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 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.

How is it that they can make me feel alone, even when surrounded by hundreds of people? She turned to one of her serving women. “The God King. Where is he?”

The woman gestured toward the other boxes like Siri’s.

“He’s in one of them?” Siri asked.

“No, Vessel,” the woman said, eyes downcast. “He will not arrive until the gods are all here.”

Ah, Siri thought. Makes sense, I guess.

She sat back in her chair as several servants prepared food. To the side, a minstrel began to play a flute, as if to drown out the sounds of the people below. She would rather have heard the people. Still, she decided not to let herself get into a bad mood. At least she was outside, and she could see other people, even if she couldn’t interact with them. She smiled to herself, leaning forward, elbows on knees, as she studied the exotic colors below.

What was she to make of T’Telir people? They were just so remarkably diverse. Some had dark skin, which meant they were from the edges of the Hallandren kingdom. Others had yellow hair, or even strange hair colors—blue and green—that came, Siri assumed, from dyes.

All wore brilliant clothing, as if there were no other option. Ornate hats were popular, both on men and women. Clothing ranged from vests and shorts to long robes and gowns. How much time must they spend shopping! It was difficult enough for her to choose what to wear, and she had only about a dozen choices each day—and no hats. After she’d refused the first few, the servants had stopped offering them.

Entourage after entourage arrived bearing a different set of colors—a hue and a metallic, usually. She counted the boxes. There was room for about fifty gods, but the court had only a couple of dozen. Twenty-five, wasn’t it? In each procession, she saw a figure standing taller than the others. Some—mostly the women—were carried on chairs or couches. The men generally walked, some wearing intricate robes, others wearing nothing more than sandals and skirt. Siri leaned forward, studying one god as he walked right by her box. His bare chest made her blush, but it let her see his well-muscled body and toned flesh.

He glanced at her, then nodded his head slightly in respect. His servants and priests bowed almost to the ground. The god passed on, having said nothing.

Tags: Brandon Sanderson Warbreaker Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net