Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Give my best to Savrahalidem and my grandchildren,” Taravangian said. “If they ask, tell them that I lost myself at the end and became insensate.”

  “Won’t that hurt Savri more?” Adrotagia asked. “To know that her father is trapped among enemies, senile and confused?”

  “No, that is not my girl,” he said. “You don’t know her as I do. Tell her I was singing when you last saw me. That will comfort her.” He squeezed Adrotagia’s wrists as she held to his. How lucky was he, to have had a friend for … storms, seventy-three years?

  “It shall be done, Vargo,” she said. “And the Diagram?”

  He’d promised her a final confirmation. Taravangian released her wrists, then walked to the window, passing Mrall—the enormous bodyguard was crying, bless him.

  Later today, Taravangian would leave for Azir with Dalinar and Jasnah. Soon afterward, Taravangian’s armies—acting on Odium’s orders—would betray their allies and switch sides. It was a death sentence for Taravangian, who would be left surrounded by his enemies. He was bringing an army just the right size to put Dalinar and the other monarchs at ease: large enough to convince them Taravangian was committed, but small enough to leave them certain they could capture him in the event of a betrayal.

  It was a calculated move on Odium’s part. What powerful monarch would leave himself so vulnerable?

  Feeling tired, Taravangian rested his weathered hands upon the stone windowsill of his tower room. He’d asked for a room where he could look southward, to where this had all begun with a request to the Nightwatcher. He now suspected that his boon had been chosen by someone more grand than that ancient spren.

  “The Diagram,” Taravangian said, “has served its purpose. We have protected Kharbranth. We have fulfilled the Diagram.

  “Both the book and the organization we named after it were merely tools. It is time to disband. Dismantle our secret hospitals; release our soldiers to the city guard. If there are any middling members you think know too much, give them a time-consuming ‘secret’ quest far from civilization. Danlan should be among the first of this group.

  “As for Delgo, Malata, and the others too useful to waste, I think they will accept the truth. We have achieved our goal. Kharbranth will be safe.” He peered down at his aged hands. Wrinkles like scars for each life he’d taken. “Tell them … there is nothing more pitiful than a tool that has outlived its usefulness. We will not simply invent something new for our organization to do. We must allow that which has served its purpose to die.”

  “That is all fine,” Mrall said, stepping forward, folding his arms and acting as if he hadn’t been crying a moment before. “But you are still our king. We won’t leave you.”

  “We will,” Adrotagia said softly.

  “But—”

  “Vargo has the Blackthorn’s suspicion,” Adrotagia said. “He will not be allowed to leave, not now. And if he did go, he would be hunted once the betrayal happens. We, on the other hand, can slip away—and then be ignored. Without him, Kharbranth will be safe.”

  “This was always the intent, Mrall,” Taravangian said, still staring out over the mountains. “I am the spire that draws the lightning. I am the bearer of our sins. Kharbranth can distance itself from me once our armies in Jah Keved turn against the Alethi. The Veden highprinces are eager and bloodthirsty; each has promises from the Fused. They will perpetuate the fight, believing that they will be favored once Odium’s forces win.”

  “You’re being thrown away!” Mrall said. “After all you’ve done, Odium casts you aside? At least go to Jah Keved.”

  Naturally, Mrall didn’t see. That was fine. These details weren’t in the Diagram—they were in uncharted territory now.

  “I am a diversion,” Taravangian explained. “I must go with the expeditionary force into Emul. Then, when Jah Keved turns, the Blackthorn will be so focused on me and the immediate threat to his soldiers that he will miss whatever Odium will be attempting in the meantime.”

  “It can’t be important enough to risk you,” Mrall said.

  Taravangian had his suspicions. Perhaps Odium’s ploy would be worth the cost, perhaps not. It didn’t matter. At the god’s orders, Taravangian had spent a year preparing Jah Keved to switch sides, promoting the people Odium wanted in place, moving troops into position. Now that he was done, Taravangian was useless. Worse, he was a potential weakness.

  And so, Taravangian would be given to the Alethi for execution, and his corpse would be burned without a proper funeral. The Alethi gave no honors to traitors.

  Acknowledging his fate hurt. Like a spear right through his gut. Odd, how much that should bother him. He’d be dead, so what did he care about a funeral?

  He turned from the window and gave Mrall a firm handshake—then an unexpected hug. He gave another to short, trustworthy Maben—the servant woman who had watched over him all this time. She handed him a small bundle of his favorite jams, all the way from Shinovar. Those were increasingly rare, now that trade into the strange country had cut off. The Diagram indicated it was likely one or more of the Unmade had set up there.

  “Too often,” Taravangian said to Maben, “those who write history focus on the generals and the scholars, to the detriment of the quiet workers who see everything done. The salvation of our people is as much your victory as mine.” He bowed and kissed her hand.

  Finally he turned to Dukar, the stormwarden who administered Taravangian’s intelligence tests each morning. His robe was as extravagant—and silly—as always. But the man’s loyalty remained solid as he held up his pack of tests.

  “I should stay with you, sire,” he said as the nearby hearth sparked, the logs shifting. “You will still need someone to test you each day.”

  “The tests are no longer relevant, Dukar,” Taravangian said gently. He held up a finger. “If you stay, you will be executed—or perhaps tortured to get information out of me. While I promised to do whatever was necessary to save our people, I will not go one step further. Not a single death more than needed. So, my final act as your king is to command you to leave.”

  Dukar bowed. “My king. My eternal king.”

  Taravangian looked back to Adrotagia and unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket. “For my daughter,” he said. “She will be queen of Kharbranth when this is through. Be certain she disavows me. This is the reason I’ve kept her clean. Guide her well, and do not trust Dova. Having met more of the other Heralds, I’m certain Battah is not as stable as she seems.”

  Adrotagia took his hand one last time, then patted him on the head as she’d done to annoy him in their childhood, once she had started growing taller than he. He smiled, then watched as the group slowly left—bowing one at a time.

  They closed the door, and he was alone. He took his copy of the Diagram, bound in leather. Despite years of hoping, he’d never been given another day like that one where he’d created this book. But that one day had been enough.

  Was it? a part of him whispered. You saved a single city.

  The best he could do. To hope for more was dangerous.

  He walked to the hearth and watched the dancing flamespren before dropping his copy of the Diagram into the fire.

  Dear Wanderer,

  I did receive your latest communication. Please forgive formality on my part, as we have not met in person. I feel new to this role, despite my years holding it. You will admit to my relative youth, I think.

  Radiant marched through a chamber deep beneath Urithiru, listening to the crashing sound of the waterworks and worrying about the mission Shallan had agreed to undertake. Volunteering to visit the honorspren? Traveling into Shadesmar?

  That positioned them to do as Mraize had tasked them. Again.

  Radiant did not like Mraize, and she certainly didn’t trust him. However, she would keep to the agreement: the will of two should be respected. Veil wished to participate in the Ghostbloods wholeheartedly. Shallan wanted to work with them long enough to find out what they knew. So Radiant w
ould not go to Dalinar and Jasnah. The compact meant harmony, and harmony meant the ability to function.

  Mraize wants something out of this Restares person, Veil thought. I can feel it. We need to find out what that secret is, then use it. We can’t do that from here.

  A valid enough point. Radiant clasped her hands behind her back and continued her walk along the edge of the vast reservoir as her Lightweavers trained nearby. She had chosen to wear her vakama, the traditional Veden warrior’s clothing. It was similar to the Alethi takama, but the skirt was pleated instead of straight. She wore a loose matching coat with a tight vest and shirt beneath.

  The bright clothing featured vibrant blues embroidered over reds with gold woven between, and it had trim on the skirt. She’d noticed the Alethi doing double takes—both for the variegated colors, and because she wore what was traditionally a man’s outfit. But a warrior was who she was, and Jah Keved was her heritage. She would convey both.

  The room echoed with a low roar. Openings high in the walls on the other side of the reservoir let streams gush down and crash into the basin. The noise was distant enough to not disturb conversation, and the longer she practiced here, the more comforting she found the sound of rushing water. It was a natural thing, but contained, restrained. It seemed to represent humankind’s mastery over the elements.

  So we must master ourselves, Radiant thought—and Veil approved. Radiant was careful not to think poorly of Veil. Though their methods differed, they both existed to protect and help Shallan. Radiant respected Veil’s efforts there. She had accomplished things Radiant could not.

  Indeed, perhaps Veil could have been persuaded to talk to Dalinar and Jasnah. But Shallan … the idea frightened Shallan.

  That deep wound had surprised Radiant as it began to emerge this last year. Radiant was pleased with the improvement they’d made in working together, but this wound was impeding further progress. It seemed similar to what often happened with strength training. You eventually reached a plateau—and sometimes getting to new heights required more pain first.

  They’d get through this. It might seem like regression, but Radiant was certain this last knot of agony was the final answer. The final truth. Shallan was terrified that the ones she loved would turn on her when they found out the extent of her crimes. But she needed to confront her truths.

  Radiant would do what she could to help ease that burden. Today, that meant helping prepare for the mission into Shadesmar. Veil could fulfill Mraize’s demand and find this Restares person. Radiant would instead make certain the official side of their journey—speaking to the honorspren and pleading for them to join the war—was handled competently.

  She turned and inspected her Lightweavers. She brought them to this chamber under the tower because they didn’t like to train in the standard sparring halls. Though Radiant would have preferred them to associate with other soldiers, she had reluctantly agreed to find them a more private place. Their powers were … unusual, and could be distracting.

  Nearby, Beryl and Darcira—two of her newer Lightweavers—changed faces as they fought. Diversions, to put their opponent off guard. Curiously, when wearing new faces, both women attacked more recklessly. Many Lightweavers, when offered a part to play, threw themselves into it wholeheartedly.

  It didn’t seem they had the same mental crisis as Shallan, fortunately. They just liked acting, and sometimes took it too far. If given a helmet, they’d stand up and shout orders like a battle commander. Wearing the right face they’d argue politics, stand in front of a crowd, even lob insults at the mighty. But catch either of these two women alone, wearing her own face? They’d speak in muted voices and avoid crowds, seeking to curl up quietly and read.

  “Beryl, Darcira,” Radiant said, interrupting the women. “I like how you are learning to control your powers—but today’s task is to practice the sword. Try to watch your footwork more than your transformations. Darcira, when you wear a male face, you always lose your stance.”

  “Guess I feel more aggressive,” Darcira said, shrugging as her Lightweaving puffed away, revealing her normal features.

  “You must control the face rather than let it control you,” Radiant said. Inside she felt Shallan forming a wisecrack—the Three had their own trouble with that idea. “When you’re fighting, and you intend to distract someone, don’t let that distract you as well.”

  “But Radiant,” Beryl said, waving toward her side sword, “why do we even have to learn to fight? We’re spies. If we have to pick up our swords, haven’t we already lost?”

  “There may be times when you will need to pretend to be a soldier. In that case, using the sword could be part of your disguise. But yes, fighting is our last resort. I would have it be a viable last resort—if you need to break disguise and abandon your cover, I want you to survive and return to us.”

  The young woman thought on that. She was a few years older than Shallan, but a few years younger than how Radiant saw herself. Beryl claimed to have forgotten her real name, she’d lived so many different lives. Veil had found her after hearing rumors of a prostitute working in the warcamps whose face changed to match that of people her clients most loved.

  A hard life, but not an uncommon story for the Lightweavers. Half of Radiant’s band of twenty included the deserters Shallan had first recruited. Those men might not have forgotten their former lives, but there were certainly parts in the middle they’d rather not discuss.

  Beryl and Darcira took Radiant’s tips—which were really Adolin’s tips, drilled into her brain over many nights practicing—and returned to their sparring.

  “I couldn’t spot her Cryptic,” Radiant said as she walked away to inspect the others.

  “Mmm?” Pattern said, riding on her back, right below her collar. “Pattern? She usually rides on the inside of Beryl’s shirt, near her skin. Pattern doesn’t like to be seen.”

  “I’d prefer if you used the Cryptic’s other name,” Radiant said. “It’s confusing, otherwise.” After being pressured, each of the other Cryptics had picked individual names for the humans to use.

  “I don’t understand why,” he said. “Our names are already all different. I am Pattern. She is Pattern. Gaz has Pattern.”

  “Those … are the same words, Pattern.”

  “But they’re not,” he said. “Mmm. I could write the numbers for you.”

  “Humans can’t speak equations as intonations,” Radiant said.

  Like most of Shallan’s team, Beryl and Darcira already had their own spren—though they had yet to earn their swords. That meant they weren’t squires according to the Windrunner definition. Cryptics weren’t as uptight as honorspren, and didn’t wait as long to start bonds. Everyone in her team had one at this point, and newcomers got them quickly.

  So her team had begun using their own terminology. Shallan was the Master Lightweaver. The others were Agent Lightweavers. If someone new joined, they were called a squire during the short time before they acquired a spren. Together, they’d begun calling themselves the Unseen Court. Both Veil and Shallan loved the title … though Radiant had noticed more than a few eye rolls from Windrunners when it was mentioned.

  She completed her round of the room, the walking portion of which was shaped like a crescent. She looked over her twenty agents, and started deliberating on the true question at hand: Which ones should she take with her into Shadesmar?

  She and Adolin had agreed that the team should be small. Shallan and Adolin, along with three Radiants: Godeke the Edgedancer, Zu the Stoneward, and the Truthwatcher woman who preferred to be called by her nickname, the Stump. They’d bring some of Adolin’s soldiers as grooms and guards—and he’d choose men who hadn’t been on the mission to the warcamps, just in case.

  In addition they wanted three Lightweaver agents to Soulcast food, water, and other materials. It was a practical decision, and would also give some of Shallan’s people experience with Shadesmar. Radiant approved, but she had to deal with one discomforting p
roblem.

  Did the Ghostbloods really have a spy among her agents? Veil emerged at this contemplation, and took control. She had to prepare for the possibility that one of the other Lightweavers might betray her if brought on this mission. There must be a spy, she thought, and it will be someone who was on the mission to the warcamps. Because whoever they are, they killed Ialai.

  Shallan agreed with this. Though Radiant, for some odd reason, seemed uncertain at that logic.

  Well, Veil needed to figure out who the most likely candidates were—then make certain they went on the mission to Shadesmar.

  What? Radiant thought. No, if we suspect them of being a spy, we should keep them far away.

  No, Veil replied. We keep them close. To better manipulate and watch them.

  That would be reckless.

  And what would you rather have, Radiant? Veil asked. An enemy you can see, watch, and maybe fight—or one you leave off somewhere, doing who knows what?

  That was more of a valid point. Veil surrendered control to Shallan, who knew the team the best. And as she strolled through the room—her hair bleeding to red—she found herself planning. How did she identify which agents were most likely to be a spy?

  She started by walking over to where Ishnah was sparring. The short woman’s straight black hair framed a face accented by bright red lip paint, and she wore an Alethi havah with a gloved hand instead of a sleeve. Ishnah was one of those who had earned her Blade. By Windrunner terms, she should be off gathering her own squires and making her own team—they seemed to assume everyone would want to follow their command structure. The Unseen Court, however, didn’t care for Windrunner methods.

  Instead, the Unseen Court would remain together. A balanced team, with roughly equal men and women, as all but one of her new recruits over the year had been female. Indeed, Shallan felt the Court was complete. Beryl had been with them for nearly three months now, and Shallan hadn’t felt a need to recruit anyone else. She wanted a tight-knit group. Hopefully other groups of Lightweavers would come to join the Radiants—but they would form their own teams.