Dawnshard (The Stormlight Archive 3.5)

Alas, he had stuck Huio to the wall for her on three separate occasions, and Cord had not seemed to find it impressive. He’d also cooked her chouta, but she already made it better than he did. Next he’d have to find a way to show her how good he was at cards.

“That’s interesting,” he said. “You like things you’re afraid of?”

“Yes. But I did not realize this thing. Afraid thing. Yes?”

“You didn’t realize that something fearsome, something different, could be so intoxicating. I think I get what you’re saying.” He thought for a moment, drinking the Light from a big garnet gemstone. The others called him silly, but he thought the different colors tasted different.

He eyed Cord. Was she impressed by how casually he floated? No way to know without pointing it out, which was the opposite of being casual. So he put his hands behind his head, and thought more about what she’d said.

“Cord,” he said, “your father. Is he really in danger because of what he did? Saving Kaladin? Killing Amaram?”

It had been several months since the event, and Kaladin had persuaded Rock to remain in Urithiru for the time being. Mostly to give his family a season to rest from their extended trip. However, that wouldn’t last forever. Rock was increasingly intent on returning to his homeland to face judgment.

“Yes,” Cord said softly. “But because of him. His doing. His wanting.”

“He made the choice to help Kaladin,” Lopen said, “but he didn’t choose his birth order.”

“But his choice to go back. His choice to ask for . . . I do not know word. Ask for choice?”

“Judgment?”

“Yes, maybe.” She smiled at him. “Do not afraid for my father, Lopen. He will choose his choice. If he must go home, I will stay. And Gift will stay. We will do his work. We will see for him.”

“See,” Lopen said. “See spren, you mean?”

She nodded.

“Are there any around now?” Lopen asked.

“Rua,” she said, pointing as Lopen’s spren came darting over in the shape of a fanciful flying ship. “And Caelinora.” Huio’s spren. She rarely appeared to Lopen. “Windspren in the air, wavespren in the water. Anxietyspren trailing the ship, almost unseeable. And . . .” She shook her head.

“And what?” Lopen asked.

“Odd things. Good gods, but uncommon. Apaliki’tokoa’a.” She struggled to find the right words, then took out a piece of paper—she often carried some—and did a quick sketch.

“A luckspren,” Lopen said, recognizing the arrowhead shape.

“Five,” she said. “Was none. Then was three. Then four. More each few day.”

Huh. Well, he was glad she was watching—she’d been hesitant to come on the trip, as she hadn’t thought she would be of any use. He’d encouraged her, since he knew she wanted to see the world more. And here she was, seeing interesting spren.

“I don’t know if luckspren are something to be worried about,” he said, “but I’ll have Rushu report it anyway. Queen Jasnah or one of the others might think something of them.”

Cord nodded, so he cut his Lashing. That made him land on the deck with a thump, a little harder than he’d intended. He patted the wood and grinned, feeling foolish. Too bad Huio hadn’t been watching. He’d have enjoyed that.

Lopen jogged off to find his cousin—who, as Lopen had feared, was in their cabin poking at Ardent Rushu’s spanreeds. He appeared to have completely disassembled one.

“Lopen,” Huio said in Herdazian. “This aluminum has fascinating properties; I believe the captive spren are reacting to its presence, almost like prey react to a predator. When I touch this foil to the stone, they push to the other side of their confines. I hypothesize that the aluminum interferes with their ability to sense not only my thoughts of them, but the thoughts of their conjoined half.”

“You know, cuz,” Lopen said in the same language, “those spanreeds are way more valuable than the locks you used to break apart. You could get into trouble.”

“Perhaps,” Huio said, tinkering with a small screwdriver to undo part of the gemstone’s housing, “but I am certain I can reassemble it. The ardent-lady will be completely unaware of my investigation.”

Lopen flopped down on his bunk. He’d asked for a hammock, like the crew used, but they’d acted like he was crazy. Apparently beds were in short supply on a ship. Which made sense. Everyone else got storming hammocks! Who’d want a bed?

“Something feels wrong about this entire mission,” Lopen said.

“You’re merely bored, younger-cousin,” Huio said, “because the crew are too busy with their work to be entertained by your unruly antics.”

“Nah, it’s not that,” Lopen said, staring at the ceiling. “And maybe it’s not even this trip. Things are just . . . off lately, you know?”

“Oddly—though everyone always expects me to be able to decipher what you’re saying—I find myself at a loss most of the time. And not only when you’re speaking in Alethi. Fortunately, you’re usually around to explain. At length. With lots of adjectives.”

“You know, Cord is getting pretty good with Alethi.”

“Good for her. Maybe she can learn Herdazian next, and then someone will finally interpret for me when I’m lost.”

“You’ll pick it up eventually, older-cousin,” Lopen said. “You’re, sure, the smartest person in our family.”

Huio grunted. His inability with the Alethi language was a sore spot with him. It didn’t click in his head, he said. Years of trying, and he hadn’t made much progress. But that was all right. It had taken Lopen, sure, years to learn how to grow an arm back after he lost one.

So what was bothering Lopen? Was it the things Cord had said? He took his rubber ball out of his pocket and practiced infusing it, then sticking it to the ceiling, then catching it again when it dropped.

The Voidbringers had come back. But they weren’t actually the Voidbringers. They were just parshmen, but different. And the war had started, like in the old stories. There was a new storm, and the world had basically ended. It all seemed so intense.

But in reality, it was so storming slow.

They’d been fighting for months and months, and lately it seemed like they were making less progress than Huio on his Alethi. Kill some of those new singers with the strange powers—they were called Fused—and they’d get reborn. Fight and fight and fight, and maybe capture, sure, a few dozen feet of ground. What a party. Do that for a million centuries, and maybe they’d have an entire kingdom.

Shouldn’t the end of the storming world be more . . . dramatic? The war against the invaders felt depressingly like the war over the Shattered Plains. Sure, Lopen kept an upbeat attitude. That helped everyone. But he couldn’t help making the comparison in his head.

His side were the good guys. The Radiants. Urithiru. All of it. He’d decided they were, despite bad choices by some of the Radiants in the past.

But he thought about the Shattered Plains. And how stupid that battle had been, stretching all those years. How many good people had it killed? He couldn’t help worrying they were now headed into a mire of cremwater just as bad, if not worse.