Warbreaker

Chapter 47

Lightsong tried not to think about his dreams. He tried not to think about T’Telir in flames. Of people dying. Of the world, essentially, ending.

He stood on the second story of his palace, looking over the Court of Gods. The second story was essentially a covered roof, open on all sides. Wind blew through his hair. The sun was close to setting. Already, torches were arrayed on the lawn. It was so perfect. The palaces set in a circle, lit by torches and lanterns matching the colors of the nearest building.

Some of the palaces were dark; the buildings that currently held no gods.

What would happen if too many others Returned before we killed ourselves? he thought idly. Would they build more palaces? As far as he knew, there had always been enough space.

At the head of the court sat the God King’s palace, tall and black. It had obviously been built so that it would dominate even the extravagant mansions of the others, and it threw a wide, warped shadow across the back wall.

Perfect. So perfect. The torches were arranged in patterns he could only see by standing atop a building. The grass was kept manicured, and the massive wall tapestries were replaced often so that they showed no wear, stains, or fading.

The people put forth such effort for their gods. Why? Sometimes it baffled him. But what to think of other faiths, ones with no visible gods, only incorporeal imaginings or wishes? Surely those ‘gods’ did even less for their people than the Hallandren court, yet they still were worshipped.

Lightsong shook his head. Meeting with Allmother had reminded him of days he hadn’t thought of in a long time. Calmseer. She had been his mentor when he’d first Returned. Blushweaver was jealous of his memories of her, but she didn’t understand the truth. Nor could he, really, explain it. Calmseer had come closer to being a divinity than any Returned Lightsong had known. She’d cared for her followers much as Allmother now tried to do, but there had been genuine concern in Calmseer’s regard. She hadn’t helped the people because she feared that they would stop worshiping, and she had no arrogance of presumed superiority.

Real kindness. Real love. Real mercy.

Yet even Calmseer had felt inadequate. She had often said she felt guilty because she couldn’t live up to what people expected. How could she? How could anyone? In the end, he suspected this was what drove her to answer a petition. There had only been one way, in her estimation, to be the goddess everyone demanded she be. And that was to give up her life.

They push us into it, Lightsong thought. They craft all of this splendor and luxury, they give us whatever we desire, then they subtly poke at us. Be a god. Prophesy. Maintain our illusion for us.

Die. Die so that we can keep believing.

He usually stayed off his roof. He preferred to be down below, where the limited perspective made it so much easier to ignore the larger view. So much easier to focus on simple things, like his life in the moment.

“Your Grace?” Llarimar asked quietly, approaching.

Lightsong didn’t reply.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?”

“No man should be this important,” Lightsong said.

“Your Grace?” Llarimar asked, walking up beside him.

“It does strange things to you. We weren’t built for it.”

“You’re a god, Your Grace. You were built for it.”

“No,” he said. “I’m no god.”

“Excuse me, but you don’t really get to choose. We worship you, and that makes you our god.” Llarimar spoke the words in his usual calm fashion. Didn’t the man ever get upset?