Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

Eat. Food.

“Eeeaaat.” Chiri-Chiri tried to get her mandibles to click the sounds, blowing through her throat and making her carapace vibrate.

Rysn smiled. “I’m too tired. That almost sounded…”

“Rrrrrizzznn,” Chiri-Chiri said. “Eeeeaat. Voood.” Yes, that seemed right. Those were good mouth noises. At least, Rysn dropped her cup of tea and made a shocked vibration.

Perhaps doing it this way would be better. Not just because of the hollow skulls. But because, if the soft ones could be made to understand, it would be far easier to get scratches when they were required.

Taravangian awoke hurting. Lately, each morning was a bitter contest. Did it hurt more to move or to stay in bed? Moving meant more pain. Staying in bed meant more anguish. Eventually he chose pain.

After dressing himself with some difficulty, he rested at the edge of the bed, exhausted. He glanced at the notes scratched on the side of an open drawer. Should he hide that? He should. The words appeared jumbled to him today. He had to stare at them a long time to get them to make sense.

Dumb. How dumb was he? Too … too dumb. He recognized the sensation, his thoughts moving as if through thick syrup. He stood. Was that light? Yes, sunlight.

He shuffled into the main room of his prison. Sunlight, through an open window. Strange. He hadn’t left a window open.

Windows were all boarded up, he thought. Someone broke one. Maybe a storm?

No. He slowly realized that Dalinar must have ordered one opened. Kindly Dalinar. He liked that man.

Taravangian made his way to the sunlight. Guards outside. Yes, they would watch. They knew he was a murderer. He smiled at them anyway, then opened the small bundle on the windowsill. A notebook, a pen, and some ink. Had he asked for that? He tried to remember.

Storms. He wanted to sleep. But he couldn’t sleep through another day. He’d done that too often.

He returned to his room and sat—then realized he had forgotten what he’d intended to do. He retraced his steps, looked down at the pen and paper again, and only then remembered. He went back into his bedroom. Unhooked the drawer with the instructions. Slowly read them.

Then again.

He laboriously copied them into the notebook. They were a list of things he needed to say if he could meet Szeth alone. Several times, the words “Don’t talk to Dalinar” were underlined. In his current state, Taravangian was uncertain about that. Why not talk to him?

Smarter him was convinced they needed to do this themselves. Dalinar Kholin could not be entrusted with Taravangian’s plans. For Dalinar Kholin would do what was right. Not what was needed.

Taravangian forced himself to get food. He had some in the other room, bread that had gone stale. He should have asked for better food. Only after chewing on it did he think to go look at the table right inside his door where they delivered his meals. Today was the day new food came. And there it was. Fresh bread. Dried meat. No jam.

He felt like a fool. Why not look for fresh food before forcing yourself to choke down the old stuff? It was difficult to live like this. Making easy mistakes. Forgetting what he was doing and why.

At least he was alone. Before he’d gotten good staff, people had always been so angry at him when he was stupid. And since he got emotional when stupid, he often cried. Didn’t they understand? He made their lives difficult. But he lived the difficulty. He wasn’t trying to be a problem.

People took their minds for granted. They thought themselves wonderful because of how they’d been born.

“Traitor!” a voice called into the room. “You have a visitor!”

Taravangian felt a spike of alarm, his fingers shaking as he closed and gripped the notebook. A visitor? Szeth had come? Taravangian’s planted seed bore fruit?

He breathed in and out, trying to sort through his thoughts. They were a jumble, and the shouting guard made him jump, then scramble toward the sound. He prepared himself for the sight of Szeth. That haunted stare. Those dead eyes. Instead, at the window, Taravangian saw a young man with black hair peppered blond. The Blackthorn’s son Renarin.

Taravangian hesitated, though the guards waved for Taravangian to come speak to the youth.

He hadn’t prepared for this. Renarin. Their quiet salvation. Why had he come? Taravangian hadn’t prepared responses in his notebook for this meeting.

Taravangian stepped up to the window, and the guards retreated to give them privacy. Here Taravangian waited, expecting Renarin to speak first. Yet the boy stood silent, keeping his distance from the window—as if he thought Taravangian would reach out and grab him.

Taravangian’s hands were cold. His stomach churned.

“Something changed,” Renarin finally said, looking away as he spoke. He avoided meeting people’s eyes. Why? “About you. Recently. Why?”

“I do not know, Brightlord,” Taravangian said—though he felt sweat on his brow at the lie.

“You’ve hurt my father,” Renarin said. “I believe he thought, up until recently, that he could change you. I don’t know that I’ve seen him as morose as when he speaks of you.”

“I would…” Taravangian tried to think. Words. What words? “I would that he had changed me, Brightlord. I would that I could have been changed.”

“I believe that is true,” Renarin said. “I see your future, Taravangian. It is dark. Not like anything I’ve seen before. Except there’s a point of light flickering in the darkness. I worry what it will mean if that goes out.”

“I would worry too.”

“I can be wrong,” Renarin said. He hesitated, then closed his eyes—as if carefully thinking through his next words. “You are in darkness, Taravangian, and my father thinks you are lost. I lived through his return, and it taught me that no man is ever so far lost that he cannot find his way back. You are not alone.”

The young man opened his eyes, stepped forward, then lifted his hand and presented it toward Taravangian. The gesture felt awkward. As if Renarin wasn’t quite sure what he was doing.

He wants me to take his hand.

Taravangian didn’t. Seeing it made him want to break into tears, but he contained himself.

Renarin withdrew his hand and nodded. “I’ll let you know if I see something that could help you decide.” With that the boy left, accompanied by one of the guards—the man who had yelled at Taravangian earlier.

That left one other guard: a short, nondescript Alethi man who walked up to the window to eye Taravangian. Taravangian watched Renarin walking away, wishing he had the courage to call after the boy.

Foolish emotions. Taravangian was not lost in darkness. He had chosen this path, and he knew precisely where he was going. Didn’t he?

“He is wrong,” the guard said. “We can’t all return from the dark. There are some acts that, once committed, will always taint a man.”

Taravangian frowned. That guard had a strange accent. He must have lived in Shinovar.

“Why did you ask for an Oathstone?” the guard demanded. “What is your purpose? Do you wish to tempt or trick me?”

“I don’t even know you.”

The man stared at him with unblinking eyes. Eyes like one of the dead … and Taravangian finally understood what on any other day he would have seen immediately. The guard wore a different illusion today.