Warbreaker (Warbreaker 1)

“That wasn’t a prediction,” Lightsong said. “That was really there, in the painting.”

“That’s the way prophecy works, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “Don’t you see? You look at a painting and an entire image appears to your eyes. All I see is random strokes of red. The scene you describe—the things you see—are prophetic. You are a god.”

“But I saw exactly what the painting was said to depict!” Lightsong said. “Before you even told me what the title was!”

Llarimar nodded knowingly, as if that proved his point.

“Oh, never mind. Priests! Insufferable fanatics, every one of you. Either way, you agree with me that there is something strange here.”

“Definitely, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Lightsong said. “Then you’ll kindly stop complaining when I investigate it.”

“Actually, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, “it’s even more imperative that you not get involved. You predicted this would occur, but you are an oracle. You must not interact with the subject of your predictions. If you get involved, you could unbalance a great many things.”

“I like being unbalanced,” Lightsong said. “Besides, this is far too much fun.”

As usual, Llarimar didn’t react to having his advice ignored. As they began to walk back toward the main group, however, the priest did ask a question. “Your Grace. Just to sate my own curiosity, what do you think about the murder?”

“It’s obvious,” Lightsong said idly. “There were two intruders. The first is the large man with the sword—he knocked out the guards, attacked those servants, released the Lifeless, then disappeared. The second man—the one the young priest saw—came in after the first intruder. That second man is the murderer.”

Llarimar frowned. “Why do you suppose that?”

“The first man took care not to kill,” Lightsong said. “He left the guards alive at risk to himself, since they could have regained consciousness at any moment to raise the alarm. He didn’t draw his sword against the servants but simply tried to subdue them. There was no reason for him to kill a bound captive—particularly since he’d already left witnesses. If there were a second man, however . . . well, that would make sense. The servant who was killed, he was the one who was conscious when this second intruder came through. That servant was the only one who saw the second intruder.”

“So, you think someone else followed the man with the sword, killed the only witness, and then . . .”

“Both of them vanished,” Lightsong said. “I found a trapdoor. I’m thinking there must be passages beneath the palace. It all seems fairly obvious to me. One thing, however, is not obvious.” He glanced at Llarimar, slowing before they reached the main group of priests and servants.

“And what is that, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked.

“How in the name of the Colors I figured all of this out!”

“I’m trying to grasp that myself, Your Grace.”

Lightsong shook his head. “This comes from before, Scoot. Everything I’m doing, it feels natural. Who was I before I died?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, turning away.

“Oh, come now, Scoot. I’ve spent most of my Returned life just lounging about, but then the moment someone is killed, I leap out of bed and can’t resist poking around. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?”

Llarimar didn’t look at him.

“Colors!” Lightsong swore. “I was someone useful? I was just beginning to convince myself that I’d died in a reasonable way—such as falling off a stump when I was drunk.”

“You know you died in a brave way, Your Grace.”

“It could have been a really high stump.”

Llarimar just shook his head. “Either way, Your Grace, you know I can’t say anything about who you were before.”

“Well, these instincts came from somewhere,” Lightsong said as they walked over to the main group of watching priests and servants. The head priest had returned with a small wooden box. Wild scratching came from inside. “Thank you,” Lightsong snapped, grabbing the box and passing by without even breaking stride. “I’m telling you, Scoot, I am not pleased.”

“You seemed rather happy this morning, Your Grace,” Llarimar noted as they walked away from Mercystar’s palace. Her priest was left behind, a complaint dying on his lips, Lightsong’s entourage trailing after their god.

“I was happy,” Lightsong said, “because I didn’t know what was going on. How am I going to be properly indolent if I keep itching to investigate things? Honestly, this murder will completely destroy my hard-won reputation.”

“My sympathies, Your Grace, that you have been inconvenienced by a semblance of motivation.”

“Quite right,” Lightsong said, sighing. He handed over the box with its furious Lifeless rodent. “Here. You think my Awakeners can break its security phrase?”

“Eventually,” Llarimar said. “Though it’s an animal, Your Grace. It won’t be able to tell us anything directly.”

“Have them do it anyway,” Lightsong said. “Meanwhile, I need to think about this case some more.”

They walked back to his palace. However, the thing that now struck Lightsong was the fact that he’d used the word “case” in reference to the murder. It was a word he’d never heard used in that particular context. Yet he knew that it fit. Instinctively, automatically.

I didn’t have to learn to speak again when I Returned, he thought. I didn’t have to learn to walk again, or read again, or anything like that. Only my personal memory was lost.

But not all of it, apparently.

And that left him wondering what else he could do, if he tried.

27

Something happened to those previous God Kings, Siri thought, striding through the endless rooms of the God King’s palace, her servants scurrying behind. Something that Bluefingers fears will happen to Susebron. It will be dangerous to both the God King and myself.

She continued to walk, trailing a train made from countless tassels of translucent green silk behind her. The day’s gown was nearly gossamer thin—she’d chosen it, then had asked her servants to fetch an opaque slip for her. It was funny how quickly she’d stopped worrying about what was “ostentatious” and what was not.

There were many much more important problems to worry about.

The priests do fear that something will happen to Susebron, she thought firmly. They are so eager for me to produce an heir. They claim it’s about the succession, but they went fifty years without bothering. They were willing to wait twenty years to get their bride from Idris. Whatever the danger is, it’s not urgent.

And yet the priests act like it is.

Perhaps they’d wanted a bride of the royal line so badly that they’d been willing to risk the danger. Surely they needn’t have waited twenty years, though. Vivenna could have borne children years ago.

Though perhaps the treaty specified a time and not an age. Maybe it just said that the king of Idris had twenty years to provide a bride for the God King. That would explain why her father had been able to send Siri instead. Siri cursed herself for ignoring her lessons about the treaty. She didn’t really know what it said. For all she knew, the danger could be spelled out in the document itself.

She needed more information. Unfortunately, the priests were obstructive, the servants silent, and Bluefingers, well . . .

She finally caught sight of him moving through one of the rooms, writing on his ledger. Siri hurried up, train rustling. He turned, glimpsing her. His eyes opened wide, and he increased his speed, ducking through the open doorway into another room. Siri called after him, moving as quickly as the dress would allow, but when she arrived, the room was empty.

“Colors!” she swore, feeling her hair grow a deep red in annoyance. “You still think he isn’t avoiding me?” she demanded, turning to the most senior of her servants.

The woman lowered her gaze. “It would be improper for a servant of the palace to avoid his queen, Vessel. He must not have seen you.”

Right, Siri thought, just like every other time. When she sent for him, he always arrived after she’d given up and left. When she had a letter scribed to him, he responded so vaguely that it only frustrated her even further.

She couldn’t take books from the palace library, and the priests were disruptively distracting if she tried to read inside the library chamber itself. She’d requested books from the city, but the priests had insisted that they be brought by a priest, then read to her, so as to not “strain her eyes.” She was pretty sure that if there was anything in the book that the priests didn’t want her to know, the reader would simply skip it.

She depended so much upon the priests and scribes for everything, including information.

Except . . . she thought, still standing in the bright red room. There was another source of information. She turned to her head servant. “What activities are going on today in the courtyard?”

“Many, Vessel,” the woman said. “Some artists have come and are doing paintings and sketches. There are some animal handlers showing exotic creatures from the South—I believe they have both elephants and zebras on display. There are also several dye merchants showing off their newest color combinations. And—of course—there are minstrels.”

“What about at that building we went to before?”

“The arena, Vessel? I believe there will be games there later in the evening. Contests of physical prowess.”

Siri nodded. “Prepare a box. I want to attend.”

* * *

BACK IN HER HOMELAND, Siri had occasionally watched running contests. They were usually spontaneous, as the monks did not approve of men showing off. Austre gave all men talents. Flaunting them was seen as arrogance.

Boys cannot be so easily contained. She had seen them run, had even encouraged them. Those contests, however, had been nothing like what the Hallandren men now put on.

There were a half-dozen different events going on at once. Some men threw large stones, competing for distance. Others raced in a wide circle around the interior of the arena floor, kicking up sand, sweating heavily in the muggy Hallandren heat. Others tossed javelins, shot arrows, or engaged in leaping contests.

Siri watched with a deepening blush—one that ran all the way to the ends of her hair. The men wore only loincloths. During her weeks in the grand city, she had never seen anything quite so . . . interesting.

A lady shouldn’t stare at young men, her mother had taught. It’s unseemly.

Yet what was the point, if not to stare? Siri couldn’t help herself, and it wasn’t just because of the naked skin. These were men who had trained extensively—who had mastered their physical abilities to wondrous effect. As Siri watched, she saw that relatively little regard was given to the winners of each particular event. The contests weren’t really about victory, but about the skill required to compete.