POV: lightsong
Summary
On the sand floor of the arena, Nanrovah — the blue-and-gold high priest of Stillmark — argues that Hallandren cannot possibly justify military action against Idris. He and his master are traditionalists; they argue against almost every proposal, but they are respected, and Stillmark is nearly as old in Return as Blushweaver. From the next box up, Lightsong listens. Blushweaver's own high priestess Inhanna cuts back: the highlanders are not a harmless mountain enclave but a rebel province holding every northern pass, every workable copper mine, garrisons within striking distance of T'Telir, and a claim to the Hallandren throne. There is a surprisingly large rumble of assent from the priests around her. Lightsong eyes the floor and asks Blushweaver who she has seeded it with. Of course, she answers. So did the other factions. She just did it better.
The debate stretches on — other priests stepping up to argue both sides, sanctions and blockades and military pressure all aired without anyone yet saying the word *war*. The priests are the part of the court who go out among the people, listen, and report; the gods only vote when an issue comes to a head, divided by subgroup into civic matters, treaties, and the rest. Lightsong has watched these arguments for years. He has never heard them this explicit. He cannot stop seeing the dreams of T'Telir burning that he refuses to call prophecy. He turns to Blushweaver and accuses her of being behind the debate. She purrs deflections; he holds her gaze; she gives in and admits, plainly, that she wants the Lifeless Commands he controls. There is a quarter of the kingdom's Lifeless under his name — about ten thousand tireless soldiers who do not need to eat and march without rest — and with three out of the four Returned who hold the other quarters, she could swing a vote.
She has more reason than ambition, she tells him, when he presses. There is a wider sourness: it has been three years since one of the Returned has given up his life to heal a petitioner, and the people of Hallandren are beginning to mutter that the present pantheon is less benevolent and less wise than the last. Lightsong privately agrees. And there is, Blushweaver insists, the girl — the wrong Idrian princess delivered in place of the elder. They paid spies for twenty years to learn Vivenna inside and out; they studied even the second daughter, the monk; the youngest, no one bothered with. So the Idrians sent a random element into the court. It is, Lightsong admits, brilliant. Blushweaver sketches the threat: a girl chosen to be invisible, perhaps trained in secret as a poisoner of minds, slid into bed with the God King himself. They cannot wait to see. He shrugs, stands, and tells her he is going to take a stroll across the arena. Blushweaver groans. He at least owes the queen a conversation, he says, before she has the chance to behead him.
In Siri's box at the same moment, Bluefingers has wandered off and Siri is the one trying to piece together what the priests below are arguing about. She asks a serving woman. The woman, panicked, fetches Treledees instead, and Siri flinches even before he arrives. He tells her, blandly, that the priests are arguing whether to attack the rebel province and bring her people back under proper royal control. She points out that her host rebelled against the original royals, not the other way around; he raises a single eyebrow. Different histories, she thinks.
Then Treledees leans in for what he really came to say. There is, he tells her, a matter of some delicacy. She is the daughter of a king; she knows how important a secure succession is. The implication is that there is not yet one in progress. He admits, without pretending otherwise, that the God King's priests have been listening at her bedroom door and know perfectly well she has not lain with her husband. Siri reels at the picture of men like Treledees auditing her every night. He concludes with what is unmistakably a threat: she has *one task* in the palace, and her homeland's safety in the looming war is contingent on its completion. *Not everything in Hallandren is as cohesive as it may appear.* He sees that she understands, turns at the sight of an approaching colourful procession, and withdraws.
The procession is Lightsong and his retinue. He sits opposite the young queen, accepts grapes he does not want, and works through every conversational misfire he has — flirting with a child, making jokes about being made off with — until Siri finally throws up her hands, her Royal Locks flaring red, and demands to know whether he is making fun of her. Probably, he answers, and the room finally breathes. She tells him she thought he was the god of bravery, not jesters. He gives her Mirthgiver, the actual god of laughter, as an even worse fit for his office. *This girl,* he concludes silently, *is no fake.* Or she is the best actress he has ever met. Either way she is being used and does not know it, and is going to be torn apart. He stands to leave, then turns back and lays a quiet hand on her shoulder — *don't let them get to you, child* — and goes.