The Way of Kings

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 they’d spent a long time out on this island. She walked to the other room, where their cot was.

“What now?” she called.

“I’m going to measure the spren with your calipers,” he called back. “I’ll take three measurements in a row. Only write down one of the figures I give you. Don’t tell me which one you’re writing down.”

“All right,” she called back. The window was open, and she looked out over a darkening, glassy expanse of water. The Reshi Sea wasn’t as shallow as the Purelake, but it was quite warm most of the time, dotted with tropical islands and the occasional monster of a greatshell.

“Three inches, seven tenths,” Ashir called.

She didn’t write down the figure.

“Two inches, eight tenths.”

She ignored the number this time too, but got her chalk ready to write – as quietly as possible – the next numbers he called out.

“Two inches, three ten– Wow.”

“What?” she called.

“It stopped changing sizes. I assume you wrote down that third number?”

She frowned, walking back into their small living chamber. Ashir’s hotplate sat on a low table to her right. After the Reshi style, there were no chairs, just cushions, and all the furniture was flat and long, rather than tall.

She approached the hearth. One of the two flamespren danced about atop a log, shape changing and length flickering like the flames themselves. The other had taken on a far more stable shape. Its length no longer changed, though its form did slightly.

It seemed locked somehow. It almost looked like a little person as it danced over the fire. She reached up and erased her notation. It immediately began pulsing and changing erratically like the other one.

“Wow,” Ashir repeated. “It’s as if it knows, somehow, that it has been measured. As if merely defining its form traps it somehow. Write down a number.”

“What number?”