Dawnshard (The Stormlight Archive, #3.5)(18)

“Dark Soulcasting,” the captain said. “And bad omens. You should probably see it in person, Rebsk.”





6





Cord, the Horneater woman, dug her hand into the barrel, then pulled it out, letting thick grains of lavis dribble between her fingers. This revealed the worms; though they were generally the same color as the grain, they uncurled and writhed on the surface, then buried themselves again.

“All of the barrels?” Rysn asked.

“Each and every one,” Kstled said, nodding for his sailors to open two more barrels.

“I came to get supplies for food,” the Horneater woman said in thickly accented Alethi. “And discovered. They are . . . every one this thing.”

Rysn watched, troubled, as the sailors demonstrated the presence of worms in the other barrels. She kept meaning to find time to chat with Cord, but the woman had been spending her time in the galley, helping feed the crew. That had reinforced Rysn’s initial assumption that she was a servant. The Radiants, however, didn’t treat Cord that way. So who was she, and why was she here?

“The grain has been cursed,” Kstled muttered. “Dark Soulcasting, performed by evil Passions during the storm.”

“Or,” Rysn said, trying to keep a level head, “we simply bought some stock with dormant larvae hiding inside.”

“We checked thoroughly,” Kstled said. “We always check. And look, this first barrel was left over from our original stores, taken on in Thaylen City. This other one was from an early resupply, and this one we picked up only two days ago. All have worms now.”

She caught the other two sailors nodding, muttering about dark Soulcasting. Wormy grain wasn’t the worst thing—many a sailor had eaten such during a long trip. But the sudden appearance of worms so early after restocking, and infesting all their barrels? This would be seen as an omen.

It was an old thing, of Thaylen superstition. The Passions, it was said, changed the world. “Spontaneous genesis has been disproven multiple times, armsman,” Rysn said to Kstled. “This didn’t happen because there’s some kind of dark Soulcaster aboard our ship.”

“Maybe it happened because of our destination,” he replied. “The men dream terrible dreams full of premonitions, and their dread Passion creates omens.” The other sailors nodded again. Storms, with this, and with the death of the ship’s pet the day before setting sail . . . well, Rysn herself almost believed.

She needed to turn this attitude around quickly. “Kstled, how much of the crew knows about this?”

“All of them, Rebsk,” he replied, glancing toward the Horneater woman.

“My sorrows,” Cord replied. “I did not know this thing was . . . he was bad. . . . I asked others. . . .”

“It is done,” Rysn said, turning to Nikli. “To my cabin, quickly.”

The tattooed porter, along with his assistant, quickly carried her up from the hold to the higher decks. Yes . . . Rysn could imagine the convenience of a small lift, working via fabrial.

When she reached her cabin, she found the Lopen waiting for her. “Something wrong, gancha?”

“Corrupted food stores,” Rysn said. Nikli held her chair while his assistant opened the door. “I need to do something about it quickly.”

“I could fly to one of our outposts,” the Lopen said, following into her cabin. “Lash some more grain into the air and bring it to us.”

“A viable suggestion,” Rysn said as Nikli set her at her desk. She immediately began digging through the notebooks in the bottom drawer. Chiri-Chiri lethargically peeked out of her box and chirped in concern. “However, I feel we need another solution.”

She pulled out a specific notebook, then nodded to Nikli, who bowed and withdrew with his assistant to stand outside. The Lopen remained, lounging beside the door as it clicked closed. She glanced at him. He acted so relaxed all the time; he seemed easy to underestimate.

“This isn’t about just our lack of food, gancha,” he guessed.

“An astute observation,” Rysn said, flipping through her notebook. “One of the biggest dangers at sea is letting your crew get away from you.”

“Like that crew from the ghost ship,” Lopen said, “who seem to have gotten away from everyone . . .”

“I wasn’t referring to anything so dramatic,” Rysn said. “But our situation could quickly turn dangerous if the crew starts to think I’ve brought them on a suicide mission.”

It was one of the conundrums of maritime life. Sometimes good crews, well trained, would mutiny. Her babsk had talked about it, and she’d found herself reading story after story. Spending so long on the ocean, isolated, the crew’s emotions fed off one another. Things that were irrational during brighter days started to seem reasonable. Emotions could take on a life of their own, like spren, and suddenly good crews would become hysterical.

Your best defenses were discipline and swift action. She searched her notebook for notes from a specific trading expedition she’d taken with Vstim several years ago. She’d been a brat back then—but at least she’d been the kind of brat who wrote about how annoyed she was.

There, she thought, finding the entries. An expedition into the wilderness of Hexi. Vstim had purchased wormy grain out of Triax for mere chips, and she’d thought him insane. Who bought grain with worms in it?