Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(47)
She smiled, inspecting herself in a large mirror. The servants had done her hair in an amazingly intricate style, part of it braided, the rest allowed to flow free. They’d tied several ribbons into the braids and also woven them into her free-flowing hair. The ribbons shimmered as she turned her head. Her family would have been mortified at the ostentatious colors. Siri grinned mischievously, making her hair turn a brighter shade of golden blond to better contrast with the ribbons.
The serving women smiled approvingly, a couple letting out quiet “ooo”s at the transformation. Siri sat back, hands in her lap as she inspected her clothing choices for the court appearance. The garments were ornate—not as complex as the ones she wore to the bedchambers, but far more formal than her everyday choices.
Red was the theme for the serving women and priests today. That made Siri want to choose something else. Eventually, she decided on gold, and she pointed at the two golden gowns, having the women bring them forward so she could look at them more closely. Unfortunately, as she did so, the women fetched three more golden dresses from a rolling wardrobe out in the hallway.
Siri sighed. It was as if they were determined to keep her from having a reasonably simple choice. She just hated seeing so many options disappear each day. If only . . .
She paused. “Could I try them all on?”
The serving women glanced at each other, a little confused. They nodded toward her, their expressions conveying a simple message. Of course you can. Siri felt foolish, but in Idris she’d never had a choice before. She smiled, standing and letting them take off her robe and then dress her in the first of the gowns, careful not to mess up her hair. Siri inspected herself, noting that the neckline was rather low. She was willing to splurge on color, but the amount of flesh Hallandrens showed still felt scandalous.
She nodded, letting them take off the gown. Then they dressed her in the next one—a two-piece garment with a separate corset. Once they were finished, Siri eyed this new outfit in the mirror. She liked it, but she wanted to try the others as well. So, after spinning about and inspecting the back, she nodded and moved on.
It was frivolous. But why was she so worried about being frivolous? Her father wasn’t around to regard her with that stern, disapproving face of his. Vivenna was an entire kingdom away. Siri was queen of the Hallandren people. Shouldn’t she try to learn their ways? She smiled at the ridiculous justification, but went on to the next gown anyway.
14
It’s raining,” Lightsong noted.
“Very astute, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, walking beside his god.
“I’m not fond of rain.”
“So you have often noted, Your Grace.”
“I’m a god,” Lightsong said. “Shouldn’t I have power over the weather? How can it rain if I don’t want it to?”
“There are currently twenty-five gods in the court, Your Grace. Perhaps there are more who desire rain than those who don’t.”
Lightsong’s robes of gold and red rustled as he walked. The grass was cool and damp beneath his sandaled toes, but a group of servants carried a wide canopy over him. Rain fell softly on the cloth. In T’Telir, rainfalls were common, but they were never very strong.
Lightsong would have liked to have seen a true rainstorm, like people said occurred out in the jungles. “I’ll take a poll then,” Lightsong said. “Of the other gods. See how many of them wanted it to rain today.”
“If you wish, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “It won’t prove much.”
“It’ll prove whose fault this is,” Lightsong said. “And . . . if it turns out that most of us want it to stop raining, perhaps that will start a theological crisis.”
Llarimar, of course, didn’t seem bothered by the concept of a god trying to undermine his own religion. “Your Grace,” he said, “our doctrine is quite sound, I assure you.”
“And if the gods don’t want it to rain, yet it still does?”
“Would you like it to be sunny all the time, Your Grace?”
Lightsong shrugged. “Sure.”
“And the farmers?” Llarimar said. “Their crops would die without the rain.”
“It can rain on the crops,” Lightsong said, “just not in the city. A few selective weather patterns shouldn’t be too much for a god to accomplish.”
“The people need water to drink, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “The streets need to be washed clean. And what of the plants in the city? The beautiful trees—even this grass that you enjoy walking across—would die if the rain did not fall.”
“Well,” Lightsong said, “I could just will them to continue living.”
“And that is what you do, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “Your soul knows that rain is best for the city, and so it rains. Despite what your consciousness thinks.”
Lightsong frowned. “By that argument, you could claim that anyone was a god, Llarimar.”
“Not just anyone comes back from the dead, Your Grace. Nor do they have the power to heal the sick, and they certainly don’t have your ability to foresee the future.”
Good points, those, Lightsong thought as they approached the arena. The large, circular structure was at the back of the Court of Gods, outside of the ring of palaces that surrounded the courtyard. Lightsong’s entourage moved inside—red canopy still held above him—and entered the sand-covered arena yard. Then they moved up a ramp toward the seating area.