Lightsong shook his head, trying to dispel the phantom memories. The ship he’d seen in his dream had been burning too, he now remembered. It didn’t have to mean anything; everyone had nightmares. But it made him uncomfortable to know that his nightmares were seen as prophetic omens.
Llarimar was still standing beside Lightsong’s chair, watching the God King’s palace.
“Oh, sit down and stop looming over me,” Lightsong said. “You’re making the buzzards jealous.”
Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “And which buzzards would that be, Your Grace?”
“The ones who keep pushing for us to go to war,” Lightsong said waving a hand.
The priest sat down on one of the patio’s wooden recliners and relaxed as he sat, removing the bulky miter from his head. Underneath, Llarimar’s dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat. He ran his hand through it. During the first few years, Llarimar had remained stiff and formal at all the times. Eventually, however, Lightsong had worn him down. After all, Lightsong was the god. In his opinion, if he could lounge on the job, then so could his priests.
“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Llarimar said slowly, rubbing his chin. “I don’t like this.”
“The queen’s arrival?” Lightsong asked.
Llarimar nodded. “We haven’t had a queen in the court for some thirty years. I don’t know how the factions will deal with her.”
Lightsong rubbed his forehead. “Politics, Llarimar? You know I frown on such things.”
Llarimar eyed him. “Your Grace, you are—by default—a politician.”
“Don’t remind me, please. I should very well like to extract myself from the situation. Do you think, perhaps, I could bribe one of the other gods to take control of my Lifeless Commands?”
“I doubt that would be wise,” Llarimar said.
“It’s all part of my master plan to insure that I become totally and redundantly useless to this city by the time I die. Again.”
Llarimar cocked his head. “Redundantly useless?”
“Of course. Regular uselessness wouldn’t be enough—I am, after all, a god.” He took a handful of grapes from a servant’s tray, still trying to dismiss his dream’s disturbing images. They didn’t mean anything. Just dreams.
Even so, he decided he would tell Llarimar about them the next morning. Perhaps Llarimar could use the dreams to help push for peace with Idris. If old Dedelin hadn’t sent his firstborn daughter, it would mean more debates in the court. More talk of war. This princess’s arrival should have settled it, but knew that the war hawks among the gods would not let the issue die.
“Still,” Llarimar said, as if talking to himself. “They did send someone. That is a good sign, surely. An outright refusal would have meant war for certain.”
“And whoever Certain is, I doubt we should have a war for him,” Lightsong said idly, inspecting a grape. “War is, in my divine opinion, even worse than politics.”
“Some say the two are the same, Your Grace.”
“Nonsense. War is far worse. At least where politics is going on, there are usually nice hors d’oeuvres.”
As usual, Llarimar ignored Lightsong’s witty remarks. Lightsong would have been offended if he hadn’t known there were three separate lesser priests standing at the back of the patio, recording his words, searching for wisdom and meaning within them.
“What will the Idrian rebels do now, do you think?” Llarimar asked.
“Here’s the thing, Scoot,” Lightsong said, leaning back, closing his eyes and feeling the sun on his face. “The Idrians don’t consider themselves to be rebels. They’re not sitting up in their hills, waiting for the day when they can return in triumph to Hallandren. This isn’t their home anymore.”
“Those peaks are hardly a kingdom.”
“They’re enough of a kingdom to control the area’s best mineral deposits, four vital passes to the north, and the original royal line of the original Hallandren dynasty. They don’t need us, my friend.”
“And the talk of Idrian dissidents in the city, ones rousing the people against the Court of Gods?”
“Rumors only,” Lightsong said. “Though, when I’m proven wrong and the underprivileged masses storm my palace and burn me at the stake, I’ll be sure to inform them that you were right all along. You’ll get the last laugh. Or . . . well, the last scream, since you’ll probably be tied up beside me.”
Llarimar sighed, and Lightsong opened his eyes to find the priest regarding him with a contemplative expression. The priest didn’t chastise Lightsong for his levity. Llarimar just reached down, putting his headdress back on. He was the priest; Lightsong was the god. There would be no questioning of motives, no rebukes. If Lightsong gave an order, they would all do exactly as he said.
Sometimes, that terrified him.
But not this day. He was, instead, annoyed. The queen’s arrival had somehow gotten him talking about politics—and the day had been going so well until then.
“More wine,” Lightsong said, raising his cup.
“You can’t get drunk, Your Grace,” Llarimar noted. “Your body is immune to all toxins.”
“I know,” Lightsong said as a lesser servant filled his cup. “But trust me—I’m quite good at pretending.”
6
Siri stepped from the carriage. Immediately, dozens of servants in blue and silver swarmed around her, pulling her away. Siri turned, alarmed, looking back toward her soldiers. The men stepped forward, but Treledees held up his hand.
“The Vessel will go alone,” the priest declared.
Siri felt a stab of fear. This was the time. “Return to Idris,” she said to the men.
“But, my lady—” the lead soldier said.
“No,” Siri said. “You can do nothing more for me here. Please, return and tell my father that I arrived safely.”
The lead soldier glanced back at his men, uncertain. Siri didn’t get to see if they obeyed or not, for the servants shuffled her around a corner into a long, black hallway. Siri tried not to show her fear. She’d come to the palace to be wed, and was determined to make a favorable impression on the God King. But she really was just terrified. Why hadn’t she run? Why hadn’t she wiggled out of this somehow? Why couldn’t they have all just let her be?
There was no escape now. As the serving women led her down a corridor into the deep black palace, the last remnants of her former life disappeared behind her.
She was now alone.
Lamps with colored glass lined the walls. Siri was led through several twists and turns in the dark passages. She tried to remember her way back, but was soon hopelessly lost. The servants surrounded her like an honor guard; though all were female, they were of different ages. Each wore a blue cap, hair loose out the back, and they kept their eyes downcast. Their shimmering blue clothing was loose-fitting, even through the bust. Siri blushed at the low-cut fronts. In Idris, women kept even their necks covered.
The black corridor eventually opened into a much larger room. Siri hesitated in the doorway. While the stone walls of this room were black, they had been draped in silks of a deep maroon. In fact, everything in the room was maroon, from the carpeting, to the furniture, to the tubs—surrounded by tile—in the center of the room.
The servants began to pick at her clothing, undressing her. Siri jumped, swatting at a few hands, causing them to pause in surprise. Then they attacked with renewed vigor, and Siri realized that she didn’t have a choice except to grit her teeth and bear the treatment. She raised her arms, letting the servants pull off her dress and underclothing, and felt her hair grow red as she blushed. At least the room was warm.
She shivered anyway. She was forced to stand, nak*d, as other servants approached, bearing measuring tapes. They poked and prodded, getting various measurements, including ones around Siri’s waist, bust, shoulders, and hips. When that was finished, the women backed away, and the room fell still. The bath continued to steam in the center of the chamber. Several of the serving women gestured toward it.
Guess I’m allowed to wash myself, Siri thought with relief, walking up the tile steps. She stepped carefully into the massive tub, and was pleased at how warm the water was. She lowered herself into the water, letting herself relax just a fraction.
Soft splashes sounded behind her, and she spun. Several other serving women—these wearing brown—were climbing into the tub, fully clothed, holding washcloths and soap. Siri sighed, yielding herself to their care as they began to scrub vigorously at her body and hair. She closed her eyes, enduring the treatment with as much dignity as she could manage.
That left her time to think, which was not good. It only allowed her to consider just what was happening to her. Her anxiety immediately returned.
The Lifeless weren’t as bad as the stories, she thought, trying to reassure herself. And the city colors are far more pleasant than I expected. Maybe . . . maybe the God King isn’t as terrible as everyone says.
“Ah, good,” a voice said. “We’re right on schedule. Perfect.”
Siri froze. That was a man’s voice. She snapped her eyes open to find an older man in brown robes standing beside the tub, writing something on a ledger. He was balding and had a round, pleasant face. A young boy stood next to him, bearing extra sheets of paper and a small jar of ink for the man to use in dipping his quill.
Siri screamed, startling several of her servants as she moved with a sudden splashing motion, covering herself with her arms.
The man with the ledger hesitated, looking down. “Is something wrong, Vessel?”
“I’m bathing,” she snapped.
“Yes,” the man said. “I believe I can tell that.”
“Well, why are you watching?”
The man cocked his head. “But I’m a royal servant, far beneath your station . . .” he said, then trailed off. “Ah, yes. Idris sensibilities. I had forgotten. Ladies, please splash around, make some more bubbles in the bath.”
The serving women did as asked, churning up an abundance of foam in the soapy water.
“There,” the man said, turning back to his ledger. “I can’t see a thing. Now, let us get on with this. It would not do to keep the God King waiting on his wedding day!”
Siri reluctantly allowed the bathing to continue, though she was careful to keep certain bits of anatomy well beneath the water. The women worked furiously, scrubbing so hard that Siri was half-afraid they’d rub her skin right off.
“As you might guess,” the man said, “we’re on a very tight schedule. There’s much to do, and I would like this all to go as smoothly as possible.”
Siri frowned. “And . . . who exactly are you?”
The man glanced at her, causing her to duck down beneath the suds a little more. Her hair was as bright a red as it had ever been.
“My name is Havarseth, but everyone just calls me Bluefingers.” He held up a hand and wiggled the fingers, which were all stained dark with blue ink from writing. “I am head scribe and steward to His Excellent Grace Susebron, God King of Hallandren. In simpler terms, I manage the palace attendants and oversee all servants in the Court of Gods.”