Warbreaker

Chapter 12

Eventually, Lightsong had to hear petitions.

It was annoying, since the Wedding Jubilation wouldn’t even be over for another few days. The people, however, needed their gods. He knew he shouldn’t feel annoyed. He’d gotten most of a week off for the wedding fete—conspicuously unattended by either the bride or groom—and that was enough. All he had to do was spend a few hours each day looking at art and listening to the woes of the people. It wasn’t much. Even if it did wear away at his sanity.

He sighed, sitting back in his throne. He wore an embroidered cap on his head, matched by a loose robe of gold and red. The garment wrapped over both shoulders, twisted about his body, and was hung with golden tassels. Like all of his clothing, it was even more complicated to put on than it looked.

If my servants were to suddenly leave me, he thought with amusement, I’d be totally incapable of getting dressed.

He leaned his head on one fist, elbow on the throne’s armrest. This room of his palace opened directly out onto the lawn—harsh weather was rare in Hallandren, and a cool breeze blew in off of the sea, smelling of brine. He closed his eyes, breathing in.

He’d dreamed of war again last night. Llarimar had found that particularly meaningful. Lightsong was just disturbed. Everyone said that if war did come, Hallandren would easily win. But if that were the case, then why did he always dream of T’Telir burning? Not some distant Idrian city, but his own home.

It means nothing, he told himself. Just a manifestation of my own worries.

“Next petition, Your Grace,” Llarimar whispered from his side.

Lightsong sighed, opening his eyes. Both edges of the room were lined with priests in their coifs and robes. Where had he gotten so many? Did any god need that much attention?

He could see a line of people extending outside onto the lawn. They were a sorry, forlorn lot, several coughing from some malady or another. So many, he thought as a woman was led into the room. He’d been seeing petitioners for over an hour already. I guess I should have expected this. It’s been almost a week.

“Scoot,” he said, turning to his priest. “Go tell those waiting people to sit down in the grass. There’s no reason for them to all stand there like that. This could take some time.”

Llarimar hesitated. Standing was, of course, a sign of respect. However, he nodded, waving over a lesser priest to carry the message.

Such a crowd, waiting to see me, Lightsong thought. What will it take to convince the people that I’m useless? What would it take to get them to stop coming to him? After five years of petitions, he honestly wasn’t certain if he could take another five.

The newest petitioner approached his throne. She carried a child in her arms.

Not a child . . . Lightsong thought, cringing mentally.

“Great One,” the woman said, falling to her knees on the carpet. “Lord of Bravery.”

Lightsong didn’t speak.

“This is my child, Halan,” the woman said, holding out the baby. As it got close enough to Lightsong’s aura, the blanket burst with a sharp blue color two and half steps from pure. He could easily see that the child was suffering from a terrible sickness. It had lost so much weight that its skin was shriveled. The baby’s Breath was so weak that it flickered like a candle running out of wick. It would be dead before the day was out. Perhaps before the hour was out.

“The healers, they say he has deathfever,” the woman said. “I know that he’s going to die.” The baby made a sound—a kind of half-cough, perhaps the closest it could get to a cry.