Chapter 36

TWENTY-SIX YEARS AGO

E ven long after the sun had gone down, Szeth felt that he was somehow in the shadow of the white-cliffed mountains.

The bleating of lambs filled the air, emerging from the darkness around him with a nervous energy. Like they sensed a predator. Dozens of shepherd families crowded into this ravine, homes left behind, as they were too close to the coast and the ravaging stonewalker raiders.

Szeth and his sister had to work hard to keep their flock—driven hastily through the oncoming dusk—from bleeding into the others. That might prove impossible, given how the shepherds kept pulling farther and farther back, up against the slope of the mountains. Nervously trying to be as far from the raiders as possible.

Up here, you’d start finding stones in the soil—little pebbles that were too small to be worshipped, but big enough that you still shouldn’t touch them, if it could be avoided. You never found ones that small below. Perhaps these pebbles were part of the mountain—a beautiful sign of the love of the spren, who provided it as a protective fortification.

Szeth and Elid eventually got the sheep into a huddle. The beasts wouldn’t sleep easily tonight though; they could sense their masters’ concern. He looked to the sky, and the clouds shrouding moon and stars. The night felt oppressive. Clay lamps made points of light all through the valley around him, but they almost seemed to be swimming in that blackness. Like they were the stars, and he was somehow floating above them …

He left his sister and found his mother beside some improvised firepits, discussing an evening meal to hopefully calm everyone down. Misir wat, a thick paste made of red lentils, eaten with a spoon or fork off a wooden board for a plate. It was the wrong day of the week for meat.

Mother put Szeth to work, which he realized was what he’d wanted in wandering this direction. He busied himself mashing vegetables with vigor. No chopping—the Farmer owned several fine steel knives, crafted by an Honorbearer using their Soulcasting art, but none were available. So he used a clay mortar and pestle to crush the onions, garlic, and spices together—each of which had been lightly braised to soften them.

They’d brought some small portable clay ovens, and had them heating up. The spiced lentils went into the clay dish on the top to simmer. Bread—or today, soda biscuits—went into the oven.

It was good active work. In the distant darkness, music started playing as someone got out their flute. This cut off shortly, leaving the nervous bleating. The Farmer wouldn’t want music to give away their position, in case raiders slipped past his soldiers. That was why they had no bonfires, and minimal lanterns. Indeed, Szeth worked at his mashing only by the shadowy light of the firepit and the oven.

Szeth enjoyed working on meals like this, even if the onions made his eyes water. The Cook—who oversaw the feeding of the people and made certain nobody ever went hungry—had created interesting wooden ladles for measuring. The one Szeth used had the bowl of the ladle split into three sections, with some smaller measuring sections along the handle. All he had to do was fill the largest compartment with oil, the middle one with onion, and the next with garlic. Then he filled the three little divots on the handle with salt, ground chili pepper, and coriander, respectively. He could dump that all into his pestle and begin mashing, and would always have the correct proportions.

Once that was done, he added it to the clay cooking dish—with one scoop of lentils and two of water. The measuring ladle let him work without supervision, and he enjoyed it specifically because it was impossible to do it wrong. Why couldn’t more things in life have a tool like this for exact measuring?

He hadn’t forgotten the choice his family had made in moving the stone, though fretting over it brought him little satisfaction. He finished the entire serving bowl of misir wat, left it simmering, and moved to another—though the Cook herself soon strode past and checked on his work. The girthy woman was dressed all in color, with a red skirt, blue sash, and yellow blouse. Dark, curly hair up in twin buns on her head, skirt parted at the front to show off another splash of yellow underneath. She was one of those who added, a ruling peer of the Farmer.

“Needs more pepper,” she declared of his misir wat.

What? No, he’d done it perfectly. Szeth watched with horror as she added chili, then bustled off. Why … why would she say that? She’d created the measuring tool herself. The soup should taste right. Unless …

He must have done something wrong. Why did he do things wrong even if he had a tool?

Soon another vibrantly dressed figure stepped up to his fire. The Farmer wore his robes over his traditional farming clothing, which would be soiled from the day’s work. The dirty clothing was a symbol, but so were the colors, in this case a violet outer robe and an inner sky-blue one of filmier material. No mere splash of color for the Farmer. He was color.

He had pale skin, like Szeth’s family. Not uncommon in this region, though those with darker skin were more prevalent. “Ah,” he said, seeing Szeth. “Son-Neturo. I had hoped to find your father at the fire.”

“I’ll find him, colors-nimi,” Szeth’s mother said from nearby, where she’d been distributing plates and biscuits.

The Farmer bowed his head and spread his hands, indicating he’d accept her offer of service. Then he accepted a plate of food from the Cook as she bustled back in their direction. The plate had little piles of food across it and a single biscuit, stuck in place with some lentil paste. Szeth guessed the Farmer would have preferred to refuse the meal, as others were still unfed, but one did not contradict the Cook when she delivered food.

The Farmer settled down—robes rustling—on a log near Szeth, who continued working on the next large bowl of misir wat. The man’s presence made Szeth uncomfortable. Was Szeth supposed to say something? Entertain him? Szeth began sweating, despite the cool night air.

“I have heard about you from your father, son-Neturo,” the Farmer said. “Perhaps you could come and dance for my farmers and me in the fields.”

“I … I don’t know, colors-nimi,” Szeth said, blushing. “Entertaining the farmers is usually a job for musicians, isn’t it?”

“It is a job for any who wish it,” the Farmer said.

“Does it … add, though?” Szeth asked. “Dancing doesn’t make anything or feed anyone.”

“Ah, you are young yet,” he said, “if you think that to sweeten a person’s life is not a form of feeding them.” He smiled. The man had a kindly face, oval, like a grain of wheat topped by flaxen hair. His hands were callused, with dirt under the nails, a true sign of nobility.

“Colors-nimi?” Szeth found himself asking. “How … do you know what to do?”

“I’m not sure I follow you, child.”

“The right choices. How do you know what they are?”

The Farmer sat for a time, stirring his food, taking a bite now and then. “Do you know the difference between men and animals, son-Neturo?”

Szeth frowned. It seemed a question with a great number of possible answers, but he didn’t want to give the wrong one.

“Men,” the Farmer said, “can take actions.”

“Animals … take actions, colors-nimi.”

“It may appear that they do, yes. But if you consider, you will realize they do not. Does the rain act when it falls? Does the rock act when it rolls down the hill? No, the spren move these things.”

Was the Farmer testing him? Because his own experience taught him otherwise.

“I have a sheep,” Szeth said. “Molli. She always comes close to me when I’m sad, and she licks my face. She chooses, colors-nimi.”

“Does she now?” the Farmer said, sounding amused. “I think not. Though I suppose it is wisdom, after a fashion, to think your own thoughts, son-Neturo.”

Maybe it … wasn’t a test.

“Well, regardless,” the Farmer said. “You ask how I know what to do? I don’t. That is the simple answer. I try. I see. I act. The spren move most things in the world, child, but they do not move people. There’s a reason for that, one that the Stone Shamans teach, and one I ponder as I work.”

“So … I learn what to do …”

“By trying,” the Farmer said.

“That’s not specific enough,” Szeth said, smashing onions and spices into his wooden pestle. “Two people can try, and come up with different answers. Surely the spren have the truth for us. Surely they will tell us what to do.”

“If they did,” the Farmer said, “would that not be the same as moving us? Making of us rain, or rocks, or … other things that do not move on their own.”

He was about to say sheep, Szeth thought.

The Farmer finished the last of his mash, then glanced up toward the sky. “In other lands, rulers don’t act,” he said calmly. “They decide, but don’t act. That is why I must go each day and bring life from the earth, son-Neturo. Why I must add, rather than subtract.”

That made sense, but Szeth found that his conversation had yielded fewer answers than he’d wished. If the Farmer didn’t automatically know the right thing to do, then what hope did Szeth have?

Perhaps I can find the spren, he thought. And ask them. They lived inside everything, especially stones, but were coy. Szeth had seen only three spren in his life, and each glimpse had been fleeting.

Szeth’s father arrived at the dim fireside.

“Check your measuring tool,” the Farmer said to Szeth. “You’ve been adding too much pepper.” He walked over and joined Szeth’s father, speaking to him softly while washing his plate at the cleaning trough.

Szeth finished mixing his current bowl, then got a plate for himself and one for his sister. He hiked off through the darkness, up to the armpit of the valley, where Elid was sitting on the grass looking pensive, her small ceramic lamp in her lap.

“Szeth,” she whispered, “we’re missing three sheep.”

“We’ll find them in the morning,” he said, handing her a plate. “Probably joined another flock.”

She nodded, and in the flickering light glanced at him, then at the food, then away. Nervous.

“What?” he demanded.

“Molli is one of the missing sheep,” she said. “I know how you favor her, Szeth. It’s all right though. I’m sure she’s simply with one of the other flocks like you said.”

He frowned. Molli did not like other sheep. She was almost blind, yes, but she could smell them. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Do you remember bringing her?”

“I gathered her with the rest before we struck out,” he said. “But there was so much chaos …” He met his sister’s eyes, then turned to the southwest, toward the ocean and their home. A red haze stained the air. The stonewalker raiders liked to attack at night. Their metal lanterns were more effective than ceramic ones, and their arrows could set the roofs of fishing villages ablaze.

The Farmer brought our soldiers, he thought. They’ll be defending the coastlands. It was unlikely any stonewalkers would strike as far inward as Szeth’s family homestead.

“I’ll just … go check some of the nearby flocks,” he said. “She’s easy to spot.”

He lit himself a lamp and sheltered it with his hand, then went searching. But as he worked, calling to nearby shepherds, a feeling of dread built within him. Molli always made her way home. She was the one he didn’t need to worry about when the flock strayed.

And so, after searching five other flocks, Szeth found his eyes drawn southwest again. Toward that blazing horizon. Perhaps it was his conversation with the Farmer, emphasizing that the defining feature of humans was their ability to choose. Perhaps it was the way his family had dug out the rock. Perhaps it was the general tone of the day, whispering that there were no correct answers. Only decisions.

In that moment, Szeth made a choice. A wholly uncharacteristic one that he likely would not have made on any other night. He put out his lamp, trusting the filtered violet moonlight breaking through the clouds, then went stalking into the night. Toward their homestead. To find Molli.

By himself.