cause cataclysmic problems—like, for instance, boredom in your companions.”

“It’s not drama,” she said. “It’s respect.” She nodded directly across the arena, where the God King’s box still stood empty, golden throne sitting on a pedestal above the box itself.

“Ah. Feeling patriotic today, are we?”

“It’s more that I’m curious.”

“About?”

“Her.”

“The queen?”

Blushweaver gave him a flat stare. “Of course, her. Who else would I be speaking about?”

Lightsong counted off the days. It had been a week. “Huh,” he said to himself. “Her period of isolation is over, then?”

“You really should pay more attention, Lightsong.”

He shrugged. “Time tends to pass you by more quickly when you take no notice of it, my dear. In that, it’s remarkably similar to most women I know.” With that, he accepted a handful of nuts, then settled back to wait.

~

Apparently, the people of T’Telir weren’t fond of carriages—not even to carry gods. Siri sat, somewhat bemused, as a group of servants carried her chair across the grass toward a large, circular structure at the back of the Court of Gods. It was raining. She didn’t care. She’d been cooped up for far too long.

She turned, twisting in her chair, looking back over a group of serving women who carried her dress’s long golden train, keeping it off the wet grass. Around them all walked more women, who held a large canopy to shield Siri from the rain.

“Could you...move that aside?” Siri asked. “Let the rain fall on me?”

The serving women glanced at one another.

“Just for a little bit,” Siri said. “I promise.”

The women shared frowns, but slowed, allowing Siri’s porters to pull ahead and expose her to the rain. She looked up, smiling as the drizzle fell on her face.
Seven days is far too long to spend indoors
, she decided. She basked for a long moment, enjoying the cool wetness on her skin and clothing. The grass looked inviting. She glanced back again. “I could walk, you know.”
Feel my toes on those green blades...

The serving women looked very, very uncomfortable about that concept.

“Or not,” Siri said, turning around as the women sped up, again covering the sky with their canopy. Walking was probably a bad idea, considering her dress’s long train. She’d eventually chosen a gown far more daring than anything she’d ever worn before. The neckline was a touch low, and it had no sleeves. It also had a curious design that covered the front of her legs with a short skirt, yet was floor–length in back. She’d picked it partially for the novelty, though she blushed every time she thought of how much leg it showed.

They soon arrived at the arena and her porters carried her up into it. Siri was interested to see that it had no ceiling and had a sand–covered floor. Just above the floor, a colorful group of people were gathering on ranks of benches. Though some of them carried umbrellas, many ignored the light rain, chatting amiably among themselves. Siri smiled at the crowd; a hundred different colors and as many different clothing styles were represented. It was good to see some variety again, even if that variety was somewhat garish.

Her porters carried her up to a large stone cleft built into the side of the building. Here, her women slid the canopy’s poles into holes in the stone, allowing it to stand freely to cover the entire box. Servants scuttled about, getting things ready, and her porters lowered her chair. She stood, frowning. She was finally free of the palace. And yet it appeared she was going to have to sit above everyone else. Even the other gods—whom she assumed were in the other canopied boxes—were far away and separated from her by walls.