Warbreaker Part 3

Without a duty of her own, Vivenna seemed to have little purpose. And yet, as she considered, there was someone who-perhaps-still needed her. Someone who had left a week before, teary-eyed and frightened, looking to her big sister with desperation.

Vivenna wasn't needed in Hallandren; she'd determined that, whatever her father said. She was useless here. But she did know the people, cultures, and society of Hallandren. And-as she followed Fafen onto the village road-an idea began to form in Vivenna's head.

One that was not, by any stretch of the imagination, polite.

Chapter Three.

Lightsong didn't remember dying.

His priests, however, a.s.sured him that his death had been extremely brave. n.o.ble. Grand. Heroic. But that was the case with all of the Hallandren G.o.ds. One did not Return unless one died in a way that exemplified the great virtues of human existence. That was why the Iridescent Tones sent the Returned back; they acted examples, and blessings, to the people who still lived.

Each G.o.d represented something. An ideal. Lightsong had died in a way that displayed extreme bravery. Or, at least, that was what his priests told him. It had always seemed convenient to Lightsong that he couldn't remember how he had died, just like he couldn't remember anything of his life before he had become a G.o.d.

Lightsong groaned softly, unable to sleep any longer. He rolled over, feeling weak as he sat up in his majestic bed. Visions and memories pestered his mind, and he shook his head, trying to clear away the fog of sleep.

Servants entered, responding wordlessly to their G.o.d's needs. G.o.d. He was one of the younger, for he'd Returned only five years before. There were some two dozen deities in the Court of G.o.ds, and many were far more important-and far more politically savvy-than Lightsong. And above them all reigned Susebron, the G.o.d King of Hallandren.

Even a lesser deity such as Lightsong merited an enormous palace. He slept in a room draped with silks, dyed with bright reds and yellows. His palace held dozens of different chambers, decorated and furnished according to his whims. Hundreds of servants and priests to saw to his needs-whether he wanted them seen to or not.

All of this, he thought as he stood, because I couldn't figure out how to die. Standing made him just a bit dizzy. It was his feastday. He would lack strength until he was fed.

Servants approached carrying brilliant red and gold robes. As they entered his aura, each servant-skin, hair, clothing, and garments-burst with an inner color. The saturated hues grew far more resplendent than any dye or paint could produce. That was an effect of Lightsong's innate BioChroma: he had enough Breath to fill thousands of people. He saw little use to it. He couldn't use it animate objects or corpses; he was a G.o.d, not an Awakener. He couldn't give-or even loan-his deific Breath away.

Well, except once. That would, however, kill him.

The servants continued their ministrations, draping him with cloth. Lightsong was a good head and a half taller than anyone else in the room. He was also broad of shoulders, with a muscular physique that he didn't really deserve, considering the amount of time he spent idle.

"Did you sleep well, your grace?" a voice asked.

Lightsong turned. Llarimar, his high priest, was a tall, portly man with spectacles and a calm demeanor. His hands were nearly hidden by the deep sleeves of his gold and red robe, and he carried a thick tome. Both robes and tome burst with color as they entered Lightsong's aura.

"I slept fantastically, Scoot," Lightsong said, yawning. "A night full of nightmares and dreams, just like always. Terribly restful."

The priest raised an eyebrow. "Scoot?"

"Yes," Lightsong said. "I've decided to give you a new nickname. Scoot. Seems to fit you, the way you're always scooting around, poking into things and such."

"I am honored, your grace," Llarimar said, seating himself on a chair.

Colors, Lightsong thought. Doesn't he ever get annoyed?

Llarimar opened his tome. "Shall we begin?"

"If we must," Lightsong said. The servants finished tying ribbons, doing clasps, and draping silks. Each bowed and retreated to the sides of the room.

Llarimar picked up his quill. "What, then, do you remember of your dreams last night?"

"Oh, you know," Lightsong flopped back onto one of his couches, lounging and relaxing. "Nothing really important."

Llarimar pursed his lips in displeasure. Other servants began to file in, bearing various dishes of food. Mundane, human food. As a Returned, Lightsong didn't need to eat such things-they would not give him strength or banish his fatigue. They were an indulgence, not a need. In a short time, he would dine on something far more... divine. It would give him strength enough to live for another week.

"Please try to remember the dreams, your grace," Llarimar said in his polite, yet disapproving, way. "No matter how unremarkable they may seem."

Lightsong sighed, looking up at the ceiling. It was painted with a mural, of course. This one depicted three fields enclosed by stone pastures. It was a vision one of his predecessors had seen, or so he was told. Lightsong closed his eyes, trying to focus. "I... was walking by a beach," he said. "And a s.h.i.+p was leaving without me. I don't know where it was going."

Llarimar's pen began to scratch quickly. He was probably finding all kinds of symbolism in the memory. "Were there any colors?" the priest asked.

"The s.h.i.+p had a red sail," Lightsong said. "The sand was brown, of course, and the trees green. For some reason, I think the ocean water was red, like the s.h.i.+p."

Llarimar scribbled furiously-he always got excited when Lightsong remembered colors. Lightsong lounged back again, opening his eyes and looking up at the ceiling and its brightly colored fields. He reached over idly, plucking some cherries off a servant's plate.

Lightsong was a terrible G.o.d. He knew it. n.o.body told him so, but he was wise enough to see the truth.

Why should he begrudge the people his dreams? Even if he found divination foolish, he had no right to complain. He was remarkably fortunate. He had a deific BioChromatic aura, a physique that any man would envy, and enough luxury for ten kings. Of all the people in the world, he had the least right to be difficult.

It was just that... well, he was probably the world's only G.o.d who didn't believe in his own religion.

"Was there anything else to the dream, your grace?" Llarimar asked, looking up from his book.

"You were there, Scoot."

Llarimar paused, paling just slightly. "I... was?"

Lightsong nodded. "You apologized for bothering me all the time and keeping me from my debauchery. Then, you brought me a big bottle of wine and did a dance. It was really quite remarkable."

Llarimar regarded him with a flat stare.

Lightsong sighed. "No, there was nothing else. Just the boat. Even that is fading."

Llarimar nodded, rising and shooing back the servants-though, of course, they remained in the room, hovering with their plates of food, wine, and fruit, should any of it be wanted. "Shall we be on with it then, your grace?" Llarimar asked.

Lightsong sighed, then rose, feeling exhausted. A servant scuttled forward to redo one of the clasps on his robe, which had come undone as he sat. Lightsong fell into step beside Llarimar, towering a good foot over the priest. The furniture and doorways, however, were built to fit Lightsong's increased size, so it was the servants and priests who seemed out of place in the palace.

They pa.s.sed from room to room. There were no hallways. Hallways were for servants, and they ran in a square around the outside of the building. Lightsong walked on rugs from the northern nations, pa.s.sing the finest pottery from across the inner sea. Each room was hung with paintings and brightly written poems, created by Hallandren's finest artists.

At the center of the palace was a small, square room that deviated from the standard reds and golds of Lightsong's motif. This one was bright with ribbons of darker colors-deep blues, greens, and maroons. Each was a true color, directly on hue, as only a person who had obtained the Third Heightening could distinguish.

As Lightsong stepped into the room, the colors blazed to life. They became brighter, yet somehow remained dark. The maroon became a more true maroon, the navy a more powerful navy. Dark yet bright, a contrast only Breath could inspire.

In the center of the room was a child.

Why does it always have to be a child? Lightsong thought.

Llarimar and the servants waited. Lightsong stepped forward, and the little girl glanced to the side, where a couple of priests stood in red and gold robes. They nodded encouragingly. The girl looked back toward Lightsong, obviously nervous.

"Here now," Lightsong said, trying to sound encouraging. "There's nothing to fear."

And yet, the girl trembled.

Lecture after lecture-delivered by Llarimar, who had claimed that they were not lectures, for one did not lecture G.o.ds-drifted through Lightsong's head. There was nothing to fear from the Returned G.o.ds of the Hallandren. The G.o.ds were a blessing. They provided visions of the future, as well as leaders.h.i.+p and wisdom. All they needed to subsist was one thing.

Breath.

Lightsong hesitated, but his weakness was coming to a head. He felt dizzy. Cursing himself quietly, he knelt down on one knee, taking the girl's face in his oversized hands. She began to cry, but she said the words, clear and distinct as she had been taught. "My life to yours. My Breath become yours."

Her Breath flowed out, puffing in the air. It traveled along Lightsong's arm-the touch was necessary-and he drew it in. His weakness vanished, the dizziness evaporated. Both were replaced with crisp clarity. He felt invigorated, revitalized, alive.

The girl grew dull. The color of her face and eyes faded slightly, though the change was very difficult to see. Her brown hair lost some of its l.u.s.ter, her cheeks became more bland.

It's nothing, he thought. Most people say they can't even notice that their Breath is gone. She'll live a full life. Happy. Her family well paid for her sacrifice.

And Lightsong would live for another week. His aura didn't grow stronger from Breath upon which he fed; that was another difference between a Returned and an Awakener. The latter were sometimes regarded as inferior, man-made approximations of the Returned.

Without a new Breath each week, Lightsong would die. Many Returned outside of Hallandren lived only eight days. Yet with a donated Breath a week, they could continue on, ageless, with perfect bodies and minds. They would live, seeing visions at night which would supposedly provide divinations of the future. Hence the Court of the G.o.ds, filled with its palaces, where G.o.ds could be nurtured, protected, and-most importantly-fed.

Priests hustled forward to lead the girl out of the room. It is nothing to her, Lightsong told himself again. Nothing at all...

And still, as she met his eyes as she left, and he could see that the twinkle was gone from them. She had become a Drab. A Dull, or a Faded One. A person without Breath. It would never grow back.

The priests took her away. Lightsong turned to Llarimar, feeling guilty at his sudden energy. "All right," he said. "Let's see the Offerings."

Llarimar raised an eyebrow over his bespectacled eyes. "You're accommodating all of a sudden."

I need to give something back, Lightsong thought. Even if it's something useless.

They pa.s.sed through several more rooms of red and gold, most of which were perfectly square with doors on all four sides. Near the eastern side of the palace, they entered a long, thin room. It was completely white-something very unusual in Hallandren. The walls were lined with paintings and poems. The servants stayed outside; only Llarimar joined Lightsong as he stepped up to the first painting.

"Well?" Llarimar asked.

It was a pastoral painting of the jungle, with drooping palms and colorful flowers. There were some of these plants in the courtyards around the Court of G.o.ds, which was why Lightsong recognized them. He'd never actually been to the jungle. That he remembered.

"It's all right," Lightsong said. "Not my favorite. Makes me think of the outside. I wish I could visit."

Llarimar raised an eyebrow.

"What?" Lightsong said. "The Court gets a bit old sometimes."

"Not much wine in the forest, your grace."

"I could make some, I'm sure. Ferment... something."

"I'm sure," Llarimar said, nodding to one of his aids outside the room. The lesser priest scribbled down what Lightsong had said about the painting. Somewhere, there was a city patron who sought a blessing from Lightsong. It probably had to do with bravery-perhaps the patron was planning to propose marriage, or maybe he was a merchant about to sign a risky business deal. The priests would interpret Lightsong's opinion of the painting, then give the person an augury-either for good or for ill-along with the exact words Lightsong had said. Either way, the act of sending a painting to please the G.o.d would gain the patron some measure of good fortune.

Supposedly.

Lightsong moved away from the painting. A lesser priest rushed forward, removing it. Most likely, the patron hadn't painted it himself, but had instead commissioned it. The better a painting was, the better a reaction it tended to get from the from the G.o.ds. One's future, it appeared, could be influenced by how much one could pay one's artist.

I shouldn't be so cynical, Lightsong thought. Without this system, I'd have died five years ago.

Five years ago he had died. He still didn't know what had killed him, and n.o.body would tell him, even if they all agreed that it had been a heroic way to pa.s.s.

Or, was it all rhetoric? Perhaps the reason n.o.body was allowed to talk about his former life was because they didn't want anyone to know that Lightsong the Brave had actually died from a stomach cramp.

To the side, the lesser priest disappeared with the jungle painting. It would be burned. Such offerings were made specifically for the intended G.o.d, and only he-besides a few of his priests-was allowed to see them. He moved along to the next work of art on the wall. It was actually a poem, written in the artisan's script. The dots of color brightened as Lightsong approached. The Hallandren artisan's script was a specialized system of writing that wasn't based on form, but on color. A dot of one color meant one letter and a dot of a different color meant a different letter. That, combined with some double dots-one of each color-created an alphabet that was a nightmare for the colorblind.

Few people in Hallandren would admit to having that particular disease. At least, that was what Lightsong had heard. He wondered if the priests knew just how much their G.o.ds gossiped about the outside world.

The poem wasn't a very good one, obviously composed by a peasant, who had then paid someone else to translate it to the artisan's script. The simple dots were a sign of this. True poets used more elaborate symbols, continuous lines that changed color or colorful glyphs that formed pictures. A lot could be done with letters that could change shape without losing their meaning.

Getting the colors right was a delicate art, one that required the Third Heightening or better to perfect. The Third Heightening-the level of Breath at which a person gained the ability to sense perfect hues of color, just like the Second Heightening gave someone perfect pitch. Returned were of the Eight Heightening. Lightsong didn't know what it was like to live without the ability to instantly recognize exact shades of color and sound. He could tell an ideal red from one that had been mixed with even one extra drop of white paint.

He gave the peasant's poem as good a review as he could, though he generally felt an impulse to be honest when he looked at Offerings. It seemed his duty, and for some reason it was one of the few things he took seriously.

They continued down the line, Lightsong giving reviews of the various paintings and poems. The wall was remarkably full this day. Was there a feast or celebration he hadn't heard about? By the time they neared the end of the line, Lightsong was getting tired of looking at art, though his body-fueled by the child's Breath-continued to feel strong and exhilarated.

Lightsong stopped before the final painting. It was an abstract work, a style that was growing more and more popular lately-particularly in paintings sent to him, since he'd given favorable reviews to others in the past. He almost gave this one a poor grade simply because of that. It was good to keep the priests guessing at what would please him, or so some of the G.o.ds said. Lightsong sensed that many of them were far more calculating in the way that they gave their reviews, intentionally adding cryptic meanings.

Lightsong didn't have the patience for things like that, especially since all anyone really ever seemed to want from him was honesty. He gave this last painting the time it deserved. The canvas was thick with paint, every inch colored with large, fat strokes of the brush. The prominent hue was a deep red, almost a crimson, that Lightsong immediately knew was a red-blue mixture with a hint of black in it.

The lines of color overlapped, one atop another, almost in a progression. Kind of like... waves. Lightsong frowned. If he looked at it right, it looked like a sea. And, could that be a s.h.i.+p in the center?

Vague impressions from his dream returned to him. A red sea. The s.h.i.+p, leaving.

I'm imagining things, he told himself. "Good color," he said. "Nice patterns. It puts me at peace, yet has a tension to it as well. I approve."

Llarimar seemed to like this response. He nodded as the lesser priest-who stood a distance away-recorded Lightsong's words.

"So," Lightsong said. "That's it, I a.s.sume?"

"Yes, your grace."

One duty left, he thought. Now that Offerings were done, it would be time to move on to the final-and least appealing-of his daily tasks. Pet.i.tions. He had to get through them before he could get to more important activities, like taking a nap.

Llarimar didn't lead the way toward the pet.i.tion hall, however. He simply waved a lesser priest over, then began to flip through some pages on a clipboard.

"Well?" Lightsong asked.

"Well what, your grace?"

"Pet.i.tions."