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in the air. The Mink is right, Dalinar thought. They made a real effort here to strike at us—but something is wrong. We’re missing a piece of the enemy’s plan. As he was watching, a nondescript soldier stepped up beside him. Dalinar had brought only a handful of bodyguards today: three men from the Cobalt Guard, and a single Shardbearer. Cord, the Horneater woman, who had taken it upon herself to join his guards for reasons he didn’t quite understand. He also held a hidden weapon—the man who stood beside him, so ordinary in his Alethi uniform, holding a sheathed sword that was admittedly longer than regulation. Szeth, the Assassin in White, wearing a false face. He didn’t speak, though the complex Lightweaving he wore would disguise his voice. He simply watched, his eyes narrowed. What did he see in this battlefield? What had caught his attention? Szeth suddenly grabbed Dalinar by the front of his uniform and towed him to the side. Dalinar barely had time to shout in surprise as a glowing figure rose up beside the archer platform, radiant with Stormlight and bearing a silvery Blade. Szeth stepped between Dalinar and the Skybreaker, hand going to his sword. But Dalinar caught him by the arm, preventing him from drawing it. Once that weapon came out, dangerous things happened. They would want to be absolutely certain it was needed before unleashing it. The figure was familiar to Dalinar. Dark brown skin, with a birthmark on his cheek. Nalan—called Nale. Herald and leader of the Skybreakers. He had shaved his head recently, and held out his Blade in a defiant—perhaps challenging—posture as he addressed Dalinar. “Bondsmith,” Nale said, “your war is unjust. You must submit to the laws of the—” An arrow slammed into his face, dead center, interrupting him. Dalinar glanced back, then stopped Cord, who was drawing her Shardbow again. “Wait. I’d hear him.” Nale, with a suffering expression, pulled the arrow free and dropped it, letting his Stormlight heal him. Could this man be killed? Ash said the enemy had somehow killed Jezrien—but before, when Heralds died, their souls had returned to Damnation to await torture. Nale didn’t continue his diatribe. He lightly stepped up onto the railing of the platform, then dropped to the deck. He tossed his Blade away, letting it vanish to mist in midair. “How are you a Bondsmith?” Nale asked Dalinar. “You should not exist, Blackthorn. Your cause is not righteous. You should be denied the true Surges of Honor.” “Perhaps it is a sign that you are wrong, Nalan,” Dalinar said. “Perhaps our cause is righteous.” “No,” Nale said. “Other Radiants can lie to themselves and their spren. So-called honorspren prove that morality is shaped by their perceptions. You should be different. Honor should not allow this bonding.” “Honor is dead,” Dalinar said. “And yet,” Nale said, “Honor still should prevent this. Prevent you.” He looked Dalinar up and down. “No Shardblade. Fair enough.” He launched forward, reaching for Dalinar. Szeth was upon him in a moment, but hesitated to draw his
strange Blade. Nale moved with a skyeel’s grace, twisting Szeth about and slamming him to the deck of the wooden platform. The Herald slapped aside Szeth’s sheathed sword, punching him in the crook of the elbow and making him drop his weapon. Nale casually reached up and caught the arrow launched from Cord’s Shardbow mere feet away—an inhuman feat. Dalinar pressed his hands together, reaching beyond reality for the perpendicularity. Nale leaped over Szeth toward Dalinar as the others on the platform shouted, trying to react to the attack. No, the Stormfather said to Dalinar. Touch him. Dalinar hesitated—the power of the perpendicularity at his fingertips—then reached out and pressed his hand to Nale’s chest as the Herald reached for him. Flash. Dalinar saw Nale stepping away from a discarded Blade rammed into the stone. Flash. Nale cradling a child in one arm, his Blade out as dark forces crawled across a ridge nearby. Flash. Nale standing with a group of scholars and unrolling a large writ, filled with writing. “The law cannot be moral,” Nale said to them. “But you can be moral as you create laws. Ever must you protect the weakest, those most likely to be taken advantage of. Institute a right of movement, so that a family who feels their lord is unrighteous can leave his area. Then tie a lord’s authority to the people who follow him.” Flash. Nale kneeling before a highspren. Flash. Nale fighting on a battlefield. Flash. Another fight. Flash. Another fight. The visions came faster and faster; Dalinar could no longer distinguish one from another. Until Flash. Nale clasping hands with a bearded Alethi man, regal and wise. Dalinar knew this was Jezerezeh, though he couldn’t say how. “I will take this charge,” Nale said softly. “With honor.” “Do not consider it an honor,” Jezerezeh said. “A duty, yes, but not an honor.” “I understand. Though I had not expected you would come to an enemy with this offer.” “An enemy, yes,” Jezerezeh said. “But an enemy who was correct all along, making me the villain, not you. We will fix what we’ve broken. Ishar and I agreed. There is no person we would welcome more eagerly into this pact than you. You are the single most honorable man I have ever had the privilege of opposing.” “I wish that were true,” Nale said. “But I will serve as best I can.” The vision faded and Nale lurched away from Dalinar, gasping, his eyes wide. He left a line of light stretching between him and Dalinar. Bondsmith, the Stormfather said in Dalinar’s mind. You forged a brief Connection with him. What did you see? “His past, I think,” Dalinar whispered. “And now…” Nale scratched at his head, and Dalinar saw a skeletal figure overlapping him. Like the echo of light that followed Szeth, only worn, dim. Dalinar stepped forward, walking among his stunned bodyguards, noting eight lines of light extending from Nale into the distance. “I see the Oathpact, I think,” Dalinar said. “The thing that bound them together and made them capable
of holding the enemy in Damnation.” A cage, forged of their spirits, the Stormfather said in his mind. It was broken. Even before Jezrien’s death, they shattered it by what they did long ago. “No, only one line of it is completely broken. The rest are there, but weak, impotent.” Dalinar pointed to one line, bright and powerful. “Except one. Still vibrant.” Nale looked up at him, then ripped free of the line of light Connecting him to Dalinar and threw himself off the platform. The Herald burst alight and shot away as—belatedly—a few Windrunners came to Dalinar’s aid. You wield the power of gods, Dalinar, the Stormfather said. I once thought I knew the extent of your abilities. I have abandoned that ignorant supposition. “Could I reforge it?” Dalinar asked. “Could I remake the Oathpact, and bind the Fused away again?” I do not know. It may be possible, but I have no idea how. Or if it would be wise. The Heralds suffer for what they did. “I saw that in him,” Dalinar said, watching as Nale vanished in the distance. “He is burdened with a terrible pain that warps how he sees reality. An insanity unlike the ones that afflict ordinary men—an insanity that has to do with his worn soul…” Szeth recovered his sword, seeming ashamed he’d been so easily bested. Dalinar did not fault him, nor the others, who insisted that he and the Mink retreat from the battlefield, now that the rout of Taravangian’s troops was fully in progress. Dalinar let the Windrunners spirit him away. All the while, he was lost in thought. He needed to understand his powers. His duty was no longer to stand with a sword held high, shouting orders on the battlefield. He instead needed to find a way to use his abilities to solve this war. Reforge the Oathpact, or barring that, find another solution—one that included binding Odium once and for all. There was more than one way to explore. It turned out you could do it from the center of your own tent, if a group of living relics walked out of the forest and came to visit. The humans thrilled Eshonai. They hadn’t been destroyed after all. And their ways were so strange. They spoke without rhythm, and couldn’t hear the songs of Roshar. They made carapace out of metal and tied it to themselves. Though she first assumed they had lost their forms, she soon realized that they had only a single form, and could never change. They had to deal with the passions of mateform all the time. More intriguing, they brought with them a tribe of dullform creatures who also had no songs. They had skin patterns like the listeners, but didn’t talk, let alone sing. Eshonai found them fascinating and disturbing. Where had the humans found such strange individuals? The humans made camp across the river in the forest, and at first the Five let only a few listeners come to meet them. They worried about frightening away the strange humans if the
entire family came to bother them. Eshonai thought this foolish. The humans wouldn’t grow frightened. They knew ancient things. Methods of forging metal and of writing sounds on paper. Things that the listeners had forgotten during the long sleep, the time they’d spent wearing dullform, memorizing songs by sheer force of will. Eshonai, Klade, and a few others joined a few human scholars, trying to decipher one another’s tongues. Preserved in the songs, fortunately, were human phrases. Perhaps her past with the songs was what helped Eshonai learn faster than the others. Or maybe it was her stubbornness. She spent evenings sitting with the humans, making them repeat sounds over and over late into the night by the light of their brilliant glowing gemstones. That was another thing. Human gemstones glowed far more brightly than listener ones. It had to do with the way the gemstones were cut and shaped. Each day with the humans taught her something new. Once the language barrier began to fall, the humans asked if they could be taken out onto the Shattered Plains. So it was that Eshonai led the way, though she kept them far from the ten ancient cities and the other listener families, for now. Using one of Eshonai’s maps, they approached from the north and walked along the chasms until they reached an ancient listener bridge. The rift in the stone smelled of wet rotting plants. Pungent, but not unpleasant. Where plants rotted, others often soon grew, and the scent of death was the same as the scent of life. The humans followed gingerly across the bridge of wood and rope, the guards going first—wearing their buffed metal carapace breastplates and caps. They seemed to expect the bridge to collapse at any moment. Once across, Eshonai stepped up onto a boulder and took a deep breath, feeling the winds. Overhead, a few windspren swirled in the sky. Once the guards had crossed, some of the others started over as well. Everyone had wanted to come see the Plains where the monsters of the chasms lived. One of the attendants was a curious woman who was the surgeon’s assistant. She climbed up onto the rock beside Eshonai, though her clothing—which enveloped her from neck to ankles and covered up her left hand for some reason—wasn’t particularly good for exploring. It was nice to see that there were some things that the listeners had figured out that the humans hadn’t. “What do you see?” she asked Eshonai in the human tongue. “When you look at the spren?” Eshonai hummed to Consideration. What did she mean? “I see spren,” Eshonai said, speaking slowly and deliberately, as her accent was sometimes bad. “Yes, what do they look like?” “Long white lines,” Eshonai said, pointing at the windspren. “Holes. Small holes? Is there a word?” “Pinpricks, perhaps.” “Pinpricks in sky,” Eshonai said. “And tails, long, very long.” “Curious,” the woman said. She wore a lot of rings on her right hand, though Eshonai couldn’t tell why. It seemed like they would get caught on things. “It is
different.” “Different?” Eshonai said. “We see different?” “Yes,” the woman said. “You seem to see the reality of the spren, or closer to it. Tell me. We have stories, among the humans, of windspren that act like people. Taking different shapes, playing tricks. Have you ever seen one like that?” Eshonai went over the words in her mind. She thought she understood some of it. “Spren like people? Act like people?” “Yes.” “I have seen this,” she said. “Excellent. And windspren that talk? That call you by name? Have you met any like this?” “What?” Eshonai said, attuning Amusement. “Spren talking? No. It seems … not real? Fake, but a story?” “‘Fanciful’ is perhaps the word you want.” “Fanciful,” Eshonai said, examining the sounds in her mind. Yes, there was more than one way to explore. The king and his brother finally crossed onto the plateau. “King” was not a new word to her, as it was mentioned in the songs. There had been debate among the listeners whether they should have a monarch. It seemed to Eshonai that until they managed to stop squabbling and became a single unified people, the discussion was silly. The king’s brother was a brutish man who seemed like a slightly different breed from everyone else. He was the first she’d met, along with a group of human scouts, back in the forest. This human wasn’t simply larger than most of the others, he walked with a different step. His face was harder. If a human could ever be said to have a form, this man was warform. The king himself though … he was proof that humans didn’t have forms. He was so erratic. Sometimes loud and angry, other times quiet and dismissive. Listeners had different emotions too, of course. It was just that this man seemed to defy explanation. Perhaps the fact that the humans spoke with no rhythms made her more surprised when they acted with such passion. He was also the only male in the group who wore a beard. Why was that? “Guide,” the king said, walking up to her. “Is this where the hunts happen?” “Sometimes,” she said. “Depends. It is season, so maybe they come. Maybe not.” The king nodded absently. He had taken little interest in her or any of the listeners. His scouts and scholars, however, seemed as fascinated by Eshonai as she was with them. So she tended to spend time with them. “What kinds of greatshells can live here?” the brother asked. “There doesn’t seem to be space for them, with all these cracks in the ground. Are they like whitespines? Jumping from place to place?” “Whitespine?” she said, not knowing the word. The woman with the rings brought out a book with a drawing in it for her. Eshonai shook her head. “No, not that. They are…” How to explain the monsters of the chasms? “They are great. And large. And powerful. They … these lands are theirs.” “And do your people worship them?” one of the scholars asked. “Worship?” “Reverence. Respect.” “Yes.” Who
wouldn’t respect a beast so mighty? “Their gods, Brightlord,” said the scribe to the king. “As I suspected, they worship these beasts. We must take care with future hunts.” Eshonai hummed to Anxiety, to indicate she was confused—but they didn’t recognize this. They had to say everything with words. “Here,” the king said, pointing. “This plateau seems a good enough place for a break.” The human attendants began unpacking their things—tents made of a marvelous tough cloth, and a variety of foods. They enjoyed their lunches, these humans. Their traveling luxury was so opulent, it made Eshonai wonder what their homes were like. Once they left, she intended to see. If they’d made it here without a properly durable form such as workform, then they must not have come that far. She attuned Amusement. After all these years with no contact, she likely would have found her way to their home on her own, given a few more months. Eshonai kept busy by helping erect the tents. She wanted to figure out the pieces. She was fairly certain she could carve poles like the ones used for holding up the roof. But the cloth was lighter, smoother, than what the listeners could create. One of the workers was having trouble with a knot, so Eshonai took out her knife to cut it free. “What is that?” a voice said from behind her. “Do you mind showing me that knife?” It was the woman with the rings. Eshonai had thought she might be once-mates with the king, considering how often she spoke with him. But apparently there was no relation. Eshonai glanced down, realizing that she’d brought out her good hunting knife. It was one of the weapons her ancestors had salvaged from the ruins at the center of the Plains, with beautiful metal that had lines in it, and a carved hilt of majestic detail. She shrugged and showed it to the woman. The strange woman, in turn, waved urgently to the king. He left the shade and stepped over, taking the knife and narrowing his eyes as he studied it. “Where did you get this?” he asked Eshonai. “It is old,” she said, not wanting to say too much. “Handed down. Generations.” “Lasting back to the False Desolation, perhaps?” the woman asked the king. “Could they really have weapons two thousand years old?” The listener Shardblades were far more marvelous, but Eshonai didn’t speak of those. Her family didn’t own any anyway. “I would like to know,” the king said, “how you—” He was interrupted by a trumping in the near distance. Eshonai spun, attuning Tension. “Monster of Chasms,” she said. “Get soldiers! I did not think one would come close.” “We can handle a…” the king began, but trailed off, and his eyes became wide. An awespren approached—a floating blue ball of a creature that expanded with great enthusiasm. Eshonai turned and saw a distant shadow emerging from a chasm. Sleek yet strong, powerful yet graceful. The beast walked on numerous legs, and didn’t bestow the humans with a glance.
They were to it as it was to the sun—indeed, it turned upward at the light to bask. Gorgeous and mighty, as if the Rhythm of Awe had been given life. “Blood of my fathers…” the king’s brother said, stepping up. “How big is that thing?” “Bigger than any we have in Alethkar,” the king said. “You’d have to make your way to the Herdazian coast to come across a greatshell so large. But those live in the waters.” “These live in chasms,” Eshonai whispered. “It doesn’t seem angry, which is our fortune.” “It might be far enough away that it hasn’t noticed us,” the king’s brother said. “It noticed us,” Eshonai said. “It simply doesn’t care.” Others gathered around, and the king hushed them. Finally, the chasmfiend turned and looked them over. Then it slunk down into the chasm, trailed by a few shimmering chasmspren, like arrows in flight. “Storms,” the king’s brother said. “You mean at any time, standing on these plateaus, one of those might be right below? Prowling about?” “How can they live in those chasms?” one of the women asked. “What do they eat?” It was a more solemn and quick group that returned to their lunch. They were eager to finish and leave, but none of them said it, and none hummed to Anxiety. Of them all, only the king seemed unperturbed. While the others busied themselves, he continued studying Eshonai’s knife, which he hadn’t returned to her. “You truly kept these for thousands of years?” he asked. “No,” she admitted. “We found them. Not my parents. Their parents’ parents. In the ruins.” “Ruins, you say?” he looked up sharply. “What ruins? Those cities the other guide mentioned?” Eshonai cursed Klade softly for having mentioned the ten cities. Deciding not to clarify that she meant the ruins at the center of the Plains, she attuned Anxiety. The way he inspected her made her feel like she was a map that had been drawn wrong. “My people built cities,” she said. “Old parents of my people.” “You don’t say…” he said. “Very curious. You remember those days then? You have records of them?” “We have songs,” she said. “Many songs. Important songs. They talk of the forms we bore. The wars we fought. How we left the … I don’t know the word … the ones of old. Who ruled us. When the Neshua Kadal were fighting, with spren as companions, and had … had things … they could do…” “Radiants?” he said, his voice growing softer. “Your people have stories about the Knights Radiant?” “Yes, maybe?” she said. “I can’t words, yet. Of this.” “Curious, curious.” As she’d expected, the humans decided to return to the forest soon after their meal. They were frightened—all but the king. He spent the entire trip asking about the songs. She had plainly been mistaken when she’d assumed he didn’t care much about the listeners. For from that moment on, he seemed very, very interested. He had his scholars interrogate them about songs, lore, and whether they knew of any
other ruins. When the humans finally left for their lands several days later, King Gavilar gave Eshonai’s people a gift: several crates of modern weapons, made of fine steel. They were no replacement for the ancient weapons, but not all of her people had those. No family had enough to outfit all their warriors. All Gavilar wanted in exchange was a promise: that when he returned in the near future, he wanted to find Eshonai’s people housed in one of the cities at the edge of the Plains. At that time, he said, he hoped to be able to hear from the keepers of songs in person. In my fevered state, I worry I’m unable to focus on what is important. —From Rhythm of War, page 3 Navani set to work organizing her scholars under the careful supervision of a large number of singer guards. The situation left Navani with a delicate problem. She didn’t want to give away more than was absolutely necessary. But if she failed to make progress, Raboniel would eventually notice and take action. For now, Navani set the scholars to doing some busywork. The singers kept her people enclosed in a single one of the two library rooms, so Navani had the wards and younger ardents begin cleaning the room. They gathered up old projects and boxes of notes, then carried them out to stack in the hallway. They needed to make space. She assigned the more experienced scholars to do revision work: going back over projects and either checking calculations or drawing new sketches. Ardents brought out fresh ledgers to go over figures, while Rushu unrolled large schematics and set several younger women to measuring each and every line. This would take up several days, perhaps longer—and it was also quite a natural thing to do. Navani frequently ordered recalculations after an interruption. It restored the scholars to a proper mindset, and they sometimes found legitimate errors. Soon enough, she had an orderly room full of calming sounds. Papers shuffling, pens writing, people quietly discussing. No creationspren or logicspren, as often attended exciting work. Hopefully the singers in the room wouldn’t realize that was odd. Those singers were always underfoot, lingering close enough to overhear what Navani told her people. She’d grown accustomed to a clean workspace—giving her people enough freedom to innovate, but also enough careful corralling to keep them innovating in the proper direction. All of these guards undermined that effort, and Navani often caught her scholars glancing up and staring at some armed brute standing nearby. At least most were merely common soldiers. Only one Fused—other than Raboniel—stayed near the scholars, and she wasn’t one of those unnerving ones who could meld with the rock. No, this was a Fused of Raboniel’s same type, a tall Fused with a topknot and a long face marbled white and red. The femalen sat on the floor, watching them, her eyes glazed over. Navani kept covert watch over this Fused during the morning work. She had been told that many Fused were unhinged, and this one
seemed to fit that description. She often stared off into nothingness, then giggled to herself. She would let her head flop from one side to the other. Why would Raboniel put this one here to watch them? Were there possibly so few sane Fused left that there was no other choice? Navani leaned against the wall, touching her palms to the stone—where a vein of garnet ran almost imperceptibly along one line of strata—and pretended to watch as several young women carried boxes of papers out into the hallway. You didn’t talk to me last night, the Sibling said. “I was being watched,” Navani said under her breath. “They didn’t let me stay in my own rooms, but took me to a smaller one. We’ll need to talk here. You can hear me if I speak very softly like this?” Yes. “Can you see what Raboniel is doing?” She had some workers set up a desk near the shield, where she is doing tests upon it to see if she can get through. “Can she?” I don’t know. This is the first time it has been deployed. But she doesn’t seem to realize you were the one who activated it. She explained to several others that she must have triggered some unknown fail-safe left by the ancient Radiants. She thinks that I must be dead after all this time, since the tower doesn’t work. “Curious,” Navani said. “Why would she think that?” The Midnight Mother told her. That Unmade who infected me for so many years, the one your Radiants frightened away? I remained hidden from her all that time, never fighting back, and so she thinks I died. “All that time?” Navani asked. “How long?” Centuries. “Wasn’t that hard?” No. Why? Centuries mean nothing to me. I do not age. “Other spren act like time has meaning.” Radiant spren, yes. Radiant spren put on a show, pretending as if they are male or female, malen or femalen, when they are neither. They think like humans because they want to be like humans. I do not pretend. I am not human. I do not need to care about time. I do not need to look like you. I do not need to beg for your attention. Navani cocked an eyebrow at that, considering that the Sibling had needed to beg for her help. She held her tongue. How to best use this advantage? What was the path to freedom? Navani liked to think that she could see patterns, that she could make order from chaos. There was a way out of this mess. She had to believe that. Treat it like any other problem, Navani thought to herself. Approach it systematically, breaking it down into manageable pieces. Last night, she’d decided on a few general courses of action. First, she had to maintain the ground she’d already obtained. That meant making certain the Sibling’s shield remained in place. Second, she had to get word to Dalinar and those on the outside, apprising them of what had happened. Third, Navani needed to figure
out what the enemy had done to negate Radiant powers. According to the Sibling, it involved a corruption of ancient tower protections. Navani needed to deactivate it. Finally, she needed to turn that power upon the invaders. Barring that, she needed to use the awakened Radiants to mount a counterattack. Standing here, trapped in the basement and constantly watched, those seemed impossible tasks. But her scholars had made a ship fly. She could do this, with their help. Navani counted off the singer guards as they strolled through the room, looking over the shoulders of working scholars. One stopped the girls carrying out notes and checked through the boxes. That one Fused—the one who kept moving her head from one side to the other, humming a loud rhythm—was watching Navani at the moment. Navani tried not to let that unnerve her, and turned her head so her lips wouldn’t be visible, then continued talking under her breath. “Let’s assume,” she said, “that Raboniel is smart enough to figure out what those ancient Radiants did in creating this shield for you. What would be the best way for her to go about circumventing it?” The Sibling didn’t respond, and Navani began to worry. “Has something happened? Are you well?” I am fine, the Sibling said. But we are not friends, human. You are a slaver. I do not trust you. “You’ve trusted me so far.” Out of necessity. I am safe now. “And for how long will you be safe? You’re saying there is no way for Raboniel to get through?” The Sibling didn’t respond. “Fine,” Navani said. “But I can’t plan a way to help you if I don’t know your weaknesses. You’ll be alone, subject to whatever Raboniel decides to do.” … I hate humans, the Sibling eventually said. Humans twist what is said and always make themselves out to be right. How long until you demand that I bond a human, give up my freedom, and risk my life? I’m sure you’ll have wonderful explanations as to why I should absolutely do that. This time Navani was the one who remained silent. The Sibling could create another Bondsmith, and considering how useful Dalinar’s powers were to the war effort, Navani would be foolish not to seize the opportunity. So she would need to find a way to make the Sibling bond a human again. She’d have to find someone completely unthreatening. Someone who didn’t work with fabrials, someone who wasn’t a politician. Someone the Sibling would like. For now, Navani didn’t prod. The Sibling clearly had some strange ways, but their interactions so far had been quite human, despite what they claimed. And Navani would expect a human to … The shield we created is something Raboniel might have heard about, the Sibling said at last. Therefore, she might understand how to circumvent it. “Tell me more,” Navani said. The shield is an extrapolation of the Surge of Soulcasting. It solidifies the air in a region by persuading it that it is glass. For the shield to be maintained, the
system needs to be fed by external sources of Stormlight. Raboniel might realize this—especially if she researches the remnants of the node you used to activate the shield. There are other nodes like that one, with crystals connected directly to my heart. There were four. You destroyed one. If she finds one of the other three, she could use it to corrupt me from the outside. “So we need to find them first,” Navani said, “and destroy them.” No. NO! That will weaken the shield, then destroy it. We need to defend them. Breaking one was bad enough. Do not think because I gave you permission once, you can continue to do this. Humans always break things. Navani took a deep breath. She had to speak very carefully. “I won’t break any of them unless it’s absolutely necessary. Let’s talk about something else. How did you contact me earlier? Can you work a spanreed?” I hate the things. But using one was necessary. “Yes, but how? Do you have hands somewhere?” Just helpers. There is an insane woman, locked in a monastery, who I contacted. Those isolated, those with permeable souls, respond better to spren sometimes. This one, however, only wrote down everything I said—never responding. I had Dabbid bring her a spanreed, and I communicated through her. Drat. That didn’t seem particularly useful, at least now that spanreeds weren’t working. “How is it that the enemy knocked the Radiants unconscious?” Navani asked. It is an aspect of Ur, the Tower, the Sibling said. A defense set up to prevent the Fused—and the Unmade, depending on circumstances—from entering it. “I encountered a fabrial designed to do the same—one I think must have been modeled after part of the crystal pillar. I don’t mean to be rude, but did you not consider activating this defense when they attacked?” The Sibling fell silent for a time, and Navani wondered if she had pushed the spren too far. Fortunately they spoke again, softly. I have … been wounded. Thousands of years ago, something happened that changed the singers. It hurt me too. Navani covered her shock. “You’re speaking of the binding of that Unmade, which made the singers lose their forms?” Yes. That terrible act touched the souls of all who belong to Roshar. Spren too. “How have no spren mentioned this?” I don’t know. But I lost the rhythm of my Light that day. The tower stopped working. My father, Honor, should have been able to help me, but he was losing his mind. And he soon died … There was enough sorrow in the Sibling’s voice that Navani didn’t push them for answers. This changed everything. When that Fused touched me, the Sibling continued, she corrupted part of me to the tone of Odium. This wouldn’t have been possible, once—but it is now. She fills my system with his Light, ruining me. Corrupting me. “So…” Navani said. “If we could find a way to destroy the Voidlight inside you, or somehow recover the rhythm you lost, you could reactivate the tower to our
defense?” I suppose. It doesn’t seem possible. I feel … like we’re doomed. The mood shift seemed familiarly human. Indeed, Navani felt a little of the same. She rested her head against the wall, closing her eyes. Break it down into little pieces, she reminded herself. Protect the Sibling long enough to figure out the other problems. That’s your first task. You didn’t fill out a map all at once. You did it one line at a time. That was the soul of discovery. But … the Sibling said. “But?” Navani said, opening her eyes. “But what?” But we might not need to wake up any Radiants. There are two in the tower who are still awake. Again Navani nearly broke her calm facade. Why hadn’t the Sibling mentioned this immediately? “How?” One makes sense to me, the Sibling said. She is awake because she was created oddly, to use Light differently from others. She was made by my mother for this purpose. But I have lost track of her, and I do not know where she is. A young woman. Edgedancer. “Lift,” Navani said. That one always had been strange. “You can’t see her anymore?” No. I think one reason I can see parts of the tower has to do with Radiants, who are Connected to me. I caught glimmers of this Edgedancer girl for a while, but she vanished yesterday. She was in a cage, and I suspect they surrounded her with ralkalest. But there is one other. A man. He must be of the Fourth Ideal, but he has no armor. So … maybe of the Third, but close to the Fourth? Perhaps it is something about his closeness to my father—and his closeness to the Surge of Adhesion—that keeps him conscious. His power is that of bonds. This man is a Windrunner, but no longer wears a uniform. Kaladin. “Can you contact him?” * * * Kaladin’s first goal was Stormlight. Fortunately, he knew exactly where to find some infused spheres. Workers frequently erected gemstone lanterns in busier corridors, pushing away the darkness and making the interior more welcoming and comfortable. One such project had been happening on the sixth floor, far enough from his family’s clinic that he felt it wasn’t too dangerous to try approaching. He started by feeling his way through the darkened hallways near his hiding place on the eleventh floor. Together with Syl, he made a mental map of the area, then inched to the perimeter. Kaladin felt like he was leaving a slaver’s cage when he saw that first glimmer of sunlight in the distance, and had to keep himself from running all-out to reach it. Slow, steady, careful. He let Syl explore on ahead. She snuck up to the balcony, then peeked out. Kaladin crouched in the darkness waiting, watching, listening. Finally she darted back and made a swirl in the air, the signal that she hadn’t seen anything suspicious. He emerged into the light. He tried to memorize the strata here in this outermost hallway, then glanced over his shoulder
back into the bowels of the eleventh floor. That corridor was basically a straight shot to his hiding place. His stupid brain imagined forgetting the way and leaving Teft to die, wasting away, perhaps waking at the end. Alone, trapped, terrified … Kaladin shook his head, then inched out into a balcony room where he could survey the exterior of the tower. They hadn’t seen a single guard while walking here. Glancing out, he didn’t see a single Heavenly One flying. What was happening? Had they retreated for some reason? No. He still felt the oppressive dullness, the sign of whatever they’d done to suppress the Radiants. Kaladin leaned out farther. On the plateaus, he saw figures in blue uniforms guarding the Oathgates in their usual locations. He felt a spike of relief, and even disbelief. Had it all been some terrible nightmare? “Kaladin!” Syl hissed. “Someone’s coming.” The two of them pressed their backs to the nearby wall as a group of figures passed through the hallway outside. They were speaking to the rhythms, in Azish. Singer guards—Kaladin caught a glimpse of them carrying spears. He almost jumped them, but restrained himself. There would be an easier and less blatant way of getting a proper weapon. The enemy was clearly still in control. And as he considered it, the truth occurred to him. “They’re making the outside of the tower look like nothing has happened,” he whispered to Syl after the patrol had passed. “They know Dalinar will send Windrunners to scout the tower once communication fails, so the enemy is trying to pretend the place hasn’t been conquered. Those are either Fused illusions, or human sympathizers—perhaps the remnants of Amaram’s army—wearing stolen uniforms.” “And Windrunners won’t be able to get close enough to discover the truth, lest their powers fail,” Syl said. “That part will be suspicious,” Kaladin said. “The enemy can’t keep this going for long.” The two moved to a nearby stairwell. It didn’t seem to be guarded, but he sent Syl ahead to check anyway. Then they started down, finding the tenth, ninth, and eighth floors relatively unguarded. There was simply too much space up here to watch it all. Though they did spot one other patrol at the tower’s perimeter, it was easy going until they reached the seventh floor. Here, leading down to the more populated sixth floor, they found guards at the bottom of the first five stairwells they tried. They had to move inward and find a small out-of-the-way stairwell that Syl remembered. Reaching it meant entering the darkness again. To Kaladin, sunlight was as vital as food or water. Leaving it was agony, but he did it. And as hoped, the smaller stairwell was unguarded. They emerged onto the sixth floor in quiet darkness. It seemed most of the tower’s human population was still confined to quarters. The enemy was working on how to rule this place, which should leave Kaladin with an opening. With that in mind, he sent Syl on a task. She zipped out toward the balcony rooms, leaving
him crouched in the stairwell, armed with his scalpel. Kaladin shivered, wishing he had a coat or jacket. It felt colder now than it ever had in the tower. Whatever the enemy had done to stop the Radiants had also interfered with the tower’s other functions. That made him worry about the people. Syl eventually returned. “Your family is confined to quarters like everyone else,” she said softly. “But there are actual guards at their door. I didn’t dare try to talk to your father or mother, but I saw them together through the window. They look healthy, if frightened.” Kaladin nodded. That was the best he could have hoped for, he supposed. Hopefully his father had talked his way out of trouble, as he’d said. Together, Kaladin and Syl snuck inward to the hallway where the lanterns were being installed. The workers had left a pile of lanterns here, along with tools for drilling their mountings into the rock. They hadn’t left gemstones in the equipment piles, and the lanterns in this particular corridor were empty. But in the next corridor over, the lanterns had been fitted with amethysts—midsized gemstones for light, a little larger than a broam. That meant a lot of Stormlight, if he could get it out. “What do you think?” Kaladin asked Syl. “Grab a crowbar and snap them quickly, then run for it?” “Seems like that would make a lot of noise,” she said, landing on one of the lanterns. “I could just steal the Stormlight and infuse the spheres I’ve been carrying. I wish I could get some of these gemstones though. I need a better reserve.” “We could try to find the lampkeeper and get her keys,” Syl said. “The one assigned to this floor is a lighteyed woman who lives somewhere on the third floor, I think. Lopen tried to get her to go to dinner with him.” “Of course he did,” Syl said. “But … as I think about it, trying to find her seems like it would be difficult and dangerous.” “Agreed.” She stood on the top of the glowing lantern, then flitted around to the side, becoming a ribbon of light, and zipped in through the lantern’s small keyhole. Although she couldn’t pass through solid objects, squeezing through a crack or hole usually served well enough. Her ribbon wound around inside the lantern. These were sturdy iron devices built to resist break-ins. They had glass sides, but those were reinforced with a lattice of metal. A key would unlock one of the faces, letting you swing it open and access the inside. The other faces of the lantern could be unlatched from the inside, and could open as well. Syl flew over to one of these latches and formed into a person again. Theoretically, if you didn’t have a key, you could break the glass and use a wire to manually turn the inside latches to open one of the faces. But the device had been designed to make this difficult, with thick glass and that iron webbing behind. Syl
tried pushing on the latch, but it was too heavy for her. She put her hands on her hips, glaring at it. “Try a Lashing,” Syl called, her voice echoing against the glass, louder than her tiny form would have suggested. “Lashings don’t work,” Kaladin said softly, keeping an eye down the corridor for guard patrols. “Gravitational Lashings don’t work,” Syl said. “The other ones do though, right?” Windrunners had three varieties of Lashings. Most commonly he used the gravitational Lashing, where you infused an object or person and changed the direction gravity pulled them. But there were two others. He’d tested a Full Lashing while carrying Teft to the clinic during the invasion. That Lashing allowed you to infuse an object with Light and command it to stick to anything that touched it. He’d used it during his early days as a bridgeman to stick rocks to a chasm wall. The last Lashing was the most strange and arcane of the three. The Reverse Lashing made something attract other objects. It was like a hybrid of the other two. You infused a surface, then commanded it to pull on specific items. They were drawn to it. As if … as if the object you infused had become the source of gravity. As a bridgeman, Kaladin had unknowingly used this Lashing to pull arrows through the air to his bridge, making them swerve to miss his friends. “What you call ‘Lashings,’” Syl said to him, “are really two Surges working together. Gravitation and Adhesion, combined in different ways. You say Gravitation Lashings don’t work, and Adhesion ones do. What about a Reverse Lashing?” “Haven’t tried,” Kaladin admitted. He stepped to the side and drew the Stormlight out of a different lantern. He felt the energy, the power, in his veins—something he’d been yearning for. He smiled and stepped back, alight with power. “Try making the glass attract the latch,” Syl said, gesturing. “If you can get the latch to move toward you, it will pop out and unlock.” He touched the side of the lantern housing. During the last year, he’d practiced his Lashings. Sigzil had monitored, making him do experiments, as usual. They’d found that a Reverse Lashing required a command—or at least a visualization of what you wanted. As he infused the glass, he tried to imagine the Stormlight attracting things. No, not things. The latch specifically. The Stormlight resisted. As with the basic gravitational Lashing, he could feel the power, but something blocked it. However, the blockage was weaker here. He concentrated, pushing harder, and—like a floodgate opening—the Light suddenly burst from him. A Reverse Lashing didn’t glow as brightly as it should, considering the Stormlight. It was kind of inverted, in a way. But Kaladin’s actions were followed by a faint click. The power had attracted the latch, which—pulled by that unseen force—had popped free of its housing. Eager, Kaladin slipped the front of the lantern open, then plucked the gemstone out and slipped it into his pocket. Syl zipped out. “We need more practice on these, Kaladin.
You don’t use them as instinctively as the other two.” He nodded, thoughtful, and reclaimed the Stormlight he’d pressed into the lantern housing. Then the two of them moved furtively along the corridor, dropping it into darkness with each gemstone stolen. “Reverse Lashings take effort,” Kaladin told Syl softly. “It makes me wonder though, if I could somehow make basic gravitational Lashings function.” He’d come to rely on those in a fight—the ability to leap into the air, to send his opponent flying off. Even the simple ability to make himself lighter so he flowed more easily through the battle. He finished off the last of the lanterns, satisfied with the healthy pocketful of Stormlight. A fortune by Hearthstone terms, though he’d started to grow accustomed to having that much on hand. With these gemstones secured in a dark pouch so his pocket wouldn’t glow, the two of them set off on their next task. Supplies. They kept to the inner part of the floor this time, where they’d be able to see a patrol coming by the light it carried. Kaladin led Syl down some steps, as he had a good idea of where to get food and water. As he’d hoped, the monastery in the middle of the fourth floor wasn’t a high priority to guard. He found a pair of singers in uniform occupying one watchpost along the way, but was able to sneak down a side corridor and find a completely unguarded door. Kaladin and Syl entered, then crept through a corridor lined with cells. He still thought of them that way, even though the ardents here insisted they weren’t a prison. Of course, the rooms the ardents themselves stayed in were properly lit, furnished, and downright homey. Kaladin found one of these by the light under the door, checked the glyph painted on the wood, then slipped in. He startled the ardent inside, the same man he’d met during his earlier visit to this place. Kuno, Kaladin had learned his name was. The ardent had been reading, but scrambled—and failed—to pull his spectacles down onto his eyes as Kaladin crossed the room in a rush and made a shushing gesture. “Are there other guards?” Kaladin whispered. “I saw two at the front gate.” “N-no, Brightlord,” Kuno said, spectacles dangling loosely from his fingers. “I … How? How are you here?” “By the grace of god or luck. I haven’t decided which. I need supplies. Rations, jugs of water. Medical supplies if you have any.” The man stuttered, then leaned close, ignoring the spectacles in his hand as he squinted at Kaladin. “By the Almighty. It really is you. Stormblessed…” “Do you have the things I need?” “Yes, yes,” Kuno said, rising and running his hand across his shaved head, then led the way out of the room. “You were right,” Syl said from Kaladin’s shoulder as he followed. “They probably secured all the guard posts, clinics, and barracks. But an out-of-the way sanitarium…” Kuno took them to a little storeroom. Inside, Kaladin was able to find almost
everything he needed. A hospital robe and bedpan for Teft. Various other articles of clothing. A sponge and washbasin, even a large syringe for feeding someone unconscious. Kaladin packed these into a sack along with bandages, fathom bark for pain, and some antiseptic. Some dried rations followed, mostly Soulcast, but they’d do. He tied four wooden jugs of water to a rope he could sling around his neck, then noticed a bucket with some cleaning supplies in it. He picked out four brushes with thick bristles and sturdy wooden handles, used for scrubbing floors. “Need to … wash some floors, Radiant?” the ardent said. “No, but I can’t fly anymore, so I need these,” Kaladin said, stuffing them in his bag. “You don’t have any broth, do you?” “Not handy,” Kuno said. “Pity. What about a weapon?” “A weapon? Why would you need one? You have your Blade.” “Doesn’t work right now,” Kaladin said. “Well, we don’t keep weapons here, Brightlord,” Kuno said, wiping his face, which was dripping with sweat. “Storms. You mean … you’re going to fight them?” “Resist them, at least.” Kaladin put the rope with the jugs around his neck, then stood with some effort and settled the weight so the cord didn’t bite too harshly. “Don’t tell anyone about me. I don’t want you getting taken in for questioning. I will need more supplies.” “You … you’re going to return? Do this … regularly?” The man pulled his spectacles off and wiped his face again. Kaladin reached out and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “If we lose the tower, we lose the war. I’m not in any shape to fight. I’m going to do it anyway. I don’t need you to lift a spear, but if you could get me some broth and refill my water jugs every couple of days…” The man nodded. “All right. I can … I can do that.” “Good man,” Kaladin said. “As I said, keep this quiet. I don’t want the general public getting it into their heads that they should pick up a spear and start fighting against Fused. If there’s a way out of this mess, it will involve me either getting word to Dalinar or somehow waking the other Radiants.” He drew in a little Stormlight. He would need it to help him carry all this, and seeing the glow gave the ardent an obvious boost of confidence. “Life before death,” Kaladin said to him. “Life before death, Radiant,” Kuno said. Kaladin picked up his sacks and started out into the darkness. It was slow going, but he eventually arrived on the eleventh floor. Here he oriented himself while Syl poked around to see if she could remember the way. They needn’t have worried—a small spark of light appeared in a vein of garnet on the floor. They followed the light to the room where they had left Teft. The door opened easily, without needing more Stormlight. Inside, Kaladin set down his supplies, checked on his friend, then started a better inventory of what he’d grabbed.
The garnet light sparkled on the floor beside him, and he brushed the crystal vein with his fingers. A voice immediately popped into his head. Highmarshal? Is it true? Are you awake and functioning? Kaladin started. It was the queen’s voice. * * * Brightness Navani? Kaladin’s voice said in Navani’s head. I am awake. Basically functioning. My powers are … acting strange. I don’t know why I’m not comatose like the others. Navani drew in a long, deep breath. The Sibling had watched him sneak to the fourth floor, then raid a monastery for supplies. While he’d been returning, Navani had done several circuits of her room—talking to her scholars and giving them encouragement—to not draw suspicion. Now she was back in position, resting against the wall, trying to look bored. She was anything but. She had access to a Knight Radiant, perhaps two if the Sibling could locate Lift. “That is well,” she whispered, the Sibling transferring her words to Kaladin. “For now, I am reluctantly working with our captors. They have me and my scholars locked away in the eastern basement study room, near the gemstone pillar.” Do you know what’s wrong with the Radiants? he asked. “To an extent, yes,” she whispered. “The details are somewhat technical, but the tower had ancient protections to defend it from enemies who were using Voidlight. A Fused scholar inverted this; it now suppresses those who would use Stormlight. She did not complete the tower’s corruption, however. I narrowly prevented her from doing so by erecting a barrier around the pillar. Unfortunately, that same barrier prevents me from undoing the work she did there.” So … what do we do? “I don’t know,” Navani admitted. Dalinar would have probably told her to act strong, to pretend she had a plan when she didn’t—but she wasn’t a general. Pretending never worked with her scholars; they appreciated honesty. “I’ve barely had time to plan, and I’m still dragging from yesterday.” I know that feeling, Kaladin said. “The enemy has made the Oathgates work somehow,” Navani said, a plan forming in her mind. “My first goal is to continue protecting the Sibling, the spren of the tower. My second goal is to get word to my husband and the other monarchs. If we could figure out how the enemy is making the Oathgates work, I might be able to get my spanreeds functioning and send warning.” That sounds like a pretty good start, Brightness, Kaladin said. I’m glad to have a direction to work toward. So you want me to find out how they’re operating the Oathgates? “Exactly. My only guess is that they are powering them with Voidlight somehow—but I tried to make fabrials use Voidlight in the past, and failed. I know for a fact, however, that the enemy has functional spanreeds. I haven’t been able to get a good look at one of those—but if you could find out how they’re using the Oathgates, or other fabrials, that would give me something to work with.” I’d need to get close to the
Oathgates to do that, Kaladin said. And not be seen doing so. “Yes. Can you manage that? I know you said your powers aren’t functioning completely.” I … I’ll find a way, Brightness. I suspect the enemy won’t be using the Oathgates until nighttime. I think they’re trying to keep up a front of nothing being wrong with the tower, in case Dalinar sends scouts. They have some humans wearing Alethi uniforms patrolling outside. At night, even distant Windrunners trying to watch would be visible in the darkness. I suspect they’d find this a safer time to use the Oathgates. Curious indeed. How long did Raboniel realistically think she could keep up such a subterfuge? Surely Dalinar would withdraw from the battlefield in Azir and focus everything on discovering what was wrong with Urithiru. Unless there were aspects to this that Navani wasn’t considering. The implications of that frightened her. She was blind, locked away in this basement. “Highmarshal,” she said to Kaladin, “I’ll try to contact you again tomorrow around the same time. Until then, be warned. The enemy will be seeking a way to disrupt the shield I erected. There are three nodes hidden in the tower, large gemstones infused with Stormlight that are maintaining the barrier, but the Sibling won’t say where they are. “These nodes are direct channels to the heart of the tower, and as such are great points of vulnerability. If you find one, tell me. And be aware, if the enemy gains access to it, they can complete the tower’s corruption.” Yes, sir. Er. Brightness. “I need to go. Lift is awake somewhere too, so it would be worth keeping an eye out for her. At any rate, take care, Highmarshal. If the task proves too dangerous, retreat. We are too few right now to take unwise risks.” Understood. After a moment’s pause, the Sibling’s voice continued, He has gone back to unpacking his supplies. You should be careful though, how you ask after fabrials. Do not forget that I consider what you have done to be a high crime. “I’ve not forgotten,” Navani said. “But surely you don’t oppose the Oathgates.” I do not, the Sibling said, sounding reluctant. Those spren have gone willingly to their transformations. “Do you know why it works? Powering the Oathgates with Voidlight?” No. The Oathgates are not part of me. I will leave you now. Our talking is suspicious. Navani didn’t press the matter, instead making another circuit around her scholars. She wasn’t certain whether she trusted what the Sibling said. Could spren lie? She didn’t think she’d ever asked the Radiants’ spren. A foolish oversight. At any rate, in Kaladin she at least had a connection to the rest of the tower. A lifeline. That was one step forward in finding a way out of this mess. When in such a state, detachment is enviable. I have learned that my greatest discoveries come when I abandon lesser connections. —From Rhythm of War, page 3 undertext Two days after defeating Taravangian’s traitors, Dalinar stood in the war tent,
helping prepare for the larger offensive against the singers in Emul. Just behind him stood Szeth in disguise. Nobody gave the man a second glance; Dalinar often had members of the Cobalt Guard with him. Dalinar surveyed the war table with its maps and lists of troop numbers. So many different pieces, representing the state of their fighting across many different battlefronts. When he’d been younger, these types of abstractions had frustrated him. He’d wanted to be on the battlefield, Blade in hand, smashing his way through enemy lines and making such maps obsolete. Then he’d begun to see the armies behind the little squares on the sheets of paper. Begun to truly grasp how the movement of troops—supplies, logistics, large-scale tactics—was more important than winning a given battle in person. And it had excited him. Somehow he’d moved beyond that now. War—and all its facets—no longer excited him. It was important, and it was a thing he would do. But he had discovered a greater duty. How do we win? Truly win, not merely gain an advantage for a time? He mused on these thoughts as his generals and head scribes presented their final conclusions on the Veden betrayal. “Our troops in southern Alethkar were successfully supported by the Thaylen ships, as you advised,” Teshav said. “Our generals along the coast were able to retreat through a series of fortresses as you directed. They have regrouped at Karanak—which we control. Because none of our battalions were completely surrounded by Vedens, we suffered virtually no losses.” “Our navy locked the Veden ships into their ports,” said Kmakl, the aging Thaylen prince consort. “They won’t break our blockade anytime soon, unless the Fused and Skybreakers give them heavy air support.” “We destroyed almost all the Vedens who betrayed us here,” said Omal, a short Azish general who wore a brightly colored patterned sash across his uniform coat. “Your leadership on the battlefield was excellent, Blackthorn—not to mention the timeliness of your warnings before the battle. Instead of burning our supply dumps and rescuing their king, they were nearly eliminated.” Dalinar looked across the table at the Mink, who was smiling with a gap-toothed sense of satisfaction. “This was very well handled, Uncle,” Jasnah said to him, surveying the war table map. “You averted a catastrophe.” Noura conferred with the Azish emperor, who sat on a throne near the side of the battle tent, then walked over. “We regret the loss of such an important ally in Taravangian,” she said. “This betrayal will be felt—and prosecuted—by the Azish for generations. That said, we too approve of your handling of the situation. You did well to remain suspicious of him all these months, and we were unwise to think his treachery was all in the past.” Dalinar leaned over the table, which was lit with spheres. Though he missed the large illusory map he could create with Shallan, there was something about the tangible feeling of this map, the paper marked up with the thoughts of his best generals, that spoke to him. As he
stared, everything but the map seemed to fade from his view. Something was still wrong. Taravangian had been so subtle for so many months. Yet now he let himself be captured? His armies in Jah Keved seem not to care much about him, Dalinar thought, reading the displayed battle reports and figures as if they were whispered explanations in his ears. The Veden highprinces will be happy to put their own men in charge. And they seem quick to side with the singers, as the Iriali were. Kharbranth, led by Taravangian’s daughter Savrahalidem, had disavowed their former ruler and proclaimed themselves neutral in the conflict—with their surgeons willing to continue serving whichever side petitioned their aid. Dalinar would have his ships blockade them just in case—but he wasn’t about to land troops there and fight a costly battle for such a relatively unimportant target. They likely knew that. The real prize was Taravangian himself. Someone Dalinar already held captive. After the elderly king’s careful posturing over the years, how had he let his empire collapse practically overnight? Why? Why risk it now? “What news of Urithiru?” Dalinar asked. “Windrunners should return soon with their latest visual on the tower,” Teshav said from the dim perimeter of the table. “But Brightness Navani’s most recent spanreed letter indicates that our people there are managing well.” Navani continued to send soldiers hiking along the outside of the mountain faces to deliver messages. Each new bit told them a little more. Some of Taravangian’s scholars had activated a device like the one Highmarshal Kaladin had found. A separate collapse of the tunnels below—likely the work of saboteurs—made getting in and out that way impossible. The device was hidden, and Navani hadn’t been able to find and deactivate it. She worried the search would take weeks. Unfortunately, Dalinar’s scouts had proven the device’s effectiveness. If they drew too close, they not only lost their powers, but dropped unconscious. For now though, it seemed that everyone was safe—though inconvenienced. If Dalinar hadn’t been anticipating the betrayal, things could have gone very differently. He could imagine a version of events where Taravangian’s betrayal threw the coalition into chaos, allowing the singer military to surge forward and push Dalinar’s troops all the way back to Azimir. There, without proper resupply and support, they could have been crushed. Perhaps that’s it, he thought. Perhaps that was what Taravangian was intending—why he risked so much. The king, so far, had remained silent during interrogations. Perhaps Dalinar could speak to him directly and get more information. But he worried that somehow all of this was according to Taravangian’s plans, and Dalinar was second-guessing himself at every point. “Monarchs,” Dalinar said to the group, “I suggest we continue our battle for Emul until we have more information about Urithiru.” “Agreed,” the Azish emperor said immediately. “I will seek approval from the guilds of Thaylenah and the queen,” Prince Kmakl said, scanning through naval reports. “But for now, I have no problem with continuing to let the Alethi generals lead. However, Brightlord Dalinar, you realize
this betrayal is going to make recovering your homeland even more difficult.” “I do,” Dalinar said. “I still believe that the best thing we can do for Alethkar’s eventual recovery is to first secure the West.” Each of those words was a knife stabbing at his heart. It meant giving Alethkar up for years. Perhaps longer. With Jah Keved as a staging area, he’d been able to entertain dreams of striking right for Kholinar. No longer. Storming Taravangian. Damnation take you. With Kmakl and the Azish weighing in, the sole monarch who hadn’t spoken up was Jasnah. She inspected the maps, Wit—as ever—standing at her shoulder. “I assume, Uncle,” she said, “that you will be letting the Mink prosecute this campaign?” “This is a larger conflict than one man can direct on his own,” Dalinar said. “But after his handling of the battle two days ago, I think he’s proven his worth. One of the reasons I worked so hard to recruit him was to have his particular genius directing our strategy.” “At the will of the monarchs,” the Mink said, “I’ll do this—but remember your promises. I won’t have you escape them. Once we inevitably liberate Alethkar, my kingdom is next.” Jasnah nodded. “I would like to see your battle plans, General Dieno. I give my initial approval to our continued offensive into Emul, but I will want details. Losing access to the Oathgates is going to prove disruptive.” With that, Dalinar called an end to the meeting. People began to uncover spheres around the perimeter of the war pavilion—revealing how enormous it truly was. It had to be large enough to accommodate everyone’s entourages, and so the map table looked small once everyone started retreating to their sections of the tent. Kmakl made his way over to the Thaylen scribes, where they used spanreeds to send minutes of the meeting home to Fen and the Thaylen guildmasters. Dalinar shook his head. He agreed with Fen’s decision to stay behind, and wished that Jasnah had made the same choice. Too many monarchs in one location made him nervous. It also bothered him that so much of what Queen Fen did was subject to the whims of a bunch of merchants and guildmasters. If they did win this war, he’d see if he could find a way to help her wrest control of her kingdom from those eels. The Azish and Emuli contingents began to vacate the war tent, letting in some fresh air. Dalinar used a handkerchief to mop at the sweat on the back of his neck—this region of Roshar wasn’t as muggy as the parts around the Reshi Isles, but the summer weather here was still too hot for his taste. He almost wanted to have one of the Windrunners fly him up to a higher altitude where he could get some proper cold air and think clearly. He settled for stepping outside the tent and surveying the camp. They’d commandeered a small town named Laqqi, just inside the Emuli border, not too far from Azimir. That placed it
about a three-day march from the battlefront, where their lines—soon to be reinforced—held against the enemy forces to the south. Little more than a village, Laqqi had been overrun by troops setting up supply stations and command tents. Workers reinforced the eastern approach to block storms, and Windrunners soared through the air. This position made for an excellent command center, close enough to the battlefront to be reached by short flight, but far enough away to be protected from ground assault. Dalinar took some time out here, after checking that little Gav was playing happily with his governess, to think about Evi. Storms, he’d been so proud at Adolin’s birth. How had he let himself miss so much of his son’s childhood? He turned those memories over in his head. At first, he’d found being able to remember Evi to be novel—but the more the memories settled with him, the more they felt comfortable, like a familiar seat by the fire. He was ashamed of so much of what he’d remembered about himself, but he would not trade these memories again. He needed them. Needed her. He enjoyed the fresh air for a time, breathing deeply, before he returned to the tent to get something to drink. Szeth followed with his hand on his oversized sword—the silver sheath and black hilt were masked by a disguise. Szeth didn’t say anything, but Dalinar knew that he considered his defeat by Nale to be shameful. In Dalinar’s estimation, it spoke more of the Herald’s skill than anything else. Why was it Nale so often stayed out of battles, overseeing his Skybreakers from afar? Jasnah joined Dalinar as he poured himself some wine in the tent, by the bar. She knew what Szeth really was, but she was too politic to give him so much as a glance. “You’re stepping away from the fight, Uncle,” she noted quietly. “I expected you to lead the war effort here personally.” “I have found someone more capable to do the job.” “Pardon, Uncle, but you should find a better lie. You never let go of something you’re interested in doing yourself. It’s one of your more consistent behaviors.” He stilled himself, then glanced about the room. She shouldn’t have confronted him here, where representatives of the other monarchs might hear. Knowing Jasnah, that was part of the reason she had done so. With her, every conversation was a little contest, and she always considered the terrain. “I’m beginning to realize something,” he said softly, stepping her over to the side, away from the bar. Szeth stayed close, as did Wit. Others gave them space. “My powers as a Bondsmith are more valuable than we have known. I told you about how, in the battle, I touched Nalan and saw his past.” “A feat you’ve been unable to replicate with Shalash or Talenelat.” “Yes, because I don’t know what I’m doing!” Dalinar said. “I am a weapon we haven’t fully investigated. I need to learn how to use these powers—use them for more than merely renewing spheres and opening
the perpendicularity.” “I appreciate someone wanting to learn, Uncle,” Jasnah said. “But you are already a powerful weapon. You are one of our greatest military minds.” “I need to become something more,” Dalinar said. “I’m worried that this war is going to be an endless give-and-take. We seize Emul, but lose Jah Keved. Back and forth, back and forth. How do we win, Jasnah? What is our end goal?” She nodded slowly. “We need to push Odium to an accord. You think learning about your powers can help you achieve this?” Over a year had passed since Odium had agreed to a contest by champions—but since then, Dalinar hadn’t seen the being. No visits. No visions. Not even a messenger. “Rayse—Odium—is not one to be pushed into anything,” Wit said from over Jasnah’s shoulder. “He might have agreed to a contest in theory, Blackthorn, but he never set terms. And he won’t, as long as he thinks he’s winning this war. You need to frighten him, convince him that he might lose. Only then will he proceed with a contest of champions—as long as the terms limit his losses.” “I would rather a complete victory than something that allows Odium to hedge his bets,” Dalinar said. “Ah, delightful,” Wit replied, holding up his palm and mimicking writing something down. “I’ll just make a note that you’d like to win. Yes, how foolish of me not to realize that, Blackthorn. Total victory. Over a god. Who is currently holding your homeland, and recently gained the allegiance of one of the strongest militaries on the planet. Shall I also have him bake you something sweet as an apology for this whole ‘end of the world’ mess?” “That will do, Wit,” Dalinar said with a sigh. “The baking thing is an actual tradition,” Wit added. “I once visited a place where—if you lose a battle—your mother has to bake the other fellow something tasty. I rather liked those people.” “Pity you didn’t remain with them longer,” Dalinar said. “Ha! Well, I didn’t think it wise to stay around. After all, they were cannibals.” Dalinar shook his head, focusing back on the task at hand. “Wit says we have to somehow persuade Odium we’re a threat. But I think the enemy is manipulating us. This entire trick with Taravangian has me unsettled. We’re dealing with a god, but we aren’t using all the tools at our disposal.” He held up his palm. “With this, I can touch his world, the Spiritual Realm. And when I was fighting Nalan, I felt something, saw something. What if I could reforge the Oathpact? If the Fused stopped being reborn, would that not give us—at last—an edge over Odium? Something to force him to negotiate on our terms?” Jasnah folded her arms, pensive. Wit, however, leaned in. “You know,” Wit whispered, “I think he might be right. I feel ashamed to admit it, but the Blackthorn has seen further than we have, Jasnah. He is more valuable as a Bondsmith than as a general—or even a king.” “You make a
good argument, Uncle,” Jasnah admitted. “I’m simply worried. If your powers are so incredible, it feels dangerous to experiment with them. My own first forays into Soulcasting were deadly at times. What will your greater abilities do, by accident, in similar situations?” It was a valid point, one that left them solemn as they picked up cups of wine and drank in silence, thinking. As they stood there, Prince Kmakl passed by on his way out of the tent, listening as a scribe read him a draft of a letter to the merchant lords of Thaylen City. “Another topic, Uncle,” Jasnah noted. “Lately, I see your eyes narrow when you look at Prince Kmakl. I thought you liked Fen and her husband.” “I do like them,” he said. “I just don’t like how much bureaucracy Fen has to go through before anything gets done. The Azish are even worse. Why name your ruler an ‘emperor’ if he has to get approval from a dozen different functionaries to do his job?” “One is a constitutional monarchy, the other a scholarly republic,” Jasnah said, sounding amused. “What did you expect?” “A king to be a king,” he muttered, drinking the rest of his wine in one gulp. “Both of their governments go back centuries,” Jasnah said. “They’ve had generations to refine their processes. We’d do well to learn from them.” She eyed him, thoughtful. “The days of absolute power in one person’s hands will likely soon pass us by. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m the last true Alethi monarch.” “What would your father say, hearing you talk like that?” “I suspect I could make him understand,” she said. “He was interested in his legacy. Building something that would span generations. His goals were laudable, but his methods … well, our kingdom has been difficult to maintain. A king ruling by the gauntlet and sword can easily see it slip away when he weakens. Compare this to the Azish system, where a bad Prime is unable to single-handedly ruin their government.” “And a good one is unable to accomplish much,” Dalinar said, then held his hand up to forestall further argument. “I see what you’re saying. But I find nobility in the traditional way of rule.” “Having read the histories, I believe the nobility you imagine is created from stories about the inhabitants of ancient days, but rarely possessed by said inhabitants. Those kings tended to live short, brutal lives. No matter. Once we win this war, I expect to have decades to persuade you.” Kelek help him. Dalinar poured himself more orange wine. “I will think on what you said about your powers,” Jasnah said, “and I will see if I can offer any advice on how to proceed. For now, Uncle, know that I trust your judgment in this, and will help support the Mink if you take a smaller role in war planning. You are right, and I was wrong to question.” “One is never wrong to question,” Dalinar said. “You taught me that.” She patted his arm fondly, then walked
off to turn her attention to the maps the Mink was marking up on the war table. Wit lingered, smiling at Dalinar. “I agree with her,” he whispered. “And on the topic of monarchs, I will have you know that I find you to be an endearing despot. You’re so pleasant, I almost don’t find it horrifying that I’m living among a people willing to trust a single man with near-absolute power over the lives of hundreds of thousands—while completely ignoring proper checks and balances upon his potential greed, jealousy, or ambition.” “Did you really have to come with us, Wit?” Dalinar asked. “I…” He trailed off. Then shook his head. “What?” Wit asked. “Never mind. Saying anything would provide you with more rocks to throw at me.” “And you’re supposed to be the dumb one,” Wit said, grinning. “When have I ever mocked you, though?” “All the time, Wit. You mock everyone.” “Do I? Do I really? Hmmm…” He tapped his chin. “I’m gainfully employed as Queen’s Wit, and she expects me to provide only the best of mockery on her behalf. I need to be careful about simply giving it away. Who is going to buy the cow, and all that.” Dalinar frowned. “What is a cow?” “Big, juicy, delicious. Wish I could still eat them. You don’t seem to have them around here, which I find amazing, as I’m sure there was one somewhere in Sadeas’s lineage. Paternal grandfather perhaps. Watch the highprinces. There’s almost certainly going to be a show.” He sauntered off to take his customary position near Jasnah. Watch the highprinces? What did that mean? For the most part, they were becoming a useful lot. Aladar kept reinforcing Dalinar’s trust in him, and Dalinar had sent him to oversee the withdrawal in Alethkar. Hatham had fallen into line, and Dalinar had him watching the supply chain from Azimir. Bethab was proving quite useful as an ambassador stationed in Thaylen City—or, well, his wife was the useful one, but they were both proving helpful. Roion was dead with honors, his son carefully chosen to not make things difficult. Even Sebarial was relevant these days. One highprince was currently with Dalinar in Emul. Ruthar. Dalinar focused on the brawny, bearded man. He was the worst of those left; he fancied himself a soldier, but had never worn a proper uniform in his life. Today he hovered near the far end of the bar, by the strong wines. At least he’d learned to stop contradicting Dalinar in front of the other monarchs. Dalinar narrowed his eyes toward Jasnah, who was making a display of going over the battle plans with the Mink. She’s putting on a show, he thought, noting how she specifically called out details on the maps, suggesting troop arrangements. She did a fair job, though she was no general. The Mink listened to her suggestions, but likely wouldn’t take many of them. He seemed to find her fascinating. Well, Jasnah was a rare gemstone for certain. Was her show for the Mink? No … this had
to do with Ruthar, didn’t it? Further musings were interrupted as a figure in blue entered the tent. Lyn the Windrunner wore her hair in a braid, though wisps had pulled free during her flight. She’d led the most recent scouting of Urithiru. Dalinar waved her over, and noted Jasnah at the map table quieting and turning to listen as Lyn gave her report. “We met with the soldier the queen sent,” the Windrunner explained, saluting. “I myself tried to step through the invisible barrier and approach. I dropped to the snow like I’d taken a hit straight to the jaw. The soldier had to drag me out to the others.” “Did you see my wife?” “No, sir,” Lyn said. “But that hike … it looks brutal. Radiants can’t get within hundreds of yards of the tower, so this soldier has to march all the way back and forth along the ridges for hours to get to where he can send messages.” Dalinar rubbed his chin in thought. Navani’s messages seemed trustworthy, and she cautioned patience. But passcodes were not foolproof, and something about this just felt wrong. “What can you see from a distance? Anything?” “We had to use spyglasses,” Lyn said. “There weren’t as many people out as usual, but there were some Windrunners on the roof, and I think I made out Teft up there, and Isom the Lightweaver. They held up a big sign, with glyphs that we think read ‘patience’ and ‘progress.’” Dalinar nodded. “Thank you, Radiant. Go give a full report, with details, to Brightness Teshav, then get something to eat.” “Thank you, sir,” she said. She started toward the exit. Something nagged at Dalinar, however. That weight hadn’t completely eased. “Lyn?” he called. “Sir?” “The enemy has Lightweavers. Or at least something similar.” “Yes, sir,” she said. “Though the only confirmed report we have of them is that incursion at the Thaylen vault a year ago.” He resisted shooting a glance at Szeth—so quiet, so easy to forget—standing nearby, wearing the face of an Alethi man. “Ask Companylord Sigzil to send another team of scouts later tonight,” Dalinar said. “I’ll infuse the traveling gemstones for another run. Have this new team watch the tower from a distance, hidden, then report anything suspicious they might see.” “Wise suggestion, sir,” Lyn said, then bowed and retreated. Jasnah nodded to him, then returned to her exaggerated discussion of the maps. Yes, she was acting a role here. Dalinar glanced at Ruthar, whose face was steadily growing redder. Perhaps he’d had a few drinks too many while waiting for the monarchs to finish their planning, but plainly he did not like how Jasnah was blatantly interjecting herself into the war plans. It was a masculine art, and Ruthar had been forbidden from participating in the planning today. Looking at him, it was hard not to agree with what Jasnah had said about Alethkar. Gavilar’s grand unification of the kingdom hadn’t lasted ten years past his death before essentially breaking into civil war. Alethi squabbling had ended up favoring men
like Ruthar. Oily, belligerent, aggressive. The last representation of old Alethkar. Jasnah was making herself into bait. And Ruthar bit. Hard. “Am I the only one seeing this?” Ruthar asked a little too loudly to his attendants. “I didn’t say anything when she was made queen. Other nations have queens. But are any of them in this room interrogating a general?” One of his companions tried to calm him, but he brushed her off, shouting, “It’s a disgrace! Dalinar writing? He might as well put on a havah and start painting. We deserve the judgments of the Almighty, after giving the throne to a godless wh—” He stopped himself just in time, perhaps realizing how still the tent had grown. Dalinar stepped forward to berate the man. There was nothing for it now but to— “Wit,” Jasnah said, her voice cold. Wit strode forward, his hands spread to the sides, as if stepping out from behind curtains to face an adoring crowd. “I see you’re envious of those more skilled in the masculine arts than you, Ruthar,” Wit said. “I agree, you could use lessons on how to be a man—but those in this room would teach lessons far too advanced. Let me call in a eunuch to instruct you, and once you’ve reached his level, we’ll talk further.” “Harsher,” Jasnah said. “You speak of honor, Ruthar, though you’ve never known it,” Wit said, his voice rising. “You’ll never find it though. You see, I hid your honor in a place you could never find it: in the arms of someone who truly loves you.” “Wit,” Jasnah said. “Harsher.” “I’ve been speaking to your children, Ruthar,” Wit said. “No, this part isn’t a joke. Relis, Ivanar. Yes, I know them. I know a lot of things. Would you like to explain to the queen where Ivanar’s broken arm last month truly came from? Tell me, do you beat your children because you’re a sadist, or because you’re a coward and they are the only ones who won’t dare fight back? Or … oh, silly Wit. It’s both, isn’t it?” “How dare you!” Ruthar roared, shoving away the attendant who tried to control him. Angerspren rose around his feet, like pools of bubbling blood. “I demand trial by swords! Me versus you, stupid fool. Or me against your champion, if you’re too much of a coward to face me!” “Trial by combat accepted,” Wit said lightly, undoing his belt and sliding free his sheathed sword. “Shall we?” “Fine!” Ruthar said, drawing his sword, causing many of the women and attendants to scatter to the sides of the large tent. “This is idiocy,” Dalinar said, stepping between them. “Ruthar, you’ve been baited. Killing a Queen’s Wit is punishable by exile and forfeit of title. You know this.” Ruthar grunted, the words sinking in. “Besides,” Dalinar said, glancing over his shoulder, “that man is no simple Wit. I’m not sure if you can kill him.” “You tell me I’d forfeit my title,” Ruthar growled. “What title? What lands do I hold? And exile? We are
in exile, Blackthorn. Maybe I should challenge you. You’ve lost our kingdom, and now you expect me to waste my time in foreign lands? Protecting those we should have conquered? We would have, if your nephew had been half the man his father was.” “Ruthar,” Wit said, “you don’t need to fight him. Or me. I accept your challenge, but I exercise my right to choose a champion. You won’t risk losing your lands by killing a Wit.” “Excellent,” Ruthar said. “I accept. Stop trying to interfere, Blackthorn.” Dalinar reluctantly stepped to the side. He felt a mounting dread, but there was nothing illegal here. And he doubted any action he could take would prevent this trap from springing. “So,” Ruthar said, brandishing his sword. “Wit. You call me coward, then wiggle out of a challenge? So be it! Who do you want me to kill, then?” “Your Majesty?” Wit said. “If you don’t mind?” He cocked his sheathed sword to the side, hilt out, as Jasnah brushed past and drew the weapon—a thin, silvery blade that Dalinar didn’t think he’d ever seen unsheathed. Dalinar’s dread deepened as Jasnah stepped into striking range, batting aside Ruthar’s sword. He recovered from his shock and blocked her next strike. She was better than Dalinar might have expected, but her stance was uncertain, and she overreached. At best, she was equal to a promising student. She had two distinct advantages though. She was Radiant. And Ruthar was an idiot. “I refuse this,” he said, tossing his sword aside. “I will not face a woman in combat. It is demeaning.” And so, Jasnah stabbed him straight through the throat. This lunge was better than the previous one, but it was not her skill that won the fight—it was the fact that Ruthar underestimated how far she would go. Indeed, Ruthar’s eyes bulged as shockspren shattered around him as yellow glass. He stumbled back, gushing lifeblood across his beautiful doublet. “Renarin!” Jasnah called. Dalinar’s younger son scrambled into the tent from outside, and the full level of her preparation became manifest. The twisting feeling in Dalinar’s stomach began to release. He’d been preparing to lock down the tent, send guards for Ruthar’s next of kin, and institute martial law. Renarin scurried forward and used his powers as a Truthwatcher to heal Ruthar, sealing up the wound in the man’s neck before he bled out. Still, Dalinar caught the eye of Fisk, the current captain of the Cobalt Guard. He was a solid fellow, bearer of the Blade Loremaker. Fisk nodded in understanding, and covertly signaled his soldiers to create a perimeter around the tent—nobody in or out—until Dalinar was ready to let news of this incident spread. Jasnah held Wit’s sword out to her side, and he took it, clicking his tongue. “Not willing to wipe the blood off first, Brightness? I suppose this is the sword’s first kill. Adonalsium knows, I could never give her that myself. Still.” He wiped the weapon clean with a white handkerchief, glancing at Ruthar. “I’ll be billing you for a
new handkerchief.” Both Wit and Jasnah pointedly ignored the horrified expressions of the room’s attendants. The standout exception was the Mink, who was grinning at the show. Dalinar almost expected him to begin applauding. Dalinar felt no such mirth. Although she hadn’t gone all the way, he didn’t like Jasnah’s statement. Duels of passion were—if not common—an accepted part of Alethi culture. He himself had killed more than one man at a feast or other gathering. It was reminiscent, however, of their barbaric days as broken princedoms. Times that the Alethi tried to pretend had never happened. These days, this sort of thing was supposed to be handled in a more civilized way, with formal challenges and duels in arenas days later. “Ruthar,” Jasnah said, standing above him. “You have insulted me thrice tonight. First, by implying a queen should not take concern for the welfare of her own armies. Second, by threatening to assault my Wit, a man who is an extension of the royal will. Third and worst of all, by judging me unfit to defend myself, despite my calling as a Knight Radiant. “As you have died tonight, and I have bested you legally in combat, I name you forfeit of your title. It will pass to your eldest son, who has been speaking quite frankly with Wit recently. It seems he will make a far more fitting highprince.” “That bastard!” Ruthar croaked. “That traitorous bastard!” “Not yours then, is he?” Wit said. “That explains why I like him.” “What you do from here is your choice,” Jasnah said. “Unfortunately, by the time you leave this tent, you will find that your princedom has quite thoroughly moved on. You’ll be barred entrance to your own camp, should you try to return. I suggest you join the military as a new recruit. Alternatively, you may take up the queen’s charity at the Beggars’ Feasts and poorhouses.” She left him gaping on the floor and touching his healed neck—still wet with blood. Renarin awkwardly hurried after Jasnah as she moved over to the map table. Wit dropped his bloody handkerchief before Ruthar. “How remarkable,” he said. “If you spend your life knocking people down, you eventually find they won’t stand up for you. There’s poetry in that, don’t you think, you storming personification of a cancerous anal discharge?” Dalinar marched up beside Jasnah at the table. Szeth stayed close behind him, carefully watching Ruthar, silent but making certain Dalinar’s back was guarded. Renarin stood with his hands in his pockets and refused to meet Dalinar’s gaze. The boy likely felt guilty for keeping this little plan quiet, though Dalinar wasn’t angry at him. Denying Jasnah was next to impossible in situations like this. “Don’t glare at me, Uncle,” Jasnah said softly. “It was a lesson I had to give. Ruthar was a mouthpiece for many other discontented grumblings.” “I had assumed,” he said, “that you of all people would wish to teach your lessons without a sword.” “I would much prefer it,” she said. “But you cannot tame a feral axehound
with kind words. You use raw meat.” She eyed the still-stunned people in the tent. They were all quite deliberately staying away from Ruthar. Dalinar met Fisk’s eyes, then nodded again. The lockdown could be eased. Ruthar’s closest allies were fickle, and would see his fallen state as a disease to be avoided. Jasnah had already secured the loyalty of those who could have been dangerous—his family and military advisors. “You should know,” Dalinar said, “that I found this entire experience distasteful. And not only because you didn’t warn me it was going to happen.” “That is why I didn’t warn you,” Jasnah said. “Here. This may calm you.” She tapped a paper she’d set onto the map table, which the Mink picked up and began reading with great interest. He looked like he hadn’t been so entertained in years. “A draft of a new law,” the short man said. “Forbidding trial by sword. How unexciting.” Jasnah plucked the paper from his fingers. “I will use my own unfortunate experience today as an example of why this is a terrible tradition. Ruthar’s blood will be the last such spilled. And as we leave this era of barbarism, each and every attendant at court will know that Alethkar’s first queen is a woman unafraid of doing what needs to be done. Herself.” She was firm, so Dalinar tucked away his anger, then turned to leave. A part of him understood her move, and it was likely to be effective. Yet at the same time, it displayed that Jasnah Kholin—brilliant, determined—was not perfect. There were things about her that unnerved even the callous soldier that lived deep inside him. As he walked away, Renarin hurried over. “Sorry,” the boy whispered. “I didn’t know she hadn’t told you.” “It’s all right, son,” Dalinar said. “I suspect that without you, she’d have gone through with the plan anyway—then left him to bleed out on the floor.” Renarin ducked his head. “Father. I’ve … had an episode.” Dalinar stopped. “Anything urgent?” “No.” “Can I find you later today, maybe tomorrow?” Dalinar asked. “I want to help contain the fallout from this stunt.” Renarin nodded quickly, then slipped out of the tent. Ruthar had stumbled to his feet, holding his neck, his gaudy yellow outfit now ruined. He searched around the room as if for succor, but his former friends and attendants were quietly slipping away—leaving only soldiers and the queen, who stood with her back to him. As if Ruthar were no longer worth attention. Wit stood in his jet-black suit, one hand on the map table, leaning at a nearly impossible angle. Dalinar often found Wit with a grin on his face, but not today. Today the man looked cold, emotionless. His eyes were deep voids, their color invisible in the dim light. They maneuvered Ruthar expertly, Dalinar thought. Forced him to make all the wrong moves. Could … I do something similar in facing Odium? Anger the god somehow, forcing him to accept a reckless agreement? How did one intimidate a creature as powerful as
Odium? What, on all of Roshar, could a god possibly fear or hate so much? He’d have to bring up the matter with Jasnah and Wit. Though … not today. Today he’d had enough of their machinations. This song—this tone, this rhythm—sounds so familiar, in ways I cannot explain or express. —From Rhythm of War, page 5 “Only the femalens among your staff read?” Raboniel asked to Craving as they stood in the hallway outside the room with the crystal pillar. “I would have thought better of your instruction, Venli, considering how capable you are in other areas. Your staff shouldn’t follow foolish human customs.” Venli’s staff of singers—the ones carefully recruited in Kholinar over the last year—had arrived in Urithiru via the Oathgate transfers early this morning. Raboniel had immediately put them to work. Nearby, the femalens were sorting through the boxes of notes and equipment the human queen had moved out into the hallway. Young human scribes were adding to that, repositioning boxes, making a general scene of chaos. Venli’s staff, at Raboniel’s order, were doing their best to make sense of it—and to read through the pages and pages of notes to try to find important points to bring to Raboniel’s attention. They would soon take scholarform to help, but the task was still difficult. Venli had instructed them to do their best. Today, Raboniel stood with her back to the blue shield, watching the confusion in the hallway and humming to herself. Venli hummed to Indifference. “Ancient One,” she said, “my staff are good—but they are culturally Alethi. My own people, the listeners, would have happily taught them a better way—but the listeners were taken by Odium, in his wisdom.” “Do you question Odium, Venli?” Raboniel said to Craving. “I have been taught that Passion does a person credit, Ancient One,” Venli said. “And to wonder, to question, is a Passion.” “Indeed. Yet there are many among the Fused who think such Passions should be denied to everyone but themselves. You might find Odium shockingly like one of us in this regard. Or perhaps instead we are like him.” She nodded toward the mess of human scribes and Venli’s staff, working in near-perpetual motion like a pile of cremlings feasting after the rain. “What do you think of this?” “If I had to guess, the human queen seems to be trying to make a mess.” “She’s creating ways to stall that won’t appear like purposeful interference,” Raboniel said to Ridicule, though she seemed more amused than angry. “She complains that she doesn’t have enough space, and constantly reshuffles these boxes to buy time. Also, I suspect she’s trying to establish a presence outside the room—even if just in this hallway—so that she has a better chance of putting her people where they can overhear what we’re saying. She seems to be getting more information than I expected; some of her people might be able to speak my language.” “I find that difficult to believe, Lady of Wishes. From what I’ve been led to understand, it wasn’t but a
year ago that they finally figured out how to read the Dawnchant.” “Yes, curious,” Raboniel said, smiling and speaking to Craving. “Tell me, Venli. Why is it you serve so eagerly after knowing what Odium did to your people?” Timbre pulsed in worry, but Venli had already prepared an answer. “I knew that only the very best among us would earn his favor and reward. Most were simply not worthy.” Raboniel hummed softly, then nodded. She returned to her own work, studying the shield around the pillar. “I’m waiting on reports of the Pursuer’s sweep of the upper floors of the first tier. As well as news of his search for Radiants.” “I will go immediately and ask, Ancient One,” Venli said, stepping away. “Venli,” Raboniel said. “Many mortals in the past sought elevation to stand among the Fused. You should know that, after our initial elevation, he never again granted such a lofty gift to a mortal.” “I … Thank you, Ancient One.” She hummed to Tribute and withdrew, picking her way through the increasingly cluttered hallway. Within her, Timbre pulsed to Amusement. She knew that Venli had no aspirations of becoming a Fused. “Do not be so quick to laud me,” Venli whispered to the spren. “The person I was not so long ago would have been thrilled by the possibility of becoming immortal.” Timbre’s pulses seemed skeptical. But she hadn’t known Venli during that time—and as well she hadn’t. As Venli reached the end of the hallway, she was joined by Dul, the tall stormsetter who was in Venli’s inner group of singers. The ones she’d been promising, over the last year, that she would help escape the Fused. Today Dul wore mediationform, with an open face and smooth, beautiful carapace. He had a mostly red skin pattern with tiny hints of black, like submerged rocks in a deep red sea. He fell into stride with Venli as they walked out into the chamber with the stairs. As far as she knew, this large open room—in the shape of a cylinder—was the sole way up from the basement. They marched up the stairs that wound around the outside, passing over a section of hastily rebuilt steps, until they were far enough from others that no one would be able to overhear them. She quickly checked Shadesmar. That place was strange, with glowing light suffusing everything, but best she could tell, no Voidspren were watching them. Here, isolated on the steps, she felt reasonably safe chatting. “Report,” she whispered. “As you hoped,” he replied as they walked, “we have been able to arrange the supply dumps from Kholinar to our benefit. Alavah and Ron are covertly making packs of supplies that will be easy to grab and take if we need them.” “Excellent,” Venli said. “I don’t know how we’ll escape without being spotted,” Dul said. “Everyone is on edge in this place, and they have guards watching carefully outside for Alethi scouts.” “Something is going to happen, Dul,” Venli said to Determination. “The humans will try to revolt, or
an attack will come, or perhaps that captive queen will find a way to turn fabrials against the Fused. “When that happens, whatever it is, we’re going to be ready to run. I was led here through the mountains, and I memorized the route. We can sneak through those valleys, hiding from the Heavenly Ones in the tree cover. There has to be some out-of-the-way location up here in these wilds where a few dozen people can lose themselves to the world.” Dul paused on the steps, and hummed to Hope. He nearly seemed to have tears in his eyes. “Are you all right?” Venli asked, stopping beside him. He hummed a little louder. “After all this time, I can taste it, Venli. An escape. A way out.” “Be careful,” she said. “We will need some kind of ploy to convince everyone we died, so they don’t search for us. And we have to be very careful not to draw suspicion before that.” “Understood,” he said, then hummed to Tension. “We’ve had a problem with Shumin, the new recruit.” She hummed to Reprimand. “She tried recruiting others,” Dul explained. “She’s been implying she knows someone planning to start a rebellion against the Fused.” Venli hummed to Derision. She didn’t normally use Odium’s rhythms with her friends, but it fit the situation too well. Dul sighed like a human. “It’s the same old problem, Venli. The people willing to listen to us are going to be a little unreliable—if they were fully capable or smart, they wouldn’t dare keep secrets from the Fused.” “So what does that say about you and me?” Venli asked. “Pretty sure that was clearly implied,” Dul said with a grin, speaking to Amusement. “Isolate Shumin,” Venli said. “We don’t dare return her to Kholinar without supervision, but see if you can get her assigned to some kind of menial task without much time to interact with others. And emphasize to her again that she’s not to recruit.” “Understood,” he said softly to Consolation. He glanced upward, along the wide set of winding steps. “I hear the humans almost won here on these steps. No Radiants, and they stood against Fused and Regals.” “Briefly,” Venli said. “But … yes, it was a sight. I almost wanted them to win.” “Is there a path for us there, Venli?” he asked to Pleading. “Go to them, help them, and get help in return?” “You know far more about humans than I do,” Venli said. “What do your instincts say?” He glanced away. “They don’t see us as people. Before, they wouldn’t let me and Mazish marry. One of the only times I spoke to my master was to make that request—a single word, with as much passion as I could muster. He was angry that I dared talk to him. One storming word…” He attracted an angerspren that prowled up the steps below him, like sparking lightning. Timbre pulsed morosely. Her kind had been treated similarly. Yet Venli found herself thinking about the fight on these steps. They were valiant, these
humans. Though you obviously had to be careful not to let them get too much power over you. “When you get back to the others,” Venli said, continuing to climb, “put a few of our people on the crews that are gathering and caring for the unconscious Knights Radiant. We should watch them for an opportunity, just in case.” She had originally hoped they would be able to train her in her powers—but that seemed impossible now. She still didn’t know if she’d be able to use them here without being detected, and was trying to think of a way to find the answer to that. “Understood, Brightness.” He nodded to her as they reached the top of the steps, then parted ways. Venli hummed to Longing. She hoped she wasn’t causing Dul to sing hopeless songs; though she spoke to Confidence, she didn’t know whether there would be a chance for them to escape in the coming weeks. And the more time she spent with Raboniel, the more she worried. That Fused saw things she shouldn’t be able to, piercing plots with keen eyes. Each day Venli’s people lived in secret was another chance for them to be exposed, taken quietly in the night, and either executed or forced to become hosts for the Fused. They needed what she’d promised: to live on their own, as their own nation. Could she really provide that though? Venli, who had never touched anything in her life without making a storm of it. She had gotten one people destroyed already. Timbre pulsed consoling ideas as Venli made her way through the corridors. “I wish I could believe, Timbre,” she said softly. “I really wish I could. But you don’t know what you’re working with in me. You don’t understand.” Timbre pulsed, inquisitive. She wanted to know. Venli had long remained silent about the more difficult parts of her past. The time to share them, however, was long overdue. “The worst of it began,” Venli whispered, “when the humans visited us the second time.…” “A delicate touch…’” Jaxlim said. “‘To … To…’” Venli froze. She looked up from her place by the wall, where she was using some paper—a gift from the humans—to play with letters and beats. Representations of sounds in a possible written language, like the humans used. Her mother stood by the window, doing her daily recitations. The same calming songs, performed by the same beautiful voice that had been Venli’s guide all her days. The foundation upon which she’d built her life. “‘A delicate touch…’” Jaxlim began again. But again she faltered. “‘Nimbleform has a delicate touch,’” Venli prompted. “‘Gave the gods this form to many…’” But her mother didn’t continue singing. She stared out the window, silent, not even humming. It was the second time this week she’d completely forgotten a stanza. Venli rose, setting aside her work and taking her mother’s hand. She attuned Praise, but didn’t know what to say. “I’m merely tired,” Jaxlim said. “From the stress of these strange days and their stranger visitors.” The humans
had promised to return, and since their departure months ago, the family had been abuzz with different ideas of what to do about the strange creatures. “Go,” Jaxlim said. “Find your sister. She said she’d come listen to a recitation, and at least learn the Song of Listing. I will get some sleep. That’s what I need.” Venli helped her mother to the bed. Jaxlim had always seemed so strong, and indeed her body was fit and powerful. Yet she wobbled as she lay down, shaken. Not on the outside, but deep within. Until recently, Jaxlim had never forgotten songs. To even suggest it would have been unthinkable. Once her mother was situated, Venli attuned Determination and stepped out of their home—not into a forest clearing, but into a city. One of the ten ancient ones, surrounded by a broken wall and populated by the remnants of buildings. Finding the humans had emboldened Venli’s family. Bearing newly bestowed weapons, they’d marched to the Shattered Plains and claimed a place among the ten, defeating the family who had held it before them. Once, Venli would have walked tall and proud at that victory. Today, she was too unsettled. She went searching, ignoring cries to Joy in greeting. Where was Eshonai? Surely she hadn’t gone off again, not without telling her sibling and mother.… Fortunately, Venli found her at a scouting tower, built up along the broken wall near the front gates of the city. Eshonai stood on the very top, watching out to the northwest, the direction the humans had come from. “Venli!” she said, grabbing her arm and pulling her to the front of the flimsy wooden scout tower. “Look! That seems like smoke in the distance. From their campfires perhaps?” Venli looked down at the wobbly tower. Was this safe? “I’ve been thinking about what we can learn from them,” Eshonai said to Excitement. “Oh, it will feel so good to show them to the rest of the families! That will stop everyone from doubting our word, won’t it? Seeing the humans themselves!” “That will feel good,” Venli admitted. She knelt, holding to the wooden floor while Eshonai stood up on her toes. Storms! It looked like she was about to climb onto the railing. “What must their cities be like?” Eshonai said. “I think I will leave with them this time. Travel the world. See it all!” “Eshonai, no!” Venli said. And the true panic in her rhythm made Eshonai finally pause. “Sister?” she asked. Venli searched for the right words. To talk to Eshonai about their mother. About what … seemed to be happening. But she couldn’t confront it. It was as if by voicing her fears, she’d make them real. She wanted to pretend it was nothing. As long as she could. “You were supposed to come today,” Venli said, “and listen to one of the songs. Maybe learn one again.” “We have you and Mother for that,” Eshonai said, looking toward the horizon. “I haven’t the mind for it.” But I need you with me, Venli thought.
With us. Together. I need my sister. “I’m going to lead a scout group to go investigate that smoke,” Eshonai said, moving toward the ladder. “Tell Mother for me, will you?” She was gone before Venli could say anything. A day later, Eshonai came back triumphant. The humans had indeed returned. * * * It didn’t take long for Venli to find the humans tedious. Though they’d barely noticed her on the first visit, this time they wouldn’t leave her alone. They wanted to hear the songs over and over. It was so frustrating! They couldn’t replicate the songs if they did memorize them—they couldn’t hear the rhythms. Worse, when she performed, the humans kept interrupting and asking for more information, more explanations, more accurate translations. Infuriating, she thought, attuned to Irritation. She’d started to learn their language because Jaxlim insisted, but it didn’t seem a good use of her time or her talents. The humans should learn her language. When they finally let her go for the day, she stepped out of the building and welcomed the sunlight. Sitting outside were three of those dull-minded, stupid “parshmen” who didn’t have songs. Seeing them made Venli uncomfortable. Was that what the humans thought she was like? Some simpleton? Some of her family tried to talk to the parshmen, but Venli stayed away. She didn’t like how they made her feel. They weren’t her people, any more than the humans were. She scanned the bustling city, noting the crowds of listeners nearby. The humans drew so many gawkers. Listeners from many families—even lowly ones who didn’t have a city—came to catch a glimpse. Lines of people of all varieties of skin patterns stuffed the streets, meaning that Venli was crowded as she pushed through them. “They probably won’t come out for a while yet,” she said to Reprimand to a group of listeners she didn’t recognize. “You are the apprentice keeper of songs,” one of them said, “of the family who discovered the humans.” He said it to Awe, which made Venli pause. So he knew of her, did he? “I am no apprentice,” she said. “I am simply waiting, as is respectful, upon my mother’s word before I take my place.” She glanced back toward the building she’d left. Like many in the city, it was made of ancient walls covered in crem, with a roof of carapace. The humans had been allowed to make camp here, inside the walls, with their tents and their strange wooden vehicles that could withstand a storm. It seemed unfair that their moving structures should last better than the buildings the listeners built. “I’ve spent many hours with them so far,” Venli said to Consideration. “What would you know of them? I can tell you.” “Do they really lack souls?” asked a female in mateform. Silly things. Venli intended to never adopt that form. “That’s one theory,” Venli said. “They can’t hear the rhythms, and they seem dull of speech and mind. Makes me wonder why they were so difficult for our ancestors to fight.” “They
work metal as if it were wax,” another said. “Look at that armor.” “Far less practical than carapace would be,” Venli said. “We don’t have carapace armor anymore,” another said. That was true, of course; their current forms didn’t have much carapace. Most of what they knew about grander forms such as warform came from the songs. And Venli, infuriatingly, hadn’t made progress in discovering that one. Still, wouldn’t growing your own armor be much better than what the humans did? Well, she answered a few more questions, though she wished for the listeners to notice how tired she was from reciting songs all day. Couldn’t they at least have fetched her something to drink? Eventually she moved on, and tried to push through her bad mood. She should probably enjoy reciting songs for the humans—she did enjoy the music. But she didn’t miss that Jaxlim always had them come to Venli. Her mother didn’t want to be seen making a mistake by anyone, particularly not these humans. Deep down, that was probably the real source of Venli’s irritation. The knot of worry that festered in her gut, making her feel helpless. And alone. Nearby, on the street, listeners changed their rhythms. Venli suspected what it was before she turned and saw Eshonai striding down the street. Everyone knew her, of course. The one who had discovered the humans. Venli almost went to her. But why? There was never any comfort to be found in her presence. Only more talk of the human world, their cities and their mystery. And no talk of the real problems at home Eshonai continued to ignore. So instead, Venli slipped between two small buildings and emerged onto a street on the other side. Maybe she could go to the fields and see Demid. She started that way … then stopped. No, they had decided not to show the humans how they used Stormlight to grow plants. The songs cautioned that this secret should not be shared. So they weren’t working the fields, and Demid wouldn’t be there. Instead Venli made her way down to the plateaus, where she could be alone. Just her and the lifespren. She attuned Peace to check the time, then settled down and stared over the broken plateaus, trying to soothe her worry about her mother. Worry that she would have to take over being keeper of songs, as she’d claimed she was to those listeners—a boast that now seemed far too puffed up. Venli didn’t want to replace Jaxlim. She wanted to go back to the way things had been before the humans arrived. The moment she thought that, she saw a human female leave the city above and come walking in her direction. Venli sighed. Couldn’t they leave her for one movement? Well, they all assumed she couldn’t speak their language, and so she could play dumb. And … it wouldn’t require much pretending. Their rhythmless dead language was hard to understand. The female gestured for permission, then sat next to Venli. She was the one with the rings on
her exposed hand. Some kind of surgeon, Venli had been told. She didn’t seem important. Most everyone ignored her—she was basically one of the servants. “It’s quite impressive, isn’t it?” the human said in the listener tongue, looking over the Shattered Plains. “Something terrible must have happened here. Doesn’t seem like those plateaus could have formed naturally.” Venli attuned Anxiety. The woman spoke the words without a rhythm, yes, but they were perfectly understandable. “How…” Venli said, then hummed to Betrayal. “Oh, I’ve always been good with languages,” the female said. “My name is Axindweth. Though few here know me by that name, I give it to you.” “Why?” “Because I think we’re going to be friends, Venli,” she said. “I’ve been sent to search out someone like you. Someone who remembers what your people used to be. Someone who wants to restore the glory that you’ve lost.” “We are glorious,” Venli said, attuning Irritation and standing. “Glorious?” Axindweth said. “Living in crem huts? Making stone tools because you’ve forgotten how to forge metal? Living all your lives in two forms, when you used to have dozens?” “What do you know about any of this?” Venli said, turning to leave. Her mother would be very interested to hear one of the humans had been hiding the ability to speak their language. “I know much about too many things,” the woman said. “Would you like to learn how to obtain a form of power, Venli?” Venli looked back. “We abandoned those. They are dangerous. They let the old gods control our ancestors.” “Isn’t it odd,” Axindweth said, “how much stock you put in what your ancestors said? A dusty old group of people that you’ve never met? If you gathered a collection of listeners from the other families, would you let them decide your future? That’s all they were, your ancient ancestors. A random group of people.” “Not random,” Venli said to Praise. “They had strength. They left their gods to find freedom.” “Yes,” Axindweth said. “I suppose they did.” Venli continued on her way. Stupid human. “There were forms of power that could heal someone, you know,” the human said idly. Venli froze in place. Then she spun, attuning Betrayal again. How did she know about Venli’s mother? “Yes,” Axindweth said, toying with one of her rings, staring out away from Venli. “Great things were once possible for your people. Your ancestors, the ones you revere, might have been brave. But have you ever asked yourself about the things they didn’t leave you in songs? Have you seen the holes in their stories? You bear the pain of their actions, living without forms for generations. Exiled. Shouldn’t you have the choices they did, weighing forms of power against your current life?” “How do you know all these things?” Venli demanded, walking back. “How do you know about forms of power? Who are you?” The woman removed something from within her covered sleeve. A single glowing gemstone. Blood red. “Take that into a storm,” the woman said. “And break it. Inside, you will
find a path toward saving those you love.” The woman stood and left the gem sitting on the rock. I am led to wonder, from experiences such as this, if we have been wrong. We call humans alien to Roshar, yet they have lived here for thousands of years now. Perhaps it is time to acknowledge there are no aliens or interlopers. Only cousins. —From Rhythm of War, page 5 undertext Timbre was uncharacteristically silent as Venli finished her account. Venli had taken the long way up to the sixth floor to gather reports for Raboniel, and had spent the time explaining about that day—the day she’d made her first choice down this path. The day she’d taken that gemstone, and hidden it from her mother and her sister. Venli could tell herself all she wanted that her motives had been noble. She knew the truth. She’d kept that secret because she’d been afraid of losing the glory of discovering a new form to her sister. Instead, the reverse had happened; Venli lived her sister’s destiny. Venli had ended up with Timbre. Venli had become Radiant. Venli had lived. These were proof that the cosmere made mistakes. Venli entered the refreshingly cool sixth-floor balcony room where scouting operations had been set up. Raboniel thought the humans had deliberately destroyed maps of the tower, so this group was making their own. Ruling this place was going to be a huge chore, one Venli was glad she didn’t have to organize. The singers here hummed to Praise as Venli entered, showing her respect. Even the two relayform Regals gave deference to a Voice such as Venli. She asked for, and was given, a wide range of reports on the activities up here. Everything from the seventh floor up was unoccupied. Consequently, they were setting up checkpoints at each stairwell on the sixth floor, worried that panicked humans might try to hide on the many upper floors once confinement to quarters was relaxed. And confinement to quarters would need to be relaxed soon. The humans were running out of food and water. Venli suspected Raboniel would give the word for normal operations to recommence by the end of the day. They’d found a large number of unconscious Radiants, many of whom had been in the homes of people trying to protect or hide them. Venli hummed to Derision as she scanned the list. The foolish people were lucky; Raboniel was more lenient than some Fused. She had ordered that anyone found keeping Radiants would be punished, and the Radiants executed—but that any Radiants revealed willingly would be spared. It had been a wise move: many Radiants had been offered up after her announcement. The few found later had been executed, along with one member of each family hiding them. A stern but just application of the law. Timbre found it horrifying. Venli found it amazing Raboniel hadn’t executed them all. She wants these Radiants for something, she thought. Something to do with her plans, her experiments. Venli had not forgotten what had earned the Lady
of Wishes her terrible reputation: an attempt long ago to create a disease that would end the war by exterminating all of humankind. Well, Venli might have her own use for these Radiants. She listened with half an ear to the reports, until the relayform said something that drew her full attention. “Wait,” Venli said. “Repeat that?” “A human surgeon killed one of our number during the investigations the other night,” the malen said. “I haven’t heard of this,” Venli said. “We reported it at the time, and a Fused took charge immediately, so we assumed it had gotten back to Raboniel. This human took an unconscious Windrunner with him when he fled.” “Which Fused did you report this to?” “The Pursuer.” Timbre pulsed worryingly. “Do we have a description of this human surgeon?” Venli asked. “Tall male,” the Regal said. “Shoulder-length wavy hair. Slave brands. The soldier who witnessed the event claimed the human was glowing with Stormlight, but we suspect our soldier was merely rattled. He proved to be a coward, and has been assigned to waste detail.” Venli hummed to Thoughtfulness, though she felt a mounting dread. Kaladin Stormblessed was in the tower; he hadn’t gone with the main bulk of his kind to the war in Emul. And he was … somehow still conscious? Leshwi would want to know that. She had asked Venli to watch over Raboniel specifically, but surely this was a matter deserving of her true master’s attention. “I see,” Venli said to Thoughtfulness. “Has this human been found?” “He fled to the upper floors,” the Regal explained to Spite. “We searched and found nothing—even the Pursuer, who was certain the human was close, was unable to locate him.” “The Lady of Wishes will find this interesting,” Venli said. “Send me word if anything more is discovered.” The Regal hummed to Command in acknowledgment, then gave Venli a list with descriptions of all the other Radiants surrendered to this group. Raboniel wanted them kept all in one room, being watched. Venli would have to put her people to work looking for a suitable location. One conscious Windrunner, when all the others remained unconscious. Yes, she’d find a way to send a note about this to Leshwi. “The singer who saw the human kill our soldier,” Venli said, moving to leave. “Give me his name and station. The Lady of Wishes may want me to interrogate him.” The Regal hummed to Derision. “The coward won’t be able to tell you much. If the Lady of Wishes is truly interested in this murderous human, she should wait until this evening for another report.” “Why?” “By then the Pursuer will have interrogated the human’s family,” the Regal said. “And will have exacted revenge for the death of our soldier.” The rhythms went silent. Timbre, hidden deep within Venli’s gemheart, seemed to be holding her breath. “We captured them, then?” Venli said. “They’re locked in the clinic a short way from here,” the Regal said to Craving. “A surgeon, his wife, one child. We only now discovered they are
the murderous human’s family. It’s a pity the Lady of Wishes has ordered us to be so tame during this occupation, but at least we’ll get a little blood tonight.” Venli tried to hum to Conceit as she left, but found nothing. No rhythms at all—it was unnerving. She shoved the list of descriptions in her pocket, and as soon as she was a short way from the scout post she hissed, “What are you doing?” Timbre pulsed, and the rhythms slowly returned. Venli relaxed. For a moment she’d worried something was wrong. Timbre pulsed morosely. To her, something was wrong. “I agree that it’s unfortunate about the Windrunner’s family,” Venli said. “But at the same time, their son was involved in killing one of our troops.” Timbre pulsed again. “I suppose they aren’t our troops,” Venli agreed. “But why do you care so much? Don’t you hate humans?” That drew a sharp rebuke. Just because Timbre and the other Reachers had decided not to bond humans any longer, it didn’t mean she hated them. And killing someone’s family because they resisted? That was terrible. Many Fused wouldn’t take that step, but the Pursuer—and his troops … well, she’d heard the bloodthirst in that relayform’s rhythms. Venli walked in silence, troubled. She had her own business to see to, her own problems. Yet Timbre continued to pulse softly, urging her. Venli had seen the Blackthorn once in a vision. The Bondsmith. He’d shown her kindness. And so many of the humans of this tower, they were just people trying to live their lives. Eshonai would have done something. “I’m a fraud, Timbre,” Venli whispered. “A fake Radiant. I don’t know what I’m doing.” Timbre pulsed. The meaning was clear. I do. It was enough. Venli turned and started down the steps, picking up speed as she went. There wasn’t much Venli could do directly to help the family. Her authority as Voice certainly wouldn’t extend to countering the will of the Pursuer. Instead she made her way to the majestic atrium of the tower. This enormous opening far within the tower reminded her of the shaft that led to the basement—a circular breach in the stone. Only this was on a far grander scale, over a hundred feet wide. It stretched tall, high into the darkness above, and seemed to reach all the way to the very top. Lifts ran up and down the inside of the atrium, though they needed Voidlight to work now. The far wall—pointed directly east—was not stone, but instead a flat glass window. Amazingly large, it showed snow-covered peaks and provided natural light to the entire atrium. The lifts were barely in use, as the singers were focused on establishing control of the lower floors. To avoid alerting human Windrunner scouts, the shanay-im were forbidden from soaring around outside. They’d taken up residence here instead, within this grand hall, hovering in the open air. Venli used her authority to commandeer a lift, then made her way up to the fifteenth floor. Here she found Leshwi meditating with
her long clothing drifting beneath her, with only two servants to see to her needs. She’d donated the others to Raboniel. Leshwi noticed Venli immediately, cracking an eye. Venli sent the two servants away and hummed to Craving, standing patiently and waiting for her mistress to formally acknowledge her. Leshwi drifted over to the balcony and rested one hand on the railing. Venli approached quickly, humming to Tribute. “Why have you not approached in secret, as I explained?” Leshwi demanded. Leshwi had set up a method for Venli to clandestinely deliver notes about Raboniel. Venli found the whole thing a baffling part of Fused politics. Raboniel knew that Venli was spying, and Leshwi knew that Raboniel knew, yet they both pretended the subterfuge was unknown. “The Windrunner you wish to defeat is here in the tower,” Venli said, “and I have reason to believe he did not fall unconscious. In fact, he still has access to his powers.” Leshwi hummed abruptly to Exultation. A telling choice. “Where?” Leshwi said. “He killed a soldier who was trying to collect the unconscious Radiants,” Venli said, “then escaped into the tower. He rescued one other Windrunner.” “Honor propels him,” Leshwi said, “even now. Even after his god’s death. This is excellent news, Venli. You did well to break protocol to bring me this. Does the Pursuer know?” “Yes, unfortunately.” “Raboniel will let him ignore my prior claim,” Leshwi said. “He won’t even be reprimanded for it, so long as it is in service of hunting a fugitive. Poor Stormblessed. He has given them the spear by which to impale him. If I wish to fight him myself, I will need to locate him first.” “And do you wish to fight him, Ancient One?” Venli asked. “Is that truly why you want to find him? To kill him?” “Why would you ask this?” Leshwi asked to Craving. Venli would have let it die at that, feeling foolish. But Timbre pulsed, nudging her. “You seem to respect him,” Venli said. Leshwi hummed softly, but Venli did not catch the rhythm. Odd. Her powers normally let her understand anything her mistress said or implied. There was something familiar about that rhythm though. “It is rare to find a human who can fight in the skies well enough to be a challenge for me,” Leshwi said. “And his spren … I hear she is ancient.… But never mind that. You will not raise this matter with me again.” Timbre pulsed, indicating Venli should tell her mistress. About them. About being Radiant. Stupidity. Venli immediately shied back at the idea. Leshwi would kill her. “Is there something else?” Leshwi said to Command. “Stormblessed’s family is being held by the Pursuer’s guards,” Venli said. “They are on the sixth floor, in a clinic at the perimeter, near the main corridor. The Pursuer plans to interrogate them, and I fear it will turn ugly. Many of his troops are angry they were forbidden to kill during the incursion. They are … excitable.” “Violent and bloodthirsty, you mean.” “Yes, Ancient One. The …
the family of the Windrunner would be an excellent resource for us, mistress. If you wish to find him before the Pursuer, then perhaps holding them would give us an advantage.” Leshwi hummed to Thoughtfulness. “You are merciful, Venli. Do not reveal this Passion to others. Wait here.” Leshwi pushed off and soared downward, doing a loop and turning gracefully into the lit central corridor on the sixth floor. Venli waited, Timbre pulsing in concern. It took a good hour for Leshwi to finally return, soaring upward from the direction of the large market on the ground floor. “What did you do?” Venli asked. “I took the Windrunner’s family into my custody,” Leshwi said. “My position gives me authority over the Pursuer.” “You didn’t hurt them, did you?” Venli asked to Pleading. Leshwi stared at her, and only after a moment did Venli realize she’d slipped and used one of the old rhythms. Pleading was one of Roshar’s rhythms, not Odium’s. “I did not,” Leshwi said. “And now that I’ve moved—and extended myself in this way—the Pursuer won’t dare harm them. At least not unless the power dynamic shifts in the tower. I placed the family in a safe location and told them to remain hidden. We might need them, as you indicated.” Venli hummed to Subservience. “Find a place where we can watch them, then send me a note. I will consider if there is a way to use them to find Stormblessed, and for now will spread a rumor that I have disposed of them. Even if the Pursuer finds the truth, though, they should be safe for the time being. That said, I give warning again: You must not let others see your compassion for humans. It will be misconstrued, particularly with you being the child of traitors.” “Yes, Ancient One.” “Go,” she said. “I consider what I have done here today a favor to you. Do not forget it.” Venli hummed to Subservience and left quickly. Timbre pulsed encouragingly. “I am a false Radiant,” Venli said. “You know this.” Timbre pulsed again. Perhaps. But today had been a step in the right direction. With a captured spren, you may begin designing a proper fabrial. It is a closely guarded secret of artifabrians that spren, when trapped, respond to different types of metals in different ways. A wire housing for the fabrial, called a “cage,” is essential to controlling the device. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 Radiant backed up, the sack on her head. She pressed her fingers against the cool stone of the wall as the shouting continued. Yes, that was Adolin’s voice. As she’d feared, he’d come to rescue her. Radiant considered pulling off the hood, summoning her Shardblade, and demanding the conspirators surrender. However, she acknowledged what Veil and Shallan wanted. They needed to meet Ialai face-to-face. A scraping sounded nearby. Radiant turned toward it. Rock on rock. And … some sort of mechanism turning? She strode blindly toward the sound. “Bring me,” she shouted.
“Don’t leave me to them!” “Fine,” Ulina said from somewhere nearby. “You two, grab her. You, guard the doorway from inside. Try to jam the mechanism closed. Quickly!” Rough hands grabbed Radiant by the shoulders and pulled her along, steering her into what sounded—from the echoing footsteps—like a tunnel. Stone ground on stone behind them, cutting off the noise of the skirmish in the chasm. At least she knew how the cultists were getting in and out of the chasms. Radiant stumbled and purposefully fell to her knees so she could put her hands on the ground. Smooth, cut rock. Done with a Shardblade, she suspected. The others forced her to her feet and pushed her up an incline. They didn’t remove the sack, even when she protested that it wasn’t necessary. Well, a tunnel made sense. This warcamp had been occupied by Sadeas and Ialai for years before everyone else moved to Urithiru. They would have wanted a secret escape route from their warcamp, particularly during the early years on the Plains when everyone—Adolin said—had been so certain the princedoms would shatter apart and start fighting one another. The tunnel eventually reached another door, and this one opened into what sounded like a small room. A cellar perhaps? Those weren’t common on the Shattered Plains—too easy to flood—but the richer lighteyes had them for chilling wine. The conspirators muttered to themselves about what to do. Four people. Judging by the sounds of rustling cloth, they were removing their robes. Probably had ordinary clothing underneath. Red wasn’t here; he’d have squeezed her arm to let her know. So she was alone. The others eventually hauled her up some steps and then outside; she felt wind on her hands and warm sunlight on her skin. She pretended to be pliable and easy to move, though she waited—ready to attack—in case this was some kind of ruse, and she was assaulted. They led her through the streets quickly, the hood still on. Shallan took over, as she had an incredible—likely supernatural—ability to sense and memorize direction. She mapped their path in her head. Sneaky little cremlings; they led her in a large double loop, ending at a location near where they’d emerged from the cellar. The hike up had taken only a few minutes, so they had to be near the eastern edge of the warcamp. Perhaps the fortress there? That would put her near the old Sadeas lumberyards, where Kaladin had spent months building Bridge Four from the broken remnants of the men delivered there to die. She wondered if anyone in the area had found it odd that they were leading around a woman with a sack on her head. Judging by how upset they seemed as they finally pulled her into a building, they weren’t thinking very clearly. They forced her down into a chair, then left, boots thumping on wood. She soon heard them arguing in a nearby room. Carefully, Veil reached up and removed her hood. The cultist left guarding her—a tall man with a scar on his chin—didn’t
demand she replace it. She was sitting in a stiff wooden chair right inside the door of a stone room with a large circular rug. The rug didn’t do much to liven the otherwise bare chamber. These warcamp buildings were so fortresslike: few windows, little ornamentation. Shallan had always viewed Sadeas as a blowhard. A fortress like this—and the escape tunnel she’d traveled through—made Veil revise that assessment. She sifted through Shallan’s memories, and what Veil saw in the man was pure craftiness. Shallan didn’t have many memories of Ialai, but Veil knew enough to be careful. Highprince Thanadal had started this new “kingdom” at the warcamps. But soon after Ialai had set up here, Thanadal had been found dead, supposedly knifed by a prostitute. Vamah—the other highprince who hadn’t supported Dalinar—had fled the warcamps in the night. He seemed to believe Ialai’s lie that Dalinar had ordered the assassination. That left Ialai Sadeas the one true remaining power here in the warcamps. She had an army, had co-opted the Sons of Honor, and was demanding tariffs from arriving trade caravans. This woman remained a thorn, a reminder of the old Alethkar full of squabbling lighteyes always eyeing one another’s lands. Veil listened as best she could to the arguments coming from the next room; the conspirators seemed frustrated that they’d lost so many in the strike. They seemed frantic, and worried that it was “all falling apart.” At last, the door swung open and three people stormed out. Veil recognized Ulina, the woman she’d suspected earlier from her voice. They were followed by a lighteyed soldier in Sadeas colors. The guard gestured for Veil to enter, so she rose and carefully poked her head into the room. It was larger than the antechamber, with very narrow windows. Despite the attempt to soften it with a rug, couches, and pillows, it still felt like a fortress. A place for lighteyes to hole up in during storms or to fall back to if attacked. Ialai Sadeas sat at a table on the far side of the room, shrouded in shadows, away from the windows and the glowing sphere lamps on the walls. Near to her sat a large hutch with a roll top covering its front. All right, Veil thought, walking forward. We’ve found her. Have we decided what we’re going to do with her? She knew Radiant’s vote: get her to say something incriminating, then bring her in. Veil, however, hadn’t pushed this mission solely to gather evidence for Dalinar. She hadn’t even done it because the Ghostbloods saw Ialai as a threat. Veil had done it because this woman stubbornly continued to jeopardize everything Shallan loved. Dalinar and Jasnah needed to keep their eyes on the real prize: reclaiming Alethkar. And so, Veil had determined to snip this particular loose thread. Adolin had killed Highprince Sadeas in a moment of honest passion. Veil had come to finish the job he’d begun. Today Veil intended to assassinate Ialai Sadeas. * * * The hardest thing in the world for Kaladin to do
was nothing. It was excruciating to watch one of his soldiers fight for his life against a skilled, dangerous opponent—and do nothing to help. Leshwi was a being of incredible age, the spirit of a singer long dead turned into something more akin to a spren—a force of nature. Sigzil was a capable fighter, but far from the order’s best. His true talents lay in his understanding of numbers, his knowledge of other cultures, and his ability to remain focused and practical in situations where others lost their heads. He was quickly forced onto the defensive. Leshwi loomed over him—thrusting down with her spear—then swung around and stabbed from the side. She expertly flowed from one attack to the next, forcing Sigzil to keep spinning around, barely deflecting or dodging her strikes. Kaladin Lashed himself forward, fingers tight on his spear. It was vital his team keep to the Heavenly Ones’ sense of honor. So long as the enemy agreed to one-on-one combat, his soldiers were never in danger of being overwhelmed and wiped out. The forces on the ground might mercilessly brutalize one another, but up here—in the skies—they’d found mutual respect. The respect of combatants who would kill one another, but as part of a contest, not a slaughter. Break that unspoken rule, gang up on Leshwi now, and that precarious balance would end. Leshwi shot forward and speared Sigzil in the chest. Her weapon impaled him straight through, bursting from the back of his blue uniform, slick with blood. He struggled, gasping, Stormlight leaking from his mouth. Leshwi hummed a loud tone, and the gemstone on her spear began to glow, sucking Stormlight from her prey. Kaladin groaned, the deaths of so many he’d failed flashing before him. Tien? Nalma? Elhokar? He was again in that terrible nightmare at the Kholinar palace, where his friends killed one another. Screams and lights and pain and blood all swirled around one image: a man Kaladin was sworn to protect, lying on the floor. Moash’s spear straight through him. “No!” Kaladin shouted. He couldn’t simply watch. He couldn’t. He Lashed himself forward, but Leshwi met his eyes. He paused. She yanked her spear from Sigzil’s chest right before his Stormlight went out. Sigzil sagged in the air, and Kaladin grabbed him, holding him as he blinked in a daze, clutching his silvery Shardspear. “Drop your weapon,” Kaladin said to him, “and bow to her.” “What? Sir?” Sigzil frowned as his wound healed. “Drop your spear,” Kaladin said, “and bow to her.” Sigzil, looking confused, did as he requested. Leshwi nodded to him in turn. “Go back to the ship,” Kaladin said, “and sit out the rest of this battle. Stay with the squires.” “Um, yes, sir,” Sigzil said. He floated off, poking at the bloody hole in his jacket. Leshwi glanced to the side. A short distance away—hanging in the air with no weapon—was the Heavenly One that Kaladin had defeated earlier. Leshwi shouldn’t care that Kaladin had spared the creature. It had been a foolish gesture toward a being who could
be reborn with each new storm. Then again, Leshwi probably knew that if Sigzil were killed, a new Radiant could be raised up using his spren. It wasn’t exactly the same— in fact, in terms of Kaladin’s relief, there was a huge difference. At any rate, as Leshwi raised her spear to him, he was glad to accept the challenge. * * * In the middle deck of the Fourth Bridge, Navani counted off another family and pointed them toward a clearly marked and numbered section of the hold. The ardents there were quick to provide comfort to the worried family. Wide-eyed children clutching blankets settled in, several of them sniffling. Parents arranged sacks with the clothing and other possessions they’d hastily packed. “Some few are refusing to leave,” Ardent Falilar said quietly to Navani. He fretted at his pure white beard as he looked over the list of names. “They’d rather continue living in oppression than abandon their homeland.” “How many?” she asked. “Not many. Fifteen people. Otherwise the evacuation is going faster than I’d estimated. The refugees, obviously, were already prepared to move—and most of the normal townspeople had already been forced into close quarters with their neighbors to give parshmen their dwellings.” “Then what are you so worried about?” Navani asked, making a notation on her list. Nearby, Renarin had stepped up to the family with the sniffling children. He summoned a small globe of light, then began bouncing it between his hands. Such a simple thing, but the children who saw it grew wide-eyed, forgetting their fear. The ball of light was bright blue. Part of Navani felt it should be red—to reveal the true nature of the spren that hid inside Renarin. A Voidspren. Or at least an ordinary spren corrupted to the enemy’s side. None of them knew what to do about that fact, least of all Renarin. As with most Radiants, he hadn’t known what he was doing when he began. Now that he’d formed the bond, it was too late to turn back. Renarin claimed the spren was trustworthy, but something was odd about his powers. They had managed to recruit several standard Truthwatchers—and they could create illusions like Shallan. Renarin couldn’t do that. He could only summon lights, and they did strange, unnatural things sometimes.… “So many things could still go wrong!” Falilar said, drawing Navani’s attention back to the moment. “What if we underestimated the weight this many people will add? What if the strain cracks gemstones faster than we’d planned? The fans barely worked at all. It’s not a disaster, Brightness, but there’s so much to worry about.” He tugged at his beard again. It was a wonder he had any hairs left at this point. Navani patted his arm fondly—if Falilar didn’t have something to worry about, he’d go mad. “Do a visual inspection of the gemstones. Then double-check your calculations.” “Triple-check, you mean?” he said. “Yes, I suppose. Keep myself busy. Stop worrying.” He reached for his beard, then pointedly shoved his hand in the pocket of his ardent
robes. Navani passed her checklist to another ardent, then climbed the steps to the top deck. Dalinar said he’d reopen the perpendicularity soon, and she wanted to be there—her pencil poised—when he did. Down below, the townspeople kept clustering and looking up at the strange battle overhead. All this gawking was really going to throw off the orderly boarding plan she’d commissioned. Next time she’d have the ardents draw up a second plan that indicated how long it might take if a battle were occurring. Well, at least only the Heavenly Ones were here. They tended to ignore civilians, considering them little more than battlefield obstacles. Other groups of Fused were far more … brutal. The command station was mostly empty now, all of her ardents having been recruited to comfort and guide the boarding townspeople. Only Rushu remained, absently watching the flying Windrunners with her notebook open. Bother. The pretty young ardent was supposed to be cataloguing the town’s food supplies. Rushu was brilliant, but like a sphere, she tended to shine in all directions unless carefully focused. “Brightness,” Rushu said as Navani walked up. “Did you see that? The Fused over there—the one now fighting Highmarshal Kaladin—she let one of the Windrunners go after stabbing him.” “I’m sure she was merely distracted by Kaladin’s arrival,” Navani said, glancing toward Dalinar, who stood directly ahead. The large Horneater bridgeman had taken a position near Dalinar and was looking over some sacks of supplies that Rushu had apparently forgotten about. Navani didn’t miss that his daughter—the Shardbearer—was standing very close as well. Kaladin had been promoted beyond being a simple bodyguard, but he did tend to keep an eye out for Dalinar regardless. Almighty bless him for it. “Brightness,” Rushu said, “I swear there is something odd about this battle. Too many of the Windrunners are idling about, not fighting.” “Reserves, Rushu,” Navani said. “Come, let my husband worry about tactics. We have another duty.” Rushu sighed, but did as asked, tucking her notebook under her arm and accompanying Navani. Dalinar stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the fighting. As Navani had hoped, he relaxed his posture, then brought his hands to the sides—as if gripping some unseen fabric. He pulled his hands together, and the perpendicularity opened as a burst of light. Gloryspren, like golden spheres, began to spiral around him. Navani got a better glimpse of Shadesmar this time. And again she heard that tone. That was new, wasn’t it? Though she didn’t consider herself talented at drawing—at least not compared to a master like Shallan—she sketched what she saw, trying to capture an image of that place with the strange sun over a sea of beads. She could visit it in person if she wished, using the Oathgates—but something felt different about these visions. “What did you see?” she asked Rushu. “I didn’t see anything, Brightness,” Rushu said. “But … I felt something. Like a pulse, a powerful thump. For a moment I felt as if I were falling into eternity.…” “Write that down,” Navani said.
“Capture it.” “Very well,” Rushu said, opening her notebook again. She glanced up as Kaladin skimmed the deck overhead, dangerously close, following one of the Fused. “Focus, Rushu,” Navani said. “If you wish depictions or descriptions of Shadesmar,” Rushu said, “Queen Jasnah has released journals of her travels there.” “I’m well aware,” Navani said, still drawing. “And I’ve read the journals.” The ones Jasnah would give her, anyway. Storming woman. “Then why do you need my depiction of it?” Rushu asked. “We’re looking for something else,” Navani said, glancing at Dalinar—then shielding her watering eyes. She blinked, then waved for Rushu to follow her to withdraw back to the nearby command post. “There’s someplace beyond Shadesmar, a place where Dalinar gets this power. Once long ago, the tower was maintained by a Bondsmith like my husband—and from what the spren have said, I conclude that the tower got its power from that place beyond Shadesmar as well.” “You’re still worrying about that, Brightness?” Rushu pursed her lips. “It’s not your fault we haven’t decoded the tower’s secrets. It’s a puzzle one woman—or an army of women—can’t be expected to unlock after only a year.” Navani winced. Was she truly that transparent? “This is about more than the tower, Rushu,” Navani said. “Everyone is praising the effectiveness of this ship. Brightlord Kmakl is imagining entire fleets of airships blotting out the sun. Dalinar speaks of moving tens of thousands of troops in an assault on Kholinar. I don’t think either of them realistically understands how much work goes into keeping this one ship in the air.” “Hundreds of laborers in Urithiru turning winches to raise and lower the ship,” Rushu said, with a nod. “Dozens of chulls used to move it laterally. Thousands of fabrials to facilitate both—all needing to be perpetually reinfused. Careful synchronization via a half dozen spanreeds to coordinate maneuvers. Yes, it is highly improbable we could field more than two or three of these vessels.” “Unless,” Navani said, stabbing her finger at her notes, “we discover how the ancients made the tower work. If we knew that secret, Rushu, we would not only be able to restore Urithiru—we might be able to power these airships. We might be able to create fabrials beyond what anyone has ever imagined.” Rushu cocked her head. “Neat,” she said. “I’ll write down my thoughts.” “That’s all? Just … ‘neat’?” “I like big ideas, Brightness. Keeps my job from getting boring.” She glanced to the side. “But I still think it’s odd how many Windrunners are standing around.” “Rushu,” Navani said, rubbing her forehead. “Do try to focus.” “Well, I do try. I simply fail. Like that fellow over there? What’s he doing? Not guarding the ship. Not helping with the refugees. Shouldn’t he be fighting?” “He’s probably a scout,” Navani said. She followed Rushu’s gaze past the edge of the ship, toward the fertile stone fields. “Obviously he…” Navani trailed off as she picked out the man in question standing atop a hill—distinctly separated from the battle. Navani could see why Rushu would
think him a Windrunner. He wore a uniform after the exact cut of Bridge Four. In fact, Rushu—who paid attention to the oddest things, but never seemed to notice important details—might have once seen this man in their ranks. He’d often been at Kaladin’s side during the early months of Bridge Four’s transition into Dalinar’s army. Rushu missed the fact that this man’s uniform was black, that he wore no patch on his shoulder. That his narrow face and lean figure would mark him as a man interdicted. A traitor. Moash. The man who had killed Navani’s son. He seemed to meet her eyes, despite the distance. He then burst alight with Stormlight and dropped out of view behind the hill. Navani stood there, frozen with shock. Then she gasped, heat washing over her as if she’d suddenly stepped into burning sunlight. He was here. That murderer was here! She scrambled over to one of the Windrunner squires on the deck. “Go!” she shouted at him, pointing. “Warn the others. Moash, the traitor, is here!” * * * Kaladin again chased Leshwi through a chaotic battlefield. The flight gave him the chance to quickly survey how his soldiers were doing, and what he saw was encouraging. Many of them had pushed back their opponents. The bulk of the Heavenly Ones were hovering in a wide perimeter, pulling away from fights. Kaladin suspected they’d realized there was little to discover by looking at the outside of the ship. The Heavenly Ones, unsupported by ground troops or other Fused, didn’t seem to want to fully commit. Only a few contests continued, and Kaladin’s was the most furious. Indeed, he had to turn his full attention to the chase, lest he lose Leshwi. Kaladin found himself grinning as he followed her through a wide loop, weaving and dodging around other combatants. When he’d begun training, he’d have thought maneuvers like this turn impossible. To perform the feat, he had to constantly dismiss and renew his Lashings, each at a different angle in a loop—doing so without conscious thought—all while sculpting his motion with the rushing wind to avoid obstacles. He could now execute such a maneuver. If not easily, at least regularly. It left him wondering what else Windrunners could do with enough training. Leshwi seemed to want to buzz past every other combatant on the battlefield, forcing Kaladin to constantly reorient. A test. She wanted to push him, see how good he truly was. Let me get close, and I’ll show you how good I am, he thought, cutting out of the loop and flying down to intercept her. That put him close enough to strike with his spear. She deflected, then darted to the side. He Lashed himself after her, and the two of them shot through the air parallel to the ground, curling around one another while each tried to get in a hit. The wind was a huge factor, tugging at his spear. At these speeds, it was like dueling in a highstorm. They quickly left the town and the main
battle. Kaladin had Syl re-form as a sword—but Leshwi was prepared for his lunge. She slid her spear through her hands and gripped it near the head, then dove in and struck at his neck, throwing off his next attack. Kaladin took a slice on the neck—but not enough for her to siphon away his Stormlight. He pulled away farther, still flying parallel to her, the wind making his hair whip and twist. He didn’t want to end up isolated, so he curved back toward the main battlefield. Leshwi followed. Apparently she’d determined he could keep up with her, and now wanted to spar. Their loop took them toward the manor, coming in from the north side. This land was so familiar to Kaladin. He’d played on these hills with Tien. He first touched a spear—well, a length of wood he pretended was a spear—right over there.… Stay focused, he thought. This is a time for fighting, not reminiscing. Only … this wasn’t some random battlefield off in the Unclaimed Hills. For the first time in his life, he knew the terrain. Better than anyone else in this battle. He smiled, then came in close to Leshwi for a clash, slowing and nudging them to the east. He allowed a slice along his arm, then pulled away as if in shock. He shot toward the ground, leveling off and darting among the hills, Leshwi following. There, he thought. That one. He ducked around the side of a hill, pulling his water flask off his belt. Here, on the leeward side of the hill, the rock had been carved away into a cavern for storing equipment. And as it had always been when he was young, the door was slightly ajar and crusted over with the cocoons of lurgs: little creatures that spent days hiding inside their coverings, waiting for rain to wake them up. Kaladin sprayed water from his canteen across the door, then dropped the canteen and ducked around the next hill over, falling still near the ground. He heard Leshwi come in behind him. She slowed—evidenced by the sound of rustling cloth. She’d have found the discarded canteen. Kaladin peeked around and spotted her hovering between the hills, maybe two feet off the ground, her long clothing dragging on the stone. She slowly turned in a circle, trying to locate him. The lurgs started dropping from their cocoons, thinking rain had come. They began hopping around, causing the door to creak. Leshwi immediately spun and leveled her lance toward them. Kaladin launched toward her. She nearly reacted in time, but this close to the ground her long lance was a hindrance. Leshwi had to twist it around and grab it closer to the head before striking, which gave Kaladin the chance to ram a newly shortened Sylspear toward her chest. He caught her in the shoulder, making her gasp in pain. She ducked his follow-up slash, but again had trouble maneuvering her lance as he slashed her in the leg. For a moment, the struggle was everything. Leshwi dropped her
lance and pulled a short sword from her belt, then came in closer than Kaladin had expected, knocking aside his spear and trying to grab him by the arm. Her greyed flesh healed slowly enough that he was able to ram his shoulder into her wound, making her grunt. When she tried to slide the sword into his neck, he deflected it with a Sylbuckler that appeared on his arm. Leshwi feinted toward him to make him pull back, then snatched her lance and streaked toward the sky. Kaladin followed, his spear materializing before him—and was on her before she could pick up enough speed to dodge. She was forced to defend by sweeping his attacks away, growing more and more reckless. Until Kaladin saw his moment and made the Sylspear vanish in his hands right as she blocked. Then—while Leshwi was reacting to the failed block—he stabbed forward, the spear forming as he did so, and slammed it straight into— Pain. Leshwi had brought her spear around to strike precisely as he did. Her weapon hit him in the shoulder, mirroring where he’d struck her opposite shoulder. He felt his Stormlight draining away, leeched into the spear; it felt as if his very soul was being drawn out. He held on, sucking in all the remaining Light from the recharged spheres in his pouches—then forced his spear deeper into her wound until tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Leshwi smiled. He grinned back, a full-toothed grin, even while she was draining away his life. He yanked away almost at the same moment she did. She immediately put her free hand to her wound, and Kaladin shivered. Frost crackled on his uniform as a great deal of Stormlight rushed to fill the wound. That had cost him. He was dangerously low, and Dalinar had taken another break from his perpendicularity. Leshwi eyed him as they hovered. Then Kaladin heard the screaming. He started, turning toward the sounds. People yelling for help? Yes, the citylord’s manor was on fire—plumes of smoke rising through broken windows. What was going on? Kaladin had been so focused on his duel, he hadn’t seen. Keeping one eye on Leshwi, he scanned the region. Most of the people had made it to the ship, and the other Windrunners were withdrawing. The Edgedancers had already boarded, but there was a small group of people standing in front of the burning manor. One of them stood a good foot or two taller than the others. A hulking form of red and black with dangerous carapace and long hair the color of dried blood. The Fused from earlier, the one that could become a red line of light. He had gathered the soldiers Kaladin had sent away. Several were accosting townspeople, slamming them to the ground, threatening them with weapons and causing them to scream in pain and panic. Kaladin felt a burning anger. This Fused went after the civilians? He heard an angry-sounding hum beside him. Leshwi had drifted near—closer than he should have let her get—but she
didn’t strike. She watched the Fused and his soldiers below, and the sound of her angry humming intensified. She looked to him, then nodded toward the Fused and the unfortunate people. He understood the gesture immediately. Go. Stop him. Kaladin moved forward, then paused and held up his spear before Leshwi. Then he dropped it. Though Syl vanished to mist almost immediately, he hoped Leshwi would understand. Indeed, she smiled, then—her off hand still pressed to her wound—she held out her own spear and pointed the tip downward. A draw, the gesture seemed to say. She nodded again toward the manor. Kaladin needed no further encouragement. He shot toward the terrified people. It would have been so easy if Voidlight and Stormlight destroyed one another. Such a simple answer. —From Rhythm of War, page 6 “Grampa,” little Gavinor asked. “Was my daddy brave when he died?” Dalinar settled down on the floor of the small room, setting aside the wooden sword he’d been using to play at a greatshell hunt. Had Adolin ever been this small? He was determined not to miss so much of Gav’s life as he had his sons’. He wanted to love and cherish this solemn child with dark hair and pure yellow eyes. “He was very brave,” Dalinar said, waving for the child to come sit in his lap. “So very brave. He went almost alone to our home, to try to save it.” “To save me,” Gav said softly. “He died because of me.” “No!” Dalinar said. “He died because of evil people.” “Evil people … like Mommy?” Storms. This poor child. “Your mother,” Dalinar said, “was also brave. She didn’t do those terrible things; it was the enemy, who had taken over her mind. Do you understand? Your mother loved you.” Gav nodded, serious beyond his years. He did like playing at greatshell hunts, though he didn’t laugh during them like other children would. He treated even play as a somber occasion. Dalinar tried to restart the pretend hunt, but the boy’s mind seemed overshadowed by these dark thoughts. After just another few minutes, Gav complained that he was tired. So Dalinar let his nursemaid take him to rest. Then Dalinar lingered at the doorway, watching her tuck him into bed. What five-year-old wanted to go to bed? Though Dalinar had not been the most dutiful parent, he did remember lengthy complaints from both Adolin and Renarin on evenings like this, when they insisted they were old enough to stay up and they did not feel tired. Gav instead clutched his little wooden sword, which he kept with him at all times, and drifted off. Dalinar left the small home, nodding to the guards outside. The Azish thought it strange that the Alethi officers brought families to war, but how else were children to learn proper military protocol? It was the evening following Jasnah’s stunt with Ruthar, and Dalinar had spent most of the day—before visiting Gav—speaking via spanreed to highlords and highladies, smoothing over their concerns about the near execution. He’d made certain the
legality of Jasnah’s actions would not be questioned. And he’d personally talked to Relis, Ruthar’s son. The young man had lost a bout to Adolin back in the warcamps, and Dalinar had worried about his motivations now. However, it seemed that Relis was eager to prove he could be a loyalist. Dalinar had made certain that his father was taken to Azimir and given a small house there, where he could be watched. Regardless of what Jasnah said, Dalinar wouldn’t have a former highprince begging for scraps. Finally—after smoothing things over with the Azish, who did not appreciate Alethi trials by sword—he was feeling he had the situation under control. He stopped in the middle of the camp, thoughtful. He’d almost forgotten Renarin’s talk of his episode the day before. Dalinar turned and strode through the warcamp—a bustling illustration of organized chaos. Messengers ran this way and that, mostly wearing the patterned livery of the various Azish scribe orders. Alethi captains had their soldiers hauling supplies or marking the stone ground with painted lines to indicate directions. A trail of wagons snaked in from the northwest, a lifeline to populated lands and fertile hills untouched by war. Fearing that this camp was already a big target, Dalinar had posted many of his Soulcasters in Azimir. The landscape was different from what he knew. More trees, less grass, and strange fields of shrubs with interlocking branches that created vast snarls. Despite that, the signs he saw in this village were all too familiar. A bit of cloth trapped in the hardened crem beside the roadway. Burnt-out buildings, torched either out of a sadistic amusement, or to deny beds and stormshutters to the army that had moved in next. Those fires had been fed by homes with too many possessions left behind. Engineers had continued to shore up the eastern stormwall, where a natural windbreak created a cleft. Normally this shoring process would have taken weeks. Today Shardbearers cut out stone blocks, which Windrunners made light enough to push into position with ease. The ever-present Azish functionaries were supervising. Dalinar turned toward the Windrunner camp, troubled. Jasnah’s stunt had overshadowed their conversation about monarchs and monarchies—but now that he dwelled on it, he found it as disturbing as the duel. The way Jasnah had talked … She had seemed proud of the idea that she might be Alethkar’s last queen. She intended to see Alethkar left with some version of a neutered monarchy, like in Thaylenah or Azir. How would the country function without a proper monarch? The Alethi weren’t like these persnickety Azish. The Alethi liked real leaders, soldiers who were accustomed to making decisions. A country was like an army. Someone strong needed to be in charge. And barring that, someone decisive needed to be in charge. The thoughts persisted as he neared the Windrunner camp and smelled something delicious on the air. The Windrunners continued a tradition begun in the bridge crews: a large communal stew available to anyone. Dalinar had originally tried to regulate the thing. However, while he usually
found the Windrunners agreeable to proper military decorum, they had absolutely refused to follow proper quartermaster requisition and mess requirements for their evening stews. Eventually Dalinar had done what any good commander did when faced by such persistent mass insubordination: He backed down. When good men disobeyed, it was time to look at your orders. Today he found the Windrunners visited by an unusual number of Thaylens. The stews tended to attract whichever soldiers felt most out of place, and Dalinar suspected the Thaylens were feeling that way, being so far from the oceans. Companylord Sigzil was taking a turn at storytelling. Renarin was there too in his Bridge Four uniform, watching Sigzil with rapt attention. Regardless of war or storm, the boy tried to find his way to this fire every evening. Dalinar approached, and only then did he realize the stir he was causing. Soldiers nudged one another, and someone ran to get him a stool. Sigzil paused in his story, saluting smartly. They think I’ve come to approve of the tradition, Dalinar realized. They seemed to have been waiting for it, judging by how eagerly one of the Windrunner squires brought him a bowl. Dalinar accepted the food and took a bite, then nodded approvingly. That inspired applause. After that, there was nothing to do but settle down and keep eating, indicating that the rest of them could go on with their ritual. When he glanced over at his son, Renarin was smiling. A reserved grin; you rarely saw teeth from Renarin. However, the lad didn’t have his box out, the one he often used to occupy his hands. He was relaxed here among these people. “That was good of you, Father,” Renarin whispered, moving closer. “They’ve been waiting for you to stop by.” “It’s good stew,” Dalinar noted. “Secret Horneater recipe,” Renarin said. “Apparently it has only two lines of instructions. ‘Take everything you have, and put him in pot. Don’t let anyone airsick touch seasonings.’” Renarin said it fondly, but he hadn’t finished his bowl. He seemed distracted. Though … he always seemed distracted. “I assume you’re here to talk about … what I told you? The episode?” Dalinar nodded. Renarin tapped his spoon against the side of his bowl, a rhythmic click. He stared at the cookfire flamespren. “Does it strike you as cruel of fate, Father? My blood sickness gets healed, so I can finally be a soldier like I always wanted. But that same healing has given me another kind of fit. More dangerous than the other by far.” “What did you see this time?” “I’m not sure I should say. I know I told you to come talk to me, but … I vacillate. The things I see, they’re of him, right? I think he shows me what he wants. That’s why I saw you becoming his champion.” He glanced down at his bowl. “Glys isn’t convinced the visions are bad. He says we’re something new, and he doesn’t think the visions are specifically from Odium—though perhaps his desires taint what we see.”
“Any information—even if you suspect your enemy is feeding it to you—is useful, son. More wars are lost to lack of information than are lost to lack of courage.” Renarin set his bowl beside his seat. It was easy to fall into the habit of underestimating Renarin. He always moved in this deliberate, careful way. It made him seem fragile. Don’t forget, part of Dalinar thought. When you were broken on the floor, consumed by your past, this boy held you. Don’t forget who was strong, when you—the Blackthorn—were weak. The youth stood up, then gestured for Dalinar to follow. They left the circle of firelight, waving farewell to the others. Lopen called out, asking Renarin to “look into the future and find out if I beat Huio at cards tomorrow.” It seemed a little crass to Dalinar, bringing up his son’s strange disorder, but Renarin took it with a chuckle. The sky had grown dim, though the sun wasn’t fully set yet. These western lands were warmer than Dalinar liked—particularly at night. They didn’t cool off as was proper. The Windrunner camp was near the edge of the village, so they strolled out into the wilderness near some snarls of bushes and a few tall trees—with broad canopies—that had grown out of the center, perhaps somehow using the bushes for extra strength. This area was relatively quiet, and soon the two of them were alone. “Renarin?” Dalinar asked. “Are you going to tell me what you saw?” His son slowed. His eyes caught the light of the now-distant campfire. “Yes,” he said. “But I want to get it right, Father. So I need to summon it again.” “You can summon it?” Dalinar said. “I thought it came upon you unexpectedly.” “It did,” Renarin said. “And it will again. But right now, it simply is.” He turned forward and stepped into the darkness. * * * As Renarin stepped forward, the ground beneath his feet became dark glass, spreading from the heel of his boot. It cracked in a web of lines, a purposeful pattern, black on black. Glys, who preferred to hide within Renarin, grew excited. He’d captured this vision as it came, so they could study it. Renarin wasn’t quite so enthusiastic. It would be so much easier if he were like other Radiants. Stained glass spread out around him, engulfing the landscape, a phantom light shimmering and glowing from behind in the darkness. As he walked, each of his footsteps made the ground pulse red, light shining up through the cracks. His father wouldn’t be able to see what he did. But hopefully Renarin could describe it properly. “I see you in this vision,” Renarin said to his father. “You’re in a lot of them. In this one you stand tall, formed as if from stained glass, and you wear Shardplate. Stark white Shardplate, though you are pierced with a black arrow.” “Do you know what it means?” Dalinar said, a shadow barely visible from behind the glass window depicting him. “I think it might be a symbol of
you, who you were, who you become. The more important part is the enemy. He makes up the bulk of this image. A window of yellow-white light breaking into smaller and smaller pieces, into infinity. “He is like the sun, Father. He controls and dominates everything—and although your figure raises a sword high, it’s facing the wrong direction. You’re fighting and you’re fighting, but not him. I think I understand the meaning: you want a deal, you want a contest of champions, but you’re going to keep fighting, and fighting, and fighting distractions. Because why would the enemy agree to a contest that he can theoretically lose?” “He already agreed,” Dalinar said. “Were terms set?” Renarin asked. “A date picked? I don’t know if this vision is what he wants us to see. But either way … I don’t think he’s worried enough to agree to terms. He can wait, keep you fighting, keep us fighting. Forever. He can make this war so it never ends.” Dalinar stepped forward, passing through the stained glass that represented him—though he wouldn’t know he had done so. It seemed to Renarin as if his father never aged. Even in his earliest memories, Renarin remembered him looking like this—so powerful, so unchanging, so strong. Some of that was from the things his mother had told Renarin, building an image in his head of the perfect Alethi officer. It was a tragedy that she hadn’t lived to see Dalinar become the man she’d imagined him to be. A shame that Odium had seen her killed. That was the way Renarin had to present it to himself. Better to turn his pain against the enemy than to lose his father along with his mother. “I have stared Odium in the eyes,” Dalinar said. “I have faced him. He expected me to break. By refusing, I’ve upended his plans. It means he can be defeated—and equally important, it means he doesn’t know everything or see everything.” “Yes,” Renarin said, walking across broken glass to look up at the enormous depiction of Odium. “I don’t think he’s omnipresent, Father. Well, part of him is everywhere, but he can’t access that information—any more than the Stormfather knows everything the wind touches. I think … Odium might see like I do. Not events, or the world itself, but possibilities. “This war is dangerous for us, Father. In the past, the Heralds would organize our forces, fight with us for a time—but would then return to lock away the souls of the Fused in Damnation, preventing their rebirths. That way, each Fused we killed was an actual casualty. But the Oathpact is broken now, and the Fused cannot be locked away.” “Yes…” Dalinar said, moving to stand beside Renarin. “I’ve been thinking about this myself. Trying to determine if there was a way to restore the Oathpact, or to somehow otherwise make the enemy fear. This is new ground, for both us and Odium. There must be something about this new reality that unnerves him. Is there anything else you see?” See the
blackness that will be, Renarin? Glys said. “Friction between the two of you,” Renarin said, pointing up at the stained glass. “And a blackness interfering, marring the beauty of the window. Like a sickness infecting both of you, at the edges.” “Curious,” Dalinar said, looking where Renarin had pointed, though he’d see only empty air. “I wonder if we’ll ever know what that represents.” “Oh, that one’s easy, Father,” Renarin said. “That’s me.” “Renarin, I don’t think you should see yourself as—” “You needn’t try to protect my ego, Father. When Glys and I bonded, we became … something new. We see the future. At first I was confused at my place—but I’ve come to understand. What I see interferes with Odium’s ability. Because I can see possibilities of the future, my knowledge changes what I will do. Therefore, his ability to see my future is obscured. Anyone close to me is difficult for him to read.” “I find that comforting,” Dalinar said, putting his arm around Renarin’s shoulders. “Whatever you are, son, it’s a blessing. You might be a different kind of Radiant, but you’re Radiant all the same. You shouldn’t feel you need to hide this or your spren.” Renarin ducked his head, embarrassed. His father knew not to touch him too quickly, too unexpectedly, so it wasn’t the arm around his shoulders. It was just that … well, Dalinar was so accustomed to being able to do whatever he wanted. He had written a storming book. Renarin held no illusions that he would be similarly accepted. He and his father might be of similar rank, from the same family, but Renarin had never been able to navigate society like Dalinar did. True, his father at times “navigated” society like a chull marching through a crowd, but people got out of the way all the same. Not for Renarin. The people of both Alethkar and Azir had thousands of years training them to fear and condemn anyone who claimed to be able to see the future. They weren’t going to put that aside easily, and particularly not for Renarin. We will be careful, Glys thought. We will be safe. We will try, Renarin thought to him. Out loud, he merely said, “Thank you. It means a lot to me that you believe that, Father.” You will ask him? Glys said. So my siblings can be? “Glys wants me to note,” Renarin said, “that there are others like him. Other spren that Sja-anat has touched, changed, made into … whatever it is we are.” “What she does is not right. Corrupting spren?” “If I’m a blessing, Father, how can we reject the others? How can we condemn the one who made them? Sja-anat isn’t human, and doesn’t think like one, but I believe she is trying to find a path toward peace between singers and humans. In her own way.” “Still … I’ve felt the touch of one of the Unmade, Renarin.” And by one, you judge the others? Renarin didn’t say it though. People too often said things as soon
as they popped into their heads. Instead he waited. “How many corrupted spren are we talking about?” Dalinar finally asked. “Only a handful,” Renarin said. “She won’t change intelligent spren without their consent.” “Well, that’s valuable to know. I’ll consider it. Are you … in contact with her?” “Not in months. Glys is worried at how silent she’s become, though he thinks she is somewhere near right now.” She creates in us a faction loved by neither men nor Odium, Glys agreed. No home. No allies. She might be destroyed by either. We will need more. Like you and like me. Together. Around Renarin, the stained glass windows began to crumble. It took Stormlight and effort by Glys to re-create them—and he was plainly getting tired. Gradually, Renarin’s world became normal. “Let me know if she contacts you,” Dalinar said. “And if any of these episodes come upon you, bring them to me. I know a little of what it is like, son. You aren’t as alone as you probably think.” He knows you, Glys said, thrilled by the idea. He does and will. Renarin supposed that maybe he did. How unusual, and how comforting. Renarin—tense at first—leaned against his father, then accepted the offered strength as he watched the future become dust around him. We need more, Glys said. We need more like us, who will be. Who? I can think of one, Renarin said, who would be a perfect choice.… We must not let our desires for a specific result cloud our perceptions. —From Rhythm of War, page 6 undertext With Stormlight, Kaladin had been able to investigate his little hideout, finding it slightly larger than he’d pictured. A stone shelf along one wall gave him a place to put Teft. He’d washed the man, then dressed him in the loose robe, with bedpan in place. One of the sacks Kaladin had taken from the monastery—stuffed with clothing—made a makeshift pillow. He’d need to find blankets, but for now his friend seemed as comfortable as Kaladin could make him. Teft was still willing to take water, sucking it from the large metal syringe Kaladin brought back. Indeed, Teft lapped up the contents eagerly. He seemed so close to coming awake, Kaladin expected him to start cursing at any moment, demanding to know where his uniform had gone. Syl watched, uncharacteristically solemn. “What will we do if he dies?” she asked softly. “Don’t think about that,” Kaladin said. “What if I can’t help thinking about it?” “Find something to distract you.” She sat on the stone shelf, hands in her lap. “Is that how you stand it? Knowing everyone is going to die? You just … don’t think about it?” “Basically,” Kaladin said, refilling his syringe from the wooden water jug, then putting the tip into Teft’s mouth and slowly emptying it. “Everyone dies eventually.” “I won’t,” she said. “Spren are immortal, even if you kill them. Someday I’ll have to watch you die.” “What brought this on?” Kaladin asked. “This isn’t like you.” “Yup. Right. Of course. Not like me.”
She plastered a smile on her face. “Sorry.” “I didn’t mean it that way, Syl,” Kaladin said. “You don’t have to pretend.” “I’m not.” “I’ve used enough fake smiles to not be fooled by one. You were doing this earlier too, before the problems in the tower started. What happened?” She looked down. “I’ve … been remembering what it was like when Relador, my old knight, died. How it made me sleep for so many years, straight through the Recreance. I keep wondering, will that happen to me again?” “Do you feel a darkness?” Kaladin asked. “A whisper that everything will always turn out for the worst? And at the same time a crippling—and baffling—impulse pushing you to give up and do nothing to change it?” “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing like that. Just a worry in the back of my mind that I keep circling around to. Like … I have a present I want to open, and I get excited for a little while—only to remember I already opened it and there was nothing inside.” “Sounds like how I used to feel when I remembered Tien was dead,” Kaladin said. “I’d get used to living life as normal, feeling good—only to be reminded by seeing a rock in the rain, or by seeing a wooden carving like the ones he used to do. Then my whole day would come crashing down.” “Like that! But it doesn’t crash my day down. Just makes me settle back and think and wish I could see him again. It still hurts. Is something wrong with me?” “That sounds normal to me. Healthy. You’re dealing with the loss when you never really did so before. Now that you’re coming fully back to yourself, you’re finally confronting things you’ve been ignoring.” “You just told me not to think about it though,” Syl said. “Will that actually help?” Kaladin winced. No, it wouldn’t. He’d tried. “Distractions can be helpful. Doing something, reminding yourself there’s a lot out there that’s wonderful. But … you do have to think about these things eventually, I guess.” He filled the syringe again. “You shouldn’t ask me about this sort of problem. I’m … not the best at dealing with them myself.” “I feel like I shouldn’t have to deal with them,” Syl said. “I’m a spren, not a human. If I’m thinking like this, doesn’t it mean I’m broken?” “It means you’re alive,” Kaladin said. “I’d be more worried if you didn’t feel loss.” “Maybe it’s because you humans created us.” “Or it’s because you’re a little piece of divinity, like you always say.” Kaladin shrugged. “If there is a god, then I think we could find him in the way we care about one another. Humans thinking about the wind, and honor, might have given you shape from formless power—but you’re your own person now. As I’m my own person, though my parents gave me shape.” She smiled at that, and walked across the shelf wearing the form of a woman in a havah. “A person,” she said.
“I like thinking like that. Being like that. A lot of the other honorspren, they talk about what we were made to be, what we must do. I talked like that once. I was wrong.” “A lot of humans are the same,” he said, leaning down so he was eye level with her. “I guess we both need to remember that whatever’s happening in our heads, whatever it was that created us, we get to choose. That’s what makes us people, Syl.” She smiled, then her havah bled from a light white-blue to a deeper blue color, striking and distinct, like it was made of real cloth. “You’re getting better at that,” he said. “The colors are more vibrant this time.” She held up her arms. “I think the closer I get to your world, the more I can become, the more I can change.” She seemed to like that idea and sat, making her dress fade from one shade of blue to another, and then to a green. Kaladin finished giving Teft the syringe of water, then held it up. The sides of the metal had fingerprints in them, sunken into the surface. This device had been Soulcast into metal after first being formed from wax—the fingerprints were a telltale sign. “You can become more things,” he said. “Like a syringe maybe? We talked about you becoming other tools.” “I think I could do it,” she said. “If I could manifest as a Blade right now, I could change shape to be like that. I think … you imagining it, me believing it, we could do even more. It—” She cut off as a faint scraping sounded outside, from near the doorway. Immediately Kaladin reached for his scalpel. Syl came alert, zipping up into the air around him as a ribbon of light. Kaladin crept toward the door. He’d covered up the gemstone in the wall on this side with a piece of cloth. He didn’t know if his light would shine out or not, but wasn’t taking any chances. But he could hear. Someone was out there, their boots scraping stone. Were they inspecting the door? He made a snap decision, slipping his hand under the cloth and pressing it against the stone, commanding it to open. The rocks began to split. Kaladin prepared to leap out and attack the singer on the other side. But it wasn’t a singer. It was Dabbid. The unassuming bridgeman wore street clothing, and he stepped away from the door as it opened. He saw Kaladin and nodded to him, as if this were all completely expected. “Dabbid?” Kaladin said. Other than Rlain, Dabbid was the only original bridgeman who hadn’t manifested Windrunner powers. So it made sense he was awake. But how had he found his way here? Dabbid held up a pot with something liquid inside. Kaladin gave it a sniff. “Broth?” he asked. “How did you know?” Dabbid pointed at the line of crystal on the wall, where the tower spren’s light began to twinkle. Surprising; along with being mute, the
man didn’t often volunteer information. Holding the pot awkwardly, Dabbid tapped his wrists together. Bridge Four. “I am so glad to see you,” Kaladin said, leading him into the room. “How did you get broth? Never mind. Here, come sit by Teft.” Dabbid was one of the first men Kaladin had saved when he’d started administering medical aid to the bridgemen. While Dabbid’s physical wounds had healed, his battle shock was the strongest Kaladin had ever seen. Regardless, he was a wonderful sight. Kaladin had been worrying about leaving Teft. If Kaladin died on a mission, that would be a death sentence for Teft too. Unless someone else knew about him. He got Dabbid situated, then showed him the use of the syringe and had him start feeding Teft. Kaladin felt bad, putting the mute bridgeman to work as soon as he arrived, but—by Syl’s internal clock—night would soon arrive. Kaladin needed to get moving. “I’ll explain more when I return,” Kaladin promised. “Dabbid, can you get this door open? In case you need to fetch more food and water.” Dabbid walked over and put his hand on the door’s gemstone; it opened for him as easily as it did for Kaladin. That was somewhat worrisome. Kaladin touched the wall garnet. “Tower spren?” he asked. Yes. “Is there a way I can lock these doors, so they can’t be opened by just anyone?” It was once possible to attune them to individuals. These days, I must simply leave a given door so it can be opened by anyone, or lock it so none can open it. Well, it was good to know that—in a pinch—he should be able to ask the Sibling to lock the door. For now, it was enough that Dabbid could get in and out. Kaladin nodded to Syl, left one gemstone to give Dabbid light, then slipped out. * * * Navani had asked Kaladin to observe the Oathgates up close as they were activated. To see if he could figure out why they functioned when other fabrials did not. Unfortunately, Kaladin doubted he’d be able to get all the way down to the Oathgate plateau by sneaking through the hallways of the tower. He had made it to an out-of-the-way monastery on the fourth floor, yes, but that was a long way from the highly populated first two floors. Even if humans weren’t confined to quarters, Kaladin couldn’t saunter along without getting stopped. Kaladin Stormblessed drew attention. Instead, he wanted to try climbing along the outside of the tower. Before he’d learned to fly, he’d stuck rocks to the chasm wall and climbed them. He figured he could do something similar now. The enemy had plainly ordered the Heavenly Ones to stay inside, and few people went out on the balconies. So he made his way onto a balcony on the tenth floor right as dusk was arriving. He’d tied a sack to his belt, and in it he’d stuffed the four scrub brushes he’d gotten from the monastery. Earlier, he’d cut the bristles free with his
scalpel, leaving them flat on the front but with a curved handle for holding. Kaladin couldn’t paint his hands with a Full Lashing to stick them to things. Lopen kept sticking his clothing or hair to the floor, but a Radiant’s skin seemed immune to the power. Perhaps Kaladin could have rigged some gloves that worked, but the brush handholds seemed sturdier. He leaned out of the balcony and checked to see if anyone was watching. It was growing dark already. He doubted anyone would be able to see him in the gloom, so long as he didn’t draw in too much Stormlight. By keeping it mostly in the brushes attached to the wall, he wouldn’t glow so much that he risked being spotted. At least, the risk of that felt far less than the risk of sneaking through the occupied floors. Best to try it first in a way that wasn’t dangerous. Kaladin took out one of the brushes and infused it with Stormlight, then pressed the flat side against a pillar on the balcony. With it affixed in place, he was able to hang his entire weight on it—dangling free—without it pulling off or the handle breaking. “Good enough,” he said, recovering the Stormlight from the Lashing. He took off his socks, but replaced his boots. He scanned the air for Heavenly Ones one last time, then stepped over the side of the balcony and balanced on the little ledge outside. He looked down toward the stones far below, but they were lost in the evening darkness. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of eternity. He’d always liked being up high. Even before becoming Radiant, he’d felt a certain kinship with the open sky. Standing here, part of him wanted to jump, to feel the rushing wind. It wasn’t some suicidal tendency, not this time. It was the call of something beautiful. “Are you scared?” Syl said. “No,” Kaladin said. “The opposite. I’ve gotten so accustomed to leaping from high places that I’m not nearly as worried about this as I probably should be.” He infused two of the brushes, then moved to the far left side of the balcony. Here the stone wall made a straight “path” toward the ground between balconies. Kaladin took a deep breath and swung out and slammed one brush against the stone, then the other. He found footholds on the stone, but they were slippery. Once, there had been a great deal of ornamentation on the rock out here—but years of highstorms had smoothed some of that out. Perhaps Lift could have climbed it without help, but Kaladin was glad he had Stormlight. He infused the toes of his boots through his feet, then stuck them to the wall too. He started toward the ground, unsticking one limb, moving it, then sticking it back. Syl walked through the air beside him, as if striding down invisible steps. Kaladin found the descent more difficult than he’d anticipated. He had to rely a great deal on his upper-body strength, as it was
difficult to get the boots to stick right, with just the toes. He’d release one brush from the wall, then slide it into place while holding on with only one hand, then move his feet before moving the other. Though Radiant, he was sweating from exertion by the time he reached the fifth floor. He decided to take a break, and—after having Syl check to make sure it was empty—he moved over and swung onto a balcony. He settled down, breathing deeply, a few spiky coldspren moving across the balcony rail toward him, like friendly cremlings. Syl darted into the hallway to make sure nobody was near. Fortunately, the increasingly cold tower—and the desire for subterfuge—seemed to have convinced most of the invading singers to take quarters far inward. So long as he stayed away from patrols, he should be safe. He sat with his back to the balcony railing, feeling his muscles burn. As a soldier, then a bridgeman, he’d grown accustomed to the sensation of overexerted muscles. He almost felt cheated these days, because Stormlight’s healing made the feeling rare. Indeed, after he sat for a minute, the sensation was completely gone. Once Syl returned, he resumed his climb. As he did, a couple of windspren drew near: little lines of light that looped about him. As he descended toward the fourth floor, they would occasionally show faces at him—or the outlines of figures—before giggling and flitting off. Syl watched them with fondness. He wanted to ask her what she was thinking, but didn’t dare speak, lest someone inside hear voices coming in through a window. He took care to press his handholds into place quietly. Kaladin hit a snag as he reached the fourth floor. Syl noticed first, becoming a ribbon and making the glyph for “stop” in the air beside him. He froze, then heard it. Voices. He nodded to Syl, who went to investigate. He felt her concern through the bond; when Syl was a Blade, they had a direct mental connection—but when she was not in that shape, the connection was softer. They’d been practicing on sending words to one another, but they tended to be vague impressions. This time, he got a sense of some distinct words.… singers … with spyglasses … third-floor balcony … looking up … Kaladin hung in place, silent as he could be. He could hear them below and to the left, on a balcony. They had spyglasses? Why? To watch the sky, he thought, trying to project the idea to Syl. For Windrunner scouts. They won’t want to use the Oathgate until they’re certain nobody is watching. Syl returned, and Kaladin started to feel his muscles burning again. He wiped his sweaty brow on his sleeve, then carefully—his teeth gritted—drew in Stormlight to release one of his brush handholds. His skin started to release luminescent smoke, but before the light became too obvious, he re-Lashed the brush and stretched out, attaching it to the rock as far to his right as he could reach. He moved to the side, away
from the occupied balcony. He could climb across the next balcony over. As he moved, he heard the singers chatting in Alethi—femalen voices he thought, though some singer forms made gender difficult to distinguish from the voice. Judging by the conversation, they were indeed watching for Windrunners. They did Oathgate transfers at night deliberately—when flying Radiants would be starkly visible, glowing in the night sky. Kaladin crossed over two balconies to his right, then continued down another open flat corridor of stone. He was on the northern part of the tower, and had moved west to get away from the scouts. Syl kept checking the nearby balconies as Kaladin continued his methodical pace. Unfortunately, soon after he’d passed the third floor, a dark light flashed from the Oathgates. It was tinged violet like Voidlight, but was brighter than a Voidlight sphere. Kaladin took a moment to rest, hanging on but not moving. “Syl,” he whispered. “Go check on those scouts on the balcony. Tell me if they’re still watching the sky.” She zipped off, then returned a moment later. “They’re packing up their things,” she whispered. “Looks like they’re leaving.” That was what he’d feared. The enemy would use the Oathgates as infrequently as possible, as moving singer troops in and out of the tower would expose them to spying eyes. If the scouts were packing up, it was a fairly solid indication that the Oathgates wouldn’t be used again tonight. Kaladin had been too slow. But the gate had flashed with Voidlight. So he knew they’d done something to the fabrial. He’d have to try again tomorrow; he’d moved slower than he’d intended today, but he felt good about the process. A little more practice, and he could probably get down fast enough. But would getting close to the Oathgates tell him anything about what had been done to them? He didn’t feel he knew enough about fabrials. For now, he started climbing back up to see how much more difficult it was. This was slower, but the footholds with his boots were more helpful. As he ascended, he found a fierce pride in the effort. The changes to the tower had tried to keep him confined to the ground, but the sky was his. He’d found a way to scale her again, if in a less impressive way. If he … Kaladin paused, hanging from his handholds, as something struck him. Something that he felt profoundly stupid for having not seen immediately. “The scouts on the balcony,” he whispered to Syl as she darted in to see why he’d stopped. “What would they have done if they’d spotted Windrunners in the sky?” “They’d have told the others to stop the transfer,” Syl said, “so the fact that the Oathgate glowed the wrong color wouldn’t give away the truth.” “How?” Kaladin asked. “How did they contact the Oathgate operators? Did you see flags or anything?” “No,” Syl said. “They were just sitting there writing in the dark. They must have been using … a spanreed.” One that worked in the tower.
Navani was trying to figure out how the enemy was operating fabrials. What if he could hand her one? Surely that would lead to more valuable information than he would get by observing the Oathgates. Syl zipped over to the balcony the scouts had been using. “I can see them!” she said. “They’ve packed up, and they’re leaving, but they’re just ahead.” Follow, Kaladin sent her mentally, then moved as quickly as he could in that direction. He might have missed the night’s transfer, but there was still a way he could help. And it involved stealing that spanreed. But how can we not, in searching, wish for a specific result? What scientist goes into a project without a hope for what they will find? —From Rhythm of War, page 6 undertext Venli inspected the large model of the tower. Such an intricate construction, a masterwork of sculpting, bathed in violet moonlight through the window. What had it been used for by the Radiants of old, all those years ago? Was this a forgotten art piece, or something more? She’d heard several Voidspren saying that perhaps it was a scale model for the spren to live in, but—for all its intricacy—it didn’t have things like furniture or doors. She walked around it, passing through the middle, where it was split to show a cross section. For some reason, seeing it in miniature highlighted how impossibly vast the tower was. Even reconstructed like this, it was twice Venli’s height. She shook her head and left the model behind, moving among the fallen Radiants, each of whom lay silent on the floor of this large chamber. According to Raboniel’s request, Venli had found a place to keep them all together. She’d wanted them on the ground floor, close enough to the basement rooms to be sent for, but that region of the tower was quite well occupied. So rather than go to the trouble of kicking people out of a chamber to use, Venli had appropriated this newly discovered—and empty—one. It had only one entrance, so it was easy to guard, and the window provided natural light. There were around fifty of them in total. Perhaps with such low numbers, Raboniel’s forces could have taken this place even if the Radiants had fought. Perhaps not. There was something about these modern Radiants. The Fused seemed to be constantly surprised by them. Everyone had expected impotence, inexperience. Roshar had gone centuries without the Radiant bond. These had no masters to train them; they had to discover everything on their own. How did they do so well? Timbre pulsed her thoughts on the matter. Sometimes ignorance was an advantage, as you weren’t limited by the expectations of the past. Perhaps that was it. Or perhaps it was something else. New, younger spren, enthusiastic—pitted against weary old Fused souls. Venli lingered near the body of a young woman. The Radiants were each lying on a blanket and draped with a sheet, corpselike, leaving only their faces exposed. This Radiant, however, was stirring. Her eyes were closed, but
her face twitched, as if she were in the grip of a terrible nightmare. She might be. Odium had invaded Venli’s mind in the past; who knew how far his corrupting touch could reach? Windrunner, Venli thought, reading the markings on the floor next to the woman. They listed whatever Venli’s team had been able to learn about the individual Radiants from interrogating the tower’s humans. She glanced down the row toward another Radiant whose face was making similar expressions. Also a Windrunner. She finished her inspection and met up with Dul. It had turned out to be simple for Venli to put her most trusted people in charge of the fallen Radiants, as Raboniel thought it a good use for them. “The other Windrunners,” Venli said softly. “Do they all seem…” “Closer to waking?” Dul asked to Awe. “Yeah. They do. Any time one of the Radiants stirs, it’s always a Windrunner. We’ve caught some of them muttering in their sleep.” “Raboniel asked me specifically to check on this,” Venli said to Anxiety. “She seemed to have anticipated it.” “Not hard to guess,” Dul said. “The Radiant who is awake—supposedly roaming the tower—is a Windrunner, right?” Venli nodded, looking along the rows of bodies. Venli’s loyalists moved among them, administering broth and changing soiled blankets. “This was a good maneuver, putting us here,” Dul whispered. “Caring for the humans gives us an excuse to collect blankets and clothing for when we leave. I’ve begun putting away broth paste that should keep.” “Good,” Venli said to Anxiety. “When only our people are around, test those Windrunners and see if you can wake one up.” “And if we succeed?” Dul asked to Skepticism. “I think that’s a terrible idea.” Venli’s first instinct—even still—was to slap him. How dare he question her? She pushed away that instinct, though it warned her that she was the same selfish person, despite it all. A few Words didn’t suddenly make her something better. “Their powers would be suppressed,” Venli explained to him. “So they shouldn’t be a danger to you. And if they are violent, get away and let it be assumed they woke up spontaneously. That will keep us from being implicated.” “Fine, but why risk it?” “Escaping and hiding will be far easier with the help of one like these,” Venli said. “At the very least, we’ll need a distraction to get out. The Windrunners waking and suddenly fighting would provide that.” She glanced at Dul, who still hummed to Skepticism. “Look,” Venli said as they completed a walk around the room, “I don’t like humans any more than you do. But if we truly want to escape, we’ll need to make use of every advantage we can find.” She swept her hand across the room of unconscious Radiants. “This could be a very large one.” Finally, Dul hummed to Reconciliation. “I suppose you’re right. It’s worth trying, though I’m not sure how to wake these up. What we need is a surgeon. Could probably use one anyway; some of these seem to be getting
sores and drawing rotspren. Others won’t take any broth, though they have hungerspren buzzing around them.” Venli attuned Peace as an idea occurred to her. “I’m sure I could get you surgeons. In fact, I know of one who might be willing to help our cause. A human. He’s in hiding, because of certain matters we shouldn’t spread. But I think we could place him here, to help.” Dul nodded, humming to Appreciation. Venli left, stepping out onto the floor of the atrium—with the long vertical shaft running up toward the top of the tower. She passed several Regals standing guard at the door to the room with the model. Leshwi had told her to put the surgeon and his family someplace safe; well, this made sense. Curfew was nearing, so here on the floor of the atrium, people were hurrying about their last-minute activities. The humans—no longer confined to quarters—had crept from their shells like vines after a storm. Many of them lived around the atrium, and they had pulled out carts, making temporary shops here near the large window. Like spren to the Passions, the humans sought out the sunlight. Tonight, they walked timidly and kept their distance from Venli, as if they couldn’t believe that they were supposed to continue on as if nothing had happened. Venli found a stairwell and hurried up, causing a few human women to pull to one side and gasp softly, drawing wormlike fearspren. Sometimes Venli forgot how fearsome her Regal form looked. She’d grown comfortable with it, and more and more it felt like her natural state—even if there was a Voidspren trapped in her gemheart. On the second floor, Venli made her way toward a meeting point near the atrium balcony. She was supposed to give service to a team of Fused tonight, in case they needed an interpreter. Many Fused had trouble speaking to modern singers. That made sense, considering how short a time they’d been back. Venli found it odder that some—like Raboniel—had already learned to speak modern Alethi. Venli arrived at the meeting place, surprised to find several Deepest Ones: the strange Fused with limber bodies and milky-white eyes glowing red from behind. They enjoyed spending their time sunken in rock as much as the Heavenly Ones liked to soar. She had occasionally walked into a room to find one or two of them lingering there, sunken into the floor, revealing only their faces, eyes closed. Tonight four stood in a clump, attended by a few ordinary singers carrying equipment. The Fused were arguing among themselves in their language. “I did not think the sand would work,” one of the Deepest Ones said to Spite. Their rhythms sounded off. Muted. “I was right in this. You should acknowledge it.” “There are too many different fabrials in the tower,” said another. “And too many spren. The device we hunt doesn’t leave a strong enough impression to be noticeable, hidden as it is.” “You’re searching for the fabrial that is creating the shield around the crystal pillar,” Venli guessed. Raboniel had
mentioned the field was created by a fabrial—which she theorized would have several gemstones, called nodes, maintaining it, hidden somewhere in the tower. The Deepest Ones did not directly reprimand her for speaking without first being addressed. As Raboniel’s Voice, Venli had a certain amount of authority, even with these. Not to command, but certainly to speak. “Why not use secretspren?” she asked. “They can find fabrials as easily as they find Radiants, can’t they?” “The entire tower is a fabrial,” one of the Deepest Ones said. “The secretspren are useless here; they spin in circles, confused. Asking them to find a specific use of Light in here is like asking them to find a specific patch of water in an ocean.” “Useless spren,” another said. “Have you seen the chaosspren?” Venli had. Those types of Voidspren—normally invisible to anyone but the ones they appeared to—left sparks in the air now, as if somehow responding to the dampening field. In this place, even someone who couldn’t look into Shadesmar could know whether they were being watched or not. As Venli thought on that, she attuned Excitement. No invisible spren … and the secretspren were useless. That meant a Radiant in the tower would be free to use their powers without being noticed. She could use her powers without being noticed. The implications of it made Timbre begin to thrum to Excitement as well, in time with Venli’s attunement. Finally. They could practice. Dared she, though? “Voice,” one of the Deepest Ones said, waving her over. It was a femalen with pale white skin, swirled with the faintest lines of red. “We need to find these nodes. But without secretspren, we might have to search the entire tower. You will begin interrogating humans, asking if they’ve seen a large gemstone that seems unattached from any visible fabrial.” “As you wish, Ancient One,” Venli said to Abashment. “But if I may say, this seems an inelegant solution. Are the nodes not likely to be hidden?” “Yes,” another said, “but they will also need to be accessible. Their purpose is to let Radiants charge the shield with Stormlight.” “Be that as it may, Ancient One, I am skeptical,” Venli said. “Assuming humans answered me truthfully, I suspect they would not know anything. They have not finished mapping all the floors of the tower, let alone its secret places. Do you truly wish us to spend months talking to each human, asking them if they’ve seen something as vague as a random gemstone?” The Deepest Ones hummed to Destruction, but otherwise did not contradict her. As with many of the Fused, they did not object out of hand to being challenged, not if the argument was a good one. Venli could learn from them in that regard. “This is as I said,” one said to the others. “We could search this place for years and discover nothing.” “Won’t the nodes be connected to the crystal pillar?” Venli asked. “Yes,” said one of the Deepest Ones. “By veins of crystal, for transporting Stormlight.” “Then we could follow
those,” Venli said. “You could sink into the rock and find them, then trace them outward.” “No,” said another to Derision. “We cannot see while embedded. We can hear, and we can sing, and the tones of Roshar guide us. But this fabrial is made to be silent to us. To trace the lines, we would need to break apart the stone—and sever all the connections to the pillar. That might destroy the tower’s protections entirely, letting the Radiants awaken and defeating our purpose.” “So if you did find a gemstone in the tower,” Venli said, “you couldn’t know whether it was tied to the protective field. You might break the gemstone and find it was tied to something else entirely.” The Fused hummed at her in Derision. Venli was pushing the boundaries of the interference they would accept. “No, foolish one,” the femalen said. “This fabrial of protection is new. Added to the tower after its creation. There will be few other gemstones like it. The rest of the tower works as a single entity, which is why Raboniel was able to engage its protections by infusing it with Voidlight.” That … didn’t really explain as much as they seemed to think, but Venli hummed to Subservience to indicate she appreciated the information and the correction. Her mind, however, was still daunted by the implications of what she’d learned earlier. She’d spent all these months being timid about her powers, telling herself she didn’t dare use them. Why was she so worried now, though? Timbre pulsed. Indicating it was all right to be afraid of trying something new. It was natural. But that wasn’t it, not entirely. It seemed that most of Venli’s life, she’d been afraid of the wrong things. Her curiosity had led to her people’s downfall. And now she played with powers she didn’t understand, gathering an entire group of hopefuls who depended on her. If she made a wrong move, Dul and the others were doomed. The Deepest Ones conferred. The femalen continued to watch Venli, however. The other three seemed to regard her as their foremost, for they quieted when she spoke. “You are mortal,” she said to Venli. “You are the Last Listener. Few Regals earn a true title, and I find it odd to see the child of traitors developing one. Tell me, where would you place these nodes, if you were to do so?” “I…” Venli attuned Agony. “I have no knowledge of the tower. I couldn’t say.” “Guess,” the Fused prompted. “Try.” “I suppose,” Venli said, “I would put it someplace easy to give it Stormlight, but a place no one would search. Or…” A thought occurred to her, but she quieted it. She didn’t want to help them. The longer it took to fully corrupt the tower, the better it seemed for her people. “No, never mind. I am foolish, Ancient One, and ignorant.” “Perhaps, but you are also mortal—and think like one,” the Fused considered. “Mortals are busy. They live short lives, always stuffed with so many things to do.
Yet they are also lazy. They want to do none of what they should. Would you not say this is true?” “I … Yes, of course,” Venli said. This was not a Fused wanting someone to object. “Yes,” said another Deepest One. “Would they not put the gemstone nodes, at least one of them, where Stormlight could renew it naturally?” “Storms reach this high only occasionally,” another said, “but they do come up here. So it would make sense to put one in reach of the occasional free infusion of power.” Timbre pulsed to Sorrow inside Venli. This was exactly the idea she’d chosen not to share. Where was the best place for a node? Outside somewhere—but not on the balconies, where it could be spotted. She looked across the atrium toward the large window. The Deepest Ones had come to the same conclusion apparently, for they flowed away toward the far wall, to look for signs of a gemstone embedded outside. Timbre pulsed to Disappointment. “I didn’t try to help,” Venli whispered. “Besides, they mostly figured it out on their own.” Timbre pulsed again. Hopefully it would turn out to be nothing. It was just a guess, after all. The Fused had left her with no instructions, so she remained with the servants—until she spotted a familiar figure hurrying through the corridor. Mazish, Dul’s wife, one of Venli’s inner circle. She stepped forward quickly, intercepting the squat workform—who was humming to Anxiety. “What?” Venli asked. “Venli,” she said. “Venli, they … they’ve found another.” “Another Radiant?” Venli asked to Confusion. “No. No, not that. I mean.” She seized Venli by the arm. “Another one of you. Another listener.” Eshonai found the humans endlessly fascinating. Between their first and second visits, Eshonai had organized several trips to try to find their homeland. Suddenly, everyone had wanted to join her, and she’d led large expeditions. Those had been all song, and no crescendo, unfortunately—the only thing she’d been able to locate was a solitary human outpost to the west. They’d told her to expect a second visit soon, but now that visit seemed to be drawing to a close. So Eshonai took every remaining opportunity to watch the humans. She loved the way they walked, the way they talked, even the way they looked at her. Or sometimes didn’t. Like today, as she strolled through Gavilar Kholin’s camp. His servants barely glanced at her as they packed. She stepped up beside one worker, who was unstringing a large metal bow. The man must have seen her standing there—but when he stood up a few minutes later, he jumped to find her beside him. Such strange behavior. Sometimes she thought she could read the rhythms in the human motions—like that man with the bow would be attuned to Anxiety. Yet they still didn’t seem to grasp that listeners could hear something they could not. What would it be like to go about all the time without a rhythm in your head? It must be painful. Or lonely. So empty. The various humans continued their
packing, storing everything in wagons for the day’s storm. The humans were good at judging the arrival of those—though they were often wrong on the hour, they were usually right on the day. This, however, was no routine pre-storm packing job. They would soon leave; she could read this in the way they talked to each other, the way they double-checked bindings and folded tents with more precision than usual. They weren’t planning to unpack any of it for a while. She wished they would stay longer—their first interaction had been so short, and now this second visit was over almost before it began. Perhaps she could go with them, as she’d told Venli. She’d asked how far beyond the hills their home was, but they didn’t answer, and refused to share their maps. Eshonai moved to slip out of camp, but stopped as she noticed one man standing off from the rest. Dalinar Kholin looked out, eastward, toward the Origin of Storms. Curious, Eshonai walked up to him, noting that he had his Shardblade out. He held it lightly before him, the tip sunken into the stone. He seemed to be searching for something, but before him stretched only the Plains—an empty expanse. Unlike the others, he noticed her approach immediately, turning as she made the slightest scrape on the stones while walking. She froze beneath his gaze, which always seemed to be the stare of a greatshell. “You’re one of the interpreters,” he said. “Yes.” “What was your name?” “Eshonai,” she said, though she had little doubt he’d forget again. The humans didn’t seem to be able to distinguish very well between different listeners. “Have you been out there?” he asked, nodding toward the Plains. “To the center?” “No,” she said. “I’d like to go, but the old bridges … they do not stand. It would take work, much work, to put them back. Most of my people don’t like … what is the word? Going where it is difficult to go?” “Exploring, perhaps,” he said. “Yes. Exploring. We once exploring. But now, very little exploring.” Until recently. He grunted. “You’re good with our language.” “I like it,” she said. “Speaking new ways. Thinking new ways. They are same, yes?” “Yes, perhaps they are.” He turned and looked over his shoulder toward the west. Toward his homeland. “Perhaps your people are afraid to return to where they once lived.” “Why fear that?” Eshonai asked, attuning Confusion. “Places have power over us, parshwoman,” he said. “Places have memories. Sometimes when you go to a place you’ve never been, it can be wonderful … because it lets you be someone else. No expectations. No storming memories.” “I like new places,” she said. “Because … they are new.” She attuned Irritation. That hadn’t come out as she’d wanted it to; she felt stupid, speaking their language. It was difficult to express anything deep while speaking it, because the rhythms didn’t match the sounds. “Wise words,” Dalinar said. Wise words? Was he being patronizing? Humans seemed to not expect much from her people, and
were surprised whenever a complex conversation happened. As if they were amused that the listeners were not as dull-minded as parshmen. “I would like to go to see places where you live,” Eshonai said. “I would visit you, and have you visit us, more.” Dalinar dismissed his Blade, sending it away with a puff of white fog. She attuned Confusion. “My brother has taken an interest in you,” Dalinar said softly. “This … Well, be more cautious with your invitations, parshwoman. Our attention can be dangerous.” “I do not understand,” she said. It sounded as if he were warning her against his own. “I have grown tired of pushing people around,” Dalinar said. “In my wake, I’ve left too many smoldering holes where cities used to be. You are something special, something we’ve never seen before. And I know my brother—I know that look in his eyes, that excitement. “His interest could benefit you, but it could have an equal cost. Do not be so quick to share your stormshelter with men you just barely met. Don’t offend, but also don’t be too quick to bend. Any new recruit needs to learn both lessons. In this case, I’d suggest politeness—but care. Do not let him back you into a corner. He will respect you if you stand up for yourselves. And whatever you do, don’t give him any reason to decide he wants what you have.” Be forceful, stand up for themselves, but don’t offend their king? How did that make any sense? Yet looking at him—listening to his calm but firm voice—she thought she did understand. His intent, as if given to her by a rhythm. Be careful with us was what he was saying. We are far more dangerous than you think. He had mentioned … burning cities. “How many cities do your people live in?” she asked. “Hundreds,” he said. “The number of humans in our realm would stagger you. It is many times the number of parshmen I’ve seen here living with you.” Impossible. That … was impossible, wasn’t it? We know so little. “Thank you,” she said to Appreciation. She got it to click, the way of speaking his language but putting a rhythm to it. It could work. He nodded to her. “We are leaving. I realize this visit was short, but my brother needs to return to his lands. You will … certainly meet us again. We will send a more permanent envoy. I promise you this.” He turned, moving with the momentum of a shifting boulder, and walked toward his stormwagon. * * * Venli felt as if the bright red gemstone would burn its way through her clothing. She huddled in one of the stormshelters: a group of wide slits in the ground near the city, which they’d covered over with animal carapace and crem. Each was in the top of a hill, so the sides could drain. Venli’s immediate family gathered together in this one to chat and feast, as was their habit during storm days. The others seemed so cheerful, speaking
to Joy or Appreciation while they ate beside the fire, listening as Venli’s mother sang songs by the light of uncut gemhearts. Those could be organic, lumpish things. While they took in Stormlight, none were nearly as bright as the strange gemstone in her pocket. The one the human had given her. Venli felt as if it should be on fire, though it was as cold as a normal gemstone. She attuned Anxiety and glanced at the others, worrying they’d see that too-red glow. I’m supposed to go out into the storm, she thought, listening to the rain pound distant stone. Does this count? I can see the storm out there, flashing and making its own rhythm, too frantic. Too wild. No, she wasn’t close enough. Hiding in one of these shelters wouldn’t allow her to adopt mateform, which was the sole transformation they did regularly. No one wanted to go back to dullform, after all. There were other forms to be found. She’d been close to warform. And now … this gemstone … She’d carried it for weeks, terrified of what might happen. She glanced at her mother, and the close family members who sat and listened. Enraptured by the beautiful songs. Even Venli, who had heard them hundreds of times, found herself wanting to drift back and sit at her mother’s feet. None of them knew what was happening. To Jaxlim. Mother hid it well. Was it true, that other forms could help her? The humans were leaving now, so this was the last chance Venli would have to try the gemstone, then—if it didn’t work—get answers from the human who had given it to her. Venli attuned Determination and rose from her place, walking toward the end of the shelter, where they’d tied their gemstones to be renewed—close enough to the storm to be given light by the Rider’s touch. Several of the others whispered behind her, their voices attuned to Amusement. They thought she had decided to adopt mateform, which she’d always been adamant she would never do. Her mother had smiled when she’d asked, explaining that few ever intended to adopt mateform. She acted as if it was simply something that happened, that an urge overtook you, or you sat too close to the exit during a storm—then poof, the next thing you knew, you’d become a silly idiot looking to breed. It was embarrassing to think others assumed Venli was doing that now. She reached the wet stone at the edge of the shelter, where rainspren clustered with eyes pointed upward and grasping claws below. The wind and thunder were louder here, like the war calls of a rival family, trying to frighten her away. Perhaps it would be best just to give the gemstone to her mother, and let her go try to find the new form. Wasn’t that what this was about? No, Venli thought, trembling. No. It’s not. Months spent trying to find new forms had gotten her nowhere—while Eshonai gained more and more acclaim. Even their mother, who had called her explorations
foolish, now spoke of Eshonai with respect. The person who had found the humans. The person who had changed the world. Venli had done what she was supposed to. She’d remained with her mother, she’d spent endless days memorizing songs, dutiful. But Eshonai got the praise. Before her nerves betrayed her, Venli stepped out onto the hillside, entering the storm. The force of the wind made her stumble and slide down the slick rock. In an eyeblink she went from sheltered, song-filled warmth to icy chaos. A tempest with sounds like instruments breaking and songs failing. She tried to hold to the Rhythm of Resolve, but it was the Rhythm of Winds by the time she scrambled behind a large boulder and pressed her back against the stone. From there, her mind devolved to the Rhythm of Pleading, bordering on panic. What was she doing? This was insanity. She’d often mocked those who went out in the storms without shields or other protections. She wanted to return to the shelter, but she was too frightened to move. Something large crushed the ground nearby, causing her to jump, but a moment of darkness in the howling tempest prevented her from seeing how close the impact had been. As if the lightning, the wind, and the rain all conspired against her. She reached into her pocket and took out the gemstone. What had seemed so bright before now seemed frail. The red light barely illuminated her hand. Break it. She was supposed to break it. With fingers already numb from the cold, she searched around, eventually finding a large stone. The ground was shattered here in a circle the size of a listener. She retreated to the relative shelter of the boulder, shivering as she held the gemstone in one hand, the rock in the other. Then silence. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that she gasped. The rhythms in her mind became as one, a single steady beat. She looked upward into pure blackness. The ground around her seemed dry all of a sudden. She slowly turned around, then huddled down again. There was something in the sky, something like a face made from clouds and natural light. The impression of something vast and unknowable. YOU WISH TO TAKE THIS STEP? a not-voice said, vibrating through her like a rhythm. “I…” This was him, the spren of highstorms—the Rider of Storms. The songs called him a traitor. YOU HAVE SPENT SO LONG AS CHILDREN OF NO GOD, the rhythm said to her. YOU WOULD MAKE THIS CHOICE FOR ALL OF YOUR PEOPLE? Venli felt both a thrill and a terror at those words. So there was something in the gemstone? “My … my people need forms!” she shouted up toward the vast entity. THIS IS MORE THAN FORMS. THIS POWER CHANGES MORTALS. Power? “You served our enemies!” she called to the sky. “How can I trust what you say?” YET YOU TRUST THE GIFT OF ONE OF THOSE ENEMIES? REGARDLESS, I SERVE NO ONE. NOT MAN OR SINGER. I SIMPLY AM. FAREWELL, CHILD
OF THE PLAINS. CHILD OF ODIUM. The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, and Venli was again in the storm. She nearly dropped her burdens in shock, but then—huddling against the gleeful wind—she set the glowing gemstone on the ground. She gripped the rock in her hand, slick with rain. She wavered. Should she take more care? What greatness was achieved by being careful, though? Eshonai hadn’t been careful, and she’d discovered a new world. Venli slammed the stone downward and crushed the gem. Light escaped in a puff, and she winced in the pelting rain, bracing herself for a wondrous transformation. “Finally!” a voice said to the Rhythm of Irritation. “That was unpleasant.” The red light turned into a tiny human male, standing with hands on hips, glowing faintly in the storm. Venli pulled her arms in tight, shivering, blinking rainwater out of her eyes. “Spren,” she hissed. “I have summoned you to grant me one of the ancient forms.” “You?” he asked. “How old are you? Are there any others I could talk to?” “Show me this secret first,” she said. “Then we will give your form to others. It can heal them, right? That is what I was told.” He didn’t reply. “You will not deny me this!” Venli said, though her words were lost in a sudden peal of thunder. “I’ve suffered long to accomplish this goal.” “Well, you’re certainly dramatic,” the little spren said, tapping his foot. “Guess we use the tools we find in the shed, even if they’ve got a little rust on them. Here’s the deal. I’m going to take up residence inside of you, and together we’re going to do some incredible things.” “We will bring useful forms to my people?” Venli asked, her teeth chattering. “Well, yes. And also no. For a while, we’ll need you to appear as if you are still in workform. I need to scout out how things are on old Roshar these days. It’s been a while. You think you can get into Shadesmar, if we need to?” “Sh-Shadesmar?” she asked. “Yes, we need to get to the storm there. The newer one in the south? Where I entered that gemstone … You have no idea what I’m talking about. Delightful. Right, then. Get ready, we’ve got a lot of work to do.…” * * * Eshonai attuned Anxiety as she stood by the mouth of the shelter, searching for her sister. She couldn’t make out much in the tempest. The flashes of lightning, though brilliant, were too brief to give her a real picture of the landscape. “She really did it, did she?” Thude asked to Amusement as he stepped up beside her, chewing on some fruit. “After all that complaining, she sauntered out to become a mate.” “I doubt it,” Eshonai said. “She’s been trying to find warform for months now. She’s not looking to become a mate. She’s too young, anyway.” The humans had been surprised at how young Eshonai and Venli were—apparently, humans aged more slowly? But Venli was still months
away from official adulthood. “Younger ones have made the decision,” Thude said, rubbing at his beard. “I’ve thought about it, you know? There’s a certain bond to once-mates.” “You just think it sounds fun,” Eshonai said to Reprimand. He laughed. “I do at that.” Thunder shook the enclosure, silencing both of them for a time as they listened to it, both attuning the Rhythm of Winds out of deference. There was something wondrous—if dangerous—about feeling the very vibrations of the storm. “This isn’t the time to be distracted by something silly like mateform,” Eshonai said. “The humans are leaving again once this storm ends. We should be talking about sending someone with them.” “You’re too responsible for your own good sometimes, Eshonai,” Thude replied, his arm up against the top of the enclosure as he leaned forward, letting the rain hit his face. “Me? Responsible?” she said. “Mother might have words for you on that topic.” “And each one would remind me how alike the two of you are,” Thude said, attuned to Joy and grinning at the storm like a fool. “I’m going to do it one of these days, Eshonai. I’m going to see if Bila will go with me. Life is meant to be more than working the fields or chopping wood.” With that, Eshonai could agree. And she supposed she could understand someone wanting to do something different with their life. None of them would exist if their parents hadn’t decided to become mates. The idea still made her want to attune Anxiety. She disliked how much that form changed the way people thought. She wanted to be herself, with her own desires and passions, not let some form override her. Of course, there was an argument that she was even now influenced by workform.… She attuned Determination and put that out of her mind. Venli. Where was she? Eshonai knew she shouldn’t fear for her sister. Listeners went into the storms all the time, and while it was never strictly safe, she didn’t need to hum to Anxiety like the humans did when they talked of storms. Storms were a natural part of life, a gift from Roshar to the listeners. Though a little piece of Eshonai … a part she hated to acknowledge … noted how much easier life would be without Venli around, complaining all the time. Without her jealousy. Everything Eshonai did—every conversation, or plan, or outing—was made harder when Venli decided to be involved. Complications would materialize out of calm air. It was weakness in Eshonai that she should feel this way. She was supposed to love her sister. And she didn’t really want harm to come to Venli, but it was difficult not to remember how peaceful it had been to explore on her own, without any of Venli’s drama.… A figure appeared out of the storm, slick with rain, backlit by lightning. Eshonai felt guilty again, and attuned Joy by force upon seeing it was Venli. She stepped out into the storm and helped her sister the rest of the way.
Venli remained in workform. A wet, shivering femalen in workform. “Didn’t work, eh?” Thude asked her. Venli looked at him, as mute as a human, her mouth opening a little. Then, unnervingly, she grinned. A frantic, uncharacteristic grin. “No, Thude,” Venli said. “It didn’t work. I will have to try many, many more times to find warform.” He hummed to Reconciliation, eyeing Eshonai. She’d been right—it hadn’t been about mateform after all. “I should like to sit by the fire,” Venli said, “and warm myself.” “Venli?” Eshonai said. “Your words … where are their rhythms?” Venli paused. Then she—as if it were a struggle—began humming to Amusement. It took her a few tries. “Don’t be silly,” Venli said. “You just weren’t listening.” She strode toward the fire, walking with a swagger that seemed even more confident than normal. The high-headed stroll of a femalen who thought that the storms began and ended upon her whims. I find this experience so odd. I work with a scholar from the ancient days, before modern scientific theory was developed. I keep forgetting all the thousands of years of tradition you completely missed. —From Rhythm of War, page 6 undertext Kaladin landed on the balcony with a muted thump. Syl was a glowing ribbon of light farther into the building. He couldn’t see the scouts who had packed up and left with the spanreeds, but he trusted Syl was watching them. He followed into the darkness, putting his Stormlight into a sphere so he didn’t glow. He had failed to spy on the Oathgates, but if he could somehow steal one of those Voidlight spanreeds, he could still help Navani. He crept as quickly as he dared in the darkness, one hand on the wall. He soon neared a hallway with lanterns along the wall; as this was the third floor of the tower, much of it was occupied and lit. The lanterns revealed two femalen singers ahead, wearing havahs and chatting quietly. Syl carefully darted into side tunnels and nooks behind them. Kaladin trailed far behind, relying on Syl to point out turns, as the two singers were often out of his direct line of sight. This section of the tower was a large laundry facility, where darkeyes could come to use public water and soap. He passed several large rooms without doors where the floor was shaped into a sequence of basins. It was nearly empty now. The tower’s pumps hadn’t been changed to work on Voidlight, it seemed. He did have to avoid several water-carrying teams—humans pulling carts, with singer guards—moving through the tunnels. Syl soon came zipping back, so he ducked into a darkened alcove near an empty room full of baskets for laundry. The place smelled of soap. “Guard post ahead,” she whispered. “They went through it. What do you want to do?” “Any Fused nearby?” Kaladin asked. “Not that I saw. Only ordinary singers.” “Theoretically, regular guards shouldn’t be able to see you unless you let them. Follow those singers with the spanreeds. Hopefully their rooms are nearby. If they
split up, pick the one with the blue havah—the embroidery indicates she’s the more important. Once you know where her room is, come back, then we can sneak in another way and steal the spanreed.” “Right. If they get too far away from you though, I’ll lose myself.…” “Return if you start to feel that,” he said. “We can try another night.” Syl soared off without another word, leaving Kaladin hiding inside the room with the baskets. Unfortunately, he soon heard voices—and peeked to see a pair of singers with baskets walking down the hallway. Even an occupying force of ancient evil soldiers needed to do laundry, it seemed. Kaladin closed the door, shutting himself in darkness, then—realizing there was a chance they were coming to dump their baskets in this very room—he grabbed a broom and lashed it across the door. Since he’d infused the broom on either end, no Stormlight should show through the door. A moment later it rattled as they tried to push it inward. Annoyed voices outside complained in Azish as they tried the door again. He gripped his knife, darkness weighing upon him. The horror of the nightmares, and a fatigue that went far deeper than the earlier strain to his muscles. A tiredness that had been with him so long, he’d accepted it as normal. When the door rattled again, he was certain it was a dark force come to claim him. He heard the sounds of bowstrings, and of Gaz yelling for the bridgemen to run. Screams of men dying, and … And … He blinked. The door had fallen still. When … when had that happened? He gave it a few minutes, wiping the sweat from his forehead, then un-Lashed the broom and cracked the door. Two abandoned baskets sat nearby, no singers in sight. He let out a long breath, then pried his fingers off his scalpel and tucked it away. Eventually Syl returned. “They weren’t going to their rooms,” she said, animatedly dancing around in patterns as a ribbon of light. “They dropped off their spanreed in a room ahead where there are dozens of spanreeds, watched over by a couple of senior femalens.” Kaladin nodded, breathing deeply, fighting back the tiredness. “You … all right?” Syl asked. “I’m fine,” Kaladin said. “That’s a spanreed hub you found. Makes sense they’d set one up in the tower.” Maintaining hundreds of spanreeds could grow unwieldy, so many highlords and highladies would set up hubs. Disparate locations—like guard posts around the tower—could send reports to a central room, where the hub attendants sifted for important information and sent it to those in power. The singers were keeping their reeds in central locations to be checked out, used, and returned. The reeds wouldn’t go home with individual scribes. This wasn’t going to be as easy as sneaking into a bedroom to grab one, but the hub might offer other opportunities. “We need to get past that guard post,” Kaladin whispered, burying his fatigue. “There’s something else, Kaladin,” Syl said. “Look out the door, down
the tunnel.” Frowning, he did as she requested, peeking out and watching down the tunnel. He was confused, until he saw something pass in the air—like rippling red lightning. “That’s a new kind of Voidspren,” he said. The ones he’d seen in the past that looked like lightning moved along the ground. “It’s not, though,” Syl said. “That spren should be invisible to people, but something is off about its aura. It is leaving a trail that I noted the guards watching.” Curious. So the tower was interfering with spren invisibility? “Did the guards look at you when you passed?” “No, but they might just not have noticed me.” Kaladin nodded, watching a little longer. That spren in the distance didn’t pass again. “It’s worth the risk,” he decided, “in proceeding. At least we’ll know if we’re being spied upon.” “But what about that guard post?” she asked. “I doubt we’ll be able to sneak around it,” he said. “They’ll have all directions guarded for something valuable like a spanreed hub. But a lot of these rooms have small tunnels at the tops for ventilation. Perhaps we can sneak through one of those?” Syl led him carefully to an intersection. He peered right, to where four guards blocked the way, two at either side of the hallway. Spears at the crooks of their arms, they wore Alethi-style uniforms with knots on the shoulders. Kaladin was able to spot one of the ventilation holes nearby, but this one was far too small for him to squeeze into. He’d stood on guard duty himself like that on a number of occasions. If these four were well trained, there would be no luring them away with simple distractions. If you wanted a path well protected, you often posted four. Two to investigate any disturbances, two to remain vigilant. With the hallway this narrow, and with those guards looking as alert as they were … Well, he’d been there. The only times when he’d been drawn away, it had involved someone with proper authority commandeering him for another task. “Syl,” he whispered, “you’re getting better at changing colors. Do you think you could change your coloring to appear like a Voidspren?” She cocked her head, standing beside him in the air, then scrunched up her face in a look of concentration. Her dress changed to red, but not her “skin,” even though it was simply another part of her. Strange. “I think this is all I can manage,” she said. “Then make the dress cover your hands with gloves and put on a mask.” She cocked her head, then changed her clothing so she was wrapped in phantom cloth. That bled to a deep red, making her entire form glow with that color. She inspected her arms. “Do you think it will fool them?” “It might,” Kaladin said. He pulled a length of rope from his sack, then Lashed it to the wall. “Go order all four of them to come with you, then pull them over here to look at this.” “But … doesn’t that
rope risk causing a bigger disturbance? Like, what if they go for backup?” “We need something reasonable enough to have caused a Voidspren to get riled up. I know guard duty though, and those are common warforms. Regular soldiers. I’m guessing that so long as there’s no danger, they’ll just make a report on it.” He hid down a side hallway, waiting as Syl flew off toward the guard post. She didn’t look exactly like a Voidspren, but it was a reasonable approximation. She drew near to the post, then spoke loudly enough that he heard her easily. “You there! I am super annoyed! Super, super annoyed! How can you stand there? Didn’t you see?” “Brightness?” one of them said, in Alethi. “Er, Ancient One? We are to—” “Come on, come on! No, all of you. Come see this! Right now. I’m really annoyed! Can’t you tell?” Kaladin waited, tense. Would it work? Even when acting angry, there was a certain perkiness to Syl’s voice. She sounded too … lively to be a Voidspren. The guards followed though—and as he’d hoped, the glowing length of rope on the wall caught their attention entirely. Kaladin was able to sneak out behind them, passing the post. At the end of this hallway was the door Syl said led into the spanreed room. Kaladin didn’t dare slip through it; he’d step directly into the middle of a hub of activity. Instead he prowled into a smaller hallway to the right—and here he finally caught a break. High up on the wall, near the ceiling, a dark cleft indicated a large ventilation shaft in the stone. Maybe big enough for him to squeeze through. Syl returned—once again white-blue, and likely invisible. “They’re sending one of their number to make a report,” she said. “Like you said.” She peeked into the shaft in the rock Kaladin had found. “What is this?” Ventilation? he thought, trying to send the idea to her so he wouldn’t have to make noise. It worked. “Seems too big for that,” she said. “This place is so strange.” With two of his brushes, Kaladin was able to haul himself up and inspect the cleft in the stone. Syl flew into the darkened shaft toward some light at the other end. He heard the guards talking as they came back, but he was around the corner from them now, out of sight. This ventilation shaft looked like it turned toward the spanreed room just to the left. It was big enough. Maybe. Syl waved, excited. So he squeezed in. It was more than wide enough to the right and left, but it was barely high enough. He had to move using his brush handholds to pull himself along. He worried the scraping sounds he made would give him away—but he was rewarded when the shaft opened up to the left, revealing a small, well-lit room. The shaft he’d entered ran through the middle of the large thick wall between this room and whatever was on the other side. That meant Kaladin was able to
peek in—hidden mostly behind the stone—at the room from the top of the wall. Spanreeds stood poised on many pieces of paper, waiting for reports. There was no sign of the two singer women from earlier—they’d delivered their spanreed and gone off duty. However, two other femalens in rich dresses maintained the reeds, checking for blinking lights and moving reeds between actively writing on boards and inactive piles on the tables. Syl entered, and none of them glanced at her, so she seemed to actually be invisible. So, she began reading the reports that were coming in. The door opened and one of the guards entered, requesting a report be sent to his superior. They’d found what appeared to be the sign of a Radiant—something the Pursuer had told everyone to watch for. Kaladin might not have much time before the creature himself arrived. Best to move quickly. As the guard left, Kaladin quietly maneuvered in the tight quarters, reaching to his waist and pulling out some of his rope. Directly beneath him was a table with a number of spanreeds, including a leather case that had a few nibs sticking out of it. He needed to wait for the perfect moment. Fortunately, several spanreeds started blinking at once—and they must have been important ones, for the two femalens quickly turned to these and stopped working on the soldier’s report. Kaladin Lashed his rope to one of his brushes, then infused the flat of the brush with a Reverse Lashing—commanding it to attract certain objects only. In this instance, that leather case. The femalens were so preoccupied that Kaladin felt his chance had come. He lowered the brush on the rope toward the table. As the brush drew near, the leather case moved of its own volition, pulled over so it stuck to the brush. Heart thumping, certain he was about to be caught, Kaladin drew it up, the case sticking to the end, the spanreeds inside clinking softly. Nobody noticed, and he pulled it into the shaft. Inside the case, he found an entire group of spanreeds—at least twenty. Perhaps they’d just been delivered, as they were still wrapped in pairs, with twine around them. Judging by the way the rubies glowed with Voidlight, he was hopeful that they would work in the tower. He tucked the large pouch away in his sack. He then spared a thought for all the important information that was likely being relayed through this room. Could he steal some of it? No. He’d already risked enough today. He sent a quick thought to Syl, who came zipping up to him as he wiggled backward through the ventilation shaft. She flitted on ahead of him, then called from behind, “Hallway is empty.” He eased out of the hole, catching the edge with his fingers and hanging a moment before quietly dropping the last few feet to the floor of the corridor. He peeked back out toward the guard post. “Now what?” Syl said. “Want me to imitate a Voidspren again?” He nodded. Part of him wanted
to try another path, as he worried that these soldiers might grow suspicious at the same ruse. But he also knew they’d fallen for it once, and he knew a direct way to the perimeter using this path. Safer this way. As Syl was getting ready, however, Kaladin spotted something farther down this hallway, away from the guards. A flashing light. He held up his hand to stop Syl, then pointed. “What is that?” she said, zipping off toward the light. He followed more cautiously, stepping up to a blinking garnet light. Frowning, Kaladin pressed his hand against it. “Brightness Navani?” he asked. No, a voice said. It had a middling pitch, not necessarily male or female. I need you, Radiant. Please. They’ve found me. “You?” One of the nodes! That protect me. Please. Please, you have to defend it. Please. “How do you know? Have you told Brightness Navani?” Please. “Where?” he said. Second level, near the central atrium. I will lead you. They realized that one of the nodes would be open to the air, to be renewed by Stormlight. They’ve sent for her. The Lady of Pains. She’ll take my mind. Please, Radiant. Protect me. Syl hovered beside him. “What?” she asked. He lowered his hand. He was so tired. But today, he couldn’t afford to be tired. He had to be Kaladin Stormblessed. Kaladin Stormblessed fought anyway. “We’re going to need to find me a better weapon,” he said. “Quickly.” This point regarding the Rhythm of War’s emotional influence will be of particular interest to El. —From Rhythm of War, page 10 Kaladin knew there was a chance he was making a huge mistake. He didn’t understand the nature of the tower or what was going on with it and Navani. He was risking a great deal by revealing himself. However, that garnet light had rescued him from the Pursuer’s clutches. And right now, he’d heard something in the spren’s voice. A genuine fright. Terror, combined with a plea for protection, was not something Kaladin could ignore. He was fatigued mentally and physically. As he ran, he drew a field of exhaustionspren, like jets of dust. Worse, a part of him panicked these days every time he went to pick up a weapon. He’d trained himself these last months to function despite those things. He leaned on the spike of energy that coursed through him, even before he drew in Stormlight. He let that control him, instead of the fatigue. It would catch up to him eventually. But for now, he could pretend to be strong. Pretend to be a soldier again. The four guards were facing in the other direction, so Kaladin—running at full speed—nearly reached them before the first guard spun around. Kaladin took the chance to burst alight with power, earning him another fraction of a second as the guard panicked, his eyes going wide with fright. He shouted as Kaladin drew close, hands out before him, waiting for the thrust of the spear. A lot of men were afraid of something sharp coming at
them, but as long as his Stormlight held, Kaladin’s only real danger was getting outnumbered and overwhelmed. Kaladin caught the spear as the singer thrust it. He then yanked, throwing the enemy off balance. He’d been taught that maneuver by Hav, who said it was necessary to learn, but almost impossible to execute. Kaladin added his own twist by infusing the shaft with a Full Lashing, making it stick to the guard’s hands. Then he shoved the weapon to the side, sticking it to a second guard’s spear as he spun. Kaladin grabbed that spear, infusing it as well, then left both guards stuck to their weapons. As they shouted in surprise, Kaladin held the shafts of the crossed spears—one in each hand—and shoved them upward so the tips struck the ceiling. Then he smoothly ducked through the peaked opening, leaving the two men crying out and struggling as they tried unsuccessfully to free their weapons and hands. Kaladin slammed his shoulder into the third guard, infusing the singer’s coat with a slap to the back. He shoved this guard into the fourth. They fell in a lump, entangled and stuck together. Kaladin danced on his toes, awaiting the next attack. It didn’t come. The singers stayed where he’d put them, shouting and railing as they struggled to move. He kicked a spear up and seized it out of the air. Hello, old friend. I keep finding my way back to you, don’t I? Perhaps it wasn’t Teft’s addiction he needed to worry about. There was always an excuse for why Kaladin needed the spear again, wasn’t there? This was what he’d been afraid of. This was what made him tremble. The worry that he would never be able to put it down. He tucked the spear under his arm and took off through the tunnel. A twinkling garnet light appeared on the floor in front of him, moving along one of the strata, leading the way toward a stairwell ahead. “No,” Kaladin said, hoping the tower’s spren could hear him. “There will be a guard post at the bottom. I can already hear them responding to those shouts. To reach the second floor, we go out a perimeter balcony, down the outside, and then head inward. That will lose any tails we pick up.” The spren seemed to have heard, for they sent a light moving along the wall next to him—opposite Syl’s blue-white ribbon on his other side. They reached the balcony in a few short minutes, a fraction of the time it had taken to sneak inward. They were at the rim of the tower, but the central atrium was far at the eastern side. All the way inward. He’d have to cross the entire second floor to reach it. He heard shouts behind him, so he’d been right about picking up tails. He stuck his spear to his back by infusing part of it and slapping it against his shirt, then he unwound the rope around his waist. A quick infusion on the end let him stick it
to the railing as he stepped up in a fluid motion and leaped off, sticking the other end to his shirt in case he slipped, then holding tight. He swung out and around, then onto the balcony below. This one, unfortunately, was occupied. So after he recovered his rope, he charged through a family’s room—leaping and sliding across their dinner table. He was out the door a moment later, spear in hand. He heard a distant shout of anger from outside the balcony, as the singers above realized he’d gone a way they couldn’t follow. The tower’s spren found him here and began guiding him. The strata and lines of crystal didn’t always run directly down the corridors, so sometimes the light would spiral around him, following the grain of the stone. Other times the light would vanish when there was no direct path for it, but it would always appear ahead of him again, glowing on the floor or wall, urging him onward. He drew attention, naturally. The late hour meant that he didn’t encounter crowds to slow him, but it also meant there wasn’t much else to distract the guard patrols. He infused and tossed his spear at a pair of guards who stumbled into the hallway ahead of him—then stole one of their dropped weapons as they struggled and cursed, trying to get his old weapon to stop sticking to their fingers. The next set weren’t so easily defeated. He found them organizing hastily at an intersection—one he had to pass through, or endure a long detour. Kaladin slowed in the corridor, watching them form up with nets in hand. His first instinct was to take to the walls and disorient them. But of course he didn’t have access to that ability—he suspected it would be a long time before he internalized that gravitational Lashings didn’t work. He took his spear in a one-handed grip, the butt tucked under his arm, then nodded to Syl. Together, they rushed the blockade. A few soldiers had crossbows, so he infused the wall with his free hand. When those loosed, the bolts swerved toward the stone. The group with the nets hung back behind singers with axes. The weapons reminded him of the Parshendi, but the singers were dressed like the Azish, with colorful coats, no gemstones woven into the malens’ beards. They knew how to fight Radiants. The axe wielders came in quickly, forcing him to engage, and then the nets started flying. Kaladin swiped one away with his spear, but that exposed him, and an axe bit him in the side—the kind of wound that would spell death for an ordinary soldier. Kaladin pulled himself free of the axe, the biting pain fading as his Stormlight healed him, but another net came soaring overhead. They wouldn’t mind if they caught some of their number in it, so long as they tangled Kaladin long enough for them to start hacking at him. Feeling his solitude more than ever, Kaladin dodged the net by retreating. He wanted to infuse one of the
nets and stick it to the floor so it couldn’t be recovered, but he couldn’t bend over to touch it. Maybe I should remove my boots, he thought. That idea flew counter to all of his training, but he didn’t fight like he once had. These days, a stubbed toe would be healed instantly—while being able to infuse the ground he walked on would be a huge advantage. He kept the singers at bay with some careful lunges, then backed up before a net could catch him. Unfortunately, this group was probably meant to stall him while Regals and Fused could be mustered. It was working perfectly. Without a Shardblade, Kaladin was far from unstoppable. He was forced away until he reached another intersection. “Kaladin,” Syl said, hovering beside his head as a ribbon of light. “To your left.” He spared a glance to see a flashing garnet light on the wall farther down the left-hand corridor. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to push through these soldiers anytime soon. He took off in a dash toward the light, and the soldiers—rightly timid when facing a Radiant—followed more cautiously. That gave Kaladin time to kick open a door, following the light, and enter an upscale glassmaker’s shop. It seemed like a dead end until he spotted the hint of a gemstone set into the wall behind the counter. He leaped over it and infused the stone, and was rewarded as the wall parted. He slipped through the opening, then set the thing closing behind him. This put him in a second, larger shop, filled with half-finished dressing dummies. He startled a late-night worker, a human with a Thaylen naval mustache and curled eyebrows. He dropped his adze and leaped to his feet, then clapped his hands. “Brightlord Stormblessed!” he exclaimed. “Quietly,” Kaladin said, crossing the room and cracking the door to peek out. “You need to hide. When they come asking, you didn’t see me.” The hallway outside was clear, and Kaladin was pretty sure he knew where he was. This shortcut had completely circumvented the blockade. Hopefully that would confuse the soldiers as they tried to track him. Kaladin moved to sneak out the door, but the woodworker caught him by the arm. “Radiant,” he said. “How? How do you still fight?” “The same way you do,” Kaladin said. “One day at a time, always taking the next step.” He took the man’s wrist with his hand. “Don’t get yourself killed. But also don’t give up hope.” The man nodded. “Hide,” Kaladin said. “They’ll come searching for me.” He pulled free and joined Syl. After about ten minutes of jogging, he heard shouting to his right, but nobody came running—and he realized where they thought he was heading: to a set of stairs that led directly toward the larger stairwell, which in turn led to the basement. They thought he was trying to rescue the queen, or maybe reach the crystal pillar. Their error let him follow some back pathways without meeting any patrols, until he finally drew near the atrium. He’d
managed to cross the entire floor, but he was now so deeply embedded within the tower that he was essentially surrounded. The light led him around to the northern side of the tower, through some residential hallways, with lights under the doors. Rooms near the atrium and its grand window were popular—here, people could still see sunlight, but the atrium was generally warmer than the perimeter, with easy access to lifts. The area was unnaturally silent, perhaps under curfew. He was used to the atrium region being alive with the sound of people talking all hours of the day, the lifts clanking faintly as they moved. Tonight it was hushed. He crept along the tower spren’s path, wondering when he’d find resistance. Surely someone would have put together what he was doing. Surely they would … He stopped in the hallway as he saw bright light ahead. He could have sworn he’d reached the furthermost edge of the tower, the place near the enormous glass window that looked out to the east. There shouldn’t be any more rooms here, but ahead and to his right, moonlight spilled through an opening. He inched up to find the area strewn with rubble. A secret door in the wall had been broken open; when he peeked through, he saw a short tunnel that ended at open air. This was the eastern wall of the tower, the flat side of Urithiru. The secret tunnel here was old, not newly cut, and had been created open to the air of the mountains. The Pursuer was here, standing with another Fused and inspecting a strange device at the end of the short tunnel, right where it ended and opened to the air. A glowing sapphire, easily as large as a chasmfiend’s gemheart, had been set into a built-in stand rising from the floor. The entire mechanism was covered over in crem, so it had been here a while, and the Fused had needed to break off a crem crust to reach the gemstone. The implication struck Kaladin immediately. As the Sibling had hinted, a node to defend the tower had been placed where it could draw in Stormlight naturally from the storms, when they reached this high. The unfamiliar Fused was a tall femalen with a topknot of red-orange hair. She wore practical battle gear, leather and cloth, and stood with her hands clasped behind her back as she inspected the sapphire. The other was, as he’d noted earlier, the Pursuer. A hulking mountain of chitin and dark brown cloth, with eyes glowing a deep red. All of the spheres had been removed from the lanterns in the hallway behind Kaladin, so the only light came from the sapphire. “See?” the femalen said in Alethi as they spotted Kaladin. “I told you he’d come. I keep my promises, Pursuer. He’s yours.” The red eyes focused on Kaladin, then went dark as a ribbon of crimson light burst from the center of the Pursuer’s mass. The body—a discarded husk—collapsed to the floor. Kaladin raised his spear, gauging where the
Pursuer would land. He thrust on instinct, hoping to catch the Fused as he materialized. This time, however, the Pursuer’s ribbon jogged and looped a few times, disorienting Kaladin. He thrust again, missing the mark as the Pursuer coalesced to the side of Kaladin’s spear. The creature lunged for Kaladin, who danced backward into the darkened hallway outside the tunnel. The creature stepped into the broken doorway. So, Kaladin infused his spear and tossed it at the Pursuer—who reflexively caught it. That stuck his hands to the spear, and Kaladin leaped forward and shoved himself against the Fused, getting him to step backward. The two ends of the spear stuck to the walls on either side of the opening. Kaladin leaped away, leaving the creature partially immobilized, awkwardly trying to move with both hands locked into place. Then, of course, the Pursuer just dropped that body as a husk and launched out as a ribbon of light. Kaladin cursed. He was too unpracticed with this kind of fighting—and this kind of opponent. What had worked on the soldiers was a foolish move here. He lunged to grab his spear, but it fell beneath the collapsing husk. The Pursuer materialized directly behind Kaladin, grabbing him with powerful hands, preventing him from reaching the spear. It was a poor weapon for this fight anyway. The Pursuer obviously excelled at getting in close. Kaladin twisted, trying to wrench free, but the Pursuer gripped him in a precise hold, executed perfectly, immobilizing both of Kaladin’s arms. The creature then pushed, using his superior weight to knock Kaladin to his knees. The Pursuer didn’t try to choke Kaladin. The creature didn’t even release him with one hand to grab a knife, as he had during their previous fight. All the Pursuer had to do was hold Kaladin still until his Stormlight ran out. They were deep within the tower, surrounded by other singers and Fused. The longer this fight lasted, the worse it would go for Kaladin. He struggled, trying to pull free. In response, the Pursuer leaned in and spoke with a thick accent. “I will kill you. It is my right. I have killed every person—human or singer—who has ever killed me.” Kaladin tried to roll them both to the side, but the Pursuer held them stable. “No one has ever defeated me twice,” the creature whispered. “But if you somehow managed such a feat, I would keep coming. We are no longer confined to Braize at the end of the war, and I am immortal. I can follow you forever. I am the spren of vengeance.” Kaladin tried to infuse his opponent, as he might have with a gravitational Lashing. The Light resisted, but that wasn’t surprising. Fused had powers of their own, and for some reason that made them difficult to infuse. So he instead stretched and brushed the floor with one hand, infusing the stone. It trapped the Pursuer’s feet, but it also stuck to Kaladin’s boots, locking them together. “Let go now,” the Pursuer said. “Die, as is your right. You
will never be able to sleep soundly again, little Radiant. I will always come, always hunt you. As sure as the storms. I will—” “Put him down!” a stern voice said as a red spren strode across the floor. “Right now! We need him. You can kill him after!” The Pursuer relaxed his grip, perhaps stunned to be given an order by a Voidspren. Kaladin elbowed the Pursuer in the chin—which hurt like a hammer to the elbow—forcing the creature to let go. That let Kaladin lunge forward and recover some Stormlight by brushing the floor, which in turn set his feet free. He scrambled away, leaving enough Stormlight infused in the floor to keep the Pursuer planted in place. The creature focused on Syl. “You lie well, for an honorspren,” he said. His body crumbled, his ribbon vanishing around a corner. As before, he seemed to need a break after abandoning a third body. Kaladin suspected that if the Pursuer made a fourth body, he wouldn’t have enough Voidlight left to escape it. That might be how you killed him: trap him in the fourth body. Either that, or catch him by surprise and kill him before he could eject, which was what Kaladin had done before. “Thanks,” Kaladin said as Syl turned blue again. He grabbed his spear, then glanced over his shoulder and saw some humans peeking out of their rooms, watching the fight. He waved for them to close their doors, then hopped through the rubble and dashed toward the Fused at the end of the secret tunnel. As he approached, he spotted a glass globe, perhaps six inches in diameter, set into a small alcove in the wall near the gemstone. At first he thought it was some kind of lighting fixture, but it was wrapped in metal wires like a fabrial. What on Roshar? He didn’t have time to inspect it further, for the Fused was pressing her hand against the sapphire. The gemstone’s light had started to fade. She’s corrupting the pillar, Kaladin thought, using this as a conduit to touch it. He leveled his spear at her. She stopped and turned to regard him. “The Pursuer isn’t lying,” she said in accented Alethi. “He will hunt you forever. To the abandonment of all reason and duty.” “Step away from the gemstone,” Kaladin said. “He’ll return shortly,” she noted. “You should flee. He has placed Voidlight gemstones in stashes nearby, so he can reinfuse himself and make new bodies.” “I said step away.” “You’re a Windrunner,” she said. “You won’t hurt me if I’m not a threat.” “Touching that gemstone makes you a threat. Step away.” She did, which meant walking toward him, clasping her hands behind her. “What is it, do you suppose, that makes you able to continue using your powers? I’ll admit, I had worried about the Windrunners. They say your Surges are closest to Honor.” Kaladin gripped his spear, uncertain what to do. Stab her? He had to protect the gemstone. Or destroy it, he thought. Storms, that would weaken the
shield Navani had set up—and if the enemy had found this one so quickly, how long would it be until they discovered the others? He glanced to Syl on his shoulder, and she shook her head. She didn’t know what to do either. “Ah,” the Fused said. “He’s back. On with you, then.” Kaladin risked looking over his shoulder, cursing as he saw a distinctly bloodred ribbon of light approaching. Making a snap decision, Kaladin dropped his spear and pulled out his scalpel. Then he quickly sliced the laces on his boots. The Pursuer appeared inside the tunnel and grabbed for him, but Kaladin bent—dodging the grip—and infused the floor with a Full Lashing. Then he leaped forward around the Pursuer, leaving his shoes stuck to the stone. The Pursuer couldn’t help but land on that floor, trapping him in place. Kaladin held out his scalpel, barefoot as he backed up into the rubble of the broken wall that had been opened. The Pursuer eyed him, remaining rooted on the ground. Then he grinned and left his body, shooting toward Kaladin. Kaladin retreated through the opening into the outer corridor, infusing the floor again, using up a large amount of his Stormlight. He was able to roll away from the Pursuer’s next attack, which again left the creature rooted. But Kaladin couldn’t step forward and reclaim the Light he’d used, not without getting within the Pursuer’s reach. His Stormlight was almost gone, something the Pursuer had clearly figured out. The creature left his second body, the first already starting to crumble. When Kaladin leaped forward to try to retrieve his Stormlight, the Pursuer darted at him as a ribbon of light—like a snapping eel—and Kaladin retreated. The two watched one another in the dark corridor. The Pursuer could only form one more body before he’d need to renew his Voidlight, or risk fighting in his fourth body and perhaps being killed. But Kaladin’s Light was low—and he didn’t have a quick way to get more. Storms. The other Fused—the femalen—had returned to the gemstone and was working on it again. “We have to destroy it, Kaladin,” Syl whispered. She was right. He couldn’t defend this place on his own. He’d simply have to hope that the other nodes were better hidden. Though … how could something be better hidden than in the middle of a wall? Kaladin took a deep breath, then dashed forward to force the Pursuer to materialize. He did so—but only after zipping back into the center of the second pool of Light Kaladin had made. That let the creature materialize standing on the remnants of his second husk, which was stuck to the Light. The Fused crouched low, hands out and ready to grab Kaladin if he tried to run past. Kaladin was forced to shy back. I can’t afford to fight him the way he wants, Kaladin thought. If he gets me into his grip, I’ll end up pinned. When he’d killed the creature before, Kaladin had used the Pursuer’s assumptions against him. This time he wasn’t
making the same mistake, but he was still so very confident. Use that. Let him defeat himself. Kaladin turned and started running in the opposite direction. Behind, the Pursuer began laughing. “That’s right, human! Flee! You see it now! Run and be pursued.” Syl zipped up alongside Kaladin. “What’s the plan?” “He’s called the Pursuer,” Kaladin said. “He loves the chase. When we were doing what humans shouldn’t do—trying to fight him—he was deliberate and careful. Now we’re fleeing prey. He might get sloppy. But he won’t leave that third body until we’re far enough away that he’s sure we won’t just double back and attack that other Fused. Go warn me when he does.” “Right.” She darted off to watch. Kaladin took a few turns in the corridor, then said, “Tower spren, I need you!” A garnet light ahead started flashing quickly as if anxious. Kaladin jogged to it, and Syl came darting back. “The Pursuer is recharging—but he’s not leaving the fabrial unwatched! He’s getting Voidlight from the other Fused.” Kaladin nodded as he pressed his hand to the wall. The tower spren spoke in his mind. SheiskillingmeSheiskillingmeSheiskillingme. Stopitstopit. “I’m trying,” Kaladin said. He dug out some of his gemstones, then infused his Stormlight into them to preserve what he had left. “I’m not convinced I can beat that monster again. Not without a team on a battlefield. He fights too well one-on-one. So, I need another hidden room. One with only a single exit—and with a door that will open and close fast.” You’re going to hide? the Sibling said, hysterical. You can’t— “I won’t abandon you, but you need to do this for me. We don’t have much time. Please.” “Kaladin!” Syl said. “He’s coming!” Kaladin cursed, leaving the Sibling and dashing for an intersection in the dark corridors ahead. “Duck!” Syl said. Kaladin ducked, narrowly avoiding the Pursuer’s grip as he materialized. As Kaladin darted a different direction, the creature tried again, dropping a husk and shooting ahead of Kaladin. Trying to play the part of panicked prey, Kaladin turned and ran the other way—though he hated putting his back to the creature like that. He could almost feel him, forming with arms grabbing at Kaladin’s neck.… As he dashed through the corridor, people who had been watching snapped their doors shut. Behind him, the Pursuer laughed. Yes, he understood this kind of fight. He enjoyed it. “Run!” he shouted. “Run, little human!” Ahead, garnet light flashed, then began moving down a side hallway. Kaladin scrambled that direction as Syl warned him the Pursuer was coming. The garnet light, fortunately, moved up a wall straight ahead, then flashed, revealing a gemstone hidden in the rock. Kaladin drew in the Light of one of his spheres and infused the gemstone, making the door begin to open. It was faster than previous ones, as he’d asked. Syl cried, “He’s almost here!” “As soon as I walk in,” Kaladin whispered to the tower’s spren, “start closing the door. Then lock it.” He glanced back, and saw the red light rapidly
approaching. So, taking a deep breath, Kaladin ducked through the once-hidden doorway. As he’d asked, it immediately began to grind closed. Kaladin turned to face outward, anxious as he pulled free his scalpel. He made it look like he intended to stand and fight. Go for my back again, like you’ve done before. Please. The ribbon danced in over his head. Kaladin leaped forward, squeezing through the tight doorway as it closed, right as the Pursuer appeared in the room behind him. Kaladin fell forward and scrambled across the ground. Behind him, the door thumped closed. He waited, his heart thundering in his chest, as he turned and watched the doorway. Would the Pursuer’s ribbon be small enough to squeeze through? These hidden doors sealed so tightly they were almost impossible to see from the outside, and Syl had physical form as a ribbon. He assumed the same rules applied to the Pursuer. Syl flitted down beside him, taking the shape of a young woman in a Bridge Four uniform. She colored it a dark blue. Quiet. Followed by a yell of rage, muffled to near silence by the intervening stone. Kaladin grinned, picking himself up. He thought he heard the Pursuer yell, “Coward!” He gave the closed door a salute, then turned to jog back the way he had come. Again he had to hiss at people to close their doors and stay out of sight. Where was their sense of self-preservation? Their eyes were hopeful when they saw him. And in those expressions, he understood why they had to look, regardless of the danger. They thought everyone had been conquered and controlled, but here was a Radiant. Their hopes pressed on him as he finally reached the hidden tunnel. The femalen Fused with the topknot stood in a posture of concentration, her hand pressed against the sapphire. She didn’t seem to be corrupting it. Indeed, she had brought out a large diamond and was holding it up to the sapphire—drawing light from it. Stormlight, it seemed, although it was tinged faintly the wrong color. Kaladin scooped a piece of broken rubble from the floor. The sides of the rubble were smoothly cut. The work of a Shardblade. Kaladin leaped forward and shoved the Fused back, trying to knock her off the cliff. That caused her to exclaim and fall out of her trance, though she grabbed a protruding rock and prevented herself from falling. Before she could stop him, Kaladin slammed his rubble into the gemstone, cracking it. That was enough—cracked gemstones couldn’t hold Stormlight—but he slammed it a few more times to be certain, breaking the sapphire free of its housing and sending it tumbling into the void outside. It vanished into darkness, plummeting hundreds upon hundreds of feet down the sheer cliff toward the rocks far below. Kaladin felt something when it broke free. A faint sense that the darkness in the tower had grown stronger—or perhaps Kaladin was only now recognizing the results of the Fused’s recent attempt at corrupting the tower. He puffed out, the deed
done, and backed away. In that moment though—his Stormlight running low, his energy deflating, the darkness growing stronger—he flagged. He reached out for the wall as his vision wavered, and the fatigue seemed to be almost too much. A shadow moved in front of him, and he forced himself alert—but not before the Fused in the topknot managed to ram a knife into his chest. He felt an immediate spike of pain and pulled out his scalpel, but the Fused jumped back before he could strike. Painspren wriggled up from the stone as Kaladin stumbled, bleeding. He drew in the last of his Stormlight and pressed his hand to the wound. Storms. His mind … was fuzzy. And the darkness seemed so strong. The Fused, however, didn’t seem interested in striking again. She tucked away her knife and laced her fingers before herself, watching him. Oddly, he noticed that the glass sphere that had been in the little stone alcove was gone. Where had the Fused put it? “You continue to heal,” she noted. “And I saw the use of Adhesion earlier. I assume from the way you move, confined to the ground, that Gravitation has abandoned you. Does your hybrid power work? The one your kind often uses to direct arrows in flight?” Kaladin didn’t respond. He gripped his scalpel, waiting to heal. The pain lingered. Was healing slower than usual? “What did you to do me?” he demanded, hoarse. “Was that blade poisoned?” “No,” she said. “I merely wanted to inspect your healing. It seems to be lethargic, does it not? Hmmm…” He didn’t like how she looked at him, so discerning and interested—like a surgeon inspecting a corpse before a dissection. She didn’t seem to care that he had destroyed her chance at corrupting the tower—perhaps because Kaladin’s attack had furthered her eventual goal of reaching the crystal pillar. He raised his scalpel, waiting for his storming wound to heal. It continued to do so. Languidly. “If you kill me,” the Fused noted, “I will simply be reborn. I will choose the most innocent among the singers of the tower. A mother perhaps, with a child precisely old enough to understand the pain of loss—but not old enough to understand why her mother now rejects her.” Kaladin growled despite himself, stepping forward. “Yes,” the femalen said. “A true Windrunner, all the way to your gemheart. Fascinating. You had no continuity of spren or traditions from the old ones, I’m led to believe. Yet the same attitudes, the same structures, arise naturally—like the lattice of a growing crystal.” Kaladin growled again, sliding to the side toward his discarded spear and shoes. “You should go,” the Fused said. “If you’ve killed the Pursuer again, it will make for quite the stir among my kind. I don’t believe that’s ever been accomplished. Regardless, I have Fused and Regals on their way to join us and finish his work. You might escape them, if you leave now.” Kaladin hesitated, uncertain. His instincts said he should do the opposite of whatever this femalen said,
out of principle. But he thought better of it and fled into the corridors—his side aching—trusting in the tower spren and Syl to guide him out of danger and to a safe hiding place. Who is this person? You used no title, so I assume they are not a Fused. Who, then, is El? —From Rhythm of War, page 10 undertext Venli felt all rhythms freeze when she saw Rlain in the cell. Like the silence following a crescendo. In that silence, Venli finally believed what Mazish had told her. In that silence, all of Roshar changed. Venli was no longer the last. And in that silence, Venli thought she could hear something distant beyond the rhythms. A pure tone. Rlain looked up through the bars, then sneered at her. The moment of peace vanished. He’d picked up some human expressions, it seemed. Did he recognize her in this form? Her skin patterns were the same, but she and Rlain had never been close. He likely saw only an unfamiliar Regal. Venli retreated down the hallway, passing several empty cells with bars on the doors. It was the day after the incident with Stormblessed and the destruction of the node. Venli had been on her way to visit Rlain when the event had occurred, drawing her away to attend her master. Curiously, though Venli had assumed that Raboniel would be furious, instead she’d taken it in stride. She’d almost seemed amused at what had occurred. She was hiding something about her motivations. She seemed to not want the corruption to happen too quickly. At any rate, dealing with the aftermath of the incident had involved Venli interpreting late into the night for various Fused. It hadn’t been until this morning that she’d been able to break away and come check on what Mazish had told her. Rlain. Alive. Near the door, Venli met with the head jailer: a direform Regal with a crest of spikes beginning on his head and running down his neck. “I didn’t realize we had a prison,” she said to him—softly, and to Indifference. “The humans built it,” he replied, also to Indifference. “I interviewed several of the workers here. They claim they were keeping the assassin in here.” “The assassin?” “Indeed. He vanished right before we arrived.” “He should have fallen unconscious.” “Well, he didn’t, and nobody has seen anything of him.” “You should have told me of this earlier,” Venli said. “The Lady thinks that certain Radiants might still be able to function in the tower. It’s possible this one is out there somewhere, preparing to kill.” The direform hummed to Abashment. “Well, we’ve been prepping this place in case we need to lock up a Regal with proper comforts. We’ve got a larger brig for human prisoners. Figured this would be a good place for your friend there, until official word arrived.” Venli glanced along the hall of empty cells, lit by topaz lanterns hanging from the ceiling. They gave the chamber a soft brown warmth, the color of cremstone. “Why did you lock him
away?” she asked. “He’s an essai,” the direform said to Derision, using an ancient word they’d picked up from the Fused. It meant something along the lines of “human lover,” though her form told her it technically meant “hairy.” “He was a spy my people sent to watch them.” “Then he betrayed you,” the direform said. “He claims he’d been held by the humans against his will, but it didn’t take much asking around to find the truth. He was friendly with the Radiants—was their servant or something. Could have left at any time, but stayed. Wanted to keep being a slave, I guess.” He changed to the Rhythm of Executions—a rarely used rhythm. “I will speak with him,” Venli said. “Alone.” The direform studied her, humming to Destruction in challenge. She hummed it back—she outranked this one, so long as she was Raboniel’s Voice. “I will send again to the Lady of Wishes,” he finally said, “to inform her that you have done this.” “As you will,” Venli said, then waited pointedly until he stepped out and shut the door. Venli glanced into Shadesmar, as she’d grown into the habit of doing, though she’d learned Voidspren couldn’t hide in the tower. It was instinct by now. And she— Wait. There was a Voidspren here. It was hiding in the body of a cremling. Most spren could enter bodies, if they couldn’t pass through other solid objects. She wasn’t terribly familiar with all the varieties of Voidspren, but this one must have realized that it couldn’t hide in the tower as it once had, so used this method to remain unseen. She attuned Anxiety, and Timbre agreed. Was it watching her, or Rlain? Or was it simply here to patrol? Had she done anything recently that would give her away? She maintained her composure, pretending to think as she strolled in the prison chamber. Then she pretended to notice the cremling for the first time, then shooed it away. The thing scuttled down the wall and out under the door. She glanced into Shadesmar, and saw the Voidspren—through the hundreds of shimmering colors that made up the tower—retreating into the distance alongside the tiny speck of light that represented the cremling. That left her nervous enough that she paced a few times—and checked again—before finally she forced herself to return to the cell. “Rlain.” He looked up at her. Then he frowned and stood. “It’s me,” she said to Peace, speaking in the listener language for an extra measure of privacy. “Venli.” He stepped closer to the bars, and his eyes flickered to her face. He hummed to Remembrance. “I was under the impression they had killed all of the listeners.” “Only most of us. What are you doing here, Rlain? Last we knew, the humans had discovered you in the warcamps and executed you!” “I … wasn’t discovered,” he said. He spoke to Curiosity, but his body language—he had indeed picked up some human attitudes—betrayed his true emotions. He obviously didn’t trust her. “I was made an example, used as an
experiment. They put me in the bridge crews. I don’t think anyone ever suspected I was a spy. They just thought I was too smart for a parshman.” “You’ve been living among them all this time? That guard says you’re an ess—a human sympathizer. I can’t believe you’re alive, and I’m not the … I mean…” Language failed her, and she ended up standing there, humming the Rhythm of the Lost and feeling like an idiot. Timbre chimed in, giving the same rhythm—and that helped somehow. Rlain studied her. He’d probably heard that forms of power changed a person’s personality—storms … they’d always known that. Known they were dangerous. “Rlain,” she said, her voice soft, “I’m me. Truly me. This form doesn’t … change me like stormform did for the others.” Timbre pulsed. Tell him the truth. Show him what you are. She locked up. No. She couldn’t. “The others?” he asked, hopeful. “Remala? Eshonai? She fought Adolin, we think, in battle. Do you know … if she is…” “I saw my sister’s corpse myself at the bottom of the chasms,” she said to Pain. “There aren’t any others left but me. He … Odium took them, made them into Fused. He saved me because he wanted me to tell stories about our people, use them to inspire the newly freed singers. But I think he was afraid of us, as a group. So he destroyed us.” She hummed to the Rhythm of the Lost again. Rlain eventually joined her and stepped forward until he was right beside the bars. “I’m sorry, Venli,” he eventually said. “That must have been awful.” He doesn’t know, she realized, that I caused all this. How could he? He was among the humans. To him, I’m simply … another survivor. She found that idea daunting. “You need to free me,” Rlain said. “I hoped they’d accept my story, but I’m too well known in the tower. You stand out when you’re the only ‘parshman’ anyone knows.” “I’ll see what I can do,” Venli said to Reconciliation. “The guard doesn’t trust me—a lot of them don’t—and talking to you will make that worse. If I do get you out, what are you going to do? You won’t get me into trouble, will you?” He frowned at her, then hummed to Irritation. “You are a human sympathizer,” Venli said. “They’re my friends,” he said. “My family, now. They aren’t perfect, Venli, but if we want to defeat Odium we’re going to need them. We’re going to need this tower.” “Do we want to defeat Odium?” Venli asked. “A lot of people like the way things are going, Rlain. We have a nation of our own—not a few shacks in a backwater countryside, but a real nation with cities, roads, infrastructure. Things—I might add—that were largely built by the efforts of enslaved singers. The humans don’t deserve our loyalty or even an alliance. Not after what they did.” Rlain didn’t object immediately. Instead he hummed to Tension. “We find ourselves caught, literally, between two storms,” he finally said. “But
if I’m going to pick one to walk through, Venli, I’ll pick the highstorm. That was once our storm. The spren were our allies. And yes, the humans tried to exploit the listeners, then tried to destroy us—but the Fused are the ones who succeeded. Odium chose to destroy our people. I’m not going to serve him. I…” He trailed off, perhaps realizing what he was saying. He’d tried to start the conversation noncommittal, plainly worried she was an agent for Odium. Now he’d confirmed where he stood. He looked to her, and his humming fell silent. Waiting. “I don’t know if any good can be done by fighting him, Rlain,” she whispered. “But I … keep secrets from Odium myself. I’ve been trying to build something separate from his rule, a people I could … I don’t know, use to start a new group of listeners.” Trying, in her own pitiful way, to undo what she’d done. “How many?” Rlain asked, to Excitement. “A dozen so far,” Venli said. “I have them watching over the fallen Radiants. I have some authority in the tower, but I don’t know how far it will extend. It’s complicated. The various Fused have different motivations, and I’m wrapped up in the threads of it all. I helped save some humans who were going to be executed—but I’m not interested in allying with them in general.” “Who did you save? The queen?” “No, someone far less important,” Venli said. “A surgeon and his wife, who were—” “Lirin and Hesina?” he asked to Excitement. “The child too, I hope.” “Yes. How did you—” “You need to get me out, Venli,” Rlain said. “And get me to Hesina. I have something useful I could show her—and you, if you want to help.” “I’ve been trying to tell you,” Venli whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the door. “I have some authority, but there are many who distrust me. I don’t know if I can get you free. It might draw too much attention to me.” “Venli,” he said to Confidence, “look at me.” She met his gaze. Had he always been this intense? Eshonai had known him better than she had. “You need to do this,” Rlain said to her. “You need to use whatever influence you have and get me out.” “I don’t know if—” “Stop being so insufferably selfish! Do something against your own self-interest, for the greater good, for once in your storming life, Venli.” She hummed to Betrayal. She didn’t deserve that. She’d just told him how she was trying to rebuild the listeners. But he hummed louder to Confidence, so she aligned her rhythm to his. “I’ll try,” she said. * * * Though Raboniel often spent her time down near the crystal pillar—or with the human scholars in the chambers nearby—the Lady of Wishes had indicated she would be about other duties today. By asking around, Venli found that she was for some reason at the Blackthorn’s former rooms. Venli stepped inside, where an unusual number of Fused had gathered and were
systematically going through the warlord’s belongings—cataloguing them, making notations about them, and packing them away. Venli passed through and saw one crate contained socks: each pair recorded and carefully stored. They were putting all of his things into storage, but why had they dedicated Fused to such a mundane job? What was more, these were important Fused, none of the more erratic or crazy represented. Leshwi herself had been pressed into the work, and that all together whispered something meaningful: Someone very high up in the singer hierarchy was interested in this man. To the point of wanting to dissect and understand his each and every possession, no matter how ordinary. Venli moved around the perimeter of the room, careful to stay away from the broad doors or windows leading to the balcony. Those had been draped off, but the rules were strict during daylight hours. No singers were to show themselves outside, lest they accidentally reveal the truth to Windrunner scouts. She found two humans she didn’t recognize at the doorway into the bedroom, watching what occurred inside. There, Raboniel was speaking to a third human. The tall male was dressed in a coat and trousers that seemed elegant to Venli’s eyes—though she knew little of their fashion. More striking was the strange creature on his shoulder, an odd thing unlike any Venli had ever seen. It stood on two legs like a person, though its face ended in a beak and it had brightly colored scales that looked soft, of all things. When she entered, it turned and stared at her, and she was unnerved by how bright and intelligent its eyes seemed. The Lady of Wishes sat in a chair by the bed, her face passive, with stacks of papers and books beside her. Who was this man, and why would Raboniel pause her research to give him an audience? The Lady normally ignored requests from humans, going so far as to have several “important” ones flogged when they demanded audiences. More curious, as Venli edged around the side of the room, she saw that the man’s face was scarred in several places, bespeaking a roughness in contrast to his fine clothing. “The only thing I find remarkable,” Raboniel said to Derision, “is how audacious you are, human. Do you not understand how easily I could have you beaten or killed?” “That would be to throw away a useful opportunity,” the man said, loud and bold—a human version of the Rhythm of Determination. “And you are not one who throws away something useful, are you, Ancient One?” “Use is relative,” Raboniel replied. “I will throw away an opportunity I’ll never have time to exploit if it is preventing me from something better.” “What is better than free riches?” he said. “I have Urithiru,” she said. “What need have I of spheres?” “Not that kind of riches,” the man said, with a smile. He stepped forward and respectfully handed her a large pouch. Raboniel took it, and it made a soft clink. Raboniel undid the top, and stared inside. She
sat there for a long moment, and when she next spoke, her voice was devoid of rhythms. “How? Where did you get this?” “I bring a gift,” was all the man said. “To encourage you to meet with my babsk to negotiate terms. I had thought to wait until the current … turmoil subsided, but my babsk is determined. We will have a deal for use of the Oathgates. And we will pay.” “It is … a fine gift,” Raboniel finally said. “That is not the gift,” he said. “That is a mere advance on our future payments. This is the gift.” He gestured to the side, and the strange creature on his shoulder whistled. The two men that Venli had seen outside entered, carrying something between them—a large cloth-covered box. It barely fit through the door, and was heavy, judging by the thump it made when they set it down. The lead human whipped the cloth off, revealing a small teenage human girl in a box with bars on the sides. The dirty creature growled as she huddled in the center, shadowed. The man gestured dramatically, then bowed and began to walk away. “Human?” Raboniel said. “I did not dismiss you. What is this? I need no slaves.” “This is no slave,” the man said. “But if your master does happen to ever locate Cultivation, suggest that he ask her precisely why she made an Edgedancer who is fueled by Lifelight and not Stormlight.” He bowed again—a formal military bow—then withdrew. Venli waited, expecting Raboniel to demand he be executed, or at least flogged. Instead she started humming to Conceit. She even smiled. “I am confused, Ancient One,” Venli said, looking after the man. “You needn’t be,” Raboniel said, “for this has nothing to do with you. He is dramatic, as I was warned. Hopefully he thinks I was put onto the back foot by his little stunt. Did he really deliver me a Radiant who is awake despite the tower’s protections?” She peered in at the caged child, who stared back defiantly and growled. “Barely seems tame.” She clapped, and several servants entered. “Take this one to a secure place and do not let her go. Be careful. She might be dangerous.” As they took the cage, she turned to Venli and spoke to Craving. “So, was it really another of your people, as the reports say?” “Yes,” Venli said. “I know him. His name is Rlain. A listener.” “A child of traitors,” Raboniel said. “As am I,” Venli said, then paused. She took a deep breath and changed her rhythm to Conceit. “I would have him released to my care. I haven’t any other kin to speak of. He is precious to me.” “Odium specifically made your kin extinct,” Raboniel said. “You are the last. A distinction that you should appreciate, for the way it makes you unique.” “I do not wish uniqueness,” Venli said. “I wish to keep this malen alive and enjoy his company. I have served well in several capacities, to multiple Fused. I demand this

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