Warbreaker (Warbreaker 1)

That’s it, she thought. I’ve seen Siri, and I know what they’ve done with her. It’s time to go. Turning, she stood. And froze.

A man was standing two rows back, and he was staring directly at Vivenna. She normally wouldn’t have paid him any attention. He was wearing ragged brown clothing, ripped in places, his loose trousers tied at the waist by a simple rope. His facial hair was halfway between being a beard and just scruff. His hair was unkempt and came down to his shoulders.

And he created a bubble of color around him so bright that he had to be of the Fifth Heightening. He stared at her, meeting her eyes, and she had a sudden and awful panicked sense that he knew exactly who she was.

She stumbled back. The strange man didn’t take his eyes off of her. He shifted, pushing back his cloak and exposing a large, black-hilted sword at his belt. Few people in Hallandren wore weapons. This man didn’t seem to care. How had he gotten that thing into the court? The people to the sides gave him a wide berth, and Vivenna swore she could sense something about that sword. It seemed to darken colors. Deepen them. Make tans into browns, reds into maroons, blues into navies. As if it had its own BioChroma . . .

“Parlin,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. “We’re leaving.”

“But—”

“Now,” Vivenna said, turning and rushing away. Her newfound BioChromatic senses informed her that the man’s eyes were still on her. Now that she realized it, she understood that his eyes on her were probably what had made her so uncomfortable in the first place.

The tutors spoke of this, she thought as she and Parlin made their way to one of the stone exit passages. Life sense, the ability to tell when there are people nearby, and to tell when they’re watching you. Everyone has it to a small degree. BioChroma enhances that.

As soon as they entered the passage, the sense of being watched vanished, and Vivenna let out a relieved breath.

“I don’t see why you wanted to leave,” Parlin said.

“We’ve seen what we needed to,” Vivenna said.

“I guess,” Parlin said. “I thought you might want to listen to what the priests were saying about Idris.”

Vivenna froze. “What?”

Parlin frowned, looking distraught. “I think they might be declaring war. Don’t we have a treaty?”

Lord God of Colors! Vivenna thought, turning and scrambling back up into the open arena.

16

“. . . still say that we cannot possibly justify military action against Idris!” a priest shouted. The man wore blue and gold. It was Stillmark’s high priest—Lightsong couldn’t quite remember the man’s name. Nanrovah?

The argument was not unexpected. Lightsong leaned forward. Nanrovah and his master, Stillmark, were both staunch traditionalists. They tended to argue against pretty much every proposal, but were well respected. Stillmark was nearly as old as Blushweaver, and was considered wise. Lightsong rubbed his chin.

Opposing Nanrovah was Blushweaver’s own high priestess, Inhanna. “Oh, come now,” the woman said from the sands down below. “Do we really need to have this argument again? Idris is nothing more than a rebel enclave set up inside the borders of our own kingdom!”

“They keep to themselves,” Nanrovah said. “Holding lands we don’t want anyway.”

“Lands we don’t want?” Blushweaver’s priestess said, sputtering. “They hold every single pass to the northern kingdoms! Every workable copper mine! They have military garrisons within striking distance of T’Telir! And they still claim to be ruled by the rightful kings of Hallandren!”

Nanrovah fell silent, and there was a surprisingly large rumble of assent from the watching priests. Lightsong eyed them. “You’ve seeded the group with people sympathetic to your cause?” he asked.

“Of course,” Blushweaver said. “So did the others. I just did a better job.”

The debate continued, other priests stepping up to argue for and against an assault on Idris. The priests spoke the concerns of the people of the nation; part of their duty was to listen to the people and study issues of national import, then discuss them here so that the gods—who didn’t have the opportunity to go out among the people—could be kept informed. If an issue came to a head, the gods would make their judgments. They were divided into subgroups, each having responsibility for a certain area. Some gods were in charge of civic issues; others governed agreements and treaties.

Idris was not a new topic for the assembly. However, Lightsong had never seen the discussion become so explicit and extreme. Sanctions had been discussed. Blockades. Even some military pressure. But war? Nobody had said the word yet, but they all knew what the priests were discussing.

He could not dispel the images from his dreams—visions of death and pain. He did not accept them as prophetic, but he did acknowledge that they must have something to do with the worries inside his subconscious. He feared what war would do to them. Perhaps he was just a coward. It did seem that suppressing Idris would solve so much.

“You’re behind this debate, aren’t you,” he said, turning to Blushweaver.

“Behind it?” Blushweaver said sweetly. “Dear Lightsong, the priests decide the issues to be discussed. Gods don’t bother with such mundanity.”

“I’m sure,” Lightsong said, reclining. “You want my Lifeless Commands.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Blushweaver said, “I just want you to be informed should you . . .”

She trailed off as Lightsong gave her a flat look.

“Aw, Colors,” she swore. “Of course I need your Commands, Lightsong. Why else would I go to all the trouble to get you up here? You’re a very difficult person to manipulate, you know.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You just have to promise me that I won’t have to do a thing, and then I’ll do anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything that doesn’t require doing anything.”

“That’s nothing, then.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s something!”

Blushweaver rolled her eyes.

Lightsong was more troubled than he let on. The arguments for attack had never been so strong. There was proof of a military buildup in Idris and the highlanders had been particularly stingy with the northern passes lately. Beyond that, there was a growing belief that the Returned were weaker than they’d been in previous generations. Not less powerful in BioChroma, just less . . . divine. Less benevolent, less wise. Lightsong happened to agree.

It had been three years since a Returned had given up his or her life to heal someone. The people were growing impatient with their gods. “There’s more, isn’t there?” he said, glancing at Blushweaver, who was still lounging back, delicately eating cherries. “What aren’t they saying?”

“Lightsong, dear,” she said. “You were right. Bring you to government proceedings, and it absolutely corrupts you.”

“I just don’t like secrets,” he said. “They make my brain itch, keep me awake at nights. Engaging in politics is like pulling off a bandage—best to get the pain over with quickly.”

Blushweaver pursed her lips. “Forced simile, dear.”

“Best I can do at the moment, I’m afraid. Nothing dulls the wit more quickly than politics. Now, you were saying . . .”

She snorted. “I’ve told you already. The focus of all this is that woman.”

“The queen,” he said, glancing at the God King’s box.

“They sent the wrong one,” Blushweaver said. “The younger instead of the elder.”

“I know,” Lightsong said. “Clever of them.”

“Clever?” Blushweaver said. “It’s downright brilliant. Do you know what a fortune we paid these last twenty years to spy upon, study, and learn about the eldest daughter? Those of us who thought to be careful even studied the second daughter, the one they’ve made a monk. But the youngest? Nobody gave her half a thought.”

And so the Idrians send a random element into court, Lightsong thought. One that upsets plans and conniving that our politicians have been working on for decades.

It was brilliant.

“Nobody knows anything about her,” Blushweaver said, frowning deeply. She obviously did not like being taken by surprise. “My spies in Idris insist the girl is of little consequence—which makes me worry that she is even more dangerous than I’d feared.”

Lightsong raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t think, maybe, that you might be overreacting a tad?”

“Oh?” Blushweaver asked. “And tell me, what would you do if you wanted to inject an agent into the court? Would you, perhaps, set up a decoy that you could display, drawing attention away from the real agent, whom you could train secretly with a clandestine agenda?”

Lightsong rubbed his chin. She has a point. Maybe. Living among so many scheming people tended to make one see plots everywhere. However, the plot that Blushweaver suggested had a very serious chance of being dangerous. What better way to get an assassin close to the God King than to send someone to marry him?

No, that wouldn’t be it. Killing the God King would just cause Hallandren to go on the rampage. But if they’d sent a woman skilled in the art of manipulation—a woman who could secretly poison the mind of the God King . . .

“We need to be ready to act,” Blushweaver said. “I won’t sit and let my kingdom be pulled out from under me—I won’t idly be cast out as the royals once were. You control a fourth of our Lifeless. That’s ten thousand soldiers who don’t need to eat, who can march tirelessly. If we convince the other three with Commands to join us . . .”

Lightsong thought for a moment, then nodded and stood.

“What are you doing?” Blushweaver asked, sitting up.

“I think I’ll go for a stroll,” Lightsong said.

“Where?”

Lightsong glanced over at the queen.

“Oh, blessed Colors,” Blushweaver said with a sigh. “Lightsong, do not ruin this. We walk a very delicate line, here.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I don’t suppose I can talk you out of interacting with her?”

“My dear,” Lightsong said, glancing backward. “I at least have to chat with her. Nothing would be more intolerable than being overthrown by a person with whom I’d never even had a nice conversation.”

* * *

BLUEFINGERS WANDERED OFF SOMETIME during the court proceedings. Siri didn’t notice—she was too busy watching the priests debate.

She had to be misunderstanding. Surely they couldn’t be thinking about attacking Idris. What would be the point? What would Hallandren gain? As the priests finished their discussion on that topic, Siri turned to one of her serving women. “What was that about?”

The woman glanced down, not answering.

“They sounded like they were discussing war,” Siri said. “They wouldn’t really invade, would they?”