Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(27)

She laughed. “Well, then, you’ve obviously found your tongue now.”

“Surprisingly, it was in my mouth,” he said. “I always forget to check there.”

“But isn’t that where it is expected to be?”

“My dear,” he said, “haven’t you known me long enough to realize that my tongue, of all things, rarely does what it is expected to do?”

Blushweaver smiled as the fireworks went off again. Within the auras of two gods, the sparks’ colors grew quite powerful indeed. On the far side, some sparks fell to the ground too far from the Breath auras, and these looked dull and weak in comparison—as if their fire were so cool and insignificant that they could be picked up and tucked away.

Blushweaver turned from the display. “So you do find me beautiful?”

“Of course. Why, my dear, you’re positively rank with beauty. You’re literally part of the definition of the word—it’s in your title somewhere, if I’m not mistaken.”

“My dear Lightsong, I do believe that you’re making sport of me.”

“I never make fun of ladies, Blushweaver,” Lightsong said, picking up his drink again. “Mocking a woman is like drinking too much wine. It may be fun for a short time, but the hangover is hell.”

Blushweaver paused. “But we don’t get hangovers, for we cannot get drunk.”

“We can’t?” Lightsong asked. “Then why the blazes am I drinking all of this wine?”

Blushweaver raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes, Lightsong,” she finally said, “I’m not certain when you are being silly and when you’re being serious.”

“Well, I can help you with that one easily enough,” he said. “If you ever conclude that I’m being serious, then you can be sure that you’ve been working too hard on the problem.”

“I see,” she said, twisting on her couch so that she was facedown. She leaned on her elbows with breasts pushed up between them, fireworks playing off her exposed back and throwing colorful shadows between her arched shoulder blades. “So, then. You admit that I’m stunning and beautiful. Would you then care to retire from the festivities this evening? Find . . . other entertainments?”

Lightsong hesitated. Being unable to bear children didn’t stop the gods from seeking intimacy, particularly with other Returned. In fact, from what Lightsong could guess, the impossibility of offspring only increased the laxness of the court in these matters. Many a god took mortal lovers—Blushweaver was known to have a few of her own among her priests. Dalliances with mortals were never seen as infidelity among the gods.

Blushweaver lounged on her couch, supple, inviting. Lightsong opened his mouth, but in his mind, he saw . . . her. The woman of his vision, the one from his dreams, the face he’d mentioned to Llarimar. Who was she?

Probably nothing. A flash from his former life, or perhaps simply an image crafted by his subconscious. Maybe even, as the priests claimed, some kind of prophetic symbol. That face shouldn’t give him pause. Not when confronted with perfection.

“I . . . must decline,” he found himself saying. “I need to watch the fireworks.”

“Are they that much more fascinating than I?”

“Not at all. They simply seem far less likely to burn me.”

She laughed at that. “Well, why don’t we wait until they are through, then retire?”

“Alas,” Lightsong said. “I still must decline. I am far too lazy.”

“Too lazy for sex?” Blushweaver asked, rolling back onto her side and regarding him.

“I’m really quite indolent. A poor example of a god, as I keep telling my high priest. Nobody seems to listen to me, so I fear that I must continue to be diligent in proving my point. Dallying with you would, unfortunately, undermine the entire basis of my argument.”



Blushweaver shook her head. “You confuse me sometimes, Lightsong. If it weren’t for your reputation, I’d simply presume you to be shy. How could you have slept with Calmseer, but consistently ignore me?”

Calmseer was the last honorable Returned this city has known, Lightsong thought, sipping his drink. Nobody left has a shred of her decency. Myself included.

Blushweaver fell silent, watching the latest display from the firemasters. The show had grown progressively more ornate, and Lightsong was considering calling halt, lest they use up all of their fireworks on him and not have any left should another god call upon them.

Blushweaver didn’t make any move to return to her own palace grounds, and Lightsong said nothing further. He suspected that she hadn’t come simply for verbal sparring, or even to try and bed him. Blushweaver always had her plans. In Lightsong’s experience, there was more depth to the woman than her gaudy surface suggested.

Eventually, his hunch paid off. She turned from the fireworks, eyeing the dark palace of the God King. “We have a new queen.”

“I noticed,” Lightsong said. “Though, admittedly, only because I was reminded several times.”

They fell silent.

“Have you no thoughts on the matter?” Blushweaver finally asked.

“I try to avoid having thoughts. They lead to other thoughts, and—if you’re not careful—those lead to actions. Actions make you tired. I have this on rather good authority from someone who once read it in a book.”