Lightsong froze. “Someone was killed?”

She shrugged. “So they say.”

He turned around. “I’m going to go back and talk to her some more.”

“Fine,” Blushweaver snapped. “But you’ll do it without me. I have gardens to enjoy.”

“All right,” Lightsong said, already turning away. “I’ll talk to you later.” Blushweaver let out a huff of indignation, her hands on her hips, watching him go. Lightsong ignored her irritation, however, more focused on . . .

What? So some servants had been hurt. It wasn’t his place to be involved in criminal disturbances. And yet, he walked straight to Mercystar’s pavilion again, his servants and priests trailing behind, as ever.

She was still reclining on her couch. “Lightsong?” she asked with a frown.

“I returned because I just heard that one of your servants was killed in the attack.”

“Ah, yes,” she said. “The poor man. What a terrible occurrence. I’m sure he’s found his blessings in heaven.”

“Funny, how they’re always in the last place you consider looking,” Lightsong said. “Tell me, how did the murder happen?”

“It’s very odd, actually,” she said. “The two guards at the door were knocked unconscious. The intruder was discovered by four of my servants who were walking through the service hallway. He fought them, knocked out one, killed another, and two escaped.”

“How was the man killed?”

Mercystar sighed. “I really don’t know,” she said with a wave of the hand. “My priests can tell you. I fear I was too traumatized to take in the details.”

“It would be all right if I talked to them?”

“If you must,” Mercystar said. “Have I mentioned exactly how thoroughly out of sorts I am? One would think that you’d prefer to stay and comfort me.”

“My dear Mercystar,” he said. “If you know anything of me, then you will realize that leaving you alone is by far the best comfort I can offer.”

She frowned, looking up.

“It was a joke, my dear,” he said. “I am, unfortunately, quite bad at them. Scoot, you coming?”

Llarimar, who stood—as always—with the rest of the priests, looked toward him. “Your Grace?”

“No need to upset the others any further,” Lightsong said. “I think that you and I alone will be sufficient for this exercise.”

“As you command, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. Once again, Lightsong’s servants found themselves separated from their god. They clustered uncertainly on the grass—like a group of children abandoned by their parents.

“What is this about, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked quietly as they walked up to the palace.

“I honestly have no idea,” Lightsong said. “I just feel that there’s something odd going on here. The break-in. The death of that man. Something is wrong.”

Llarimar looked at him, a strange expression on his face.

“What?” Lightsong asked.

“It is nothing, Your Grace,” Llarimar finally said. “This is just a very uncharacteristic of you.”

“I know,” Lightsong said, feeling confident about the decision nonetheless. “I honestly can’t say what prompted it. Curiosity, I guess.”

“Curiosity that outweighs your desire to avoid doing . . . well, anything at all?”

Lightsong shrugged. He felt energized as he walked into the palace. His normal lethargy retreated, and instead he felt excitement. It was almost familiar. He found a group of priests chatting inside the servants’ corridor. Lightsong walked right up to them, and they turned to regard him with shock.

“Ah, good,” Lightsong said. “I assume you can tell me more of this break-in?”

“Your Grace,” one said as all three bowed their heads. “I assure you, we have everything under control. There is no danger to you or your people.”

“Yes, yes,” Lightsong said, looking over the corridor. “Is this where the man was killed, then?”

They glanced at one another. “Over there,” one of them said reluctantly, pointing to a turn in the hallway.

“Wonderful. Accompany me, if you please.” Lightsong walked up to the indicated section. A group of workers were removing the boards from the floor, probably to be replaced. Bloodstained wood, no matter how well cleaned, would not do for a goddess’s home.

“Hum,” Lightsong said. “Looks messy. How did it happen?”

“We aren’t sure, Your Grace,” said one of the priests. “The intruder knocked the men at the doorway unconscious, but did not otherwise harm them.”

“Yes, Mercystar mentioned that,” Lightsong said. “But then he fought with four of the servants?”

“Well, ‘fought’ isn’t quite the right word,” the priest said, sighing. Though Lightsong wasn’t their god, he was a god. They were bound by oath to answer his questions.

“He immobilized one of them with an Awakened rope,” the priest continued. “Then, while one remained behind to delay the intruder, the other two ran for aid. The intruder quickly knocked the remaining man unconscious. At that time, the one who had been tied up was still alive.” The priest glanced at his colleagues. “When help finally came—delayed by a Lifeless animal that was causing confusion—they found the second man still unconscious. The first, still tied up, was dead. Stabbed through the heart with a dueling blade.”

Lightsong nodded, kneeling beside the broken boards. The servants who had been working there bowed their heads and retreated. He wasn’t certain what he expected to find. The floor had been scrubbed clean, then torn apart. However, there was a strange patch a short distance away. He walked over and knelt, inspecting it more closely. Completely devoid of color, he thought. He looked up, focusing on the priests. “An Awakener, you say?”

“Undoubtedly, Your Grace.”

He looked back down at the grey patch. There’s no chance an Idrian did this, he realized. Not if he used Awakening. “What was this Lifeless creature you mentioned?”

“A Lifeless squirrel, Your Grace,” one of the men said. “The intruder used it as a diversion.”

“Well made?” he asked.

They nodded. “Using modern Command words, if its actions were any judge,” one said. “It even had ichor-alcohol instead of blood. Took us the better part of the night to catch the thing!”

“I see,” Lightsong said, standing. “But the intruder escaped?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” one of them said.

“What do you suppose he was after?”

The priests wavered. “We don’t know for sure, Your Grace,” one of them said. “We scared him away before he could reach his goal—one of our men saw him fleeing back out the way he had come. Perhaps the resistance was too much for him.”

“We think that he may have been a common burglar, Your Grace,” one said. “Here to sneak into the gallery and steal the art.”

“Sounds likely enough to me,” Lightsong said, standing. “Good work with this, and all that.” He turned, walking back down the hallway toward the entrance. He felt strangely surreal.

The priests were lying to him.

He didn’t know how he could tell. Yet he did—he knew it deep inside, with some instincts he hadn’t realized he possessed. Instead of disturbing him, for some reason the lies excited him.

“Your Grace,” Llarimar said, hurrying up. “Did you find what you wanted?”

“That was no Idrian who broke in,” Lightsong said quietly as they walked into the sunlight.

Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “There have been cases of Idrians coming to Hallandren and buying themselves Breath, Your Grace.”

“And have you ever heard of one using a Lifeless?”

Llarimar fell quiet. “No, Your Grace,” he finally admitted.

“Idrians hate Lifeless. Consider them abominations, or some such nonsense. Either way, it wouldn’t make sense for an Idrian to try and get in like that. What would be the point? Assassinating a single one of the Returned? He or she would only be replaced, and the protocols in place would be certain that even the Lifeless armies weren’t without someone to direct them for long. The possibility for retaliation would far outweigh the benefit.”