Denth nodded. “I know.”

“Jewels, too,” she said, glancing at him. “She is a Drab.”

“Yeah,” Denth said, settling back down. “Has been since she was a child. Her parents sold her Breath to one of the gods.”

“They each need a Breath a week to survive,” Tonk Fah added.

“How horrible,” Vivenna said. I really need to show her more kindness.

“It’s really not so bad,” Denth said. “I’ve been without Breath myself.”

“You have?”

He nodded. “Everyone goes through times when they’re short of coin. The nice thing about Breath is that you can always buy one off someone else.”

“Somebody is always selling,” Tonk Fah said.

Vivenna shook her head, shivering. “But you have to live without it for a time. Have no soul.”

Denth laughed—and this time it was definitely genuine. “Oh, that’s just superstition, Princess. Lacking Breath doesn’t change you that much.”

“It makes you less kind,” Vivenna said. “More irritable. Like . . .”

“Jewels?” Denth asked, amused. “Nah, she’d be like that anyway. I’m sure of it. Either way, when I’ve sold my Breath, I didn’t feel much different. You really have to pay attention to even notice it’s missing.”

Vivenna turned away. She didn’t expect him to understand. It was easy to call her beliefs superstition, but she could just as easily turn the words back on Denth. People saw what they wanted to see. If he believed he felt the same without Breath, that was just an easy way to rationalize the selling of it—and then purchase of another Breath from an innocent person. Besides, why even bother buying one back if it didn’t matter?

The conversation died off until Jewels returned. She walked in and, once again, Vivenna barely noticed her. I’m starting to rely on that life sense far too much, she thought with annoyance, standing as Jewels nodded to Denth.

“He is who he says he is,” Jewels said. “I asked around, got three confirmations from people I kind of trust.”

“All right, then,” Denth said, stretching and climbing to his feet. He kicked Tonk Fah awake. “Let’s carefully head back to the house.”

23

Lightsong found Blushweaver in the grassy portion of the courtyard behind her palace. She was enjoying the art of one of the city’s master gardeners.

Lightsong strolled through the grass, his entourage hovering around him, holding up a large parasol to shield him from the sun, and generally seeing that he was suitably pampered. He passed hundreds of planters, pots, and vases filled with various kinds of growing things, all arranged into elaborate formal patterns and rows.

Temporary flower beds. The gods were too godly to leave the court and visit the city gardens, so the gardens had to be brought to them. Such an enormous undertaking required dozens of workers and carts full of plants. Nothing was too good for the gods.

Except, of course, freedom.

Blushweaver stood admiring one of the patterns of vases. She noticed Lightsong as he approached, his moving BioChroma successively making the flowers shine more vibrantly in the afternoon sunlight. She was wearing a surprisingly modest dress. It had no sleeves and appeared to be made entirely of a single wrapping of green silk, but it covered up the essential bits and then some.

“Lightsong, dear,” she said, smiling. “Visiting a lady in her home? How charmingly forward. Well, enough of this small talk. Let us retire to the bedroom.”

He smiled, holding up a sheet of paper as he approached her.

She paused, then accepted it. The front was covered with colored dots—the artisans’ script. “What is this?” she asked.

“I figured I knew how our conversation would begin,” he said. “And so I saved us the trouble of having to go through it. I had it written out beforehand.”

Blushweaver raised an eyebrow, then read. “‘To start, Blushweaver says something that is mildly suggestive.’” She glanced at him. “Mildly? I invited you to the bedroom. I’d call that blatant.”

“I underestimated you,” Lightsong said. “Please continue.”

“‘Then Lightsong says something to deflect her,’” Blushweaver read. “‘It is so incredibly charming and clever that she is left stunned by his brilliance and cannot speak for several minutes . . .’ Oh, honestly, Lightsong. Do I have to read this?”

“It’s a masterpiece,” he said. “Best work I’ve ever done. Please, the next part is important.”

She sighed. “‘Blushweaver says something about politics which is dreadfully boring but she offsets it by wiggling her chest. After that, Lightsong apologizes for being so distant lately. He explains that he had some things to work out.’” She paused, eyeing him. “Does this mean that you’re finally ready to be part of my plans?”

He nodded. To the side, a group of gardeners removed the flowers. They returned in waves, building a pattern of small blossoming trees in large pots around Blushweaver and Lightsong, a living kaleidoscope with the two Returned gods at its center.

“I don’t think that the queen is involved in a plot to take the throne,” Lightsong said. “Although I’ve spoken with her only briefly, I am convinced.”

“Then why agree to join with me?”

He stood quietly for a moment, enjoying the blossoms. “Because,” he said. “I intend to see that you don’t crush her. Or the rest of us.”

“My dear Lightsong,” Blushweaver said, pursing bright red lips. “I assure you that I’m harmless.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that.”

“Now, now,” she said, “you should never point out a lady’s departure from strict truth. Anyway, I’m glad you came. We have work to do.”

“Work?” he said. “That sounds like . . . work.”

“Of course, dear,” she said, walking away. Gardeners immediately ran forward, pulling aside the small trees to clear a path for them. The master gardener himself stood by directing the evolving composition like the conductor of a botanical orchestra.

Lightsong hurried and caught up. “Work,” he said. “Do you know what my philosophy on that word is?”

“I have somehow gotten the subtle impression that you do not approve of it,” Blushweaver said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Work, my dear Blushweaver, is like fertilizer.”

“It smells?”

He smiled. “No, I was thinking that work is like fertilizer in that I’m glad it exists; I just don’t ever want to get stuck in it.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Blushweaver said. “Because you just agreed to do so.”

He sighed. “I thought I smelled something.”

“Don’t be tedious,” she said, smiling to some workers as they lined her path with vases of flowers. “This is going to be fun.” She turned back to him, eyes twinkling. “Mercystar got attacked last night.”
* * *

“OH, MY DEAR BLUSHWEAVER. It was positively tragic.”

Lightsong raised an eyebrow. Mercystar was a gorgeously voluptuous woman who offered a striking contrast with Blushweaver. Both were, of course, perfect examples of feminine beauty. Blushweaver was simply the slim—yet busty—type while Mercystar was the curvaceous—yet busty—type. Mercystar lounged back on a plush couch, being fanned with large palm leaves by several of her serving men.

She didn’t have Blushweaver’s subtle sense of style. There was a skill to choosing bright clothing that didn’t edge into garishness. Lightsong himself didn’t have it—but he had servants who did. Mercystar, apparently, didn’t even know such a skill existed.

Though admittedly, he thought, orange and gold aren’t exactly the easiest colors to wear with dignity.

“Mercystar, dear,” Blushweaver said warmly. One of the servants provided a cushioned stool, sliding it beneath Blushweaver just as she sat at Mercystar’s elbow. “I can understand how you must feel.”

“Can you?” Mercystar asked. “Can you possibly? This is terrible. Some . . . some miscreant snuck into my palace, accosting my servants! The very home of a goddess! Who would do such a thing?”

“Indeed, he must have been deranged,” Blushweaver said soothingly. Lightsong stood beside her, smiling sympathetically, hands clasped behind his back. A cool afternoon breeze blew across the courtyard and through the pavilion. Some of Blushweaver’s gardeners had brought over flowers and trees, surrounding the pavilion’s canopy, filling the air with their mingled perfumes.

“I can’t understand it,” Mercystar said. “The guards at the gates are supposed to prevent these kinds of things! Why do we have walls if people can just walk in and violate our homes? I just don’t feel safe anymore.”

“I’m certain the guards will be more diligent in the future,” Blushweaver said.

Lightsong frowned, glancing toward Mercystar’s palace, where servants buzzed about like bees around a disturbed hive. “What was the intruder after, do you suppose?” he said, almost to himself. “Works of art, perhaps? Surely there are merchants who would be much easier to rob.”

“We may not know what they want,” Blushweaver said smoothly, “but we at least know something about them.”

“We do?” Mercystar said, perking up.

“Yes, dear,” Blushweaver said. “Only someone with no respect for tradition, propriety, or religion would dare trespass in the home of a god. Someone base. Disrespectful. Unbelieving . . .”

“An Idrian?” Mercystar asked.

“Did you ever wonder, dear,” Blushweaver said, “why they sent their youngest daughter to the God King instead of their eldest?”

Mercystar frowned. “They did?”

“Yes, dear,” Blushweaver said.

“That is rather suspicious, now, isn’t it?”

“Something is going on in the Court of Gods, Mercystar,” Blushweaver said, leaning over. “These could be dangerous times for the Crown.”

“Blushweaver,” Lightsong said. “A word, if you please?”

She eyed him in annoyance. He met her gaze steadily, which eventually caused her to sigh. She patted Mercystar’s hand and then retreated from the pavilion with Lightsong, their servants and priests trailing behind.

“What are you doing?” Lightsong said as soon as they were out of Mercystar’s hearing.

“Recruiting,” Blushweaver said, a glint in her eye. “We’re going to need her Lifeless Commands.”

“I’m still not myself persuaded that we will need them,” Lightsong said. “War may not be necessary.”

“As I said,” Blushweaver replied, “we need to be careful. I’m just making preparations.”

“All right,” he said. There was a wisdom to that. “But we don’t know that it was an Idrian who broke into Mercystar’s palace. Why are you implying that it was?”