Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(19)

That’s not a word, Vasher said, leaving the alley.

So? Nightblood said. You’re too worried about words. That priest—you spent all those words on him, then you just let him go. It’s not really how I would have handled the situation.

Yes, I know, Vasher said. Your way would have involved making several more corpses.

Well, I am a sword, Nightblood said with a mental huff. Might as well stick to what you’re good at. . . .
* * *

LIGHTSONG SAT ON HIS PATIO, watching his new queen’s carriage pull up to the palace. “Well, this has been a pleasant day,” he remarked to his high priest. A few cups of wine—along with some time to get past thinking about children deprived of their Breath—and he was beginning to feel more like his usual self.

“You’re that happy to have a queen?” Llarimar asked.

“I’m that happy to have avoided petitions for the day thanks to her arrival. What do we know about her?”

“Not much, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, standing beside Lightsong’s chair and looking toward the God King’s palace. “The Idrians surprised us by not sending the eldest daughter as planned. They sent the youngest in her stead.”

“Interesting,” Lightsong said, accepting another cup of wine from one of his servants.

“She’s only seventeen years old,” Llarimar said. “I can’t imagine being married to the God King at her age.”

“I can’t imagine you being married to the God King at any age, Scoot,” Lightsong said. Then he pointedly cringed. “Actually, yes I can imagine it, and the dress looks painfully inelegant on you. Make a note to have my imagination flogged for its insolence in showing me that particular sight.”

“I’ll put it in line right behind your sense of decorum, Your Grace,” Llarimar said dryly.

“Don’t be silly,” Lightsong said, taking a sip of wine. “I haven’t had one of those in years.”

He leaned back, trying to decide what the Idrians were signaling by sending the wrong princess. Two potted palms waved in the wind, and Lightsong was distracted by the scent of salt on the incoming sea breeze. I wonder if I sailed that sea once, he thought. A man of the ocean? Is that how I died? Is that why I dreamed of a ship?

He could only vaguely remember that dream now. A red sea . . .

Fire. Death, killing, and battle. He was shocked as he suddenly remembered his dream in starker, more vivid detail. The sea had been red as it reflected the magnificent city of T’Telir, engulfed in flames. He could almost hear people crying out in pain, he could nearly hear . . . what? Soldiers marching and fighting in the streets?



Lightsong shook his head, trying to dispel the phantom memories. The ship he’d seen in his dream had been burning too, he now remembered. It didn’t have to mean anything; everyone had nightmares. But it made him uncomfortable to know that his nightmares were seen as prophetic omens.

Llarimar was still standing beside Lightsong’s chair, watching the God King’s palace.

“Oh, sit down and stop looming over me,” Lightsong said. “You’re making the buzzards jealous.”

Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “And which buzzards would that be, Your Grace?”

“The ones who keep pushing for us to go to war,” Lightsong said waving a hand.

The priest sat down on one of the patio’s wooden recliners and relaxed as he sat, removing the bulky miter from his head. Underneath, Llarimar’s dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat. He ran his hand through it. During the first few years, Llarimar had remained stiff and formal at all the times. Eventually, however, Lightsong had worn him down. After all, Lightsong was the god. In his opinion, if he could lounge on the job, then so could his priests.

“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Llarimar said slowly, rubbing his chin. “I don’t like this.”

“The queen’s arrival?” Lightsong asked.

Llarimar nodded. “We haven’t had a queen in the court for some thirty years. I don’t know how the factions will deal with her.”

Lightsong rubbed his forehead. “Politics, Llarimar? You know I frown on such things.”

Llarimar eyed him. “Your Grace, you are—by default—a politician.”

“Don’t remind me, please. I should very well like to extract myself from the situation. Do you think, perhaps, I could bribe one of the other gods to take control of my Lifeless Commands?”

“I doubt that would be wise,” Llarimar said.

“It’s all part of my master plan to insure that I become totally and redundantly useless to this city by the time I die. Again.”

Llarimar cocked his head. “Redundantly useless?”

“Of course. Regular uselessness wouldn’t be enough—I am, after all, a god.” He took a handful of grapes from a servant’s tray, still trying to dismiss his dream’s disturbing images. They didn’t mean anything. Just dreams.

Even so, he decided he would tell Llarimar about them the next morning. Perhaps Llarimar could use the dreams to help push for peace with Idris. If old Dedelin hadn’t sent his firstborn daughter, it would mean more debates in the court. More talk of war. This princess’s arrival should have settled it, but knew that the war hawks among the gods would not let the issue die.

“Still,” Llarimar said, as if talking to himself. “They did send someone. That is a good sign, surely. An outright refusal would have meant war for certain.”