Tell me about the mountains, Susebron wrote.

Siri smiled. “Mountains?”

Please, he wrote, sitting in his chair beside the bed. Siri lay on one side; her bulky dress had been too hot for this evening, so she sat in her shift with a sheet over her, resting on one elbow so she could see what he wrote. The fire crackled.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “I mean, the mountains aren’t amazing like the wonders you have in T’Telir. You have so many colors, so much variety.”

I think that rocks sticking from the ground and rising thousands of feet into the air count as a wonder, he wrote.

“I guess,” she said. “I liked it in Idris—I didn’t want to know anything else. For someone like you, though, it would probably be boring.”

More boring than sitting in the same palace every day, not allowed to leave, not allowed to speak, being dressed and pampered?

“Okay, you win.”

Tell me of them, please. His handwriting was getting very good. Plus, the more he wrote, the more he seemed to understand. She wished so much that she could find him books to read—she suspected that he’d absorb them quickly, becoming as learned as any of the scholars who had tried to tutor her.

And yet, all he had was Siri. He seemed to appreciate what she gave him—but that was probably only because he didn’t know just how ignorant she was. I suspect, she thought, that my tutors would laugh themselves silly if they knew how much I’d come to regret ignoring them.

“The mountains are vast,” she said. “You can’t really get a sense of it here, in the lowlands. It’s by seeing them that you know just how insignificant people really are. I mean, no matter how long we worked and built, we could never pile up anything as high as one of the mountains.

“They’re rocks, like you said, but they’re not lifeless. They’re green—as green as your jungles. But it’s a different green. I heard some of the traveling merchants complain that the mountains cut off their view, but I think you can see more. They let you see the surface of the land as it extends upward, toward Austre’s domain in the sky.”

He paused. Austre?

Siri flushed, hair blushing as well. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t talk about other gods in front of you.”

Other gods? he wrote. Like those in the court?

“No,” Siri said. “Austre is the Idrian god.”

I understand, Susebron wrote. Is he very handsome?

Siri laughed. “No, you don’t understand. He’s not a Returned, like you or Lightsong. He’s . . . well, I don’t know. Didn’t the priests mention other religions to you?”

Other religions? he wrote.

“Sure,” she said. “I mean, not everybody worships the Returned. The Idrians like me worship Austre, and the Pahn Kahl people—like Bluefingers . . . well, I don’t actually know what they worship, but it’s not you.”

That is very strange to consider, he wrote. If your gods are not Returned, then what are they?

“Not they,” Siri said. “Just one. We call him Austre. The Hallandren used to worship him too before . . .” She almost said before they became heretics. “Before Peacegiver arrived, and they decided to worship the Returned instead.”

But who is this Austre? he wrote.

“He’s not a person,” Siri said. “He’s more of a force. You know, the thing that watches over all people, who punishes those who don’t do what is right and who blesses those who are worthy.”

Have you met this creature?

Siri laughed. “Of course not. You can’t see Austre.”

Susebron frowned, looking at her.

“I know,” she said. “It must seem silly to you. But, well, we know he’s there. When I see something beautiful in nature—when I look at the mountains, with their wildflowers growing in patterns that are somehow more right than a man could have planted—I know. Beauty is real. That’s what reminds me of Austre. Plus, we’ve got the Returned—including the First Returned, Vo. He had the Five Visions before he died, and they must have come from somewhere.”

But you don’t believe in worshiping the Returned?

Siri shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet. My people teach strongly against it. They’re not fond of the way that Hallandren understand religion.”

He sat quietly for a long moment.

So . . . you do not like those such as me?

“What? Of course I like you! You’re sweet!”

He frowned, writing. I don’t think God Kings are supposed to be “sweet.”

“Fine, then,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’re terrible and mighty. Awesome and deific. And sweet.”

Much better, he wrote, smiling. I should very much like to meet this Austre.

“I’ll introduce you to some monks sometime,” Siri said. “They should be able to help you with that.”

Now you are mocking me.

Siri smiled as he looked up at her. There was no hurt in his eyes. He didn’t appear to mind being mocked; indeed, he seemed to find it very interesting. He particularly liked trying to pick out when she was being serious and when she wasn’t.

He looked down again. More than meeting with this god, however, I should like to see the mountains. You seem to love them very much.

“I do,” Siri said. It had been a long time since she’d thought of Idris. But as he mentioned it, she remembered the cool, open feeling of the meadows she had run through not so long ago. The crispness of the chilly air—something that she suspected one could never find in Hallandren.

Plants in the Court of Gods were kept perfectly clipped, cultivated, and arranged. They were beautiful, but the wild fields of her homeland had their own special feel.

Susebron was writing again. I suspect that the mountains are beautiful, as you have said. However, I believe the most beautiful thing in them has already come down to me.

Siri started, then flushed. He seemed so open, not even a little embarrassed or shy about the bold compliment. “Susebron!” she said. “You have the heart of a charmer.”

Charmer? he wrote. I must only speak what I see. There is nothing so wonderful as you, even in my entire court. The mountains must be special indeed, to produce such beauty.

“See, now you’ve gone too far,” she said. “I’ve seen the goddesses of your court. They’re far more beautiful than I am.”

Beauty is not about how a person looks, Susebron wrote. My mother taught me this. The travelers in my storybook must not judge the old woman ugly, for she might be a beautiful goddess inside.

“This isn’t a story, Susebron.”

Yes it is, he wrote. All of those stories are just tales told by people who lived lives before ours. What they say about humankind is true. I have watched and seen how people act. He erased, then continued. It is strange, for me, to interpret these things, for I do not see as normal men do. I am the God King. Everything, to my eyes, has the same beauty.

Siri frowned. “I don’t understand.”

I have thousands of Breaths, he wrote. It is hard to see as other people do—only through the stories of my mother can I understand their ways. All colors are beauty in my eyes. When others look at something—a person—one may sometimes seem more beautiful than another.

This is not so for me. I see only the color. The rich, wondrous colors that make up all things and gives them life. I cannot focus only on the face, as so many do. I see the sparkle of the eyes, the blush of the cheeks, the tones of skin—even each blemish is a distinct pattern. All people are wonderful.

He erased. And so, when I speak of beauty, I must speak of things other than these colors. And you are different. I do not know how to describe it.