I told you, you aren’t sneaky, Nightblood said.
Shut up, Vasher thought, determined not to run. He reached into a pouch at his belt, pulling out the object within: a dead squirrel.
Yuck, Nightblood said with a sniff.
Vasher knelt, putting a hand on the creature.
“Awaken to my Breath,” he Commanded, “serve my needs, live at my Command and my word. Fallen Rope.”
Those last words, “fallen rope,” formed the security phrase. Vasher could have chosen anything, but he picked the first thing that came to mind.
One Breath was leached from his body, going down into the small rodent’s corpse. The thing began to twitch. That was a Breath Vasher would never be able to recover, for creating a Lifeless was a permanent act. The squirrel lost all color, bleeding to grey, the Awakening feeding off the body’s own colors to help fuel the transformation. The squirrel had been grey in the first place, so the difference was tough to see. That’s why Vasher liked to use them.
“Fallen Rope,” he said to the creature, its grey eyes looking up at him. The security phrase pronounced, Vasher could now imprint the creature with an order, much as he did when performing a standard Awakening. “Make noise. Run around. Bite people who are not me. Fallen Rope.” The second use of the words closed its impressionability, so it could no longer be Commanded.
The squirrel hopped up to its feet then scampered down the hallway, heading for the open doorway the fleeing servants had disappeared into. Vasher stood and began to run again, hoping that this distraction would earn him time. Indeed, a few moments later he heard cries coming from the doorway. Clangs and screams followed. Lifeless could be difficult to stop, particularly a fresh one with orders to bite.
Vasher smiled.
We could have taken them, Nightblood said.
Vasher rushed to the place his information had indicated. The location was marked by a splintered board in the wall, ostensibly just normal wear of the building. Vasher crouched, hoping that his in for mant had not lied. He searched around on the floor, then froze as he found the hidden latch.
He pulled it open, revealing a trapdoor. Returned palaces were only supposed to be one story. He smiled.
What if this tunnel doesn’t have another way out? Nightblood asked as Vasher dropped into the hole, trusting his Awakened clothing to absorb the fall.
Then you’ll probably get to kill a lot of people, Vasher thought. However, his information had been good so far. He suspected that the rest was good as well.
The priests of the Iridescent Tones, it appeared, were hiding things from the rest of the kingdom. And from their gods.
22
Weatherlove, god of storms, selected one of the wooden spheres from the rack, then hefted it in his hand. It had been built to fill the palm of a god, and was weighted in the middle with lead. Carved with rings across the surface, it was painted a deep blue.
“A doubling sphere?” asked Lifeblesser. “A bold move.”
Weatherlove eyed the small group of gods behind him. Lightsong was among them, sipping on a sweet orange fruited drink with some kind of alcohol enhancement. It had been several days since he’d allowed Llarimar to talk him out of bed, but he still had come to no conclusion on how to proceed.
“A bold move indeed,” Weatherlove said, tossing the sphere up into the air, then catching it. “Tell me, Lightsong the Bold. Do you favor this throw?”
The other gods chuckled. There were four of them playing. As usual, Weatherlove wore a green and gold robe that hung from only one shoulder with a wrap around his waist that came down to mid-thigh. The outfit—patterned after the ancient dress of the Returned from paintings centuries past—revealed his sculpted muscles and divine figure. He stood at the edge of the balcony, as it was his turn to throw.
Seated behind him were the three others. Lightsong on the left and Lifeblesser—god of healing—in the middle. Truthcall, god of nature, sat on the far right, wearing his ornate cloak and uniform of maroon and white.
The three gods were variations on a theme. If Lightsong hadn’t known them well, he would have had trouble telling them apart. Each stood almost exactly seven feet tall, with bulging muscles that any mortal would have envied. True, Lifeblesser had brown hair, while Weatherlove had blond and Truthcall had black. But all three had that same set of square-jawed features, perfect coiffure, and innate seamless grace that marked them as Returned divinities. Only their costumes really offered any variety.
Lightsong sipped his drink. “Do I bless your throw, Weatherlove?” he asked. “Are we not in competition against one another?”
“I suppose,” the god said, tossing the wooden ball up and down.
“Then why would I bless you when you throw against me?”
Weatherlove just smirked, then pulled back his arm and launched the ball out across the pitch. It bounced, then rolled over the grass, eventually coming to rest. This section of the courtyard had been divided into an expansive game board with ropes and stakes. Priests and servants scurried about on the sides, making notations and keeping track of the score so that the gods wouldn’t have to. Tarachin was a complex game, played only by the wealthy. Lightsong had never bothered to learn the rules.
He found it more amusing to play when he had no idea what he was doing.
It was his throw next. He stood up, selecting one of the wooden spheres from the rack because it matched the color of his drink. He tossed the orange sphere up and down; then—not paying attention to where he was throwing—he tossed it out onto the field. The sphere flew much farther than it probably should have; he had the strength of a perfect body. That was part of the reason the field was so vast; it had to be built to the scale of gods, and so when they played, they required the elevated perspective of a balcony to view their game.
Tarachin was supposed to be one of the most difficult games in the world; it required strength to throw the spheres correctly, keen wit to understand where to place them, coordination to do so with the necessary precision, and a great understanding of strategy to pick the proper sphere and dominate the game field.
“Four hundred and thirteen points,” a servant announced after being fed the number by scribes working below.
“Another magnificent throw,” Truthcall said, perking up in his wooden lounging chair. “How do you do it? I’d never have thought to use a reversal sphere for that throw.”
Is that what the orange ones are called? Lightsong thought, returning to his seat. “You just have to understand the playing field,” he said, “and learn to get inside the mind of the sphere. Think like it does, reason as it might.”
“Reason like a sphere?” Lifeblesser said, standing up. He wore flowing robes of his colors, blue and silver. He selected a green sphere off the rack, then stared at it. “What type of reasoning does a wooden sphere do?”
“The circular type, I should think,” Lightsong said lightly. “And, by coincidence, it is my favorite type as well. Perhaps that’s why I’m so good at the game.”
Lifeblesser frowned, opening his mouth to reply. He finally shut it, looking confused by Lightsong’s comment. Becoming a god did not, unfortunately, increase one’s mental capacity along with one’s physical attributes. Lightsong didn’t mind. For him, the real sport of a game of Tarachin never involved where the spheres landed.
Lifeblesser made his throw, then sat down. “I do say, Lightsong,” he said, smiling. “I mean this as a compliment, but having you around can be draining!”
“Yes,” Lightsong said, sipping his drink, “I’m remarkably like a mosquito in that regard. Truthcall, isn’t it your throw?”
“Actually, it’s yours again,” Weatherlove said. “You achieved the crown pairing during your last toss, remember?”
“Ah yes, how could I forget,” Lightsong said, rising. He took another sphere, tossed it over his shoulder out onto the green, then sat down.
“Five hundred and seven points,” the priest announced.
“Now you’re just showing off,” Truthcall said.
Lightsong said nothing. In his opinion, it revealed an inherent flaw in the game that the one who knew least about it tended to do the best. He doubted, however, that the others would take it that way. All three were very dedicated to their sport, and they played every week. There was blessed little else for them to do with their time.
Lightsong suspected that they kept inviting him only because they wanted to prove, at last, that they could defeat him. If he’d fathomed the rules, he’d have tried to lose on purpose to keep them from insisting that he come play with them. Still, he liked the way his victories annoyed them—though, of course, they never showed him anything other than perfect decorum. Either way, under the circumstances, he suspected that he couldn’t lose if he wanted to. It was rather difficult to throw a game when you had no idea what you were doing to win it in the first place.
Truthcall finally stepped up to throw. He always wore clothing of a martial style, and the colors maroon and white were very handsome on him. Lightsong suspected that he’d always been jealous that instead of being given Lifeless Commands as his duty to the court, he’d been given a vote over issues of trade with other kingdoms.
“I hear that you spoke with the queen a few days back, Lightsong,” Truthcall said as he threw.
“Yes, indeed,” Lightsong said, sipping his drink. “She was extraordinarily pleasant, I must say.”
Weatherlove gave a quiet laugh, obviously thinking that last comment to be sarcasm—which was a little annoying, since Lightsong had meant it sincerely.
“The entire court is abuzz,” Truthcall said, turning and flipping back his cape, then leaning against the balcony railing as he waited for the points from his throw to be tabulated. “The Idrians betrayed the treaty, one could say.”
“The wrong princess,” Weatherlove agreed. “It gives us an opening.”
“Yes,” Truthcall said musingly, “but an opening for what?”
“To attack!” Lifeblesser said in his usual, dense way. The other two regarded him wincingly.
“There is so much more to be gained than that, Lifeblesser.”
“Yes,” Weatherlove said, idly spinning the last bit of wine in his cup. “My plans are already in motion, of course.”
“And what plans would those be, divine brother?” Truthcall said.
Weatherlove smiled. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, now, would I?”
“That depends,” Truthcall said evenly. “Will it keep me from demanding the Idrians give us more access to the passes? I’m willing to bet that some . . . pressures could be placed on the new queen could to gain her favor for such a proposal. She’s said to be rather naive.”
Lightsong felt a slight nausea as they spoke. He knew how they plotted, always scheming. They played their game with spheres, but just as much of their reason for seeing one another at these events was to posture and make deals.
“Her ignorance must be an act,” Lifeblesser said in a rare moment of thoughtfulness. “They wouldn’t have sent her if she was really that inexperienced.”