Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

Szeth watched keenly. Taravangian was making demands? They should give him nothing. He was dangerous. He …

Szeth froze as the little boy, Gavinor, stepped up to him. He raised a wooden sword hilt-first toward Szeth. The boy should fear him, yet instead he smiled and waggled the sword.

Szeth took it, hesitant.

“The stone is the oddest request,” the messenger woman said. “Why would he have need of a perfectly round, smooth stone? And why would he specify one with a vein of quartz?”

Szeth’s heart nearly stopped. A round stone. With quartz inclusions?

“An odd request indeed,” Dalinar said, thoughtful. “Ask him why he wants this before fulfilling the request.”

A round stone.

With quartz inclusions.

An Oathstone.

For years, Szeth had obeyed the law of the Oathstone. The centuries-old tradition among his people dictated the way to treat someone who was Truthless. An object, no longer a man. Something to own.

Taravangian wanted an Oathstone. Why?

WHY?

As the messenger trotted away, Dalinar asked if Szeth would like to join sword practice, but he could barely mumble an excuse. Szeth returned to his spot by the tree, clutching the little wooden sword.

He had to know what Taravangian was planning.

He had to stop the man. Before he killed Dalinar.

Chiri-Chiri tried to hide in her grass. Unfortunately, she was growing too big. She wasn’t like a regular cremling, those that scuttled around, tiny and insignificant. She was something grander. She could think. She could grow. And she could fly.

None of that helped as she tumbled out of the grass of the pot onto the desktop. She rolled over and clicked in annoyance, then looked toward Rysn, who sat making noises with another soft one. Chiri-Chiri did not always understand the mouth noises of the soft ones. They did not click, and there was no rhythm to them. So the sounds were sometimes just noises.

Sometimes they were not. There was a pattern to them that she was growing better at understanding. And there was a mood at times to their tones, almost like a rhythm. She crawled closer along the desk, trying to listen.

It was difficult. Chiri-Chiri did not like listening. She liked to do what felt right. Sleeping felt right. Eating felt right. Saying she was happy, or hungry, or sad felt right.

Communication should be about moods, desires, needs. Not all these flapping, flapping, sloppy wet noises.

Like the ones Rysn made now, talking to the old soft one who was like a parent. Chiri-Chiri crawled over the desk and into her box. It didn’t smell as alive as the grass, but it was nice, stuffed with soft things and covered over with some vines. She clicked for it. Contentment. Contentment felt right.

“I do not understand half of what you explain, Rysn,” the old soft one said as the two sat in chairs beside the table. Chiri-Chiri understood some of the words. And his hushed tone, yet tense. Confused. That was confusion. Like when you are bitten on the tail by one you thought was happy. “You’re saying these things … these Sleepless … are all around us? Moving among us? But they aren’t … human?”

“They are as far from human as a being can get, I should guess,” Rysn said, sipping her tea. Chiri-Chiri understood her better. Rysn wasn’t confused. More thoughtful. She’d been that way ever since … the event at the homeland.

“This is not what I thought I was preparing you for,” the old soft one said, “with your training in negotiation.”

“Well, you always liked to travel paths others thought too difficult,” Rysn said. “And you relished trading with people ignored by your competition. You saw opportunity in what others discarded. This is somewhat the same.”

“Pardon, Rysn—dear child—but this feels very different.”

The two fell silent, but it wasn’t the contented silence of having just eaten. Chiri-Chiri turned to snuggle back into her blankets, but felt a vibration coming up through the ground. A kind of call, a kind of warning. One of the rhythms of Roshar.

It reminded her of the carapace of the dead ones she had seen in the homeland. Their hollow skull chitin, their gaping emptiness, so still and noiseless. A silence of having eaten all, and having then been consumed.

Chiri-Chiri could not hide. The rhythm whispered that she could not do only easy things. Dark times were coming, the hollow skulls warned. And the vibrations of that place. Encouraging. Demanding. Be better. You must be better.

And so, Chiri-Chiri climbed out of her box and crawled up onto the arm of Rysn’s chair. Rysn scooped her up, assuming she wanted scratches at the part along her head where carapace met skin. And it did feel nice. Nice enough that Chiri-Chiri forgot about hollow skulls and warning rhythms.

“Why do I feel,” the old soft one said, “that you shouldn’t have told me about any of this? The more people who know what you’ve done, Rysn, the more dangerous it will be for you.”

“I realize this,” she said. “But … Babsk … I had to tell someone. I need your wisdom, now more than ever.”

“My wisdom does not extend to the dealings of gods, Rysn,” he said. “I am just an old man who thought himself clever … until his self-indulgences nearly destroyed the life and career of his most promising apprentice.”

Rysn sat up sharply, causing Chiri-Chiri to start and nip at her fingers. Why did she stop scratching?

Oh. Emotions. Chiri-Chiri could nearly feel them thrumming through Rysn, like rhythms. She was sad? Why sad? They had enough to eat. It was warm and safe.

Was it about the hollowness? The danger?

“Babsk,” Rysn said. “You still blame yourself for my foolishness? My follies were mine alone.”

“Ah, but I knew of your brashness,” he said. “And it was my duty to check it.” He took her hands, so Chiri-Chiri nipped at them a little—until Rysn glared at her. They didn’t taste good anyway.

The two soft ones shared something. Almost like they could project emotions with a vibration or a buzz, instead of flapping their lips and squishing their too-melty faces. Those really were odd. Why didn’t all their skin flop off, without carapace to hold it in? Why didn’t they hurt themselves on everything they bumped?

But yes, they shared thoughts. And finally the old one nodded, standing. “I will help you bear this, Rysn. Yes, I should not complain about my own deficiencies. You have come to me, and show me great honor in doing so.”

“But you mustn’t tell anyone,” she said to him. “Not even the queen. I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” he said. “I will ponder what you’ve told me, then see what advice—if any—I can have on this unique situation.” He took his hat and moved to leave, but hesitated and said a single word. “Dawnshards.” He imbued it with meaning somehow. Disbelief and wonder.

After he’d left, a few nips got Rysn to start scratching again. But she felt distracted, and soon Chiri-Chiri was unable to enjoy the scratches. Not with the hollow eyes speaking to her. Warning her.

To enjoy easy days, sometimes you had to first do difficult things. Rysn activated her chair—which flew a few inches off the ground, though it didn’t have any wings. Chiri-Chiri jumped off onto the desk.

“I need something to eat,” Rysn said. And Chiri-Chiri concentrated on the sounds, not the tired cadence.