Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(193)

The heavy priest slumped down, breathing in deep gasps, shaking his head in obvious frustration. Blushweaver was staring at them. And so were the priests.

What is it I find odd about them? Lightsong thought, trying to sort out his thoughts and emotions as the group of priests approached.

“Lightsong,” one of them said, stooping down beside his cage. “We need your Command phrases.”

He snorted. “I’m sorry to say that I’ve forgotten them. You probably know my reputation for being weak-minded. I mean, what kind of fool would come charging in here and get himself captured so easily?”

He smiled at them.

The priest by his cage sighed, then waved a hand at the others. They unlocked Blushweaver’s cage and pulled her out. She yelled and fought, and Lightsong smiled at the trouble she gave them. Yet there were six priests, and they finally managed to get her out.

Then one got out a knife and slit her throat.

The shock of the moment hit Lightsong like a physical force. He froze, eyes wide, watching in horror as the red blood spilled out the front of Blushweaver’s throat, staining her beautiful nightgown.

Far more disturbing was the look of panicked terror in her eyes. Such beautiful eyes.

“No!” Lightsong screamed, slamming against the bars, reaching helplessly toward her. He strained his godly muscles, pressing himself against the steel as he felt his body begin to shake. It was useless. Even a perfect body couldn’t push its way through steel.

“You bastards!” he yelled. “You Colors-cursed bastards!” He struggled, pounding the bars with one hand as Blushweaver’s eyes began to dim.

And then her BioChroma faded. Like a blazing bonfire dimming down to a single candle. It puffed out.

“No . . .” Lightsong said, sliding down to his knees, numb.

The priest regarded him. “So you did care for her,” he said. “I’m sorry that we had to do that.” He knelt down, solemn. “However, Lightsong, we decided that we had to kill her so that you would understand that we’re serious. I do know your reputation, and I know that you usually take things lightheartedly. That is a fine attribute to have in many situations. Right now, you must realize how dangerous things are. We have shown you that we will kill. If you don’t do as we ask, others will die.”

“Bastard . . .” Lightsong whispered.

“I need your Command phrases,” the priest said. “This is important. More important than you can understand.”

“You can beat them out of me,” Lightsong growled, feeling rage slowly overwhelm his shock.

“No,” the priest said, shaking his head. “We’re actually new to all of this. We don’t know how to torture very well, and it would take too much time to force you to talk that way. Those who are skilled at torture aren’t being very cooperative right now. Never pay a mercenary before the job is done.”

The priest waved, and the others left Blushweaver’s corpse on the ground. Then they moved to Llarimar’s cage.

“No!” Lightsong screamed.

“We are serious, Lightsong,” the man said. “Very, very, serious. We know how much you care for your high priest. You now know that we will kill him if you don’t do as we say.”

“Why?” Lightsong said. “What is this even about? The God King you serve could order us to move the armies if he wanted to! We’d listen to him. Why do you care so much about those Command phrases?”

The priests forced Llarimar from his cage, then pushed him to his knees. One put a knife to his throat.

“Red panther!” Lightsong yelled, weeping. “That’s the Command phrase. Please. Leave him be.”

The priest nodded to the others, and they put Llarimar back in his cell. They left Blushweaver’s corpse on the ground, facedown in the blood.

“I hope that you haven’t lied to us, Lightsong,” the main priest said. “We’re not playing games. It would be unfortunate if we discovered that you still are.” He shook his head. “We are not cruel men. But we are working for something very important. Do not test us.”

With that, he left. Lightsong barely noticed. He was still staring at Blushweaver, trying to convince himself that he was hallucinating, or that she was faking, or that something would change to make him realize that it was all just an elaborate scam.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, no. . . .”

54

What’s the word on the street, Tuft?” Vivenna asked, sidling up to a beggar.

He snorted, holding out his cup to those few who passed in the early light. Tuft was always one of the first to arrive in the mornings. “Why do I care?” he said.

“Come on,” Vivenna said. “You kicked me out of this spot on three different occasions. I figure you owe me something.”

“I don’t owe nobody nothing,” he said, squinting at the passers by with his one eye. The other eye was simply an empty hole. He didn’t wear a patch. “Particularly don’t owe you nothing,” he said. “You were a plant all the time. Not a real beggar.”

“I . . .” Vivenna paused. “I wasn’t a plant, Tuft. I just thought I should know what it was like.”

“Huh?”

“Living among you,” she said. “I figured your life couldn’t be easy. But I couldn’t know—not really know—until I tried it for myself. So I came to the streets. Determined to live here for a time.”