Dawnshard

by Brandon Sanderson

  You thought the answer a moment ago, Rysn told herself. This ship was commissioned long before it was given to you. It was sailed by this crew for months. And then . . .

  “Captain,” Rysn said, “did you know Vstim was going to retire?”

  “He . . . spoke of it to me. And others who served him.”

  “Yet he commissioned a new ship. An expensive one, the jewel of his fleet. The best any sea had known. He told you to train a crew, to practice sailing it.”

  “And?”

  “You thought he was going to give it to you, didn’t you?” Rysn said, softening her tone. “You didn’t realize he was planning to give it to me.”

  The captain stiffened. “No sailor would presume that a man like Vstim would simply give them a ship.”

  “But he mentioned he was taking an investment position, didn’t he?” Rysn said. “He knew an appointment from the queen was going to come to him, and he wouldn’t be able to continue his expeditions. So he prepared you all ahead of time. He always watches out for the people he employs.”

  The captain, not meeting Rysn’s eyes, gave an almost imperceptible hint of a nod.

  Storms, that’s it. That’s why. Rysn’s sudden elevation, and her arrival on the ship as its new master, must have taken the entire crew by surprise. Vstim wouldn’t have prepared them for that, not when he hadn’t been certain Rysn would take the appointment.

  All this day, Rysn had been thinking about how the ship wasn’t truly hers. Drlwan must have spent the entire previous voyage thinking the same exact thing.

  “Is that all you need from me, Rebsk?” the captain asked.

  “Yes,” Rysn said. “Thank you.”

  The captain walked off to watch as her brother gathered the crew to relay Rysn’s order. Nikli, always trying to be helpful, brought her a cup of some orange wine, not intoxicating.

  “You heard?” Rysn said.

  “That they are spoiled children? Angry that someone would dare earn an appointment above them?”

  “That is a shallow way of thinking of it, Nikli,” Rysn said, sipping the wine.

  “I’m . . . sorry, Brightness. I’m merely trying to show you support.”

  “You can support me without denigrating others,” Rysn said. “Think instead of how they must feel. You’re new to my employ, so you might not know my reputation.”

  “I’ve heard you were a difficult apprentice.”

  “Difficult?” Rysn said, smiling. “I was a spoiled child, Nikli. I complained about every expedition I went on, despite being shown the very best treatment by my master—one of the most renowned traders in the nation. The sailors who served Vstim would have seen firsthand the type of person I was then. Even if none of these did, they’d have heard.”

  “Everyone acts a little entitled when young.”

  “True,” Rysn said, “but you still wouldn’t be happy when that entitled youth was given the ship you thought would be yours.” She scratched Chiri-Chiri under the neck some more, earning a few quiet, contented chirps.

  “So . . . what do we do?” Nikli asked.

  “I do what Vstim did,” Rysn said. “Spend my life earning the trust of those around me. The captain likely thinks she could do the trademaster’s job, but she’d find negotiations far more difficult than she assumes. Vstim trusts me for a reason. I simply have to show the crew, through my actions, that his trust is well placed.”

  “I don’t know, Brightness,” Nikli said. He turned to glance toward the crew gathered around the man-at-arms, who spoke to them loudly. “I think you’re giving them too much benefit of the doubt. I know how these sailors treated me during our previous trip. They don’t like me. I have odd tattoos, and I’m a foreigner. I tried talking to them, but . . .”

  “A ship’s crew is a family,” Rysn said. “They can be hostile to outsiders. I’ve felt it too. But if you really want to feel like one of them, ask Flend—he’s the man on day shift in the eel’s nest—if he has ever seen a sailorspren.”

  “What will that do?” Nikli asked, frowning.

  “It should make him start a little hazing ritual they often put new sailors through. They love pranking new hands with that old trick.”

  “Hazing,” Nikli said. “Brightness . . . I find the idea distasteful. We shouldn’t encourage such behavior.”

  “Perhaps,” Rysn said. “At first I thought it was cruel. Then I heard about the old hazing rituals. They were often humiliating, sometimes dangerous. After talking to my babsk, I started to realize something. Sometimes you accept deals you don’t want, because they’re better than the alternative.

  “In a perfect world, no one would get hazed. But when I read about attempts by the military to stamp the practice out, I learned that doing so caused more mishaps. Banning hazing made the sailors afraid of being discovered, but it didn’t stop them from acting on the sly with no warning, making it more dangerous. So several far safer practices were encouraged, with the officers turning a blind eye.”

  “A compromise with morality,” Nikli said.

  “An imperfect solution for an imperfect world,” Rysn said. “I won’t force you, of course. But if you want to get to know the others, give my suggestion a try. Play along with their prank, and I’ll increase your wages by whatever they bilk out of you—it won’t be much. They know not to push it too far.”

  Nikli retreated, seeming thoughtful, as Kstled finally returned to the quarterdeck. The captain joined him as he reported to Rysn.

  “Only three crewmembers took the offer, Rebsk,” he said. “And I think we can sail without them. We carry a larger complement these days in case of attack, and those two Radiants will more than make up for three lost swords. Though Nlan, the cook, was among the ones who decided to leave.”

  “That presents a problem,” Drlwan said.

  “I thought so as well,” Kstled said. “But the Radiants said one of their companions is an excellent cook. So we could use her.”

  “I think that will do,” Rysn said. “Captain?”

  “Crew is ready, Rebsk. At your word.”

  “We sail, then.”

  5

  Even with the best winds, a trip all the way from Thaylenah to Aimia would take weeks. Fortunately, Rysn had plenty to occupy her. There were future trade deals to begin setting up, and communications from paralyzed people around the world to answer. Rysn sincerely hoped she’d someday get to meet these friendly letter-writers in person.

  The ship sheltered in coves for highstorms and Everstorms, which let Rysn go briefly ashore to send letters via spanreed. Although the Wandersail had been built to survive storms, sailing during one was still something they would do only in an emergency.

  As the days passed, Rysn tried to learn about the people on her ship—though her crew was difficult to engage. She now recognized their resentment as a form of empathy for their captain, who they felt should have been given the ship. But even without that, talking to them would have been awkward. She was their rebsk, more unapproachable than an officer. When she tried to engage them in conversation, they’d respond in noncommittal ways or grow quiet.

  The Lopen did not have that particular problem.

  He was fascinating. She’d imagined Radiants, and seen them from afar—but hadn’t met many. The one she had the most experience with was the solemn, quiet man she’d visited to see if her legs could be healed. He’d explained to her that he couldn’t heal wounds that were more than a few months old. He’d been aloof, despite his obvious compassion for her situation.

  She’d watched Windrunners soar overhead, and imagined them as mighty warriors. Battlefield legends who inspired with bold actions, heroic deeds. Larger than life. As if cut from stone, sculpted like the statues in the temples of the Heralds in Thaylen City.

  “Now,” the Lopen said to her, prancing around her chair in circles on hands and knees, “you gotta have two hands to properly crawl. I came up with my own version, sure, when I had one hand. But it was more of a shuffle. See?” He m
oved to crawling with one hand, the other behind his back.

  “That . . . looks very much like crawling to me, Radiant the Lopen,” Rysn said.

  “It’s different though,” the Lopen said. “I tell you, I missed being able to do it.”

  “You missed crawling?”

  “Sure. I’d lay in bed and think, ‘Lopen, you used to be a majestic crawler. These louts don’t know how good they have it, being able to crawl whenever they want.’ ”

  “I can’t imagine that if I were restored to the use of my legs, I would wish to do something so silly as crawl around.”

  He flopped down onto the deck beside her chair, rolling over and looking up. “Yeah, maybe. But it’s nice to make people laugh at you for something you do, and not something you can’t control. You know?”

  “I . . . Yes. I think I do.”

  The ship surged across a wave. The seas were moderately rough today, though no storm was predicted. Wavespren danced atop the tips of whited caps across a field of shimmering blue. Rysn sat at her customary station on the quarterdeck, far aft, tucked in the corner beneath her sunshade and securely strapped in. Nikli had been true to his word, and so she now had a nightstand to her right, bolted to the deck, with a latching cabinet where she could store books and writing materials.

  The captain gave the seat a look every time she passed, and Rysn could feel what she was thinking. What an impractical location. Sitting here, Rysn was exposed to the wind and occasional sprays of seawater. Why not stay in her cabin, as Drlwan had suggested?

  People said things like that with a straight face, while being hit by wind and sprays of seawater themselves, never seeing the hypocrisy. Rysn wanted to be up where she could be seen, where she could watch the horizon. She wanted to listen to the sounds of the sea—the sprays, the crashes, and the calls of the sailors as they worked.

  Nearby, Queen Navani’s scribe—a slender ardent named Rushu—knelt beside a box, where she tinkered with some fabrials. Though they were a few weeks into the trip, Rysn hadn’t yet received her promised demonstration of those—though she hoped it would happen today.

  “So . . .” the Lopen said in Alethi, still lying on his back near her seat and staring up at the clouds, “know any good no-legged Thaylen jokes?”

  “None worth sharing.”

  “One-legged jokes seem easier,” the Lopen said. “What do you call a one-legged Thaylen? Lean? Nah, that’s not close enough to a real name. Hmm . . .”

  “Lopen,” Rushu said as she worked, “you should not be tormenting Brightness Rysn with your prattling.”

  The Lopen nodded absently. Then his eyes opened wide. “Oh! Why was the no-legged Thaylen unhappy? Because she’d been de-feeted. Ha! Hey Huio, listen.”

  Rysn couldn’t help smiling as he proceeded to tell the joke in Herdazian to his cousin: a squat bald man with a wide, round face and beefy arms. She thought, from her limited knowledge of the Herdazian language, he then had to explain the pun—completely spoiling the joke. Yet the way the Lopen spoke—with such enthusiasm, such insistence on being seen and not ignored—made her feel relaxed. Even encouraged.

  His cousin, in contrast, was a quiet man. Curiously, Radiant Huio had spent most of the trip so far lending a hand with various shipboard duties. He could tie knots and work the rigging like he’d been born on a ship. Today, he simply nodded pleasantly at the Lopen’s joke and continued working on the rope he’d been untangling. That was a lowly duty, usually assigned to a sailor who had slept in late, but here a Knight Radiant was doing it without being asked.

  “Lopen,” Rushu repeated, “that was not appropriate.”

  “It’s all right, Ardent Rushu,” Rysn said.

  “You shouldn’t have to listen to things like that, Brightness,” the ardent said. “It’s unseemly to make mockery of your ailment.”

  “The thing that’s unseemly,” the Lopen said, “is how people treat us sometimes. Rysn, they ever ask about how it happened? And then get angry if you don’t want to discuss it?”

  “All the time,” she said. “Ash’s eyes, they keep poking at me, like I’m a riddle that exists only to entertain them. Others get quiet around me, and awkward.”

  “Yeah. I used to hate how folks would pretend I was gonna break at any moment.”

  “Like some kind of fragile vase that will tip off the shelf if upset. They can’t see me. They see the chair.”

  “They act so uncomfortable,” the Lopen continued. “They don’t want to look, and don’t want to bring it up, but it hovers about the conversation like a storming spren. But if you have the right joke . . .”

  “Brightness Rysn shouldn’t have to crack jokes at her own expense in order to make other people comfortable with their personal insecurities.”

  “Yup, true,” the Lopen said. “She shouldn’t have to.”

  Rushu nodded curtly, as if she’d won the argument. But Rysn understood the tone in the Lopen’s voice. She shouldn’t have to do such things, but life was unfair, and so you controlled the situation as best you could. Strange, to find such wisdom in a man she’d initially dismissed as silly. She inspected him lying on the deck, and he raised a fist in a gesture of solidarity.

  “Radiant the Lopen,” Rysn said, “. . . um, what do you call a Thaylen who can’t walk?”

  “Not sure, gancha.”

  “Names. From afar.”

  He grinned widely.

  “Of course,” Rysn added. “I’d never stand for that sort of thing.”

  The Lopen about died from laughing. He called to his cousin again, translating the jokes. This time Huio chuckled.

  Rushu huffed, but moved closer to Rysn, carrying a box of gemstones and wire cages. “All right, Brightness. I am sufficiently prepared to provide a demonstration.”

  “Knowing you, sella,” Lopen said to her, “you were prepared yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. What happened? Get distracted by wondering how fish breathe?”

  “We know how fish breathe, Lopen,” Rushu said, setting out her equipment on Rysn’s table. Then she blushed. “I . . . got distracted by reading a new report on a curious interaction between flamespren and logicspren. The most interesting things are being discovered. Apologies, Brightness. I’m prone to letting the days slip past me now and then. But here, I’m ready.”

  She handed Rysn a silvery hoop with half of a glowing ruby attached to the top. “Hold that out in front of you, your arm straight. Excellent, just like that.”

  Rushu stepped back and held up a similar hoop. “Now, twist the gemstone’s housing to conjoin them.”

  Rysn did so. Rushu let go of her hoop, and it remained hanging in the air. The hoop in Rysn’s hand felt slightly heavier than it had before conjoining them.

  “You’re likely aware of this application of rubies,” Rushu said, stepping beneath the sunshade. “It’s how we make spanreeds. Two halves of a ruby, containing two halves of the same spren, can be made to move in tandem with one another.

  “Many people, however, aren’t aware that gemstones can be paired in such a way as to make their movements opposite one another. Traditionally we’ve used amethysts for this, but rubies work as well—and we have an excess of those from the ranches at the Shattered Plains. Now, move your hoop around—but carefully, as the paired one might move differently from the way you anticipate.”

  Indeed, as Rysn moved her hoop down, the floating one rose upward. If she moved her hoop left, the other moved right. It seemed to be a perfect transposition.

  “We’ve known about this for a while,” Rushu explained. “Our current creations are more in application than innovation. We’ve spent months developing housings for fabrials that won’t unduly stress the gemstones, and have begun creating lattices that allow a large number of them to work in conjunction.

  “That is how we create flying platforms. Each has a lattice of rubies conjoined to another lattice that is set up in a convenient location, such as alongside a plateau with a steep cliff. We can lower the
cliffside lattice, and in so doing raise the lattice on a distant battlefield and provide a platform for scouts or archers.”

  “But spanreeds don’t work on ships that are sailing,” Rysn said, moving her hoop around and watching its other half respond. “Why does this?”

  “Well, the problem with spanreeds is that a ship is always rocking and moving,” Rushu explained. “If you’re holding one in your lap and writing, you might feel that you’re being steady—but since the entire ship is moving so much, the reed on the other side will be wobbling around and surging up and down. We’ve found that there is simply too much motion to properly use spanreeds this way. However, right now both of these hoops are on the same ship. They rock together, move together.”

  “But when the ship goes down,” Rysn said, pointing at the other ring, “shouldn’t it go up?”

  “Yes, theoretically,” Rushu said. “But it doesn’t. Only your movements affect it. We believe this has to do with the frame of reference, as applied to the person moving the hoop. Spren, it should be noted, have a curious relationship to our perception of them and their motions. You see both of these hoops in the same frame of reference, so they act together. It’s why the motion and curve of the planet don’t influence spanreeds.

  “It’s proven impossible for someone on a ship with a spanreed to see themselves in the same frame of reference as the person receiving the communication. Perhaps there is a way to train ourselves, but no one has discovered it. Indeed, even the size of the ship can influence these things. If you tried this experiment on a rowboat, for example, the results could be different.”

  That . . . didn’t make much sense to Rysn. Still, it was evident that the ship’s motion didn’t affect the two hoops. They both moved with it, rather than one ring being left behind—or being sent hundreds of feet in the opposite direction as the ship sailed forward.