Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(26)

Another firefountain sprayed into the air, throwing shadows across the courtyard. Lightsong sighed, accepting another fruit drink from a servant. The night was cool and pleasant, fit for a god. Or gods. Lightsong could see others set up in front of their palaces. Different groups of performers cluttered the sides of the courtyard, waiting for their chance to please one of the Returned.

The fountain ran low, and the firemasters looked toward him, smiling hopefully in the torchlight. Lightsong nodded with his best benevolent expression. “More fireworks,” he said. “You have pleased me.” This caused the three men to whisper in excitement and wave for their assistants.

As they set up, a familiar figure wandered into Lightsong’s ring of torches. Llarimar wore his priestly robes, as always. Even when he was out in the city—which was where he should have been this night—he represented Lightsong and his priesthood.

“Scoot?” Lightsong asked, sitting up.

“Your Grace,” Llarimar said, bowing. “Are you enjoying the festivities?”

“Certainly. You might say I’m positively infested. But what are you doing here in the court? You should be out with your family.”

“I just wanted to make certain everything was to your liking.”

Lightsong rubbed his forehead. “You’re giving me a headache, Scoot.”

“You can’t get headaches, Your Grace.”

“So you’re fond of telling me,” Lightsong said. “I assume the revelry outside the Holy Prison is nearly as amazing as what we have here inside?”

Llarimar frowned at Lightsong’s dismissive reference to the divine compound. “The party in the city is fantastic, Your Grace. T’Telir hasn’t seen a festival this grand in decades.”

“Then I repeat that you should be out enjoying it.”

“I just—”

“Scoot,” Lightsong said, giving the man a pointed look, “if there’s one thing you can trust me to do competently on my own, it’s enjoy myself. I will—I promise in all solemnity—have a ravishingly good time drinking to excess and watching these nice men light things on fire. Now go be with your family.”

Llarimar paused, then stood, bowed, and withdrew.

That man, Lightsong thought, sipping his fruity drink, takes his work far too seriously.

The concept amused Lightsong, and he leaned back, enjoying the fireworks. However, he was soon distracted by the approach of someone else. Or, rather, one very important someone else leading a group of far less important someone elses. Lightsong sipped his drink again.

The newcomer was beautiful. She was a goddess, after all. Glossy black hair, pale skin, lushly curvaceous body. She wore far less clothing than Lightsong did, but that was typical of the court’s goddesses. Her thin gown of green and silver silk was split on both sides, showing hips and thighs, and the neckline was draped so low that very little was left to imagination.

Blushweaver the Beautiful, goddess of honesty.

This should be interesting, Lightsong thought, smiling to himself.

She was trailed by about thirty servants, not to mention her high priestess and six lesser priests. The firemasters grew excited, realizing that they now had not one, but two divine observers. Their apprentices scurried about in a flurry of motion, setting up another series of firefountains. A group of Blushweaver’s servants rushed forward, carrying an ornate couch, which they set on the grass beside Lightsong.

Blushweaver lay down with customary lithe grace, crossing perfect legs and resting on her side in a seductive yet ladylike pose. The orientation left her able to watch the fireworks should she wish, but her attention was obviously focused on Lightsong.

“My dear Lightsong,” she said as a servant approached with a bunch of grapes. “Aren’t you even going to greet me?”

Here we go, Lightsong thought. “My dear Blushweaver,” he said, setting aside his cup and lacing his fingers before him. “Why would I go and do something rude like that?”

“Rude?” she asked, amused.

“Of course. You obviously make quite a determined effort to draw attention to yourself—the details are magnificent, by the way. Is that makeup on your thighs?”

She smiled, biting into a grape. “It’s a kind of paint. The designs were drawn by some of the most talented artists in my priesthood.”

“My compliments to them,” Lightsong said. “Regardless, you ask why I did not greet you. Well, let us assume that I had acted as you suggest I should. Upon your approach, you would have had me gush over you?”

“Naturally.”

“You would have me point out how stunning you appear in that gown?”

“I wouldn’t complain.”

“Mention how your dazzling eyes glisten in the fireworks like burning embers?”

“That would be nice.”

“Expound on how your lips are so perfectly red that they could leave any man breathless with wonder, yet drive him compose the most brilliant of poetry each time he recalled the moment?”

“I’d be flattered for certain.”

“And you claim you want these reactions from me?”

“I do.”

“Well blast it, woman,” Lightsong said, picking up his cup. “If I’m stunned, dazzled, and breathless, then how the hell am I supposed to greet you? By definition, won’t I be struck dumb?”