Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(178)

“By happenstance,” she said. She couldn’t see her hair in the dark, but she could feel it going red.

“Regardless.”

Vivenna smiled, the compliment affecting her—for some reason—far more than it should have. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he said. “Back in that lair. A warrior is supposed to be calm. When you duel or fight, you can’t let anger control you. That’s why I’ve never been that good a duelist.”

“You did the job,” she said, “and Denth has lost another pawn.” They moved out onto the street. “Though,” she added, “I wish I hadn’t seen that lavish mansion. Doesn’t raise my opinion of the Hallandren priests.”

Vasher shook his head. “Nanrovah’s father was one of the wealthiest merchants in the city. The son dedicated himself to serving the gods out of gratitude for their blessings. He takes no pay for his service.”

Vivenna paused. “Oh.”

Vasher shrugged in the darkness. “Priests are always easy to blame. They make convenient scapegoats—after all, anyone with a strong faith different from your own must either be a crazy zealot or a lying manipulator.”

Vivenna flushed yet again.

Vasher stopped in the street, then turned to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to say it that way.” He cursed, turning and walking again. “I told you I’m no good at this.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m getting used to it.”

He nodded in the darkness, seeming distracted.

He is a good man, she thought. Or, at least, an earnest man trying to be good. A part of her felt foolish for making yet another judgment.

Yet she knew she couldn’t live—couldn’t interact—without making some judgments. So she judged Vasher. Not as she’d judged Denth, who had said amusing things and given her what she’d expected to see. She judged Vasher by what she had seen him do. Cry when he saw a child being held captive. Return that child to her father, his only reward an opportunity to make a rough plea for peace. Living with barely any money, dedicating himself to preventing a war.

He was rough. He was brutal. He had a terrible temper. But he was a good man. And, walking beside him, she felt safe for the first time in weeks.

50

And so we each have twenty thousand,” Blushweaver said, walking beside Lightsong on the stone pathway that led in a circle around the arena.

“Yes,” Lightsong said.

Their priests, attendants, and servants followed in a holy herd, though the two gods had refused palanquin or parasol. They walked alone, side by side. Lightsong in gold and red. Blushweaver, for once, wearing a gown that actually covered her.

Amazing, how good she looks in something like that, he found himself thinking, when she takes the time to respect herself. He wasn’t certain what made him dislike her revealing outfits. Maybe he’d been a prude in his former life.

Or maybe he simply was one now. He smiled ruefully to himself. How much can I really blame on my “old” self? That man is dead. He wasn’t the one who got himself involved in the kingdom’s politics.

The arena was filling, and—in a rare show—all of the gods would be in attendance. Only Weatherlove was late, but he was often unpredictable.

Important events are imminent, Lightsong thought. They have been building for years now. Why should I be at the center of them?

His dreams the night before had been so odd. Finally, no visions of war. Just the moon. And some odd twisting passages. Like . . . tunnels.

Many of the gods nodded in respect as he passed their pavilions—though, admittedly, some scowled at him, and a few just ignored him. What a strange system of rule, he thought. Immortals who only last a decade or two—and who have never seen the outside world. And yet the people trust us.

The people trust us.

“I think we should share the Command phrases with each other, Lightsong,” Blushweaver said. “So that we each have all four, just in case.”

He didn’t say anything.

She turned away from him, looking at the people in their colorful clothing, clogging the benches and seats. “My, my,” Blushweaver said, “quite the crowd. And so few of them paying attention to me. Quite rude of them, wouldn’t you say?”

Lightsong shrugged.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “Perhaps they’re just . . . what was it? Stunned, dazzled, and dumbfounded?”

Lightsong smiled faintly, remembering their conversation a few months back. The day this all had started. Blushweaver looked at him, a longing in her eyes.

“Indeed,” Lightsong said. “Or, perhaps, they’re really just ignoring you. In order to compliment you.”

Blushweaver smiled. “And how, exactly, does ignoring me make a compliment?

“It provokes you to be indignant,” Lightsong said. “And we all know that is when you are in best form.”

“You like my form, then?”

“It has its uses. Unfortunately, I cannot compliment you by ignoring you as the others do. You see, only truly, sincerely ignoring you would provide the intended compliment. I am, actually, helpless and unable to ignore you. I do apologize.”

“I see,” Blushweaver said. “I’m flattered. I think. Yet you seem very good at ignoring some things. Your own divinity. General good manners. My feminine wiles.”