Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(63)

All was still. She glanced up, eyeing the God King. Some of his emotional mask had softened, and he displayed a very human look of confusion. She almost laughed out loud at how perplexed he seemed. She just met his eyes and shook her head. Then—her heart beating, her skin a bit sweaty—she lay back on the bed to rest.

Tired from the day’s events and intrigues, it wasn’t long after that she found herself rolled up in the luxurious comforter and relaxing. The God King left her alone. In fact, he’d grown tense at her approach, almost as if he were worried. Even frightened of her.

That couldn’t be. He was the God and King of Hallandren, and she was just a silly girl, swimming in waters that were far over her head. No, he wasn’t frightened. The concept was enough to again make her feel like laughing. She restrained herself, maintaining the illusion for the listening priests as she drifted off in the luxurious comfort of the bed.
* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Lightsong did not get out of bed.

His servants stood around the perimeter of his room like a flock of birds waiting for seed. As noon approached, they began to shuffle uncomfortably, shooting glances at one another.

He remained in bed, staring up at the ornate red canopy. Some servants approached tentatively, placing a tray of food atop a small table beside him. Lightsong did not reach for it.

He had dreamed of war again.

Finally, a figure walked up to the bed. Large of girth and draped in his priestly robes, Llarimar looked down at his god, betraying none of the annoyance that Lightsong was sure that he felt. “Leave us, please,” Llarimar said to the servants.

They hesitated, uncertain. When was a god without his servants?

“Please,” Llarimar repeated, though somehow his tone indicated that it was not a request. Slowly, the servants filed from the room. Llarimar moved the tray of food, then sat down on the edge of the low table. He studied Lightsong, expression thoughtful.

What did I ever do to earn a priest like him? Lightsong thought. He knew many of the high priests of other Returned, and most of them were various levels of insufferable. Some were quick to anger, others quick to point out fault, and still others were so fulsomely effusive toward their gods that it was downright maddening. Treledees, the God King’s own high priest, was so stuck-up that he made even gods feel inferior.

And then there was Llarimar. Patient, understanding. He deserved a better god.

“All right, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “What is it this time?”

“I’m sick,” Lightsong said.

“You can’t get sick, Your Grace.”

Lightsong gave a few weak coughs, to which Llarimar just rolled his eyes.

“Oh come on, Scoot,” Lightsong said. “Can’t you just play along a little?”

“Play along that you are sick?” Llarimar asked, showing a hint of amusement. “Your Grace, to do that would be to pretend that you’re not a god. I do not believe that’s a good pre ce dent for your high priest to set.”

“It’s the truth,” Lightsong whispered. “I’m no god.”

Again, there was no sign of annoyance or anger from Llarimar. He just leaned down. “Please don’t say such things, Your Grace. Even if you yourself do not believe, you should not say so.”

“Why not?”

“For the sake of the many who do believe.”

“And I should continue to deceive them?”

Llarimar shook his head. “It is no deception. It’s not so uncommon for others to have more faith in someone than he has in himself.”

“And that doesn’t strike you as a little odd in my case?”

Llarimar smiled. “Not knowing your temperament, it doesn’t. Now, what brought this on?”

Lightsong turned, looking up at the ceiling again. “Blushweaver wants my Commands for the Lifeless.”

“Yes.”

“She’ll destroy that new queen of ours,” Lightsong said. “Blushweaver worries that the Idrian royals are making a play for the Hallandren throne.”

“Do you disagree?”

Lightsong shook his head. “No. They probably are. But the thing is, I don’t think the girl—the queen—knows that she’s part of anything. I’m worried that Blushweaver will crush the child out of fear. I’m worried that she’ll be too aggressive and get us all into a war, when I don’t know yet if that’s the right thing to do.”

“It seems that you already have a good handle on all this, Your Grace,” Llarimar said.

“I don’t want to be part of it, Scoot,” Lightsong said. “I feel myself getting sucked in.”

“It is your duty to be involved so that you can lead your kingdom. You can’t avoid politics.”

“I can if I don’t get out of bed.”

Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “You don’t honestly believe that, do you, Your Grace?”

Lightsong sighed. “You’re not going to give me a lecture about how even my inaction has political effects, are you?”

Llarimar hesitated. “Perhaps. Like it or not, you are a part of the workings of this kingdom—and you produce effects even if you stay in bed. If you do nothing, then the problems are as much your fault as if you had instigated them.”

“No,” Lightsong said. “No, I think you’re wrong. If I don’t do anything, then at least I can’t ruin things. Sure, I can let them go wrong, but that’s not the same thing. It really isn’t, no matter what people say.”