Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(95)

Holding a deep black sword that darkened the red sky around it.

“The Battle of Twilight Falls,” Llarimar said quietly, standing beside him in the white hallway. “Last conflict of the Manywar.”

Lightsong nodded. He’d known that, somehow. The faces of many of the soldiers were tinged with grey. They were Lifeless. The Manywar had been the first time they had been used in large numbers on the battlefield.

“I know you don’t prefer war scenes,” Llarimar said. “But—”

“I like it,” Lightsong said, cutting off the priest. “I like it a lot.”

Llarimar fell silent.

Lightsong stared into the painting with its flowing reds, painted so subtly that they gave a feeling of war, rather than just an image. “It might be the best painting that has ever passed through my hall.”

The priests on the other side of the room began writing furiously. Llarimar just stared at him, troubled.

“What?” Lightsong asked.

“It’s nothing,” Llarimar said.

“Scoot . . .” Lightsong said, eyeing him.

The priest sighed. “I can’t speak, Your Grace. I cannot taint your impression of the paintings.”

“A lot of gods have been giving favorable reviews of war paintings lately, eh?” Lightsong said, looking back at the artwork.

Llarimar didn’t answer.

“It’s probably nothing,” Lightsong said. “Just our response to those arguments in the court, I’d guess.”

“Likely,” Llarimar said.

Lightsong fell silent. He knew it wasn’t “nothing” to Llarimar. To him, Lightsong wasn’t just giving his impression of art—he was foretelling the future. What did it augur that he liked a depiction of war with such vibrant, brutal colorings? Was it a reaction to his dreams? But last night, he hadn’t dreamed of a war. Finally. He’d dreamed of a storm, true, but that wasn’t the same thing.



I shouldn’t have spoken, he thought. And yet, reacting to the art seemed like the only truly important thing he did.

He stared at the sharp smears of paint, each figure a just a couple of triangular strokes. It was beautiful. Could war be beautiful? How could he find beauty in those grey faces confronting flesh, the Lifeless killing men? This battle hadn’t even meant anything. It hadn’t decided the outcome of the war, even though the leader of the Pahn Unity—the kingdoms united against Hallandren—had been killed in the battle. Diplomacy had finally ended the Manywar, not bloodshed.

Are we thinking of starting this up again? Lightsong thought, still transfixed by the beauty. Is what I do going to lead to war?

No, he thought to himself. No, I’m just being careful. Helping Blushweaver secure a political faction. Better that than letting things just pass me by. The Manywar started because the royal family wasn’t careful.

The painting continued to call to him. “What’s that sword?” Lightsong asked.

“Sword?”

“The black one,” Lightsong said. “In the woman’s hand.”

“I . . . I don’t see a sword, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t see a woman, either. It’s all just wild strokes of paint, to me.”

“You called it the Battle of Twilight Falls.”

“The title of the piece, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “I assumed that you were as confused by it as I was, so I told you what the artist had named it.”

The two fell silent. Finally, Lightsong turned, walking away from the painting. “I’m done reviewing art for the day.” He hesitated. “Don’t burn that painting. Keep it for my collection.”

Llarimar acknowledge the command with a nod. As Lightsong made his way out of the palace, he tried to regain some of his eagerness, and he succeeded—though memory of the terrible, beautiful scene stayed with him. Mixing with his memories of last night’s dream, with its clashing tempest of winds.

Not even that could dampen his mood. Something was different. Something excited him. There had been a murder in the Court of Gods.

He didn’t know why he should find that so intriguing. If anything, he should find it tragic or upsetting. And yet for as long as he had lived, everything had been provided for him. Answers to his questions, entertainment to sate his whims. Almost by accident, he had become a glutton. Only two things had been withheld from him: knowledge of his past and freedom to leave the court.

Neither of those restrictions was going to change soon. But here, inside the court—the place of too much safety and comfort—something had gone wrong. A little thing. A thing most Returned would ignore. Nobody cared. Nobody wanted to care. Who, therefore, would object to Lightsong’s questions?

“You’re acting very oddly, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, catching up to him as they crossed the grass, servants following behind in a chaotic cluster as they worked to get a large red parasol open.

“I know,” Lightsong said. “However, I believe we can agree that I have always been rather odd, for a god.”

“I must admit that is true.”

“Then I’m actually being very like myself,” Lightsong said. “And all is right in the universe.”

“Are we really going back to Mercystar’s palace?”

“Indeed we are. Do you suppose she’ll be annoyed at us? That might prove interesting.”