Warbreaker (8 page)

As her hair twinged white with fear at what was coming, she diverted her attention to the city again. It wasn’t hard to let it take her attention. It was enormous, sprawling like a tired beast curled around and over hills. As the carriage climbed the southern section of town, she could see—through gaps in the buildings—that the Bright Sea broke into a bay before the city. T’Telir curved around the bay, running right up to the water, forming a crescent shape. The city wall, then, only had to run in a half-circle, abutting the sea, keeping the city boxed in.

It didn’t seem cramped. There was a lot of open space in the city—malls and gardens, large swaths of unused land. Palms lined many of the streets and other foliage was common. Plus, with the cool breeze coming over the sea, the air was a lot more temperate than she had expected. The road led up to a seaside overlook within the city, a small plateau that had an excellent view. Except the entire plateau was surrounded by a large, obstructive wall. Siri watched with growing apprehension as the gates to this smaller city-within-a-city opened up to let the carriage, soldiers, and priests enter.

The common people stayed outside.

There was another wall inside, a barrier to keep anyone from seeing in through the gate. The procession turned left and rounded the blinding wall, entering the Hallandren Court of Gods: an enclosed, lawn-covered courtyard. Several dozen enormous mansions dominated the enclosure, each one painted a distinct color. At the far end of the court was a massive black structure, much taller than the other buildings.

The walled courtyard was quiet and still. Siri could see figures sitting on balconies, watching her carriage roll across the grass. In front of each of the palaces, a crew of men and women knelt prostrate on the grass. The color of their clothing matched that of their building, but Siri spared little time to study them. Instead, she nervously peered at the large, black structure. It was pyramidal, formed of giant steplike blocks.

Black
, she thought.
In a city of color.
Her hair paled even further. She suddenly wished she were more devout. She doubted Austre was all that pleased with her outbursts, and most days she even had trouble naming the five Visions. But he’d watch over her for the sake of her people, wouldn’t he?

The procession pulled to a stop at the base of the enormous triangular building. Siri looked up through the carriage window at the shelves and knobs at the summit, which made the architecture seem top-heavy. She felt as if the dark blocks would come tumbling down in an avalanche to bury her. The priest rode his horseback up to Siri’s window. The cavalrymen waited quietly, the shuffling of their beasts the only sound in the massive, open courtyard.

“We have arrived, Vessel,” the man said. “As soon as we enter the building, you will be prepared and taken to your husband.”

“Husband?” Siri asked uncomfortably. “Won’t there be a wedding ceremony?”

The priest smirked. “The God King does not need ceremonial justification. You became his wife the moment he desired it.”

Siri shivered. “I was just hoping that maybe I could see him, before, you know...”

The priest shot her a harsh look. “The God King does not perform for your whims, woman. You are blessed above all others, for you will be allowed to touch him—if only at
his
discretion. Do not pretend that you are anything other than you are. You have come because he desires it, and you will obey. Otherwise, you will be put aside and another will be chosen in your place—which, I think, might bode unfavorably for your rebel friends in the highlands.”

The priest turned his horse, then clopped his way toward a large stone ramp, leading up to the building. The carriage lurched into motion, and Siri was drawn toward her fate.

Annotations for Chapter 4

Five

Annotations for Chapter 5

This will complicate things
, Vasher thought, standing in the shadows atop the wall that enclosed the Court of Gods.

What’s wrong?
Nightblood asked.
So the rebels actually sent a princess. Doesn’t change your plans.

Vasher waited, watching, as the new queen’s carriage crept up the incline and disappeared into the palace’s maw.

What?
Nightblood demanded. Even after all of these years, the sword reacted like a child in many ways.

She’ll be used
, Vasher thought.
I doubt we’ll be able to get through this without dealing with her.
He hadn’t believed that the Idrians would actually send royal blood back to T’Telir. They’d given up a pawn of terrible value.

Vasher turned away from the court, wrapping his sandaled foot around one of the banners that ran down the outside of the wall. Then he released his Breath.

“Lower me,” he Commanded.

The large tapestry—woven from wool threads—sucked hundreds of Breaths from him. It hadn’t the form of a man, and it was massive in size, but Vasher now had enough Breath to spend in such extravagant Awakenings.

The tapestry twisted, a thing alive, and formed a hand, which picked Vasher up. As always, the Awakening tried to imitate the form of a human—looking closely at the twistings and undulations of the fabric, Vasher could see outlines of muscles and even veins. There was no need for them; the Breath animated the fabric, and no muscles were necessary for it to move.

The tapestry carefully carried Vasher down, pinching him by one shoulder, placing his feet on the street. “Your Breath to mine,” Vasher Commanded. The large banner-tapestry lost its animate form immediately, life vanishing, and it fluttered back against the wall.

Some few people paused in the street, yet they were interested, not awed. This was T’Telir, home of the gods themselves. Men with upward of a thousand Breaths were uncommon, but not unheard of. The people gawked—as peasants in other kingdoms might pause to watch the carriage of a passing lord—but then they moved on with their daily activities.

The attention was unavoidable. Though Vasher still dressed in his usual outfit—ragged trousers, well-worn cloak despite the heat, a rope wrapped several times around his waist for a belt—he now caused colors to brighten dramatically when he was near. The change would be noticeable to normal people and blatantly obvious to those of the first Heightening.

His days of being able to hide and skulk were gone. He’d have to grow accustomed to being noticed again. That was one of the reasons he was glad to be in T’Telir. The city was large enough and filled with enough oddities— from Lifeless soldiers to Awakened objects serving everyday functions—that he probably wouldn’t stand out too much.

Of course, that didn’t take Nightblood into account. Vasher moved through the crowds, carrying the overly heavy sword in one hand, sheathed point nearly dragging on the ground behind him. Some people shied away from the sword immediately. Others watched it, eyes lingering far too long. Perhaps it was time to stuff Nightblood back in the pack.

Oh, no you don’t
, Nightblood said.
Don’t even start thinking about that. I’ve been locked away for too long.

What does it matter to you?
Vasher thought.

I need fresh air
, Nightblood said.
And sunlight.

You’re a sword
, Vasher thought,
not a palm tree.

Nightblood fell silent. He was smart enough to realize that he was not a person, but he didn’t like being confronted with that fact. It tended to put him in a sullen mood. That suited Vasher just fine.

He made his way to a restaurant a few streets down from the Court of Gods. This was one thing he
had
missed about T’Telir: restaurants. In most cities, there were few dining options. If you intended to stay for a while, you hired a local woman to give you meals at her table. If you stayed a short time, you ate what your innkeeper gave you.

In T’Telir, however, the population was large enough—and rich enough—to support dedicated food providers. Restaurants still hadn’t caught on in the rest of the world, but in T’Telir, they were commonplace. Vasher already had a booth reserved, and the waiter nodded him to the spot. Vasher settled himself, leaving Nightblood up against the wall.

The sword was stolen within a minute of his letting go of it.

Vasher ignored the thievery, thoughtful as the waiter brought him a warm cup of citrus tea. Vasher sipped at the sweetened liquid, sucking on the bit of rind, wondering why in the world a people who lived in a tropical lowland preferred heated teas. After a few minutes, his life sense warned him that he was being watched. Eventually, that same sense alerted him that someone was approaching. Vasher slipped his dagger from his belt with his free hand as he sipped.

The priest sat down opposite Vasher in the booth. He wore street clothing, rather than religious robes. However—perhaps unconsciously—he had still chosen to wear the white and green of his deity. Vasher slipped his dagger back into its sheath, masking the sound by taking a loud sip.

The priest, Bebid, looked about nervously. He had enough of a Breath aura to indicate that he’d reached the first Heightening. It was where most people—those who could afford to buy Breath—stopped. That much Breath would extend their lifespan by a good decade or so and give them an increased life sense. It would also let them see Breath auras and distinguish other Awakeners, and—in a pinch—let them do a little Awakening themselves. A decent trade for spending enough money to feed a peasant family for fifty years.

“Well?” Vasher asked.

Bebid actually jumped at the sound. Vasher sighed, closing his eyes. The priest was not accustomed to these kinds of clandestine meetings. He wouldn’t have come at all, had Vasher not exerted certain...pressures on him.

Vasher opened his eyes, staring at the priest as the waiter arrived with two plates of spiced rice. Tektees food was the restaurant’s specialty—the Hallandren liked foreign spices as much as they liked odd colors. Vasher had placed the order earlier, along with a payment that would keep the surrounding booths empty.

“Well?” Vasher repeated.

“I...” Bebid said. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find out much.”

Vasher regarded the man with a stern stare.

“You have to give me more time.”

“Remember your indiscretions, friend,” Vasher said, drinking the last of his tea, feeling a twinge of annoyance. “Wouldn’t want news of those getting out, would we?”
Do we have to go through this
again
?

Bebid was quiet for a time. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Vasher,” he said, leaning in. “I’m a priest of Brightvison the True. I can’t betray my oaths!”

“Good thing I’m not asking you to.”

“We’re not supposed to release information about court politics.”

“Bah,” Vasher snapped. “Those Returned can’t so much as
look
at one another without half of the city learning about it within the hour.”

“Surely you’re not implying—” Bebid said.

Vasher gritted his teeth, bending his spoon with his finger in annoyance. “
Enough
, Bebid! We both know that your oaths are all just part of the game.” He leaned in. “And I really hate games.”

Bebid paled and didn’t touch his meal. Vasher eyed his spoon with annoyance, then bent it back, calming himself. He shoveled in a spoonful of rice, mouth burning from the spices. He’d didn’t believe in letting food sit around uneaten—you never knew when you’d have to leave in a hurry.

“There have been...rumors,” Bebid finally said. “This goes beyond simple court politics, Vasher—beyond games played between gods. This is something very real, and
very
quiet. Quiet enough that even observant priests only hear hints of it.”

Vasher continued to eat.

“There is a faction of the court pushing to attack Idris,” Bebid said. “Though I can’t fathom why.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Vasher said, wishing he had more tea to wash down the rice. “We both know Hallandren has sound reasons to slaughter every person up in those highlands.”

“Royals,” Bebid said.

Vasher nodded. They were called rebels, but those “rebels” were the true Hallandren royal family. Mortal men though they might be, their bloodline was a challenge to the Court of Gods. Any good monarch knew that the first thing you did to stabilize your throne was execute anyone who had a better claim to it than you did. After that, it was usually a good idea to execute everyone who
thought
they might have claim.

“So,” Vasher said. “You fight, Hallandren wins. What’s the problem?”

“It’s a bad idea, that’s the problem,” Bebid said. “A
terrible
idea. Kalad’s Phantoms, man! Idris won’t go easily, no matter what people in the court say. This won’t be like squashing that fool Vahr. The Idrians have allies from across the mountains and the sympathies of dozens of kingdoms. What some are calling a ‘simple quelling of rebel factions’ could easily spin into another Manywar. Do you want that? Thousands upon thousands dead? Kingdoms falling to never rise again? All so we can grab a little bit of frozen land nobody really wants.”

“The trade passes are valuable,” Vasher noted.

Bebid snorted. “The Idrians aren’t foolish enough to raise their tariffs
too
high. This isn’t about money. It’s about fear. People in the court talk about what
might
happen if the Idrians cut off the passes or what
may
happen if the Idrians let enemies slip through and besiege T’Telir. If this were about money, we’d never go to war. Hallandren thrives on its dye and textiles trade. You think that business would boom in war? We’d be lucky not to suffer a full economic collapse.”

“And you assume that I care about Hallandren’s economic well-being?” Vasher asked. “Ah, yes,” Bebid said dryly. “I forgot who I was talking to. What do you want, then? Tell me so we can get this over with.”

“Tell me about the rebels,” Vasher said, chewing on rice.

“The Idrians? We just talked—”

“Not them,” Vasher said. “The ones in the city.”

“They’re unimportant now that Vahr is dead,” the priest said with a wave of his hand. “Nobody knows who killed him, by the way. Probably the rebels themselves. Guess they didn’t appreciate his getting himself captured, eh?”