Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(130)

“I did,” Parlin said. “But, well, when we left Idris, I figured we were both going to get disinherited. There’s really no reason to keep up the charade.”

Charade?

“I mean, let’s be honest, Vivenna,” he said, smiling. “You really haven’t ever been that nice to me. I know you think I’m stupid; I guess you’re probably right. But if you really cared, I figured that you wouldn’t make me feel stupid, too. Jewels grumbles at me, but she laughs at my jokes sometimes. You’ve never done that.”

“But . . .” Vivenna said, finding herself at a slight loss for words. “But why did you follow me down to Hallandren?”

He blinked. “Well, for Siri, of course. Isn’t that why we came? To rescue her?” He smiled fondly, then shrugged. “Good night, Vivenna.” He trailed down the steps, calling to Jewels to see if she was hurt.

Vivenna watched him go.

He’s twice the person I am, she thought with shame, turning toward her room. But I’m just finding it hard to care anymore. Everything had been taken from her. Why not Parlin, too? Her hatred for Hallandren grew a little more firm as she stepped into her room.

I just need to sleep, she thought. Maybe after that, I can figure out just what in the name of the Colors I’m doing in this city.

Of one thing remained firm. She was going to learn how to Awaken. The Vivenna from before—the one who had a right to stand tall and denounce Breath as unholy—no longer had a place in T’Telir. The real Vivenna hadn’t come to Hallandren to save her sister. She’d come because she couldn’t stand being unimportant.



She’d learn. That was her punishment.

Inside her room, she pushed the door closed, locking the bolt. Then she walked over to pull the drapes closed.

A figure stood on her balcony, resting easily against the railing. He wore several days’ worth of stubble on his face and his dark clothing was worn, almost tattered. He carried a deep black sword.

Vivenna jumped, eyes wide.

“You,” he said in an angry voice, “are causing a lot of trouble.”

She opened her mouth to scream, but the drapes snapped forward, muffling her neck and mouth. They squeezed tightly, choking her. They wrapped around her entire body, pinning her arms to her sides.

No! she thought. I survive the attack and the Lifeless, and then fall in my own room?

She struggled, hoping someone would hear her thrashing and come for her. But nobody did. At least, not before she fell unconscious.

34

Lightsong watched the young queen dart away from his pavilion and felt an odd sense of guilt. How very uncharacteristic of me, he thought, taking a sip of wine. After the grapes, it tasted a little sour.

Maybe the sourness was from something else. He’d spoken to Siri about the God King’s death in his usual flippant way. In his opinion, it was usually best for people to hear the truth bluntly—and, if possible, amusingly.

He hadn’t expected such a reaction from the queen. What was the God King to her? She’d been sent to be his bride, probably against her will. Yet she seemed to take the prospect of his death with grief. He eyed her appraisingly as she fled.

Such a small, young thing she was, all dressed up in gold and blue. Young? he thought. Yet she’s been alive longer than I have.

He retained some things from his former life—such as his perception of his own age. He didn’t feel like he was five. He felt far older. That age should have taught him to hold his tongue when speaking of making widows out of young women. Could the girl actually have feelings for the God King?

She’d been in the city for only a couple of months, and he knew—through rumors—what her life must be like. Forced to perform her duty as a wife for a man to whom she could not speak and whom she could not know. A man who represented all the things that her culture taught were profane. The only thing Lightsong could suppose, then, was that she was worried about what might happen to her if her husband killed himself. A legitimate worry. The queen would lose most of her stature if she lost her husband.

Lightsong nodded to himself, turning to look down at the arguing priests. They were done with sewage and guard patrols and had moved on to other topics. “We must prepare ourselves for war,” one of them was saying. “Recent events make it clear that we cannot coexist with the Idrians with any assurance of peace or security. This conflict will come, whether we wish it or not.”

Lightsong sat listening, tapping one finger against the arm rest of his chair.

For five years, I’ve been irrelevant, he thought. I didn’t have a vote on any of the important court councils, I simply held the codes to a division of the Lifeless. I’ve crafted a divine reputation of being useless.

The tone below was even more hostile than it had been during previous meetings. That wasn’t what worried him. The problem was the priest spear-heading the movement for war. Nanrovah, high priest of Stillmark the Noble. Normally, Lightsong wouldn’t have bothered paying attention. Yet Nanrovah had always been the most outspoken against war.

What had made him change his mind?

It wasn’t long before Blushweaver made her way to his box. By the time she arrived, Lightsong’s taste for the wine had returned, and he was sipping thoughtfully. The voices against war from below were soft and infrequent.

Blushweaver sat beside him, a rustle of cloth and a waft of perfume. Lightsong didn’t look toward her.