Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,410

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.

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