Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(48)

The arena had four rows of seats for ordinary people—stone benches, accommodating T’Telir citizens who were favored, lucky, or rich enough to get themselves into an assembly session. The upper reaches of the arena were reserved for the Returned. Here—close enough to hear what was said on the arena floor, yet far enough back to remain stately—were the boxes. Ornately carved in stone, they were large enough to hold a god’s entire entourage.

Lightsong could see that several of his colleagues had arrived, marked by the colorful canopies that sat above their boxes. Lifeblesser was there, as was Mercystar. They passed by the empty box usually reserved for Lightsong and made their way around the ring and approached a box topped by a green pavilion. Blushweaver lounged inside. Her green and silver dress was lavish and revealing, as always. Despite its rich trim and embroidery, it was little more than a long swath of cloth with a hole in the center for her head and some ties. That left it completely open on both sides from shoulder to calf, and Blushweaver’s thighs curved out lusciously on either side. She sat up, smiling.

Lightsong took a deep breath. Blushweaver always treated him kindly and she certainly did have a high opinion of him, but he felt like he had to be on guard at all times when he was around her. A man could be taken in by a woman such as she.



Taken in, then never released.

“Lightsong, dear,” she said, smiling more deeply as Lightsong’s servants scuttled forward, setting up his chair, footrest, and snack table.

“Blushweaver,” Lightsong replied. “My high priest tells me that you’re to blame for this dreary weather.”

Blushweaver raised an eyebrow, and to the side—standing with the other priests—Llarimar flushed. “I like the rain,” Blushweaver finally said, lounging back on her couch. “It’s . . . different. I like things that are different.”

“Then you should be thoroughly bored by me, my dear,” Lightsong said, seating himself and taking a handful of grapes—already peeled—from the bowl on his snack table.

“Bored?” Blushweaver asked.

“I strive for nothing if not mediocrity, and mediocrity is hardly different. In fact, I should say that it’s highly in fashion in court these days.”

“You shouldn’t say such things,” Blushweaver said. “The people might start to believe you.”

“You mistake me. That’s why I say them. I figure if I can’t do properly deific miracles like control the weather, then I might as well settle for the lesser miracle of being the one who tells the truth.”

“Hum,” she replied, stretching back, the tips of her fingers wiggling as she sighed in contentment. “Our priests say that the purpose of the gods is not to play with weather or prevent disasters, but to provide visions and service to the people. Perhaps this attitude of yours is not the best way to see to their interests.”

“You’re right, of course,” Lightsong said. “I’ve just had a revelation. Mediocrity isn’t the best way to serve our people.”

“What is, then?”

“Medium rare on a bed of sweet-potato medallions,” he said, popping a grape in his mouth. “With a slight garnish of garlic and a light white wine sauce.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she said, finishing her stretch.

“I am what the universe made me to be, my dear.”

“You bow before the whims of the universe, then?”

“What else would I do?”

“Fight it,” Blushweaver said. She narrowed her eyes, absently reaching to take one of the grapes from Lightsong’s hand. “Fight with everything, force the universe to bow to you instead.”

“That’s a charming concept, Blushweaver. But I believe that universe and I are in slightly different weight categories.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

She regarded him with a flat glance. “I’m saying that you needn’t be so humble, Lightsong. You’re a god.”

“A god who can’t even make it stop raining.”

“I want it to storm and tempest. Maybe this drizzle is the compromise between us.”

Lightsong popped another grape in his mouth, squishing it between his teeth, feeling the sweet juice leak onto his palate. He thought for a moment, chewing. “Blushweaver, dear,” he finally said. “Is there some kind of subtext to our current conversation? Because, as you might know, I am absolutely terrible with subtext. It gives me a headache.”

“You can’t get headaches,” Blushweaver said.

“Well I can’t get subtext either. Far too subtle for me. It takes effort to understand, and effort is—unfortunately—against my religion.”

Blushweaver raised an eyebrow. “A new tenet for those who worship you?”

“Oh, not that religion,” Lightsong said. “I’m secretly a worshipper of Austre. His is such a delightfully blunt theology—black, white, no bothering with complications. Faith without any bothersome thinking.”

Blushweaver stole another grape. “You just don’t know Austrism well enough. It’s complex. If you’re looking for something really simple, you should try the Pahn Kahl faith.”

Lightsong frowned. “Don’t they just worship the Returned, like the rest of us?”