Too formal. Not at ease. Uncomfortable around those of high rank. Could it be possible that she was genuine? No. It was likely an act to put him at ease. To make him underestimate her. Or was he just thinking too much?

Colors take you, Blushweaver! he thought. I really don’t want to be part of this.

He almost withdrew. But, then, that wouldn’t be very pleasant of him—and contrary to some of the things he said, Lightsong did like being pleasant. Best to be kind, he thought, smiling idly to himself. That way, if she ever does take over the kingdom, perhaps she’ll behead me last. “You ask after the nature of my visitation?” he said. “I believe it has no nature, Your Majesty, other than to appear natural—at which I have already failed by staring at you for far too long while thinking to myself about your place in this mess.”

The queen frowned again.

Lightsong popped a grape in his mouth. “Wonderful things,” he said, holding up another one. “Delightfully sweet, wrapped in their own little package. Deceptive, really. So hard and dry on the outside, but so delectable on the inside. Don’t you think?”

“We . . . don’t have many grapes in Idris, Your Grace.”

“I’m rather the opposite, you know,” he said. “Fluffy and pretty on the outside, without much of import on the inside. But I guess that is beside the point. You, my dear, are a very welcome sight. Much more so than a grape.”

“I . . . How is that, Your Grace?”

“We haven’t had a queen in such a long time,” Lightsong said. “Since before my Return, in fact. And old Susebron up there really has been moping about the palace lately. Looking forlorn. It’s good he has a woman in his life.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Your Grace,” the queen said.

“You’re welcome. I’ll make up a few more, if you like.”

She fell silent.

Well, then, that’s it, he thought, sighing. Blushweaver was right. I probably shouldn’t have come.

“All right,” the queen said, hair suddenly turning red as she threw her hands up in the air. “What is going on here?”

He hesitated. “Your Majesty?”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Probably.”

“But you’re supposed to be a god!” she said, leaning back, staring up at the canopy. “Just when I thought things in this city were starting to make sense, the priests start yelling at me, then you come along! What am I supposed to do with you? You seem more like a schoolboy than a god!”

Lightsong paused, then settled back into his seat, smiling. “You have me found out,” he said, opening his hands. “I killed the real god and took his place. I’ve come to hold you ransom for your sweets.”

“There,” the queen said, pointing. “Aren’t you supposed to be . . . I don’t know, distinguished or something?”

He spread his hands out. “My dear, this is what passes for being distinguished in Hallandren.”

She didn’t seem convinced.

“I am, of course, lying through my teeth,” he said, eating another grape. “You shouldn’t base your opinion of the others upon what you think of me. They’re all much more deific than I am.”

The queen sat back. “I thought you were the god of bravery.”

“Technically.”

“You seem more like the god of jesters to me.”

“I’ve applied for the position and been turned down,” he said. “You should see the person they have doing the job. Dull as a rock and twice as ugly.”

Siri paused.

“I wasn’t lying that time,” Lightsong said. “Mirthgiver, god of laughter. If ever there was a god more poorly suited to his position than I, it’s he.”

“I don’t understand you,” she said. “It appears there’s a lot I don’t understand in this city.”

This woman is no fake, Lightsong thought, staring into her youthful, confused eyes. Or, if she is, then she’s best actress I’ve ever met.

That meant something. Something important. It was possible there were mundane reasons this girl had been sent instead of her sister. Sickness on the part of the elder daughter, perhaps. But Lightsong didn’t buy that. She was part of something. A plot, or perhaps several. And whatever those plots were, she didn’t know about them.

Kalad’s Phantoms! Lightsong cursed mentally. This child is going to get ripped apart and fed to the wolves!

But what could he really do about it? He sighed, standing, causing his priests to begin packing his things. The girl watched with confusion as he nodded to her, giving her a wan smile of farewell. She stood and curtsied slightly, though she probably didn’t need to. She was his queen, even if she wasn’t herself Returned.

Lightsong turned to go, then stopped, recalling his own first few months in the court, and the confusion he’d known. He reached over, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Don’t let them get to you, child,” he whispered.

And with that, he withdrew.

Vivenna walked back toward Lemex’s house, dissecting the argument she’d heard at the Court of Gods. Her tutors had instructed her that discussions in the Court Assembly didn’t always lead to action; just because they talked of war didn’t mean it would happen.

This discussion, however, seemed to mean more. It was too passionate, with too many voices for one side. It indicated that her father was right, and that war was inevitable.

She walked with her head down on a nearly deserted street. She was beginning to learn that she could avoid the roiling masses by walking through more residential sections of the city. It appeared that people in T’Telir liked to be where everybody else was.

The street was in a wealthy neighborhood, had a slate stone sidewalk running along the side of it. It made for pleasant walking. Parlin walked beside her, occasionally pausing to study ferns or palm trees. The Hallandren liked plants; most of the homes were shaded by trees, vines, and exotic blooming shrubs. In Idris, each of the large homes along the street would have been considered a mansion, but here they were only of average size—probably the homes of merchants.

I need to stay focused, she thought. Is Hallandren going to attack soon? Or is this just a prelude to something still months, perhaps years, away?

Real action wouldn’t occur until the gods voted, and Vivenna wasn’t sure what it would take to get them to that point. She shook her head. Only one day in T’Telir, and already she knew that her training and tutorials hadn’t prepared her half as well as she’d assumed.

She felt as if she knew nothing. And that left her feeling very lost. She was not the confident, competent woman she’d assumed herself to be. The frightening truth was, should she have been sent to become the God King’s bride, she would have been nearly as in effective and confused as poor Siri undoubtedly was.

They turned a corner, Vivenna trusting in Parlin’s amazing sense of direction to get them back to Lemex’s house, and they passed under the gaze of one of the silent D’Denir statues. The proud warrior stood with sword raised above his stone head, his armor—carved into the statue—augmented by a red scarf tied and flapping around his neck. He looked dramatic, as if he were going gloriously to war. It wasn’t long before they approached the steps to Lemex’s house. Vivenna froze, however, when she saw that the door was hanging from one hinge. The lower part was cracked, as if it had been kicked very hard.

Parlin pulled up beside her, then hissed, holding up a hand for her to be silent. His hand went to the long hunting knife at his belt and he glanced around. Vivenna stepped back, nerves itching to flee. And yet, where would she go? The mercenaries were her only connection in the city. Denth and Tonk Fah could have handled an attack, right?

Someone approached from the other side of the door. Her BioChromatic senses warned her of the proximity. She laid a hand on Parlin’s arm, preparing to bolt.