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!”

He smiled, glancing at his high priest. “Suicide by divine manifestation. Very dramatic.”

“Shall I call off the rest of the petitions, Your Grace?” Llarimar gave no sign of being annoyed by the outburst.

“Sure, why not,” Lightsong said, waving a hand. “They really need a lesson in theology. They should already know what a useless god I am. Send them away, tell them to come back tomorrow—assuming that they are foolish enough to do so.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, bowing.

Doesn’t that man ever get mad at me? Lightsong thought. He, more than any, should know that I’m not a person to rely upon!

Lightsong turned, walking away as Llarimar went back into the petition room. No servants tried to follow him. Lightsong pushed his way through red-hued room after red-hued room, eventually finding his way to a stairwell and climbing up to the second story. This floor was open on all sides, really nothing more than a large covered patio. He walked to the far side—the one opposite the line of people.

The breeze was strong here. He felt it plucking at his robes, bringing with it scents that had traveled hundreds of miles, crossed the ocean, twisting around palm trees and finally entering the Court of Gods. He stood there for a long time, looking out over the city, toward the sea beyond. He had no desire, despite what he sometimes said, to leave his comfortable home in the court. He was not a man of jungles; he was a man of parties.

But sometimes he wished that he could at least want to be something else. Blushweaver’s words still weighed upon him. You’ll have to stand for something eventually, Lightsong. You’re a god to these people. . . .

He was. Whether he wanted to be or not. That was the frustrating part. He’d tried his best to be useless and vain. And still they came.

We could use your confidence . . . you’re a better man than you give yourself credit for being.

Why did it seem that the more he demonstrated himself to be an idiot, the more convinced people became that he had some kind of hidden depths? By implication, they called him a liar in the same breath that they complimented his presumed inner virtue. Did no one understand that a man could be both likable and useless? Not every quick-tongued fool was a hero in disguise.

His life sense alerted him of Llarimar’s return long before footsteps did. The priest walked up to join Lightsong alongside the wall. Llarimar rested his arms on the railing—which, being built for a god, was about a foot too high for the priest.

“They’re gone,” Llarimar said.

“Ah, very good,” Lightsong said. “I do believe that we’ve accomplished something today. I’ve fled from my responsibilities, screamed at my servants, and sat about pouting. Undoubtedly, this will convince everyone that I’m even more noble and honorable than they previously assumed. Tomorrow, there will be twice as many petitions, and I shall continue my inexorable march toward utter madness.”

“You can’t go mad,” Llarimar said softly. “It’s impossible.”

“Sure I can,” Lightsong said. “I just have to concentrate long enough. You see, the great thing about madness is that it’s all in your head.”

Llarimar shook his head. “I see you’ve been restored to your normal humor.”

“Scoot, you wound me. My humor is anything but normal.” They stood silently for a few more minutes, Llarimar offering no chastisement or commentary on his god’s actions. Just like a good little priest.

That made Lightsong think of something. “Scoot, you’re my high priest.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Lightsong sighed. “You really need to pay attention to the lines I’m feeding you, Scoot. You really should have said something pithy there.”

“I apologize, Your Grace.”

“Just try harder next time. Anyway, you know about theology and that sort of thing, correct?”

“I’ve studied my share, Your Grace.”

“Well then, what is the point—religiously—of having gods that can only heal one person, then die? It seems counterproductive to me. Easy way to depopulate your pantheon.”

Llarimar leaned forward, staring out over the city. “It’s complicated, Your Grace. Returned aren’t just gods—they’re men who died, but who decided to come back and offer blessings and knowledge. After all, only one who has died can have anything useful to say about the other side.”

“True, I suppose.”

“The thing is, Your Grace, Returned aren’t meant to stay. We extend their lives, giving them extra time to bless us. But they’re really only supposed to remain alive as long as it takes them to do what they need to.”

“Need to?” Lightsong said. “That seems rather vague.”

Llarimar shrugged. “Returned have . . . goals. Objectives which are their own. You knew of yours before you decided to come back, but the process of leaping across the Iridescent Wave leaves the memory fragmented. Stay long enough, and you’ll remember what you came to accomplish. The petitions . . . they’re a way of helping you to remember.”

“So I’ve come back to save one person’s life?” Lightsong said, frowning, but feeling embarrassed. In five years, he’d spent little time studying his own theology. But, well, that was the sort of thing priests were for.

“Not necessarily, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “You may have come back to save one person. But, more likely, there is information about the future or the afterlife that you felt you needed to share. Or perhaps some great event in which you felt you needed to participate. Remember, it was the heroic way in which you died that gave you the power to Return in the first place. What you are to do might relate to that, somehow.”

Llarimar trailed off slightly, his eyes growing unfocused. “You saw something, Lightsong. On the other side, the future is visible, like a scroll that stretches into the eternal harmonics of the cosmos. Something you saw—something about the future—worried you. Rather than remaining at peace, you took the opportunity that your brave death afforded you, and you Returned to the world. Determined to fix a problem, share information, or otherwise help those who continued to live.

“Someday, once you feel that you’ve accomplished your task, you can use the petitions to find someone who deserves your Breath. Then you can continue your journey across the Iridescent Wave. Our job, as your followers, is to provide Breath for you and keep you alive until you can accomplish your goal, whatever it may be. In the meantime, we pry for auguries and blessings, which can be gleaned only from one who has touched the future as you have.”

Lightsong didn’t respond immediately. “And if I don’t believe?”

“In what, Your Grace?”

“In any of it,” Lightsong said. “That Returned are gods, that these visions are anything more than random inventions of my brain. What if I don’t believe that I had any purpose or plan in Returning?”

“Then maybe that’s what you came back to discover.”