“I’m just pointing out that a single assassination couldn’t ruin our entire army,” Lightsong said, holding up the squirrel. “That’s not the point. The point is that whomever made this squirrel held quite a bit of Breath and knew what he was doing. The creature’s blood has been replaced with ichor-alcohol. The sutures are perfect. The Commands controlling the rodent were extremely strong. It’s a marvelous piece of BioChromatic art.”

“And?” she asked.

“And he released it in Mercystar’s palace,” Lightsong said. “Creating a distraction so that he could sneak into those tunnels. Someone else followed the intruder, and this second person killed a man to keep him from revealing what he’d seen. Whatever is in those tunnels—wherever they lead—it’s important enough to waste Breath on. Important enough to kill for.”

Blushweaver shook her head. “I still can’t believe you are even worrying about this.”

“You said you knew about the tunnels,” Lightsong said. “I had Llarimar ask around, and others know of them too. They’re used for storage beneath the palaces, as said. Different gods have ordered them constructed at various times during the history of the court.

“But,” he continued, excited, “they would also be the perfect place to set up a clandestine operation! The court is outside the jurisdiction of the regular city guards. Each palace is like a little, autonomous country! Expand a few of those cellars so that their tunnels connect with others, dig them out past the walls so that you can come and go secretly . . .”

“Lightsong,” Blushweaver said. “If something that secret were going on, then why would the priests use those tunnels to come into the court? Wouldn’t that be a little suspicious? I mean, if you noticed it, how hard could it be to discover?”

Lightsong paused, then flushed slightly. “Of course,” he said. “I got so wrapped up in pretending to be useful that I forgot myself! Thank you so much for reminding me that I am an idiot.”

“Lightsong, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s quite all right,” he said, standing. “Why bother? I need to remember who I am. Lightsong, self-hating god. The most useless person ever granted immortality. Just answer one question for me.”

Blushweaver paused. “What question?”

“Why?” he asked, looking at her. “Why do I hate being a god? Why do I act so frivolous? Why do I undermine my own authority. Why?”

“I always assumed it was because you were amused by the contrast.”

“No,” he said. “Blushweaver, I was like this from the first day. When I awoke, I refused to believe I was a god. Refused to accept my place in this pantheon and this court. I’ve acted accordingly ever since. And, if I might say, I’ve gotten quite a bit more clever about it as the years have passed. Which is beside the point. The thing I must focus on—the important point here—is why.”

“I don’t know,” she confessed.

“I don’t either,” he said. “But whoever I was before, he’s trying to get out. He keeps whispering for me to dig at this mystery. Keeps warning me that I’m no god. Keeps prompting me to deal with all this in a frivolous way.” He shook his head. “I don’t know who I was—nobody will tell me. But I’m beginning to have suspicions. I was a person who couldn’t simply sit and let something unexplained slide away into the fog of memory. I was a man who hated secrets. And I’m only just beginning to understand how many secrets there are in this court.”

Blushweaver looked taken aback.

“Now,” he said, walking away from the pavilion, his servants hurrying to catch up, “if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to.”

“What business?” Blushweaver demanded, rising.

He glanced back. “To see Allmother. There are some Lifeless Commands that need to be dealt with.”

Aweek living in the gutters served to drastically change Vivenna’s perspective on life.

She sold her hair on the second day for a depressingly small amount of money. The food that she’d bought hadn’t even filled her stomach, and she didn’t have the strength to regrow the locks. The haircut didn’t even have the dignity of being cleanly shorn—it was a ragged job of hackwork, and the remaining hair would have still been a pale white, save for the fact that it was matted and blackened with dirt and soot.

She’d thought about selling her Breath, but wouldn’t even know where to go or how to go about it. Besides, she had a strong feeling that Denth would be watching places where she might sell the Breath. Beyond that, she had no idea how to get the Breaths back from her shawl, now that she’d put them into it.

No. She had to remain secret, unseen. Couldn’t draw attention to herself.

She sat on the side of the street, holding out her hand to the passing crowds, keeping her eyes down. No offerings came. She wasn’t certain how the other beggars did it; their meager earnings seemed an amazing treasure. They knew so much she didn’t—where to sit, how to plead. Passers learned to avoid beggars, even with their eyes. The successful beggars, then, were those who managed to draw attention.

Vivenna wasn’t certain if she wanted the attention or not. Though the gnawing pain of hunger had eventually driven her out onto busy streets, she was still frightened that Denth or Vasher might find her.

The more hungry she got, the less other worries bothered her. Eating was a problem for now. Being killed by Denth or Vasher was a problem for later.

The flood of people in their colors continued to pass. Vivenna watched them without focusing on faces or bodies. Just colors. Like a spinning wheel, each spoke a different hue. Denth won’t find me here, she thought. He won’t see the princess in the beggar on the side of the street.

Her stomach growled. She was learning to ignore it. Just as the people ignored her. She didn’t feel like she was a true beggar or child of the street, not after just one week. But she was learning to imitate them, and her mind felt so fuzzy lately. Ever since she’d gotten rid of her Breath.

She pulled the shawl close. She kept it with her always.

She still hardly believed what Denth and the others had done. She had such fond memories of their joking. She couldn’t connect that to what she’d seen in the cellar. In fact, sometimes she found herself rising to seek them out. Surely the things she’d seen had been hallucinations. Surely they couldn’t be such terrible men.

That’s foolish, she thought. I need to focus. Why isn’t my mind working right anymore?

Focus on what? There wasn’t much to think about. She couldn’t go to Denth. Parlin was dead. The city authorities would be no help—she had now heard the rumors of the Idrian princess who had been causing such troubles. She’d be arrested in a heartbeat. If there were any more of her father’s agents in the city, she had no idea how to locate them without exposing herself to Denth. Besides, there was a good chance that Denth had found those agents and killed them. He’d been so clever at keeping her captive, quietly eliminating those who could have taken her to safety. What did her father think? Vivenna lost to him, every man he sent to retrieve her vanishing mysteriously, Hallandren inching closer and closer to declaring war.

Those were distant worries. Her stomach growled. There were soup kitchens in the city, but at the first one she’d gone to, she’d spotted Tonk Fah lounging in a doorway across the street. She’d turned and scurried away, hoping he hadn’t seen her. For the same reason, she didn’t dare leave the city. Denth was sure to have agents watching the gates. Besides, where would she go? She didn’t have the supplies for a trip back to Idris.

Perhaps she could leave if she managed to save up enough money. That was hard, almost impossible. Every time she got a coin, she spent it on food. She couldn’t help herself. Nothing else seemed to matter.