Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  “Ideas are not useless simply because they involve religious thinking,” Jasnah said. “Nearly all of the ancient scholars I revere were religious, and I appreciate how their faith shaped them, even if I do not appreciate the faith itself.”

  “The things you said about hope in the meeting,” Dalinar said. “They bothered me, Jasnah. But perhaps in a good way. Who in the world would dispute an idea as fundamental as hope? Yet because we all accept it as vital, we don’t think about it. What it really means. You do.”

  “I try,” she said, glancing back toward the Prime’s palace. “Tell me. Am I pushing too hard to establish myself as a military leader? I feel it’s an important precedent, as your book here is, but … I hit the target a little too squarely, didn’t I?”

  Dalinar smiled, then put his hand on hers, which held up the book. “We are revealing a new world, Jasnah, and the way before us is dark until we bring it light. We will be forgiven if we stumble on unseen ground now and then.” He squeezed her hand. “I would like you to do something for me. All of the great philosophical texts I’ve read have an undertext.”

  “Yes, about that…” He wasn’t the only man who had been shaken to discover that for centuries, the women in their lives had been leaving commentaries for one another. Something dictated by a man would often have his wife’s or scribe’s thoughts underneath, never shared aloud. An entire world, hidden from those who thought they were ruling it.

  “I would like you to write the undertext for Oathbringer,” Dalinar said. “Openly. To be read and discovered by any who would like to read it.”

  “Uncle?” Jasnah said. “I’m not certain the tradition should continue. It was questionable to begin with.”

  “I find the insights offered in the undertexts to be essential,” Dalinar said. “They change how I read. History is written by the victors, as many are fond of saying—but at least we have contrary insights by those who watched. I would like to know what you think of what I’ve said.”

  “I will not hold back, Uncle,” Jasnah said. “If much of this is religious, I will be compelled to be honest. I will point out your confirmation biases, your fallacies. Perhaps it would be better if you gave the undertext task to my mother.”

  “I considered that,” he said. “But I promised to unite instead of divide. I don’t do that by giving my book only to those who agree with me.

  “If we’re revealing a new world, Jasnah, should we not do it together? Arguments and all? I feel like … like we are never going to agree on the details, you and I. This book though—it could show that we agree on the more important matters. After all, if an avowed atheist and a man starting his own religion can unite, then who can object that their personal differences are too large to surmount?”

  “That’s what you’re doing, then?” she asked. “Creating a religion?”

  “Revising the old one, at the very least,” Dalinar said. “When the full text of this is released … I suspect it will create a larger schism among Vorinism.”

  “Me being involved won’t help that.”

  “I want your thoughts nonetheless. If you are willing to give them.”

  She pulled the book close. “I consider it among the greatest honors I have ever been offered, Uncle. Be warned, however, I am not known for my brevity. This could take me years. I will be thorough, I will offer counterpoints, and I may undermine your entire argument. But I will be respectful.”

  “Whatever you need, Jasnah.” He smiled. “I hope that in your additions, we will create something greater than I could have alone.”

  She smiled back. “Don’t say it that way. You make it sound like the odds are against it being possible, where I should say that is the most reasonable outcome. Thank you, Uncle. For your trust.”

  To humans, our very visages become symbols. You find echoes of it even in the art from centuries before this Return.

  —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days

  There was a long line at the Oathgates today, but that was nothing new. Raboniel was certain the human kingdoms knew of the occupation by now, and so had authorized the Oathgates to be opened more frequently, allowing singer troops and servants occupying the tower to rotate out.

  Venli’s group of fifteen friends huddled behind her, holding their supplies—hopefully appearing to be merely another batch of workers given a chance to return to Kholinar for a break. Venli pulled her coat tight against the wind. Listeners didn’t get as cold as humans seemed to, but she could still feel the bite of the wind—particularly since this form had carapace only as ornamentation, not true armor.

  She wasn’t completely certain what to do after reaching Kholinar. Raboniel’s writ would certainly get her people out of the city, and even out of Alethkar. But Venli couldn’t wait the weeks or months it would take for them to walk to the Shattered Plains. She had to find out if her mother was still alive.

  How far would the power of the writ go? Raboniel was feared, respected. Could Venli get her entire team of fifteen flown to that scout post via Heavenly One? Her mind spun with lies about a secret mission from Raboniel at the Shattered Plains. Indeed, it wasn’t too far from the truth. Raboniel had all but commanded her to go investigate the listener remnants.

  And what then? Venli thought. Raboniel knows about them. She knows I’m going. She’s manipulating me. For what end?

  It didn’t matter. Venli had to go. It was time.

  Timbre pulsed softly as she stood in the line, map case over her shoulder, trying to ignore the wind.

  “Are you disappointed in me?” Venli whispered to Conceit. “For leaving Rlain and the humans?”

  Timbre pulsed. Yes, she was. The little spren was never afraid to be straight with Venli.

  “What do you expect me to do?” she whispered, turning her head away from Dul so he wouldn’t hear her talking. “Help with their insane plan? He’ll get all those Radiants killed. Besides, you think I’d be any help to them?”

  Timbre pulsed. Venli was doing well. Learning. She could help.

  If I weren’t a coward, Venli thought. “What if we got you a different host? A singer who cares, like Rlain.”

  Timbre pulsed.

  “What do you mean?” Venli demanded. “You can’t want me. I’m an accident. A mistake.”

  Another pulse.

  “Mistakes can’t be wonderful, Timbre. That’s what defines them as mistakes.”

  She pulsed, more confident. How could she be more confident with each complaint? Stupid spren. And why wasn’t this line moving? The transfers should be quick; they needed to exchange people and supplies before the highstorm arrived.

  Venli told her people to wait, then stepped out of line. She marched to the front, where a couple of singers—formerly Azish, by their clothing—were arguing.

  “What is it?” Venli demanded to Craving.

  The two took in her Regal form, then the femalen answered. “We have to wait to perform the exchange, Chosen,” she said, using an old formal singer term. “The human who works the Oathgates for us has run off.”

  “No one else has a living Blade, which is needed to operate the fabrial now,” the other explained. “If you could find the one they call Vyre, and ask when he will return…”

  Venli glanced toward the sky. She could feel the wind picking up. “The highstorm is nearly here. We should move everyone inside.”

  The two argued at first, but Venli spoke more firmly. Soon they started herding the frustrated singers toward the tower. Venli walked along the plateau, Timbre pulsing excitedly. She saw this as an opportunity.

  “Why do you believe in me?” Venli whispered. “I’ve given you no reason. I’ve ruined everything I’ve touched. I’m a selfish, impotent, sorry excuse for a listener.”

  Timbre pulsed. Venli had saved her. Venli had saved Lift.

  “Yes, but I had to be coaxed into both,” Venli said. “I’m not a hero. I’m an accident.”

  Timbre was firm. Some people charged toward the goal, running
for all they had. Others stumbled. But it wasn’t the speed that mattered.

  It was the direction they were going.

  Venli lingered at the entrance to Urithiru. She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. The previous highstorm had reached all the way past the sixth tier. This one would likely envelop nearly the entire tower, a rare occurrence, their scholars thought. She felt as if she could sense the power of it, the fury bearing down on them.

  “What if,” she whispered to Timbre, “I offered to use this writ to smuggle Stormblessed or his family out of Urithiru?”

  Timbre pulsed uncertainly. Would the writ’s authority extend that far? Venli thought perhaps it would. She wouldn’t be able to get any of the unconscious Radiants out; they were too closely watched, and someone would send to Raboniel for confirmation. But a few “random” humans? That might work.

  She found Dul and the others inside the front doors. Venli gathered them around, away from prying ears, and quickly handed her writ to Mazish. “Take this,” Venli said. “If I don’t return, you should be able to use it to get away.”

  “Without you?” Mazish said. “Venli…”

  “I’ll almost certainly return,” Venli said. “But just in case, take the map too. You’ll need it to find your way to the other listeners in secret.”

  “Where are you going?” Dul asked.

  Venli hummed to the Lost. “I think we should offer to bring the surgeon and his family—including their son, the Windrunner—out with us. Help them escape the tower, take them to their own people at the Shattered Plains.”

  She watched them, expecting fear, perhaps condemnation. This would jeopardize their safety.

  Instead, as a group, they hummed to Consideration.

  “Having a Windrunner on our side could be useful,” Mazish said. “He could certainly help us get to the Shattered Plains quicker.”

  “Yes!” said Shumin, the new recruit—still a little too eager for Venli’s taste. “This is a great idea!”

  “Would he help us though?” Dul asked.

  “He treated Rlain well,” Mazish said. “Even when he thought Rlain was only another parshman. I don’t like what the humans did, but if we put this one in our debt, my gut says he won’t betray us.”

  Venli scanned the other faces. Singers with a variety of skin patterns, now humming a variety of rhythms. None of them hummed to Betrayal, and they gave her encouraging nods.

  “Very well,” Venli said, “wait for me until the storm has passed. If I’ve not returned by then, take the next Oathgate transfer to Kholinar. I’ll find you there.”

  They hummed at her words, so Venli started toward the atrium, hoping she’d be quick enough to stop Rlain from trying his desperate plan. She didn’t know for certain if he’d take her offer. But this was the direction she should be moving.

  * * *

  Navani knelt on the floor of her office. It still smelled of smoke from the explosion the day before.

  Despite Raboniel saying she wanted to scrape the chamber for broken pieces of the dagger, no one arrived to do that. They hadn’t taken her to her rooms above. They hadn’t brought her meals. They’d simply left her alone.

  To contemplate her utter failure.

  She felt numb. After her previous failure—when she’d exposed the node to her enemies—she’d picked herself up and moved on. This time she felt stuck. Worn. Like an old banner left too long exposed to the elements. Ripped by storms. Bleached by the sun. Now hanging in tatters, waiting to slip off the pole.

  We can kill Radiant spren.

  In the end, all Raboniel’s talk of working together had been a lie. Of course it had. Navani had known it would be. She’d planned for it, and tried to hide what she knew. But had she really expected that to work? She’d repeatedly confirmed to herself that she couldn’t outthink the Fused. They were ancient, capable beyond mortal understanding, beings outside of time and … And …

  And she kept staring at the place where Raboniel’s daughter had died. Where Raboniel had wept, holding the corpse of her child. Such a human moment.

  Navani curled up on her pallet, though sleep had eluded her all night. She had spent the hours listening to the Fused in the hallway playing notes on metal plates and demanding new ones—until one final sound had echoed against the stone hallways. A chilling, awful sound that was wrong in all the right ways. Raboniel had found the tone.

  The tone that could kill spren.

  Should Navani feel pride? Even in that time of near madness, her research had been so meticulous and well annotated that Raboniel was able to follow it. What had taken Navani days, the Fused replicated in hours, breaking open a mystery that had stood for thousands of years. Evidence that Navani was a true scholar after all?

  No, she thought, staring at the ceiling. No, don’t you dare take that distinction for yourself. If she’d been a scholar, she’d have understood the implications of her work.

  She was a child playing dress-up again. A farmer could stumble across a new plant in the wilderness. Did that make him a botanist?

  She eventually forced herself up to do the only thing she was certain she couldn’t ruin. She found ink and paper in the wreckage of the room, then knelt and began to paint prayers. It was partially for the comfort of familiarity. But storm her, she still believed. Perhaps that was as foolish as thinking herself a scholar. Who did she think was listening? Was she only praying because she was afraid?

  Yes, she thought, continuing to paint. I’m afraid. And I have to hope that someone, somewhere, is listening. That someone has a plan. That it all matters somehow.

  Jasnah took comfort in the idea that there was no plan, that everything was random. She said that a chaotic universe meant the only actions of actual importance were the ones they decided were important. That gave people autonomy.

  Navani loved her daughter, but couldn’t see it the same way. Organization and order existed in the very way the world worked. From the patterns on leaves to the system of compounds and chemical reactions. It all whispered to her.

  Someone had known anti-Voidlight was possible.

  Someone had known Navani would create it first.

  Someone had seen all this, planned for it, and put her here. She had to believe that. She had to believe, therefore, that there was a way out.

  Please, she prayed, painting the glyph for divine direction. Please. I’m trying so hard to do what is right. Please guide me. What do I do?

  A voice sounded outside the room, and in her sleep-deprived state, she first mistook it for a voice speaking to her in answer. And then … then she heard what it was saying.

  “The best way to distract the Bondsmith is to kill his wife,” the voice said. Rough, cold. “I am therefore here to perform the act that you have so far refused to do.”

  Navani stood and walked to the door. Her femalen guard was someone new, but she didn’t forbid Navani from peering down the hall toward Raboniel’s workstation beside the Sibling’s shield.

  A man in a black uniform stood before Raboniel. Neat, close-cropped black hair, a narrow hawkish face with a prominent nose and sunken cheeks. Moash. The murderer.

  “I continue to have use for the queen,” Raboniel said.

  “My orders are from Odium himself,” Moash said. If a Fused’s voice was overly ornamented with rhythms and meaning, his voice was the opposite. Dead. A voice like slate.

  “He ordered you to come to me, Vyre,” Raboniel said. “And I requested for you to be sent. So today, I need you to deal with my problems first. There is a worm in the tower. Eating his way through walls. He is increasingly an issue.”

  “I warned you about Stormblessed,” Moash said. “I warned all of you. And you did not listen.”

  “You will kill him,” Raboniel said.

  “No enemy can kill Kaladin Stormblessed,” Moash said.

  “You promised that—”

  “No enemy can kill Stormblessed,” Moash said. “He is a force like the storms, and you cannot kill the storms,
Fused.”

  Raboniel handed Moash something. A small dagger. “You speak foolishness. A man is merely a man, no matter how skilled. That dagger can destroy his spren. Spread that sand, and it will turn faintly white when an invisible spren flies overhead. Use it to locate his honorspren, then strike at it, depriving him of power.”

  “I can’t kill him,” Moash repeated a third time, tucking the dagger away. “But I promise something better. We make this a covenant, Fused: I ruin Stormblessed, leave him unable to interfere, and you deliver me the queen. Accepted?”

  Navani felt herself grow cold. Raboniel didn’t even glance in her direction. “Accepted,” Raboniel said. “But do another thing for me. The Pursuer has been sent to destroy the final node, but I think he is delaying to encourage Stormblessed to show up and fight him for it. Break the node for me.”

  Moash nodded and accepted what seemed to be a small diagram explaining the location of the node. He turned on his heel with military precision and marched up the hallway. If he saw her, he made no comment, passing like a cold wind.

  “Monster,” Navani said, angerspren at her feet. “Traitor! You would attack your own friend?”

  He stopped short. Staring straight ahead, he spoke. “Where were you, lighteyes, when your son condemned innocents to death?” He turned, affixing Navani with those lifeless eyes. “Where were you, Queen, when your son sent Roshone to Kaladin’s hometown? A political outcast, a known murderer, exiled to a small village. Where he couldn’t do any damage, right?

  “Roshone killed Kaladin’s brother. You could have stopped it. If any of you cared. You were never my queen; you are nothing to me. You are nothing to anyone. So don’t speak to me of treason or friendship. You have no idea what this day will cost me.”

  He continued forward, bearing no visible weapon save the dagger tucked into his belt. A dagger designed to kill a spren. A dagger that Navani had, essentially, created. He reached the end of the hallway, burst alight with Stormlight—which somehow worked for him—and streaked into the air, rising through the open stairwell toward the ground floor.