That’s it, she thought. I’ve seen Siri, and I know what they’ve done with her. It’s time to go. Turning, she stood. And froze.
A man was standing two rows back, and he was staring directly at Vivenna. She normally wouldn’t have paid him any attention. He was wearing ragged brown clothing, ripped in places, his loose trousers tied at the waist by a simple rope. His facial hair was halfway between being a beard and just scruff. His hair was unkempt and came down to his shoulders.
And he created a bubble of color around him so bright that he had to be of the Fifth Heightening. He stared at her, meeting her eyes, and she had a sudden and awful panicked sense that he knew exactly who she was.
She stumbled back. The strange man didn’t take his eyes off of her. He shifted, pushing back his cloak and exposing a large, black-hilted sword at his belt. Few people in Hallandren wore weapons. This man didn’t seem to care. How had he gotten that thing into the court? The people to the sides gave him a wide berth, and Vivenna swore she could sense something about that sword. It seemed to darken colors. Deepen them. Make tans into browns, reds into maroons, blues into navies. As if it had its own BioChroma . . .
“Parlin,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. “We’re leaving.”
“But—”
“Now,” Vivenna said, turning and rushing away. Her newfound BioChromatic senses informed her that the man’s eyes were still on her. Now that she realized it, she understood that his eyes on her were probably what had made her so uncomfortable in the first place.
The tutors spoke of this, she thought as she and Parlin made their way to one of the stone exit passages. Life sense, the ability to tell when there are people nearby, and to tell when they’re watching you. Everyone has it to a small degree. BioChroma enhances that.
As soon as they entered the passage, the sense of being watched vanished, and Vivenna let out a relieved breath.
“I don’t see why you wanted to leave,” Parlin said.
“We’ve seen what we needed to,” Vivenna said.
“I guess,” Parlin said. “I thought you might want to listen to what the priests were saying about Idris.”
Vivenna froze. “What?”
Parlin frowned, looking distraught. “I think they might be declaring war. Don’t we have a treaty?”
Lord God of Colors! Vivenna thought, turning and scrambling back up into the open arena.
16
“. . . still say that we cannot possibly justify military action against Idris!” a priest shouted. The man wore blue and gold. It was Stillmark’s high priest—Lightsong couldn’t quite remember the man’s name. Nanrovah?
The argument was not unexpected. Lightsong leaned forward. Nanrovah and his master, Stillmark, were both staunch traditionalists. They tended to argue against pretty much every proposal, but were well respected. Stillmark was nearly as old as Blushweaver, and was considered wise. Lightsong rubbed his chin.
Opposing Nanrovah was Blushweaver’s own high priestess, Inhanna. “Oh, come now,” the woman said from the sands down below. “Do we really need to have this argument again? Idris is nothing more than a rebel enclave set up inside the borders of our own kingdom!”
“They keep to themselves,” Nanrovah said. “Holding lands we don’t want anyway.”
“Lands we don’t want?” Blushweaver’s priestess said, sputtering. “They hold every single pass to the northern kingdoms! Every workable copper mine! They have military garrisons within striking distance of T’Telir! And they still claim to be ruled by the rightful kings of Hallandren!”
Nanrovah fell silent, and there was a surprisingly large rumble of assent from the watching priests. Lightsong eyed them. “You’ve seeded the group with people sympathetic to your cause?” he asked.
“Of course,” Blushweaver said. “So did the others. I just did a better job.”
The debate continued, other priests stepping up to argue for and against an assault on Idris. The priests spoke the concerns of the people of the nation; part of their duty was to listen to the people and study issues of national import, then discuss them here so that the gods—who didn’t have the opportunity to go out among the people—could be kept informed. If an issue came to a head, the gods would make their judgments. They were divided into subgroups, each having responsibility for a certain area. Some gods were in charge of civic issues; others governed agreements and treaties.
Idris was not a new topic for the assembly. However, Lightsong had never seen the discussion become so explicit and extreme. Sanctions had been discussed. Blockades. Even some military pressure. But war? Nobody had said the word yet, but they all knew what the priests were discussing.
He could not dispel the images from his dreams—visions of death and pain. He did not accept them as prophetic, but he did acknowledge that they must have something to do with the worries inside his subconscious. He feared what war would do to them. Perhaps he was just a coward. It did seem that suppressing Idris would solve so much.
“You’re behind this debate, aren’t you,” he said, turning to Blushweaver.
“Behind it?” Blushweaver said sweetly. “Dear Lightsong, the priests decide the issues to be discussed. Gods don’t bother with such mundanity.”
“I’m sure,” Lightsong said, reclining. “You want my Lifeless Commands.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Blushweaver said, “I just want you to be informed should you . . .”
She trailed off as Lightsong gave her a flat look.
“Aw, Colors,” she swore. “Of course I need your Commands, Lightsong. Why else would I go to all the trouble to get you up here? You’re a very difficult person to manipulate, you know.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “You just have to promise me that I won’t have to do a thing, and then I’ll do anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“Anything that doesn’t require doing anything.”