Dawnshard (The Stormlight Archive 3.5)

A soft sigh announced Nikli standing up nearby and stretching. He stepped over. “Brightness,” he said, “it sounds like the food is ready. I’m curious to see if Cord’s stew is better than mine. I’m going to get some for myself. Would you like a bowl as well?”

“In a while,” Rysn said, looking out at the ocean. Little wavespren—like crawling four-legged creatures with smooth skin and large eyes—rode the foam up onto the beach, then quickly retreated with the water. “Your village is in . . . Alm, is it?”

“Yes, Brightness,” he said. “Inland, up against the mountains.”

“That’s close to Aimia. Do your people have any legends or stories about the place?”

Nikli settled down on a large stone beside her chair. “We do. A lot of the survivors of the scouring settled nearby.”

“Blue fingernails?” Rysn asked. “And vibrant blue eyes?”

“No, there were also ordinary people on Aimia,” Nikli said. “Though they wear their beards in that odd way that’s popular in Steen.”

“Oh,” she said. “What have they told you? About the scouring, about their homeland?”

“Brightness . . . the scouring was a long, long time ago. What we know are mostly myths, passed from generation to generation in stories and songs. I don’t know if any of it would be useful to you.”

“I’d like to hear them anyway,” Rysn said. “If it’s all right with you.”

He watched the waves for a time. “It happened,” he finally said, “because of the fall of the Radiants. Aimia had always been . . . different. The people who lived there. They were close with the Radiants, and maybe kept too many secrets. They assumed their secrets would protect them, but then their allies fell. And secrets can’t hold swords.

“Suddenly they were alone in the world, and they possessed vast riches. It was just a matter of time. Perhaps some of the invaders were genuinely frightened of the oddities in Aimia. But most saw only the wealth. The fabrials, the creatures who could stop Shardplate, drain Stormlight.” He hesitated, his eyes focusing on Chiri-Chiri. “I mean . . . that’s what the legends say. I didn’t give them a lot of credence until I met you.”

“That’s fascinating,” Rysn said, getting out a fresh sheet of paper to record what he’d said. “Scholars around the world talk about Aimia in hushed tones. But I wonder, have they ever come and interviewed your people?”

“I’m sure they’ve talked to the human survivors,” he said, looking down. “And there are immortals who lived on the island and now wander the world. I’m a poor source for information on this topic, Brightness.”

“Nevertheless,” she said. “What happened? How was the place scoured?”

“I don’t know if my inadequate knowledge is of use to—”

“Please,” Rysn said.

He continued watching the waves. A brave wavespren crawled all the way up the stone beach to their toes before turning and scuttling back into the water.

“Aimia shouldn’t have existed, Brightness,” Nikli said. “It . . . well, it should always have been like it is now. Barren. Too cold for much to grow. It isn’t like Thaylenah, with favorable ocean currents nearby.

“But those old Aimians, they knew ways to make it lush, alive. There are . . . stories of fantastical devices that transformed Aimia from wasteland to paradise. I guess it was beautiful. I’ve imagined it that way, when hearing the stories. But . . .”

“But?” Rysn prompted.

“Well, the people who attacked Aimia quickly realized that destroying these devices would catastrophically undermine the place.” He shrugged. “That’s really all I know. Without these . . . fabrials, I guess they were? Without them, the island couldn’t sustain a nation.

“Many were killed in the wars. Others fled. And the place has always been subject to unusual storms, so it became unlivable. It was looted, abandoned. Those who survived came to live near us. And wept for their doomed paradise.”

The melancholy in his voice made her look up from her writing. He glanced at her, then excused himself and went off to get something to eat. Rysn watched him go, tapping her pen against her paper. Curious . . .

Footsteps on the stones made her glance up to find a single figure—backlit by the bonfire—approaching. The Horneater woman, Cord, carrying a bowl of stew.

“Stew,” she explained in Alethi, gesturing it toward Rysn. “I make. Try?”

Rysn accepted the bowl, feeling the warmth through the wood. It was good. Fish stew, with a unique blend of spices she’d come to associate with the Horneater woman’s meals. The crew certainly enjoyed having her on board; her food was a huge improvement over the previous cook’s offerings.

Rysn ate quietly as Cord settled down on the rocks beside her. “Captain?” Cord asked.

“I’m not the captain,” Rysn said gently.

“Yes. I forget word,” Cord said. “But . . . Brightness. Thing we saw. Corpse, becoming cremlings? I know of this thing.”

“You do?”

“In Peaks,” Cord said, “we have gods. And some are . . . I explain that this thing is . . . Ah, these words! Why do none speak ones that work?”

“The Horneater Peaks are in Jah Keved, right?” Rysn said, switching to Veden. “We can try this, if it’s easier for you.”

Cord’s eyes went wide, and a single awespren—like a ring of expanding smoke—exploded behind her. “You speak Veden?”

“Of course,” Rysn said, “it—” She cut herself off from saying it was very similar to Alethi, and easy to learn once you knew that language. Easy was a relative term, and these days Rysn was keenly aware that what was easy for one person could be a challenge for another. “It was part of my training as a trademaster. Alethi, Veden, Azish. Even some Iriali.”

“Oh, mala’lini’ka,” Cord said, taking her hand. “Someone who can speak a proper tongue. I wish I’d known this sooner. Listen. The creature we saw? The dead santhid? That is a god, not-captain Rysn. A powerful god.”

“Interesting,” Rysn said. “What kind of god?”

“My people know the gods well,” Cord said, speaking quickly, eagerly. “There are gods that you call spren. There are gods that are like people. But some gods . . . some gods are neither. The one we met is of a group called the Gods Who Sleep Not.”

“And they hide in attics?” Rysn said. “And devour the people who live in the homes?”

“Tuli’iti’na, foolish lowlander talk. Listen. They are a swarm of creatures, but they have one mind each. They have traveled our land, always as a creeping group of cremlings. They are not evil, but they are extremely secretive.”

“I appreciate the information,” Rysn said, thoughtful. “Can you tell me more of these gods who don’t sleep?”

“Maybe,” Cord said. “I know that lowlanders do not listen to our stories or think them true, but please understand. These gods guard treasures. Powerful, terrible treasures.”

“That part sounds encouraging,” Rysn said.

“Yes, but these gods are so dangerous, not-captain. They are associated with apaliki’tokoa’a who lead to treasure. . . . And the stories speak of trials. Tests.”