Lightsong waved the man away. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then eyed Llarimar. “Well?”

The priest raised an eyebrow. “Well what, Your Grace?”

“What do you think?”

Llarimar shook his head. “I . . . honestly don’t know, Your Grace. This is obviously important, however.”

Lightsong paused. “It is?”

Llarimar nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Because of what that man said—the one who was wounded in the hand. He mentioned a black sword. You predicted it, remember? In the painting this morning?”

“That wasn’t a prediction,” Lightsong said. “That was really there, in the painting.”

“That’s the way prophecy works, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “Don’t you see? You look at a painting and an entire image appears to your eyes. All I see is random strokes of red. The scene you describe—the things you see—are prophetic. You are a god.”

“But I saw exactly what the painting was said to depict!” Lightsong said. “Before you even told me what the title was!”

Llarimar nodded knowingly, as if that proved his point.

“Oh, never mind. Priests! Insufferable fanatics, every one of you. Either way, you agree with me that there is something strange here.”

“Definitely, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Lightsong said. “Then you’ll kindly stop complaining when I investigate it.”

“Actually, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, “it’s even more imperative that you not get involved. You predicted this would occur, but you are an oracle. You must not interact with the subject of your predictions. If you get involved, you could unbalance a great many things.”

“I like being unbalanced,” Lightsong said. “Besides, this is far too much fun.”

As usual, Llarimar didn’t react to having his advice ignored. As they began to walk back toward the main group, however, the priest did ask a question. “Your Grace. Just to sate my own curiosity, what do you think about the murder?”

“It’s obvious,” Lightsong said idly. “There were two intruders. The first is the large man with the sword—he knocked out the guards, attacked those servants, released the Lifeless, then disappeared. The second man—the one the young priest saw—came in after the first intruder. That second man is the murderer.”

Llarimar frowned. “Why do you suppose that?”

“The first man took care not to kill,” Lightsong said. “He left the guards alive at risk to himself, since they could have regained consciousness at any moment to raise the alarm. He didn’t draw his sword against the servants but simply tried to subdue them. There was no reason for him to kill a bound captive—particularly since he’d already left witnesses. If there were a second man, however . . . well, that would make sense. The servant who was killed, he was the one who was conscious when this second intruder came through. That servant was the only one who saw the second intruder.”

“So, you think someone else followed the man with the sword, killed the only witness, and then . . .”

“Both of them vanished,” Lightsong said. “I found a trapdoor. I’m thinking there must be passages beneath the palace. It all seems fairly obvious to me. One thing, however, is not obvious.” He glanced at Llarimar, slowing before they reached the main group of priests and servants.

“And what is that, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked.

“How in the name of the Colors I figured all of this out!”

“I’m trying to grasp that myself, Your Grace.”

Lightsong shook his head. “This comes from before, Scoot. Everything I’m doing, it feels natural. Who was I before I died?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, turning away.

“Oh, come now, Scoot. I’ve spent most of my Returned life just lounging about, but then the moment someone is killed, I leap out of bed and can’t resist poking around. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?”

Llarimar didn’t look at him.

“Colors!” Lightsong swore. “I was someone useful? I was just beginning to convince myself that I’d died in a reasonable way—such as falling off a stump when I was drunk.”

“You know you died in a brave way, Your Grace.”

“It could have been a really high stump.”

Llarimar just shook his head. “Either way, Your Grace, you know I can’t say anything about who you were before.”

“Well, these instincts came from somewhere,” Lightsong said as they walked over to the main group of watching priests and servants. The head priest had returned with a small wooden box. Wild scratching came from inside. “Thank you,” Lightsong snapped, grabbing the box and passing by without even breaking stride. “I’m telling you, Scoot, I am not pleased.”

“You seemed rather happy this morning, Your Grace,” Llarimar noted as they walked away from Mercystar’s palace. Her priest was left behind, a complaint dying on his lips, Lightsong’s entourage trailing after their god.

“I was happy,” Lightsong said, “because I didn’t know what was going on. How am I going to be properly indolent if I keep itching to investigate things? Honestly, this murder will completely destroy my hard-won reputation.”

“My sympathies, Your Grace, that you have been inconvenienced by a semblance of motivation.”

“Quite right,” Lightsong said, sighing. He handed over the box with its furious Lifeless rodent. “Here. You think my Awakeners can break its security phrase?”

“Eventually,” Llarimar said. “Though it’s an animal, Your Grace. It won’t be able to tell us anything directly.”

“Have them do it anyway,” Lightsong said. “Meanwhile, I need to think about this case some more.”

They walked back to his palace. However, the thing that now struck Lightsong was the fact that he’d used the word “case” in reference to the murder. It was a word he’d never heard used in that particular context. Yet he knew that it fit. Instinctively, automatically.

I didn’t have to learn to speak again when I Returned, he thought. I didn’t have to learn to walk again, or read again, or anything like that. Only my personal memory was lost.

But not all of it, apparently.

And that left him wondering what else he could do, if he tried.

Something happened to those previous God Kings, Siri thought, striding through the endless rooms of the God King’s palace, her servants scurrying behind. Something that Bluefingers fears will happen to Susebron. It will be dangerous to both the God King and myself.

She continued to walk, trailing a train made from countless tassels of translucent green silk behind her. The day’s gown was nearly gossamer thin—she’d chosen it, then had asked her servants to fetch an opaque slip for her. It was funny how quickly she’d stopped worrying about what was “ostentatious” and what was not.

There were many much more important problems to worry about.

The priests do fear that something will happen to Susebron, she thought firmly. They are so eager for me to produce an heir. They claim it’s about the succession, but they went fifty years without bothering. They were willing to wait twenty years to get their bride from Idris. Whatever the danger is, it’s not urgent.

And yet the priests act like it is.

Perhaps they’d wanted a bride of the royal line so badly that they’d been willing to risk the danger. Surely they needn’t have waited twenty years, though. Vivenna could have borne children years ago.

Though perhaps the treaty specified a time and not an age. Maybe it just said that the king of Idris had twenty years to provide a bride for the God King. That would explain why her father had been able to send Siri instead. Siri cursed herself for ignoring her lessons about the treaty. She didn’t really know what it said. For all she knew, the danger could be spelled out in the document itself.