The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,346

she said absently, scratching out a line on her writing board, then scribbling another line of numbers beneath it.

“Do they?” Ashir asked. “I’ve never been convinced. Oh, I’ve read the speculations, but it just doesn’t seem rational to me. The body must be fed in the Physical Realm, but the spirit exists in a completely different state.”

“A state of ideals,” she replied. “So, you could create ideal foods, perhaps.”

“Hmm…What would be the fun in that? No experimentation.”

“I could do without,” she said, leaning forward to inspect the room’s hearth, where two flamespren danced on the logs’ fire. “If it meant never again having to eat something like that green soup you made last month.”

“Ah,” he said, sounding wistful. “That was something, wasn’t it? Completely revolting, yet made entirely from appetizing ingredients.” He seemed to consider it a personal triumph. “I wonder if they eat in the Cognitive Realm. Is a food there what it sees itself as being? I’ll have to read and see if anyone has ever eaten while visiting Shadesmar.”

Geranid responded with a noncommittal grunt, getting out her calipers and leaning closer to the heat to measure the flamespren. She frowned, then made another notation.

“Here, love,” Ashir said, walking over, then knelt beside her and offered a small bowl. “Give this a try. I think you’ll like it.”

She eyed the contents. Bits of bread covered with a red sauce. It was men’s food, but they were both ardents, so that didn’t matter.

From outside came the sounds of waves gently lapping against the rocks. They were on a tiny Reshi island, technically sent to provide for the religious needs of any Vorin visitors. Some travelers did come to them for that, occasionally even some of the Reshi. But really, this was a way of getting away and focusing on their experiments. Geranid with her spren studies. Ashir with his chemistry–through cooking, of course, as it allowed him to eat the results.

The portly man smiled affably, head shaven, grey beard neatly squared off. They both kept to the rules of their stations, despite their seclusion. One did not write the ending of a lifetime of faith with a sloppy last chapter.

“No green,” she noted, taking the bowl. “That’s a good sign.”

“Hmmm,” he said, leaning down and adjusting his spectacles to inspect her notations. “Yes. It really was fascinating the way that Shin vegetable caramelized. I’m so pleased that Gom brought it to me. You’ll have to go over my notes. I think I got the figures right, but I could be wrong.” He wasn’t as strong at mathematics as he was at theory. Conveniently, Geranid was just the opposite.

She took a spoon and tried the food. She didn’t wear a sleeve on her safehand–another one of the advantages of being an ardent. The food was actually quite good. “Did you try this, Ashir?”

“Nope,” he said, still looking over her figures. “You’re the brave one, my dear.”

She sniffed. “It’s terrible.”

“I can see that from how you’re taking another large bite at this moment.”

“Yes, but you’d hate it. No fruit. Is this fish you added?”

“A dried handful of the little minnows I caught outside this morning. Still don’t know what species they are. Tasty, though.” He hesitated, then looked up at the hearth and its spren. “Geranid, what is this?”

“I think I’ve had a breakthrough,” she said softly.

“But the figures,” he said, tapping the writing board. “You said they were erratic, and they still are.”

“Yes,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the flamespren. “But I can predict when they will be erratic and when they won’t be.”

He looked at her, frowning.

“The spren change when I measure them, Ashir,” she said. “Before I measure, they dance and vary in size, luminosity, and shape. But when I make a notation, they immediately freeze in their current state. Then they remain that way permanently, so far as I can tell.”

“What does it mean?” he asked.

“I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me. I have the figures. You’ve got the imagination, dear one.”

He scratched at his beard, sitting back, and produced a bowl and spoon for himself. He’d sprinkled dried fruit over his portion; Geranid was half convinced he’d joined the ardentia because of his sweet tooth. “What happens if you erase the figures?” he asked.

“The spren go back to being variable,” she said. “Length, shape, luminosity.”

He took a bite of his mush. “Go into the other room.”

“What?”

“Just do it. Take your writing board.”

She sighed, standing up, joints popping. Was she getting that old? Starlight, but