They were good questions. Venli hummed to Annoyance—at herself, not at Shumin. When her ancestors had first broken away in an ultimate act of bravery and sacrifice, it had been at the end of the wars between humans and singers. The listeners were able to escape in the confusion, a loose thread no one thought to tie up.
This was different. She knew it was.
She leaned forward. “We have two current plans. The first is to find sympathetic Fused and convince them we deserve this privilege. They respect Passion and courage.”
“Yeah, sure, but…” Shumin shrugged in a human way. So casual. “There’s a big difference between respecting Passion and letting someone curse you out. The Fused seem pretty intolerant of people truly disagreeing with them.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Venli said to Reprimand. “You assume the Fused are all of a single mind.”
“They’re the immortal servants of a terrible god.”
“And they’re still people. Each with different hearts, thoughts, and goals. I retain hope that some of them will see what we’re planning as worthy.”
It was a frail hope, Venli admitted to herself. Timbre pulsed within her, agreeing. Leshwi though … the high lady seemed to respect her enemies. She could be brutal, she could be unforgiving, but she could also be thoughtful.
Leshwi said the conquest of Roshar was being undertaken on behalf of the common singer people. Perhaps using similar language, Venli could present her plan for a new listener homeland.
Unfortunately, she feared that the Fused had fought their wars so long that—despite paying lip service to giving the world back to the singers—they no longer saw freedom as the goal. To many of them, the war was for vengeance: the destruction of their enemies, finally proving which side was right. So if Leshwi—who was among both the most sane and the most empathetic of Fused—could not be persuaded, then that left only one option. To run and hide. Venli’s ancestors had shown that courage. She was uncertain, when being honest with herself, whether she had the same moral strength.
Shumin idly played with her hair rather than humming to an emotion as a listener would have. Was that hair-twisting a sign she was bored, perhaps the human way of humming to Skepticism?
“If we must run,” Venli said, “we are not without resources.”
“Forgive me if I’m hesitant, Brightness,” Shumin said. “They summoned rock monsters that were taller than the storming city wall. They have Regals and Fused. I think our sole hope is to get the entire city to turn against them.”
“We have a Regal as well,” Venli said, gesturing to herself. “There is a Voidspren in my gemheart, Shumin, but I have learned to contain and imprison it. It gives me powers, such as the ability to look into Shadesmar and see if any spren are nearby spying on us.”
“Regal powers…” Shumin said, glancing to the others in the room. “And … I could have them too? Without surrendering my will to Odium?”
“Possibly,” Venli said. “Once I have perfected the process so others can use it.”
Timbre pulsed inside her, disapproving. The little spren wanted Venli to tell the full truth—that she was Radiant. However, the time wasn’t right. Venli wanted to be certain she could offer others what she had before exposing what she was. She needed to be certain other spren like Timbre were willing, and she needed to prepare her friends for the path.
“Long ago,” Venli explained to Shumin, “the singers were allies of the spren. Then humans came, and the wars started. The events of those days are lost to all but the Fused—in the end, however, we know the spren chose humans.
“Eventually, the humans betrayed them. Killed them. Some spren have chosen to give humans a second chance, but others … Well, I have been contacted by a spren who represents an entire people in Shadesmar. They realize that perhaps we deserve a second chance more than humans do.”
“What does that mean?” Shumin asked.
“That we will not be completely without allies, once we make our move,” Venli said. “Our ultimate goal is to find a place where we can escape other people’s rules and their laws. A place where we can be what we wish and cast off the roles forced upon us.”
“I’m in,” Shumin said. “That sounds like a storming delight, Brightness. Maybe … maybe if we have forms of power that aren’t granted by Odium, the enemy will leave us alone.”
Either that or Odium would see that his minions scoured Venli and her faction from the planet.
Timbre pulsed, saying no great work could be accomplished without risk. Venli hated when she said things like that. It reminded her exactly how dangerous her current actions were. She drew in a little Light to check Shadesmar again. She saw nothing spying on her, so—
A dark, pulsing flame was moving down from above.
Leshwi.
Venli leaped to her feet, her chair slamming to the ground. Dul and Mazish noticed her urgency and stood upright, searching around, trying to decide what to do.
“Open the shades!” Venli said. “Quickly! So she doesn’t see anything odd!”
They slammed the windows open right as the hatch rattled. Lady Leshwi—brilliant in her outfit of gold and black—entered, skimming above the steps. She almost never came down here. What was going on?
Timbre trembled inside Venli. They’d been discovered. It had to mean they’d—
“Gather yourself, Last Listener,” Leshwi said to the Rhythm of Agony. “Something is happening. Something dangerous. I fear the war is about to take a distinctly different turn.”
One of my pleas is for artifabrians to stop shrouding fabrial techniques with so much mystery. Many decoy metals are used in cages, and wires are often plated to look like a different metal, with the express intent of confusing those who might try to learn the process through personal study. This might enrich the artifabrian, but it impoverishes us all.
—Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175
As they arrived at Urithiru, Kaladin wanted nothing more than to vanish. To go someplace where he wouldn’t have to listen to everyone laughing. There were a hundred of them together, mostly squires of the various Windrunners who had once been his team.
Kaladin didn’t have many squires left—none, unless you counted Dabbid and Rlain. Rock didn’t have a spren either, but he … had moved on to something else. Kaladin wasn’t sure what it was, but he didn’t call himself a squire.
Rlain would soon have a spren, and would finally be able to move on too. Dabbid had gone on the mission today to help Renarin deliver water and supplies to the townspeople. He’d never recovered from his battle shock, however, and didn’t have Radiant powers. He wasn’t so much a squire as someone Kaladin and the others looked after.
The rest had all ascended to at least the Second Ideal. That made them more than a squire, but not yet a full Radiant—having bonded a spren, but not yet having earned a Blade. They were all so jovial as they walked together across the Oathgate plateau, and Kaladin didn’t begrudge them their mirth. They were dear to him, and he wanted them to laugh.
Yet at the moment, he couldn’t imagine anything more painful than the way they all tried to cheer him up. They sensed his mood, though he hadn’t spoken to them regarding his … relegation? His retirement?
Storms. It made him sick to think about it.
As they walked, Lopen told him a particularly bad joke. Skar asked him for a sparring session—which was his way of offering help. Normally Kaladin would have agreed. But today … sparring would remind him of what he’d lost.
Sigzil, showing admirable restraint, told him that battle reports could wait until tomorrow. Storms. How bad did he look? Kaladin did his best to deflect them all, pasting on a smile so wide it felt like it cracked his skin.
Rock kept his distance, carefully ignoring Kaladin. Rock generally did have a better sense of his true mood than most. And Rock could see Syl, who—fretful as she buzzed around Kaladin—eventually zipped off. She caug
ht a current nearby, flying into the air. She found flight as reassuring as he did.
I need to be careful not to let this break her, he thought. Keep up a strong front for her, for all of them. They shouldn’t have to be in pain because of how I feel. He could do this gracefully. He could fight this one last battle.
They crossed the open field of stone before the tower city. Kaladin almost managed to keep walking without staring up at the tower. He nearly didn’t feel a shock of dissociation at its immensity. He spent only a split second in disbelief that something so grand could exist. Yes, these days the tower was practically mundane.
“Hey,” Leyten said as they reached the tower entrance. “Rock! Got any stew for us maybe? For old times’ sake?”
Kaladin turned. The word “stew” pierced the cloud.
“Ah, coming up to the beautifully thin air makes you suddenly think straight!” Rock said. “You remember the glories of good cooking! But … this thing cannot be today. I have appointment.”
“It’s not with the surgeons, is it?” Kara called. “Because I don’t think they can do anything about your breath, Rock!”
“Ha!” Rock said, then bellowed a laugh, going so far as to wipe a tear from his eye. Kara grinned, but then Rock held out his hand. “No no, you think I am laughing at what you said? Airsick! I’m laughing because you thought that to be funny joke, Kara. Ha! Ha!”
Kaladin smiled. A real smile, for a moment.
Then they started to break apart into small clusters, usually a Knight with their squad of squires. His friends all had their own teams now. Even Teft was pulled away by one of the groups, though his squires had been in Bridge Thirteen—and they had stayed behind to guard the ship. In fact, many of them had become Radiants themselves. Kaladin wasn’t certain how many squires Teft had left.
Could Kaladin do as Dalinar wanted? Could he stand being highmarshal of the Windrunners without going into the field? Being a part of their lives, but not being able to help them, fight alongside them?
No. A clean break would be better.
A few groups invited him to go with them, but he found himself turning them down. He stood tall, like a commander should, and gave them the nod. The captain’s nod that said, “You run along, soldier. I have important things to be about, and cannot be bothered with frivolity.”
Nobody pushed him, though he wished that one of them would. But these days, they had their own lives. Many had families; all had duties. Those who had served with him in the early days still wore their Bridge Four patches with pride, but Bridge Four was something they used to belong to. A legendary team already passed into myth.
Kaladin kept his back straight, his chin high, as he left them and strode through the now-familiar corridors of the tower city. Lined with entrancing patterns of different shades of strata, the tower had sphere lanterns lining most major hallways—locked, of course, but changed regularly. The place was starting to feel truly lived in. He passed families, workers, and refugees. People of all walks, as varied as a goblet full of spheres.
They saluted him, or stepped aside for him, or—in the case of many children—waved to him. The highmarshal. Kaladin Stormblessed. He kept on the proper face all the way to his rooms, and was proud of himself for it.
Then he stepped inside and found an empty nothingness.
His were the quarters of a highlord, supposedly luxurious and spacious. He had little furniture though, and that left it feeling hollow. Dark, the sole light coming from the balcony.
Every honor he’d been given seemed to highlight how vacant his life really was. Titles couldn’t fill a room with life. Still, he turned and closed the door with a firm push.
Only then did he break. He didn’t make it to the chair. He sank down with his back to the wall beside the door. He tried to unbutton his coat, but ended up bending forward with his knuckles pressing his forehead, digging into his skin as he hyperventilated, gasping in deep breaths of air while he trembled and shook. Exhaustionspren like jets of dust gleefully congregated around him. And agonyspren, like upside-down faces carved from stone, twisted and faded in and out.
He couldn’t cry. Nothing came out. He wanted to cry, because at least that would be a release. Instead he huddled, knuckles pressing against the scars in his forehead, wishing he could shrivel away. Like the eyes of a person struck by a Shardblade.
In moments like this—alone and huddled on the floor of a dark room, tormented by agonyspren—Moash’s words found him. The truth of them became undeniable. Out in the garish sunlight, it was easy to pretend that everything was all right. In here, Kaladin could see clearly.
You’re just going to keep hurting.…
His entire life had been a futile effort to stop a storm by yelling at it. The storm didn’t care.
They’re all going to die. There’s nothing you can do about it.
You could never build anything that lasted, so why try? Everything decayed and fell apart. Nothing was permanent. Not even love.
Only one way out …
A knock came at his door. Kaladin ignored the sound until it became insistent. Storms. They were going to barge in, weren’t they? Suddenly panicked that anyone should find him like this, Kaladin stood up and straightened his coat. He took a deep breath, and the agonyspren faded.
Adolin pushed his way in, a treasonous Syl on his shoulder. That was where she had gone? To fetch Adolin storming Kholin?
The young man wore a uniform of Kholin blue, but not a regulation one. He’d taken to having embellishments added, regardless of what his father thought. While it was sturdy—a little stiff, starched to maintain neat lines—its sleeves were embroidered to match his boots. The cut left the coat longer than most—a bit like Kaladin’s own captain’s coat, but more trendy.
Somehow Adolin wore the uniform, when the uniform had always worn Kaladin. To Kaladin, the uniform was a tool. To Adolin it was a part of an ensemble. How did he get his hair—blond, peppered black—so perfectly messy? It was both casual and deliberate at the same time.
He was smiling, of course. Storming man.
“You are here!” Adolin said. “Rock said he thought you were heading for your room.”
“Because I wanted to be alone,” Kaladin said.
“You spend too many evenings alone, bridgeboy,” Adolin said, glancing at the nearby exhaustionspren, then grabbing Kaladin by the arm—something few other people would have dared.
“I like being by myself,” Kaladin said.
“Great. Sounds awful. Today, you’re coming with me. No more excuses. I let you blow me away last week and the week before.”
“Maybe,” Kaladin snapped, “I just don’t want to be around you, Adolin.”
The highprince hesitated, then leaned forward, narrowing his eyes and putting his face up close to Kaladin’s. Syl still sat on Adolin’s shoulder, her arms folded—without even the decency to look ashamed when Kaladin glared at her.
“Tell me honestly,” Adolin said. “With an oath, Kaladin. Tell me that you should be left alone tonight. Swear it to me.”
Adolin held his gaze. Kaladin tried to form the words, and felt of the ten fools when he couldn’t get them out.
He definitely shouldn’t be alone right now.
“Storm you,” Kaladin said.
“Ha,” Adolin said, tugging him by the arm. “Come on, Brightlord Master Highmarshal Stormface. Change your coat to one that doesn’t smell like smoke, then come with me. You don’t have to smile. You don’t have to talk. But if you’re going to be miserable, you might as well do it with friends.”
Kaladin extracted his arm from Adolin’s grip, but didn’t resist further. He grabbed new clothes—tossing aside the ones he’d been fighting in. He did, however, shoot Syl another glare as she flew over to him.
“Adolin?” Kaladin said as he changed. “Your first thought was to get Adolin?”
“I needed someone you couldn’t intimidate,” she replied. “That list at best includes three people. And the queen was li
kely to transform you into a crystal goblet or something.”
Kaladin sighed and walked out to join Adolin, lest the highprince think he was dallying. Syl eyed Kaladin as she walked in the air alongside him, keeping up with him despite her dainty steps.
“Thank you,” Kaladin said softly, turning his eyes forward.
* * *
Adolin made good on his promise. He didn’t force Kaladin to say much. Together they made their way to the Ten Rings, a section of the tower’s central market where the merchants had agreed to lay their shops out according to Navani’s plan. In exchange they got a deal on taxes and knew guard patrols would be frequent and courteous.
Rows of wooden storefronts here made neat, orderly streets. The shops were of similar sizes and dimensions, with storage and housing on top. The place felt quaint, an island of order contrasting the more organic, chaotic feeling of the rest of the Breakaway market—where after a year, many people still used tents instead of permanent structures.
Admittedly, it did feel strange to have rows of permanent structures built in the middle of a several-stories-high interior room. The oddest part to Kaladin was that the most upscale shops—catering to the richest of the lighteyed families—had refused Navani’s invitation exactly as the seedier shops had. Neither wanted to agree to her oversight. The rich shops were all outside the market, in a series of rooms along a hallway nearby.
The upshot was that while the Ten Rings wasn’t terribly upscale, it was reputable—two concepts that weren’t necessarily the same thing. Adolin’s favorite winehouse was called Jez’s Duty. He’d forced Kaladin to join him there on more than one occasion, and so the interior was familiar. Themed after a stormshelter—though no such thing was needed here in the tower—it had fabrial clocks on the walls that listed when a storm was happening in Alethkar, and held a daily vigil for the kingdom. An ardent even visited and burned glyphwards.
Barring that, it could be a raucous place—more of a tavern than a winehouse. Adolin had a reserved booth at the rear. It was a mark of pride that the highprince frequented this location rather than more upscale winehouses.
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