“Yes, of course,” Hoid said. “It was his wife, pregnant with his child, who became the first queen of this land. You are his descendant.”

She sat back.

Lightsong turned, curious. “You didn’t know this?” he asked, in a tone lacking his normal flippancy.

She shook her head. “If this fact is known to my people, we do not speak of it.”

Lightsong seemed to find that interesting. Down below, the priests were moving on to a different topic—something about security in the city and increasing patrols in the slums.

She smiled, sensing a subtle way to get to the questions she really wanted to ask. “That means that the God Kings of Hallandren carried on without the blood of the First Returned.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Hoid said, crumbling clay out into the air before him.

“And how many God Kings have there been?”

“Five, Your Majesty,” the man said. “Including His Immortal Majesty, Lord Susebron, but not including Peacegiver.”

“Five kings,” she said. “In three hundred years?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Hoid said, bringing out a handful of golden dust, letting it fall before him. “The dynasty of Hallandren was founded at the conclusion of the Manywar, the first one gaining his Breath and life from Peacegiver himself, who was revered for dispelling Kalad’s Phantoms and bringing a peaceful end to the Manywar. Since that day, each God King has fathered a stillborn son who then Returned and took his place.”

Siri leaned forward. “Wait. How did Peacegiver create a new God King?”

“Ah,” Hoid said, switching back to sand with his left hand. “Now there is a story lost in time. How indeed? Breath can be passed from one man to another, but Breath—no matter how much—does not make one a god. Legends say that Peacegiver died by granting his Breath to his successor. After all, can a god not give his life away to bless another?”

“Not exactly a sign of mental stability, in my opinion,” Lightsong said, waving for some more grapes. “You don’t encourage confidence in our predecessors, storyteller. Besides, even if a god gives away his Breath, it doesn’t make the recipient divine.”

“I only tell stories, Your Grace,” Hoid repeated. “They may be truths, they may be fictions. All I know is that the stories themselves exist and that I must tell them.”

With as much flair as possible, Siri thought, watching him reach into yet another pocket and pull free a handful of small bits of grass and earth. He let bits fall slowly between his fingers.

“I speak of foundations, Your Grace,” Hoid said. “Peacegiver was no ordinary Returned, for he managed to stop the Lifeless from rampaging. Indeed, he sent away Kalad’s Phantoms, which formed the main bulk of the Hallandren army. By doing so, he left his own people powerless. He did so in an effort to bring peace. By then, of course, it was too late for Kuth and Huth. However, the other kingdoms—Pahn Kahl, Tedradel, Gys, and Hallandren itself—were brought out of the conflict.

“Can we not assume more from this god of gods who was able to accomplish so much? Perhaps he did do something unique, as the priests claim. Leave some seed within the God Kings of Hallandren, allowing them to pass their power and divinity from father to son?”

Heritage which would give them a claim to rule, Siri thought, idly slipping a sliced grape into her mouth. With such an amazing god as their progenitor, they could become God Kings. And the only one who could threaten them would be . . .

The royal family of Idris, who can apparently trace their line back to the First Returned. Another heritage of divinity, a challenger for rightful rule in Hallandren.

That didn’t tell her how the God Kings had died. Nor did it tell her why some gods—such as the First Returned—could bear children, while others could not.

“They’re immortal, correct?” Siri asked.

Hoid nodded, smoothly dropping the rest of his grass and dirt, moving into a different discussion by bringing forth a handful of white powder. “Indeed, Your Majesty. Like all Returned, the God Kings do not age. Agelessness is a gift for all who reach the Fifth Heightening.”

“But why have there been five God Kings?” she asked. “Why did the first one die?”

“Why do any Returned pass on, Your Majesty?” Hoid asked.

“Because they are loony,” Lightsong said.

The storyteller smiled. “Because they tire. Gods are not like ordinary men. They come back for us, not for themselves, and when they can no longer endure life, they pass on. God Kings live only as long as it takes them to produce an heir.”

Siri started. “That’s commonly known?” she asked, then cringed slightly at the potentially suspicious comment.

“Of course it is, Your Majesty,” the storyteller said. “At least, to storytellers and scholars. Each God King has passed from this world shortly after his son and heir was born. It is natural. Once the heir has arrived, the God King grows restless. Each one has sought out an opportunity to use up his Breath to benefit the realm. And then . . .”

He threw up a hand, snapping his fingers, throwing up a little spray of water, which puffed to mist.

“And then they pass on,” he said. “Leaving their people blessed and their heir to rule.”

The group fell silent, the mist evaporating in front of Hoid.

“Not exactly the most pleasant thing to inform a newlywed wife, storyteller,” Lightsong noted. “That her husband is going to grow bored with life as soon as she bears him a son?”

“I seek not to be charming, Your Grace,” Hoid said, bowing. At his feet, the various dusts, sands, and glitters mixed together in the faint breeze. “I only tell stories. This one is known to most. I should think that Her Majesty would like to be aware of it as well.”

“Thank you,” Siri said quietly. “It was good of you to speak of it. Tell me, where did you learn such an . . . unusual method of storytelling?”

Hoid looked up, smiling. “I learned it many, many years ago from a man who didn’t know who he was, Your Majesty. It was a distant place where two lands meet and gods have died. But that is unimportant.”

Siri ascribed the vague explanation to Hoid’s desire to create a suitably romantic and mysterious past for himself. Of far more interest to her was what he’d said about the God Kings’ deaths.

So there is an official explanation, she thought, stomach twisting. And it’s actually a pretty good one. Theologically, it makes sense that the God Kings would depart once they had arranged for a suitable successor.

But that doesn’t explain how Peacegiver’s Treasure—that wealth of Breath—passes from God King to God King when they have no tongues. And it doesn’t explain why a man like Susebron would get tired of life when he seems so excited by it.

The official story would work fine for those who didn’t know the God King. It fell flat for Siri. Susebron would never do such a thing. Not now.

Yet . . . Would things change if she bore him a son? Would Susebron grow tired of her that easily?

“Maybe we should be hoping for old Susebron to pass, my queen,” Lightsong said idly, picking at the grapes. “You were forced into all this, I suspect. If Susebron died, you might even be able to go home. No harm done, people healed, new heir on the throne. Everyone is either happy or dead.”

The priests continued to argue below. Hoid bowed, waiting for dismissal.

Happy . . . or dead. Her stomach twisted. “Excuse me,” she said, rising. “I would like to walk about a bit. Thank you for your storytelling, Hoid.”

With that—entourage in tow—she quickly left the pavilion, preferring that Lightsong not see her tears.