In that respect, these contests were almost in line with Idris sensibilities—yet, at the same time, they were ironically opposite.
The beauty of the games kept her distracted for much longer than she’d intended, her hair permanently locked into a deep maroon blush, even after she got used to the idea of men competing in so little clothing. Eventually, she forced herself to stand and turn away from the performance. She had work to do.
Her servants perked up. They had brought all kinds of luxuries. Full couches and cushions, fruits and wines, even a few men with fans to keep her cool. After only a few weeks in the palace, such comfort was beginning to seem commonplace to her.
“There was a god who came and spoke to me before,” Siri said, scanning the amphitheater, where many of the stone boxes were decorated with colorful canopies. “Which one was it?”
“Lightsong the Bold, Vessel,” one of the serving women said. “God of bravery.”
Siri nodded. “And his colors are?”
“Gold and red, Vessel.”
Siri smiled. His canopy showed that he was there. He wasn’t the only god to have introduced himself to her during her weeks in the palace, but he was the only one who had spent any amount of time chatting with her. He’d been confusing, but at least he’d been willing to talk. She left her box, beautiful dress trailing on the stone. She’d had to force herself to stop feeling guilty for ruining them, since apparently each dress was burned the day after she wore it.
Her servants burst into frantic motion, gathering up furniture and foods, following behind Siri. As before, there were people on the benches below—merchants rich enough to buy entrance to the court or peasants who had won a special lottery. Many turned and looked up as she passed, whispering among themselves.
It’s the only way they get to see me, she realized. Their queen.
That was one thing that Idris certainly handled better than Hallandren. The Idrians had easy access to their king and their government, while in Hallandren the leaders were kept aloof—and therefore made remote, even mysterious.
She approached the red and gold pavilion. The god she had seen before lounged inside, relaxing on a couch, sipping from a large, beautifully engraved glass cup filled with an icy red liquid. He looked much as he had before—the chiseled masculine features that she was already coming to associate with godhood, perfectly styled black hair, golden tan skin, and a distinctly blasé attitude.
That’s something else Idris was right about, she thought. My people may be too stern, but it also isn’t good to become as self-indulgent as some of these Returned.
The god, Lightsong, eyed her and nodded in deference. “My queen.”
“Lightsong the Bold,” she said as one of her servants brought her chair. “I trust your day has been pleasant?”
“So far this day I have discovered several disturbing and redefining elements of my soul which are slowly restructuring the very nature of my existence.” He took a sip from his drink. “Other than that, it was uneventful. You?”
“Fewer revelations,” Siri said, sitting. “More confusion. I’m still inexperienced in the way things work here. I was hoping you could answer some of my questions, give me some information, perhaps . . .”
“Afraid not,” Lightsong said.
Siri paused, then flushed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong. I—”
“No, nothing wrong, child,” Lightsong said, his smile deepening. “The reason I cannot help you is because I, unfortunately, know nothing. I’m useless. Haven’t you heard?”
“Um . . . I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“You should pay better attention,” he said, raising his cup toward her. “Shame on you,” he said, smilingly.
Siri frowned, growing more embarrassed. Lightsong’s high priest—distinguished by his oversized headgear—looked on disapprovingly, and that only caused her to be more self-conscious. Why should I be the ashamed one? she thought, growing annoyed. Lightsong is the one who is making veiled insults against me—and making overt ones against himself! It’s like he enjoys self-deprecation.
“Actually,” Siri said, looking over at him, lifting her chin, “I have heard of your reputation, Lightsong the Bold. ‘Useless’ wasn’t the word I heard used, however.”
“Oh?” he said.
“No. I was told you were harmless, though I can see that is not true—for in speaking to you, my sense of reason has certainly been harmed. Not to mention my head, which is beginning to ache.”
“Both common symptoms of dealing with me, I’m afraid,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.
“That could be solved,” Siri said. “Perhaps it would help if you refrained from speaking when others are present. I think I should find you quite amiable in those circumstances.”
Lightsong laughed. Not a belly laugh, like her father or some of the men back in Idris, but a more refined laugh. Still, it seemed genuine.
“I knew I liked you, girl,” he said.
“I’m not sure if I should feel complimented or not.”
“Depends upon how seriously you take yourself,” Lightsong said. “Come, abandon that silly chair and recline on one of these couches. Enjoy the evening.”
“I’m not sure that would be proper,” Siri said.
“I’m a god,” Lightsong said with a wave of his hand. “I define propriety.”
“I think I’ll sit anyway,” Siri said, smiling, though she did stand and have her servants bring the chair farther under the canopy so that she didn’t have to speak so loudly. She also tried not to pay too much attention to the contests, lest she be drawn in by them again.