Warbreaker

Chapter 12

“Please, Great One,” the woman said. She sniffled, then bowed her head. “Oh, please. He was brave, like you. My Breath, it would be yours. The Breaths of my entire family. Ser vice for a hundred years, anything. Please, just heal him.”

Lightsong closed his eyes.

“Please,” the woman whispered.

“I cannot,” Lightsong said.

Silence.

“I cannot,” Lightsong said.

“Thank you, my lord,” the woman finally whispered.

Lightsong opened his eyes to see the woman being led away, weeping quietly, child clutched close to her breast. The line of people watched her go, looking miserable yet hopeful at the same time. One more petitioner had failed. That meant they would get a chance.

A chance to beg Lightsong to kill himself.

Lightsong stood suddenly, grabbing the cap off his head and tossing it aside. He rushed away, throwing open a door at the back of the room. It slammed against the wall as he stumbled through.

Servants and priests immediately followed after him. He turned on them. “Go!” he said, waving them away. Many of them showed looks of surprise, unaccustomed to any kind of forcefulness on their master’s part.

“Leave me be!” he shouted, towering over them. Colors in the room flared brighter in response to his emotion, and the servants backed down, confused, stumbling back out into the petition hall and pulling the door closed.

Lightsong stood alone. He placed one hand against the wall, breathing in and out, other hand against his forehead. Why was he sweating so? He’d been through thousands of petitions, and many had been worse than the one he’d just seen. He’d sent pregnant women to their deaths, doomed children and parents, consigned the innocent and the faithful to misery.

There was no reason to overreact. He could take it. It was a little thing, really. Just like absorbing the Breath of a new person every week. A small price to pay . . .

The door opened and a figure stepped in.

Lightsong didn’t turn. “What do they want of me, Llarimar?” he demanded. “Do they really think I’ll do it? Lightsong, the selfish? Do they really think I’d give my life for one of them?”

Llarimar was quiet for a few moments. “You offer hope, Your Grace,” he finally said. “A last, unlikely hope. Hope is part of faith—part of the knowledge that someday, one of your followers will receive a miracle.”

“And if they’re wrong?” Lightsong asked. “I have no desire to die. I’m an idle man, fond of luxury. People like me don’t give up their lives, even if they do happen to be gods.”

Llarimar didn’t reply.

“The good ones are all already dead, Scoot,” Lightsong said. “Calmseer, Brighthue: those were gods who would give themselves away. The rest of us are selfish. There hasn’t been a petition granted in what, three years?”

“About that, Your Grace,” Llarimar said quietly.

“And why should it be otherwise?” Lightsong said, laughing a bit. “I mean, we have to die to heal one of them. Doesn’t that strike you as ridiculous? What kind of religion encourages its members to come and petition for their god’s life?” Lightsong shook his head. “It’s ironic. We’re gods to them only until they kill us. And I think I might know why the gods give in. It’s those petitions, being forced to sit day after day, knowing that you could save one of them—that you probably should, since your life isn’t really worth anything. That’s enough to drive a man mad. Enough to drive him to kill himself!”