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 G.o.ds 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 seems silly to you, I'll bet. But... well, we know he's there. My sister, Vivenna, she knows a lot more about this than I do. But I've always believed. 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 Hallandrens see 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 do not think G.o.d 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 G.o.d, however, I should like to see the mountains. You seem to love them very much.

"I do," Siri said. It had been a time since she'd thought of Idris. But, as he mentioned it, she remembered the cool, open feeling of the fields she had run through not so long before. The chill of the crisp air-something that she suspected one could never find in Hallandren.

Plants in the Court of G.o.ds 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 embarra.s.sed 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 G.o.ddesses 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 G.o.ddess 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. 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 G.o.d 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 you look at something-a person-they seem sometimes more beautiful than others.

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, like 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.

He looked up, and suddenly Siri was aware of just how close they were to each other. She, only in her shift, with the thin sheet covering her. He, tall and broad as a giant, shining with a soul that made the colors of the sheets bend out like light through a prism. He smiled in the firelight.

Oh, dear... she thought. This is dangerous.

She cleared her throat, sitting up, flushing yet again. "Well. Um, yes. Very nice. Thank you."

He looked back down. I wish I could let you go home, to see your mountains again. Perhaps I could explain this to the priests.

She paled. "I don't think it would be good to let them know that you can read."

I could use the artisan's script. It is very difficult to write, but they taught it to me so I could communicate with them, if I needed to.

"Still," she said. "Telling them you want to send me home could hint that you've been talking to me."

He stopped writing for a few moments.

Maybe that would be a good thing, he said.

"Susebron, they're planning to kill you."

You have no proof of that.

"Well, it's suspicious, at least," she said. "The last two G.o.d Kings died within months of producing an heir."

You're too untrusting, Susebron said. I keep telling you. My priests are good people.

She regarded him flatly, catching his eyes.

Except for removing my tongue, he admitted.

"And keeping you locked up, and not telling you anything. Look, even if they aren't planning to kill you, they know things they're not telling you. Perhaps it's something to do with BioChroma-something that makes you die once your heir arrives."

She frowned, leaning back. Could that be it? she wondered suddenly. "Susebron, how do you pa.s.s on your Breaths?"

He paused. I don't know, he wrote. I... don't know a lot about it.

"I don't either," she said. "Can they take them from you? Give them to your son? What if that kills you?"

They wouldn't do that, he wrote.

"But maybe it's possible," she said. "And maybe that's what happens. That's why having a child is so dangerous! They have to make a new G.o.d King and it kills you to do so."

He sat with his board in his lap, then shook his head, writing. I am a G.o.d. I am not given Breaths, I am born with them.

"No," Siri said. "Bluefingers told me you'd been collecting them for centuries. That each G.o.d King gets two Breaths a week, instead of one, building up his reserves."

Actually, he admitted, some weeks I get three or four.

"But you only need one to survive."

Yes.

"And they can't let that wealth die with you! They're too afraid of it to let you use it, but they also can't let themselves lose it. So, when a new child is born, they take the Breath from the old king-killing him-and give it to the new one."

But Returned cannot use their Breath for Awakening, he wrote. So my treasure of Breaths is useless.

This gave her pause. She had heard that.

Susebron sat for a few moments, and then finally he rose, walking across to the window. He stared out at the darkness beyond. Siri frowned, then picked up his board and crossed the room. She approached hesitantly, wearing only her shift.

"Susebron?" she asked.

He continued to stare out the window. She joined him, careful not to touch him, looking out. Colorful lights sparkled the city beyond the wall of the Court of G.o.ds. Beyond that was darkness. The still sea.

"Please," she said, pushing the board into his hands. "What is it?"

He paused, then took it. I am sorry, he wrote. I do not wish to appear petulant.

"Is it because I keep challenging your priests?"

No, he wrote. You have interesting theories, but I think they are just guesses. You do not know that the priests plan what you claim. That doesn't bother me.

"What is it, then?"

He hesitated, then erased with the sleeve of his robe. You do not believe that the Returned are divine.

"I... thought we already talked about this."

We did. However, I now realized that this is the reason why you treat me like you do. You are different because you do not believe in my G.o.dhood. I wonder, is that the only reason I find you interesting?

And, if you do not believe, it makes me sad. Because a G.o.d is who I am, it is what I am, and if you do not believe in it, it makes me think you do not understand me.

He paused.

Yes. It does sound petulant. I am sorry.

She smiled, then tentatively touched his arm. He froze, looking down, but didn't pull back as he had times before. So she moved up beside him, resting against his arm.

"I don't have to believe in you to understand you," she said. "I'd say that those people who worship you are the ones who don't understand. They can't get close to you, see who you really are. They're too focused on the aura and the divinity."

He didn't respond.

"And," she said, "I'm not different just because I don't believe in you. There are a lot of people in the palace who don't believe. Bluefingers, some of the serving girls who wear brown, other scribes. They serve you just as reverently as the priests. I'm just... well, I'm an irreverent type. I didn't really listen to my father or the monks back home, either. Maybe that's what you need. Someone who would be willing to look beyond your G.o.dhood and just get to know you."

He nodded slowly. That is comforting, he wrote. Though, it is very strange to be a G.o.d who's wife does not believe in him.

Wife, she thought. Sometimes that was tough to remember. "Well," she said, "I should think it would do every man good to have a wife who isn't as in awe of him as everyone else is. Somebody has to keep you humble."

Humility is, I believe, somewhat opposite of G.o.dhood.

"Like sweetness?" she asked.

He chuckled. Yes, just like that. He put the board down. Then, hesitantly-a little frightened-he put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer as they looked out the window at the lights of a city that remained colorful, even at night.

Bodies. Four of them. They all lay dead on the ground, blood an oddly dark color against the gra.s.s.

It was the day after Vivenna's visit to the D'Denir garden to meet with the forgers. She was back again. Sunlight streamed down, hot upon her head and neck as she stood with the rest of the gawking crowd. The silent D'Denir waited in rows behind her, soldiers of stone who would never march. Only they had seen the four men get killed.

People chattered with hushed voices, waiting for the city guard to finish their inspection. Denth had brought Vivenna quickly, before the bodies could be cleared. He had done so at her request. Now she wished she'd never asked.

To her enhanced, Awakener eyes, the colors of the blood on gra.s.s were powerfully distinct. Red and green. It made almost a violet in combination. She stared at the corpses, feeling an odd sense of disconnect. Color. So strange to see the colors of skin paled. She could tell the difference-the intrinsic difference-between skin that was alive and skin that was dead.

Dead skin was ten shades whiter than live skin. It was caused by blood seeping down and out of the veins. Almost like... like the blood was the color, drained out of its husks. The paint of a human life which had been carelessly spilt, leaving the canvas blank.

She looked away.

"You see it?" Denth said, at her side.

She nodded silently.

"You asked about him. Well, here's what he does. This is why we're so worried. Look at those wounds."

She turned back. And, in the growing morning light, she could see something she'd missed before. The skin directly around the sword wounds had been completely drained of color. The wounds themselves had a dark black twinge to them. Like they had been infected with some terrible disease.