Warbreaker Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

The door shut behind her.

A large fire growled in a hearth to her left, bringing a shifting orange light to the large room. The black walls seemed to draw in and absorb the illumination, making deep shadows at the edges of the room.

Siri stood quietly in her ornate velvet dress, heart thumping, brow sweating. To her right, she could make out a massive bed, with sheets and covers of black to match the rest of the room. The bed appeared unoccupied. Siri peered into the darkness, eyes adjusting.

The fire crackled, throwing a flicker of light across a large, throne-like chair sitting beside the bed. It was occupied by a figure wearing black, bathed in darkness. He watched her, eyes twinkling, unblinking in the firelight.

Siri gasped, casting her eyes downward, her heartbeat surging as she remembered Bluefingers' warnings. Vivenna should be here instead of me, Siri thought desperately. I can't deal with this! Father was wrong to send me!

She squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing coming more quickly. She waved shaking fingers and pulled nervously at the strings on the side of her dress. Her hands were slick with sweat as she tried to undress. Was she taking too long? Would he be angered? Would she be killed before even the first night was out?
Would she maybe prefer that?

No, she thought with determination. No. I need to do this. For Idris. For the fields and the children who took flowers from me. For my father and Mab and everyone else in the palace.

She finally got the strings undone, and the gown fell away with surprising ease--she could now see that it had been constructed with that goal in mind. She dropped the dress to the floor then paused, looking at her undershift. The white fabric was throwing out a spectrum of colors, like light bent by a prism. She regarded this with shock, wondering what was causing the strange effect.

It didn't matter. She was too nervous to think about that. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to pull off her undershift, leaving her naked. She quickly knelt on the cold stone floor, curling up, heart thudding in her ears as she bowed with her forehead touching the floor.

The room fell silent save for the crackling hearth. The fire wasn't really necessary in the Hallandren warmth, but she was glad for it, unclothed as she was.

She waited, hair pure white, arrogance and stubbornness discarded, naked in more than one way. This is where she ended up--this is where all her 'independent' sense of freedom came to a halt. No matter what she claimed or how she felt, in the end, she had to bow to authority. Just like anyone else.

She gritted her teeth, imagining the God King sitting there, watching her subservient and naked before him. She hadn't seen much of him, other than to notice his size--he was a good foot taller than most other men she'd seen, and was wider of shoulders and more powerful of build as well. More significant than other, lesser men.

He was Returned.

Being Returned in and of itself wasn't a sin. After all, Returned came in Idris too. The Hallandren people, however, kept the Returned alive, feeding them on the souls of peasants, tearing away the Breath of hundreds of people each year. . . .

Don't think of that, Siri told herself forcefully. Yet, as she tried to clear her mind, the God King's eyes returned to her memory. Those black eyes, which had almost seemed to glow in the firelight. She could feel them on her still, watching her, as cold as the stones upon which she knelt.

The fire crackled. Bluefingers had said that the King would knock for her. What if she missed it? But, she didn't dare glance upward. She'd already met his gaze once, if by accident. She couldn't risk upsetting him further. She just continued to kneel in place, elbows on the ground, back beginning to ache.

Why doesn't he do something?

Was he was displeased with her? Was she not as pretty as he'd desired, or was he angered that she'd met his eyes, then taken too long to undress? It would be particularly ironic if she offended him when trying so hard not to be her usual flippant self. Or was something else wrong? He had been promised the eldest daughter of the Idris king, but had instead received Siri. Would he know the difference? Would he even care?

The minutes passed, the room growing more dark as the fire burned away its logs.

He's toying with me, Siri thought. Forcing me to wait on his whims. Making her kneel in such an uncomfortable position was probably a message--one that showed who was in power. He would take her when he willed it, and not before.

Siri gritted her teeth as the time passed. How long had she been kneeling? An hour, maybe longer. And still, there wasn't a hint of sound--no knock, no cough, not even a shuffle from the God King. Perhaps it was a test, to see how long she would remain as she was. Perhaps she was just reading too much into things. Either way, she forced herself to remain in place, shifting only when she absolutely had to.

Vivenna had the training. Vivenna had the poise and the refinement. But Siri, she had the stubbornness. One only had to look back at her history of repeatedly ignoring lessons and duties to realize that. With time, she'd even broken down her father. He'd started letting her do as she pleased, if only to save his own sanity.

And so she continued to wait--naked in the light of the coals--as the night wore on.

#

Fireworks sprayed sparks up in a fountain of light. Some fell close to where Lightsong was sitting, and these blazed with an extra, frenzied light until they died away.

He reclined on a couch in the open air, watching the display. Servants waited around him, complete with parasols, a portable bar, wet towels to rub his face and hands should he feel the need, and a host of other luxuries that--to Lightsong--were simply commonplace.

He watched the fireworks with mild interest. The firemasters stood in a nervous cluster near his position. Beside them were a troop of minstrels that Lightsong had called for, yet hadn't yet asked to perform. While there were always entertainers in the Court of Gods for the Returned to enjoy, this night--the wedding night of their God King--was even more extravagant.

Susebron wasn't in attendance himself, of course. Such festivities were beneath him. Lightsong glanced to the side, where the King's palace rose above the Court of Gods. Eventually, Lightsong just shook his head and turned his attention back to the courtyard. The palaces of the gods formed a ring, and each building had a patio and balcony facing the central area. So, Lightsong basically sat in the front yard of his palace, though that yard also happened to be part of the massive courtyard.

Another firefountain sprayed into the air, throwing shadows across the courtyard. Lightsong sighed, accepting another fruited drink from a servant. The night was cool and pleasant, fit for a God. Or Gods. Lightsong could see other pavilions set up in front of other palaces. Different groups of performers cluttered the sides of the courtyard, waiting for their chance to please one of the Returned.

The fountain ran low, and the firemasters looked toward him, smiling hopefully by torchlight. Lightsong nodded with his best benevolent expression. "More fireworks," he said. "You have pleased me." This caused the three men to whisper in excitement and wave for their assistants.

As they set up, a familiar figure wandered into Lightsong's ring of torches. Llarimar wore his priestly robes, as always. Even when he was out in the city--which was where he should have been this night--he represented Lightsong and his priesthood.

"Scoot?" Lightsong asked, sitting up.

"Your grace," Llarimar said, bowing.

"What are you doing here?" Lightsong said. "You should be out with your family."

"I just wanted to check to make certain everything was to your liking."

Lightsong rubbed his forehead. "You're giving me a headache, Scoot."

"You can't get headaches, your grace."

"So you're fond of telling me," Lightsong said, waving for a servant to bring his priest a stool. "How are things outside the holy prison?"

Llarimar frowned at the choice of words. "His Excellency's wedding celebrations are quite fantastic," he said, adjusting his spectacles as another fountain of sparks began to spurt in the courtyard before them. "The city hasn't seen a festival this grand in decades."

"Then you should be out enjoying it."

"I just--"

"Scoot," Lightsong said, giving the man a pointed look, "if there's one thing you can trust me to do competently on my own, it's enjoy myself. I will--I promise in all solemnity--have a ravishingly good time drinking myself to excess and watching these nice men light things on fire. Now go be with your family."

Llarimar paused, then stood, bowed, and withdrew.

That man, Lightsong thought, sipping his fruity drink, takes his work far too seriously.

The concept amused Lightsong, and he leaned back, enjoying the fireworks. However, he was soon distracted by the approach of someone else. Or, rather, one very important someone else leading a group of far less important someone elses. Lightsong sipped his drink again.

The newcomer was beautiful. She was a Goddess, after all. Dark black hair, pale skin, lush and curvaceous body. She wore far less clothing than Lightsong did, but that was common for most of the Court's Goddesses. Her thin gown of green and silver was split on both sides, showing hips and thighs, and the neckline was draped down so low that very little was left to imagination.

Blushweaver the Beautiful, Goddess of Honesty.

She was trailed by about thirty servants, not to mention her high priest and a good six lesser priests. The firemasters grew excited, noticing that they now had not one, but two divine attendants. The apprentices went about in a flurry of motion, setting up another series of firefountains. A group of Blushweaver's servants rushed forward, carrying an ornate couch, which they set on the grass beside Lightsong.

Blushweaver lay down with customary litheness, crossing perfect legs and resting on her side in a seductive, lady-like pose. The orientation left her capable of watching the fireworks should she wish, but her attention was obviously focused on Lightsong.

"My dear Lightsong," she said as a servant approached with a bunch of grapes. "Aren't you even going to acknowledge me?"

Here we go, Lightsong thought with resignation. "My dear Blushweaver," he said, setting aside his cup and lacing his fingers before him. "Why would I go and do something rude like that?"

"Rude?" she asked, amused.

"Of course. You obviously make quite a determined effort to draw attention to yourself--the details are magnificent, by the way. Is that makeup on your thighs?"

She smiled, biting into a grape. "It's a kind of paint, my dear. The designs were drawn by some of the most talented artists in my priesthood."

"My compliments to them," Lightsong said. "The patterns certainly draw the eye. And, they are a point unto my argument. You need no acknowledgement, my dear. Your mere presence is its own acknowledgement. Were I to go so far as to point out your display, then I would simply be undermining it. It would be like. . .shouting encouragement to the puppeteer as he gives his show."

Blushweaver raised an eyebrow. "But, didn't your very explanation do just that?"

"Only because you forced my hand, my dear," Lightsong said as the fireworks went off again. With two Gods and their auras, the colors of the sparks grew quite powerful indeed. On the far side, some sparks left the Breath Auras, and these fell to the ground looking dull and weak. as if their fire were cool and insignificant enough that it could be picked up and tucked away.

"I see," Blushweaver said, eyeing the fireworks. "You seem captivated by the fire show. Is it that much more fascinating than I?"

"Not at all. It simply seems far less likely to burn me."
Blushweaver smiled. "Then you admit that you find me beautiful?"

"Of course. Why, my dear, you're positively rank with beauty. You're literally part of the definition of the word--it's in your name somewhere, I do believe."

"My dear Lightsong, I do believe that you're making sport of me."

"I never make fun of ladies, Blushweaver," Lightsong said, picking up his drink again. "Mocking a woman is like drinking too much wine. It may be fun for a short time, but the hangover is hell."

Blushweaver paused. "But we don't get hangovers."

"Yes, of course. And that, my dear, is why I had to mock you. Please forgive me. It was but an inevitability forced on an unwilling servant."

Blushweaver opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. "Sometimes," she finally said, "I'm not certain when you are being silly and when you're being serious, Lightsong."

"Well, I can help you with that one easily enough," he said. "If you ever think I'm being serious, then you can know that you've been working too hard on the problem."

"I see," she said, twisting on her couch so that she was face down. She leaned on her elbows with breasts pushed up between them, fireworks lighting her exposed back. "So, then. You admit that I'm captivating and beautiful. Would you then care to retire from the festivities this evening? Find. . .other entertainments?"

Lightsong hesitated. Being unable to bear children didn't stop the Gods from seeking intimacy, particularly with other Returned. In fact, from what Lightsong could guess, the impossibility of offspring only increased the laxness of the Court in these matters. Many a God took mortal lovers--Blushweaver was known to have a few of her own among her priests. Distractions with mortals were never seen as infidelity among Gods.

Blushweaver lounged on her couch, supple, inviting. Lightsong opened his mouth, but in his mind, he saw. . .her. The woman of vision from his dreams, the face he'd mentioned to Llarimar. Who was she?

Probably nothing. A flash from his former life, or perhaps simply an image crafted by his subconscious. Maybe even, as the priests claimed, some kind of prophetic symbol. The face shouldn't give him pause. Not when faced with perfection.

"I. . .must decline," he found himself saying. "I am, unfortunately, too lazy for such things."

"Too lazy for sex?" Blushweaver asked, rolling back onto her side and regarding him.

"I'm really quite indolent. A poor example of a God, as I keep telling my high priest. Nobody seems to listen to me, so I fear that I must continue to be diligent in proving my point. Dallying with you would, unfortunately, undermine my entire basis for argument."

Blushweaver shook her head. "You confuse me sometimes, Lightsong. If it weren't for your reputation, I'd simply presume you to be shy. How could you have slept with Calmseer, but consistently ignore me?"

Calmseer was the last honorable Returned this city has known, Lightsong thought, sipping his drink. Nobody left has a shred of her decency. Myself included.

Blushweaver fell silent, watching the latest display from the firemasters. The show had grown progressively more ornate, and Lightsong was considering calling the men off, lest they use all of their fireworks on him and not have any left should another God call upon them.

Blushweaver didn't make any moves to return to her own pavilion, and Lightsong let her be. He suspected that she hadn't come simply for verbal sparring, or even to try and bed him. No, Blushweaver had her plans. In Lightsong's experience, there was more depth to the woman than at first glance.

Eventually, his hunch paid off. She turned from the fireworks, eying the dark palace of the God King. "We have a new queen."

"I noticed," Lightsong said. "Though, admittedly, only because I was reminded several times."

They fell silent.

"Have you no thoughts on the matter?" Blushweaver finally asked.

"I try to avoid having thoughts. They lead to other thoughts, and--if you're not careful--those lead to actions. Actions make you tired. I have this on rather good authority from someone who once read it in a book."

Blushweaver sighed. "You avoid thinking, you avoid me, you avoid effort. . .is there anything you don't avoid?"

"Breakfast."

Blushweaver didn't react to this, which Lightsong found disappointing. She was too focused on the King's palace. Lightsong often tried to ignore the large black building; he didn't like how it seemed to tower over him.

"Perhaps you should make an exception," Blushweaver said, "and give some thought to this particular situation. This queen means something."

"We've had queens before."

"Never one of the Royal line," Blushweaver said. "At least, there hasn't been one since the days of Klad the Usurper."

Klad. The man who had started the Manywar, the one who had used his knowledge of BioChromatic Breath to create a vast army of Lifeless and seize power in Hallandren. He had protected the kingdom, yet shattered it, driving the Royals into the highlands.

Now they were back. Or, at least, one of them was.

"This is a dangerous day, Lightsong," Blushweaver said quietly. "What happens if that woman bears a child who isn't Returned?"

"Impossible," Lightsong said.

"Oh? You are that confident?"

Lightsong nodded. "Of the Returned, only the God King can bear children, and they're always stillborn."

Blushweaver shook her head. "The only word we have on that is from the palace priests themselves. Yet, I've heard of. . .discrepancies in the records. Even if we don't worry about those, there are plenty of other considerations. Why do we need a Royal to 'legitimize' our throne? Isn't three hundred years of rule by the Court of Gods enough to make the kingdom legitimate?"

Lightsong shrugged.

"This marriage says that we still accept Royal authority," Blushweaver said. "What happens if that king up in the highlands decides to take his kingdom back? What happens if that queen of ours in there has a child by another man? Who is the heir? Who rules?"

"The God King rules. Everyone knows that."

"He didn't rule three hundred years ago," Blushweaver said. "The Royals did. Then, after them, Klad did--and after him, Peacegiver. Change can happen quickly. By inviting that woman into our city, we could have initiated the end of Returned rule in Hallandren."

She fell silent, pensive. Lightsong studied the beautiful Goddess. It had been fifteen years since her Return--which made her old, for a Returned. Old, wise, and incredibly crafty.

Blushweaver glanced at him. "I don't intend to find myself caught, surprised, like the Royals were when Klad seized their throne. Some of us are planning, Lightsong. You can join us, if you wish."

"Politics, my dear," he said with a sigh. "You know how I loath them."

"You're the God of bravery. We could use your confidence."

"At this point, I'm only confident that I'll be of no use to you."

Her face grew impassive. Eventually, she sighed and stood, stretching, showing off her perfect figure once again. "You'll have to stand for something eventually, Lightsong," she said. "You're a god to this people."

"Not by choice, my dear."

She smiled, then bent down and kissed him softly. "Just consider what I said. You're a better man than you give yourself credit for being. You think I'd offer myself to just anyone?"

He hesitated, then frowned. "Actually. . .yes. I do."

She laughed, turning as her servants picked up her couch. "Oh, come now! There've got to be at least three of the other Gods I wouldn't think of letting touch me. Enjoy the party, and do try to imagine what our King is doing to our legacy up in his chambers right now. She glanced back at him. "Particularly if that imagining reminds you of what you just missed out on." She winked, then trailed away.

Lightsong sat back on his couch, then dismissed the firemasters with words of praise. As the minstrels began to play, he tried to empty his mind of Blushweaver's ominous words.

He failed.

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