Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(55)

Nanrovah fell silent, and there was a surprisingly large rumble of assent from the watching priests. Lightsong eyed them. “You’ve seeded the group with people sympathetic to your cause?” he asked.

“Of course,” Blushweaver said. “So did the others. I just did a better job.”

The debate continued, other priests stepping up to argue for and against an assault on Idris. The priests spoke the concerns of the people of the nation; part of their duty was to listen to the people and study issues of national import, then discuss them here so that the gods—who didn’t have the opportunity to go out among the people—could be kept informed. If an issue came to a head, the gods would make their judgments. They were divided into subgroups, each having responsibility for a certain area. Some gods were in charge of civic issues; others governed agreements and treaties.

Idris was not a new topic for the assembly. However, Lightsong had never seen the discussion become so explicit and extreme. Sanctions had been discussed. Blockades. Even some military pressure. But war? Nobody had said the word yet, but they all knew what the priests were discussing.

He could not dispel the images from his dreams—visions of death and pain. He did not accept them as prophetic, but he did acknowledge that they must have something to do with the worries inside his subconscious. He feared what war would do to them. Perhaps he was just a coward. It did seem that suppressing Idris would solve so much.

“You’re behind this debate, aren’t you,” he said, turning to Blushweaver.

“Behind it?” Blushweaver said sweetly. “Dear Lightsong, the priests decide the issues to be discussed. Gods don’t bother with such mundanity.”

“I’m sure,” Lightsong said, reclining. “You want my Lifeless Commands.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Blushweaver said, “I just want you to be informed should you . . .”

She trailed off as Lightsong gave her a flat look.

“Aw, Colors,” she swore. “Of course I need your Commands, Lightsong. Why else would I go to all the trouble to get you up here? You’re a very difficult person to manipulate, you know.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You just have to promise me that I won’t have to do a thing, and then I’ll do anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything that doesn’t require doing anything.”

“That’s nothing, then.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s something!”

Blushweaver rolled her eyes.

Lightsong was more troubled than he let on. The arguments for attack had never been so strong. There was proof of a military buildup in Idris and the highlanders had been particularly stingy with the northern passes lately. Beyond that, there was a growing belief that the Returned were weaker than they’d been in previous generations. Not less powerful in BioChroma, just less . . . divine. Less benevolent, less wise. Lightsong happened to agree.

It had been three years since a Returned had given up his or her life to heal someone. The people were growing impatient with their gods. “There’s more, isn’t there?” he said, glancing at Blushweaver, who was still lounging back, delicately eating cherries. “What aren’t they saying?”

“Lightsong, dear,” she said. “You were right. Bring you to government proceedings, and it absolutely corrupts you.”

“I just don’t like secrets,” he said. “They make my brain itch, keep me awake at nights. Engaging in politics is like pulling off a bandage—best to get the pain over with quickly.”

Blushweaver pursed her lips. “Forced simile, dear.”

“Best I can do at the moment, I’m afraid. Nothing dulls the wit more quickly than politics. Now, you were saying . . .”

She snorted. “I’ve told you already. The focus of all this is that woman.”

“The queen,” he said, glancing at the God King’s box.

“They sent the wrong one,” Blushweaver said. “The younger instead of the elder.”

“I know,” Lightsong said. “Clever of them.”

“Clever?” Blushweaver said. “It’s downright brilliant. Do you know what a fortune we paid these last twenty years to spy upon, study, and learn about the eldest daughter? Those of us who thought to be careful even studied the second daughter, the one they’ve made a monk. But the youngest? Nobody gave her half a thought.”

And so the Idrians send a random element into court, Lightsong thought. One that upsets plans and conniving that our politicians have been working on for decades.

It was brilliant.

“Nobody knows anything about her,” Blushweaver said, frowning deeply. She obviously did not like being taken by surprise. “My spies in Idris insist the girl is of little consequence—which makes me worry that she is even more dangerous than I’d feared.”

Lightsong raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t think, maybe, that you might be overreacting a tad?”

“Oh?” Blushweaver asked. “And tell me, what would you do if you wanted to inject an agent into the court? Would you, perhaps, set up a decoy that you could display, drawing attention away from the real agent, whom you could train secretly with a clandestine agenda?”