Warbreaker Part 9

Except freedom, she thought, feeling a bit sick.

"I a.s.sure you, once the Wedding Jubilation is over, you will find little to complain about. Everything you could want is here: every type of indulgence, every luxury, every diversion."

Siri nodded numbly, still feeling trapped.

"Also," Bluefingers said, holding up an ink stained finger. "If you wish, the Court of Judgment meets to provide decisions to the people. Full court meets once a week, though daily there are smaller judgments to be made. You aren't to sit on the court itself, of course, but you will certainly be allowed to attend, once the Jubilation is over. If none of this suits you, you may request an artist of the G.o.d King's priesthood to attend you. His priests include devout and accomplished artists from all genres: music, painting, dance, poetry, sculpture, puppetry, play performance, sandpainting, or any of the lesser genres."

Siri blinked. G.o.d of Colors! she thought. Even being idle is daunting here. "But," she said, "there isn't any of this that I'm required to attend?"

"No, I shouldn't think so," Bluefingers said. "Vessel, you look displeased."

"I..." How could she explain? Her entire life, she'd been expected to be something-and for most of her life she'd intentionally avoided being it. Now that was gone from her. She couldn't disobey lest she get herself killed and get Idris into a war. For once, she was willing to serve, to try and be obedient.

But, ironically, there didn't seem to be anything for her to do. Except, of course, bear a child and not antagonize the G.o.d King. "Very well," she said with a sigh. "Where are my rooms? I'll go there and situate myself."

"Your rooms, Vessel?"

"Yes. I a.s.sume I'm not to reside in this chamber itself."

"No," Bluefingers said, chuckling. "The Conception room? Of course not."

"Then where?" Siri asked.

"Vessel," Bluefingers said. "This entire place is, in a way, yours. I don't see why you'd need specific rooms. Ask to eat, and your servants will set up a table. If you wish to rest, they will bring you a couch or a chair. Seek entertainment, and they will fetch for you performers."

Suddenly, the strange actions of her servants-simply bringing her an array of colors to choose from, then doing her makeup and hair right there-made more sense. "I see," she said, almost to herself. "And, the soldiers I brought with me? Did they do as I commanded?"

"Yes, Vessel," Bluefingers said. "They left this morning. It was a wise decision; they are not dedicated servants of the Tones, and would not have been allowed to stay here in the Court. They could do you no further service."

Siri nodded, though knowing they were gone made her feel even more alone.

"Vessel, if I might be excused... ?" Bluefingers asked.

Siri nodded distractedly, and Bluefingers bustled away, leaving her to think about how terribly alone she suddenly was. Can't focus on that, she thought. Instead, she turned to one of her serving women-a younger one, about Siri's own age. "Well, that really doesn't tell me what to spend my time on, does it?"

The servant blushed quietly, bowing her head.

"I mean, there seems to be a lot to do, if I want," Siri said. "Maybe too much."

The girl bowed again.

That's going to get very annoying very quickly, Siri thought, gritting her teeth. Part of her wanted to do something shocking to get a reaction out of the servant, but she knew she was just being foolish. In fact, it seemed that many of her natural impulses and reactions wouldn't work here in Hallandren. So, too keep herself from doing something silly, Siri stood up, determined to examine her new home. She left the overly-black room, poking her head out into the hallway. She turned back to her servants, who stood obediently in a line behind her.

"Is there any place I'm forbidden to go?" she asked.

The one she was addressing shook her head.

Fine, then, she thought. I'd better not end up stumbling upon the G.o.d King in the bath. She crossed the hallway, opened the door, then stepped into the yellow room she'd been in the day before. The chair and bench she'd used had been removed, replaced by a group of yellow couches. Siri raised an eyebrow, then walked through into the tub room beyond.

The tub was gone. She started. The room was the one she remembered, with same red colorings. Yet, the sloped tile platforms with their inset tubs were gone. The entire contraption must have been portable, brought in for her bath, then removed.

They really can transform any room, she thought with amazement. They must have chambers full of furniture, tubs, and draping, each of a different color, waiting upon the whims of their G.o.d.

Curious, she left the tub-less room and moved in a random direction. Each room appeared to have four doors, one on each wall. Some rooms were larger than others. Some had windows to the outside, while others were locked in the middle of the palace. Each was a different color. Yet it was still difficult to tell the difference between them. Endless rooms, pristine with their decorations following a single color's theme. Soon, she was hopelessly lost-but it didn't seem to matter. Every room was, in a way, the same as any other.

She turned to her servants. "I would like breakfast."

And it happened. Far faster than Siri would have thought possible. Several of the women ducked out and returned with a stuffed green chair to match her current room. Siri sat down, waiting as a table, chairs, and finally food were produced as if out of nowhere. In less than fifteen minutes, she had a hot meal waiting for her.

Hesitantly, she picked up a fork and tried a bite. It wasn't until that moment that she realized how hungry she was. The meal was composed primarily of a group of sausages mixed with vegetables. The flavors were far stronger than she was accustomed to. However, the more she ate the spicy Hallandren food, the more she found herself liking it.

Hungry or not, it was strange to eat in silence. Siri was accustomed to either eating in the kitchens with the servants or at the table with her father, his generals, and whatever local people or monks he had invited to his table that evening. It was never a silent affair.

Yet here in Hallandren-land of colors, sounds, and ostentation-she found herself eating alone, quietly, in a room that felt dull despite its bright decorations.

Her servants watched. None of them spoke to her. Their silence was supposed to be respectful, she knew, but Siri just found it intimidating. She tried several times to draw them into conversation, but she managed to get only terse replies.

She chewed on a spiced caper. Is this what my life is to be from now on? she thought. A night spent feeling half-used, half-ignored my husband, then days spent surrounded by people, yet somehow still alone?

She s.h.i.+vered, her appet.i.te waning. She set down the fork, and her food slowly grew cold on the table before her. She stared at it, a piece of her wis.h.i.+ng she's simply remained in the comfortable, oversized black bed.

Chapter Nine.

Three days later, Lightsong had to hear Pet.i.tions. It was annoying, since the Wedding Jubilation wasn't even over.

Yet, the people needed their G.o.ds. He knew he shouldn't feel annoyed. He'd gotten three days off for the royal wedding-copiously unattended by either the bride or groom-and that was enough. All he had to do was spend a few hours each day looking at art and listening to the woes of the people. It wasn't much. Even if it did wear away at his sanity.

He sighed, sitting back in his throne-like chair. He wore an embroidered cap on his head, matched by a lose robe of gold and red. The garment wrapped over both shoulders, twisted about his body, and was hung with ruffled golden ta.s.sels. Like all of his clothing, it was even more complicated to put on than it looked.

If my servants were to suddenly leave me, he thought with amus.e.m.e.nt, I'd be totally incapable of getting dressed.

He leaned his head on one fist, elbow on the throne's arm rest. This room of his palace opened directly out onto the lawn-harsh weather was rare in Hallandren, and a cool breeze blew in off of the sea, smelling of brine. He closed his eyes, breathing in.

He'd dreamed of the waters again last night. Llarimar had found that particularly meaningful.

"Next pet.i.tion, your grace," Llarimar whispered from his side.

Lightsong sighed, opening his eyes. Both edges of the room were lined with priests in their coifs and robes. Where had he gotten so many? Did any G.o.d need that much attention?

He could see a line of people extending outside on the lawn. They were a sorry, forlorn lot, several coughing from some malady or another. So many, he thought as a woman was led into the room. He'd been seeing pet.i.tioners for over an hour already. I guess I should have expected this. It's been four days.

"Scoot," he said, turning to his priest. "Go tell those waiting people to sit down in the gra.s.s. There's no reason for them to all stand there like that. This could take some time."

Llarimar hesitated. Standing was, of course, a sign of respect. However, he nodded, waving over a lesser priest to carry the message.

Such a crowd, waiting to see me, Lightsong thought. What will it take to convince the people that I'm useless? What would it take to get them to stop coming to him? After five years of pet.i.tions, he honestly wasn't certain if he could take another five.

The newest pet.i.tioner approached his throne. She carried a child in her arms.

Not a child... Lightsong thought, cringing mentally.

"Great One," the woman said, falling to her knees on the carpet. "Lord of Bravery."

Lightsong didn't speak.

"This is my child, Halan," the woman said holding out the baby. His blanket burst with a sharp blue color-two and half steps from pure-as it got close enough to Lightsong's aura. He could easily see that the child was suffering from a terrible sickness. It had lost so much weight that its skin almost seemed shriveled.

Lightsong took a deep breath. The baby's Breath was so weak that it flickered like a candle running out of wick. It would be dead before the day was out. Perhaps before the hour was out.

"The healers, they say he has deathfeaver," the woman said. "I know that he's going to die." The baby made a sound-a kind of half-cough, perhaps the closest it could get to a cry.

"Please, Great One," the woman said. She sniffled, then bowed her head. "Oh, please. He was brave, like you. My Breath, it would be yours. The Breaths of my entire family. Service for a hundred years, anything. Please, just heal him."

Lightsong closed his eyes.

"Please," the woman whispered.

"I cannot," Lightsong said.

Silence.

"I cannot," Lightsong said.

"Thank you, my lord," the woman finally whispered.

Lightsong opened his eyes to see the woman being led away, weeping quietly, child clutched close to her breast. The line of people watched her go, looking miserable yet hopeful at the same time. One more pet.i.tioner had failed. That meant they would get a chance.

A chance to beg Lightsong to kill himself.

Lightsong stood suddenly, grabbing the cap off his head and tossing it asked. He rushed away, throwing open a door at the back of the room. It slammed against the wall as he stumbled through the doorway.

Servants and priests immediately followed after him. He turned on them. "Go!" he said, waving them away. Many of them showed looks of surprise, unaccustomed to any kind of forcefulness on their master's part.

"Leave me be!" he shouted, towering over them. Colors in the room flared brighter in response to his emotion, and the servants backed down, confused, stumbling back out into the pet.i.tion hall and pulling the door closed.

Lightsong stood alone. He placed one hand against the wall, breathing in and out, other hand against his forehead. Why was he sweating so? He'd been through thousands of pet.i.tions, and many had been worse than the one he'd just seen. He'd sent pregnant women to their deaths, doomed children and parents, consigned misery to the innocent and the faithful.

There was no reason to over-react. He could take it. It was a little thing, really. Just like eating the Breath of a new person every week. A small price to pay...

The door opened and a figure stepped in.

Lightsong didn't turn. "What do they want of me, Llarimar?" he demanded. "Do they really think I'll do it? Lightsong, the selfish? Do they really think I'd give my life for one of them?"

Llarimar was quiet for a few moments. "You offer hope, your grace," he finally said. "A last, unlikely hope. Hope is part of faith-part of the knowledge that someday, one of your followers will receive a miracle."

"And if they're wrong?" Lightsong asked. "I have no desire to die. I'm an idle man, fond of luxury. People like me don't give up their lives, even if they do happen to be G.o.ds."

Llarimar didn't reply.

"The good ones are all already dead, Scoot," Lightsong said. "Calmseer, Brighthue: those were G.o.ds who would give themselves away. The rest of us are selfish. There hasn't been a pet.i.tion granted in what, three years?"

"About that, your grace," Llarimar said quietly.

"And, why should it be different?" Lightsong said, laughing a bit. "I mean, we have to die to heal one of them. Doesn't that strike you as ridiculous? What kind of religion encourages its members to come and pet.i.tion for their G.o.d's life?" Lightsong shook his head. "It's ironic. We're G.o.ds to them only until they kill us. And I think I might know why it happens. It's those pet.i.tions, being forced to sit day after day, knowing that you could save one of them-that you probably should, since your life isn't really worth anything. That's enough to drive a man mad. Enough to drive him to kill himself!"

He smiled, glancing at his high priest. "Suicide by Divine manifestation. Very dramatic."

"Shall I call off the rest of the Pet.i.tions, your grace?" Llarimar gave no sign of being annoyed by the outburst.

"Sure, why not," Lightsong said, waving a hand. "They really need a lesson in theology. They should already know what a useless G.o.d I am. Send them away, tell them to come back tomorrow-a.s.suming that they are foolish enough to do so."

"Yes, your grace," Llarimar said, bowing.

Doesn't that man ever get mad at me? Lightsong thought. He, more than any, should know that I'm not a person to rely upon!

Lightsong turned, walking away as Llarimar went back into the pet.i.tion room. No servants tried to follow him. Lightsong pushed his way through red-hued room after red-hued room, eventually finding his way to a stairwell and climbing up to the second story. This floor was open on all sides, really nothing more than a large covered patio. He walked to the far side-the one opposite the line of people.

The breeze was strong here. He felt it ruffling at his robes, bringing with it scents that had had likely traveled hundreds of miles, across the ocean, twisting around palm trees and finally entering the Court of G.o.ds. He stood there for a long time, looking out over the city, toward the sea beyond. He had no desire, despite what he said, to leave his comfortable home in the Court. He was not a man of jungles; he was a man of parties.

But, sometimes he wished that he could at least want to be something else. Blushweaver's words still weighed upon him. You'll have to stand for something eventually, Lightsong.

You're a G.o.d to this people...

He was. Whether he wanted to be or not. That was the frustrating part. He'd tried his best to be useless and vain. And still they came.

We could use your confidence... you're a better man than you give yourself credit.

Why did it seem that the more he proved himself to be an idiot, the more convinced people became that there had some kind of hidden depth? They called him a liar in the same breath that they complimented his presumed inner virtue. Did no one understand that a man could be both likable and useless? Not every quick-tongued fool was a hidden hero.

His life sense alerted him of Llarimar's return long before footsteps did. The priest walked up to join Lightsong at the side of the wall. Llarimar folded his arms on the railing-which, being built for a G.o.d, was about a foot too high for the priest.

"They're gone," Llarimar said.

"Ah, very good," Lightsong said. "I do believe that we've accomplished something today. I've run from my responsibly, screamed at my servants, and sat about pouting. Undoubtedly, this will convince everyone that I'm far more n.o.ble and honorable than a.s.sumed. Tomorrow, there will be twice as many pet.i.tions, and I shall continue my inexorable march toward utter madness."

"You can't go mad," Llarimar said softly. "It's impossible."

"Sure I can," Lightsong said. "I just have to concentrate long enough. You see, the great thing about madness is that it's all in your head, so to speak."

Llarimar shook his head. "I see you've been restored to your usual humor."