Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(139)

36

I will not leave you, Susebron wrote, sitting on the floor beside the bed, his back propped up by pillows. I promise.

“How can you be sure?” Siri asked from her place on the bed. “Maybe once you have an heir, you’ll grow tired of life, then give away your Breath.”

First of all, he wrote, I’m still not even sure how I would get an heir. You refuse to explain it to me, nor will you answer my questions.

“They’re embarrassing!” Siri said, feeling her short hair grow red. She turned it back to yellow in an instant.

Secondly, he wrote, I cannot give away my Breath, not if what I understand about BioChroma is true. Do you think I’ve been lied to about how Breath works?

He’s getting much more articulate in his writing, Siri thought as she watched him erase. It’s such a shame that he’s been locked up his entire life.

“I really don’t know that much about it,” she said. “BioChroma isn’t exactly something we focus on in Idris. I suspect that half of the things I know are rumors and exaggerations. For instance, back in Idris, they think you sacrifice people on altars in the court here—I heard that a dozen times from different people.”

He paused, then continued writing. Regardless, we argue something that is absurd. I will not change. I am not going to suddenly decide to kill myself. You do not need to worry.

She sighed.

Siri, he wrote, I lived for fifty years with no information, no knowledge, barely able to communicate. Can you really think that I would kill myself now? Now, when I’ve discovered how to write? When I’ve discovered someone to talk to? When I’ve discovered you?

She smiled. “All right. I believe you. But I still think we have to worry about your priests.”

He didn’t respond, looking away.

Why is he so cursedly loyal to them? she thought.

Finally, he looked back at her. Would you grow your hair?

She raised an eyebrow. “And what color am I to make it?”

Red, he wrote.

“You Hallandren and your bright colors,” she said, shaking her head. “Do you realize that my people considered red the most flagrant of all colors?”

He paused. I’m sorry, he wrote. I did not mean to offend you. I—

He broke off as she reached down and touched his arm. “No,” she said. “Look, I wasn’t arguing. I was just being flirtatious. I’m sorry.”

Flirtatious? he wrote. My storybook doesn’t use this term.

“I know,” Siri said. “That book is too full of stories about children getting eaten by trees and things.”

The stories are metaphors meant to teach—

“Yes, I know,” she said, interrupting him again.

So, what is flirtatious?

“It’s . . .” Colors! How do I get myself into these situations? “It’s when a girl acts hesitant—or sometimes silly—in order to make a man pay more attention to her.”

Why would that make a man pay attention to her?

“Well, like this.” She looked at him, leaning forward a bit. “Do you want me to grow my hair?”

Yes.

“Do you really want me to?”

Of course.

“Well then, if I must,” she said, tossing her head and commanding her hair become a deep auburn red. It flushed midtoss, flaring from yellow to red like ink bleeding into a pool of clear water. Then she made it grow. The ability was more instinctive than conscious—like flexing a muscle. In this case, it was a “muscle” she’d been using a lot lately, since she tended to cut her hair off in the evenings rather than spending the time combing it.

Even as the hair whipped past her face, it grew in length. She tossed her head, one final time—the hair making it feel more heavy, her neck warm from the locks that now tumbled down around her shoulders and down her back, twisting in loose curls.

Susebron looked at her with wide eyes. She met them, then tried a seductive glance. The result seemed so ridiculous to her, however, that she just found herself laughing. She fell back on the bed, newly grown hair flaring around her.

Susebron tapped her leg. She looked over at him, and he stood up, sitting on the side of the bed so that she could see his tablet as he wrote.

You are very strange, he said.

She smiled. “I know. I’m not meant to be a seductress. I can’t keep a straight face.”

Seductress, he wrote. I know that word. It is used in a story when the evil queen tries to tempt the young prince with something, though I don’t know what.

She smiled.

I think she must have been planning to offer him food.

“Yeah,” Siri said. “Good interpretation, there, Seb. Completely right.”

He hesitated. She wasn’t offering food, was she?

Siri smiled again.

He flushed. I feel like such an idiot. There is so much that everyone else understands intrinsically. Yet I have only the stories of a children’s book to guide me. I’ve read them so often that it’s hard to separate myself—and the way I view them—from the child I was when I first read them.

He began to erase furiously. She sat up then laid a hand on his arm.

I know that there are things I’m missing, he wrote. Things that embarrass you, and I have guesses. I am not a fool. And yet, I get frustrated. With your flirtation and sarcasm—both behaviors where you apparently act opposite to what you want—I fear that I will never understand you.