Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  Ishnah had once wanted to join the Ghostbloods. Could the woman have found her way to Mraize? Would she have agreed to watch Shallan? It was possible, making Ishnah a prime suspect. That hurt Shallan to consider, to the point that she forced Radiant to take over again.

  What of Vathah? Radiant glanced toward him. The brutish former deserter was the most naturally talented Lightweaver. He often used his powers without recognizing it—even now as he sparred with Red, he’d made himself appear taller and more muscular. He had joined her under protest, and never quite seemed tamed by modern society. How much of a bribe would it take to coax him to spy on her?

  We’re going to have to be careful, Radiant, Shallan said from within. The Court could tear itself apart thinking like this.

  Somehow Radiant had to distrust them all while encouraging them to trust one another.

  “Ishnah,” Radiant said, “what do you think of the mission we’ve been given?”

  Ishnah dismissed her Shardblade and walked over. “Going into the dark, Brightness? That place offers opportunities. The ones who master it will get ahead quickly.”

  It was a pragmatic but ambitious attitude. Ishnah always saw opportunities. Her Cryptic tended to ride about on the ornament on the end of the central hairspike she used to keep her braids in place. Much smaller than Pattern, this one constantly made new designs on the surface of the pale white sphere.

  “Adolin and I have decided to bring a small group,” Radiant said. “The honorspren need to be met with a coalition of spren and Radiants, not an overwhelming group of Cryptics—particularly considering they don’t much care for them.”

  “From what I’ve heard,” Ishnah replied, “the honorspren don’t much like anyone.”

  “This is true,” Radiant said. “But Syl has told me that while they don’t trust Cryptics, honorspren don’t hate them like they do inkspren or highspren. I have decided to bring three Lightweavers along with me.”

  “Can I have one of the slots?” Ishnah said. “I want to see more of the spren world.”

  Mraize’s spy would volunteer for the mission, Veil noted.

  “I will consider it,” Radiant said. “If you were going to take two others, who would they be?”

  “Not sure,” Ishnah said. “The more experienced would be more useful, but the newer recruits could learn a lot—and we don’t expect this mission to be dangerous. I guess I’d ask around and see who wanted to go.”

  “A wise suggestion,” Radiant said.

  And a clear way to begin hunting the spy. Inside, Shallan squirmed again. She hated thinking about one of her friends being a traitor.

  Well, Radiant hoped it wasn’t Ishnah. The woman had survived the fall of Kholinar with admirable grit. She’d stared one of the worst disasters in modern history in the face and had not only weathered it, but had helped Kaladin’s squires rescue the crown prince. She would be a great advantage on this mission, but Radiant wasn’t certain—despite what Veil said—that they wanted to bring suspicious ones along.

  She made another quick circuit of her people, joined by Ishnah, and gauged their eagerness to go on the mission. Most were ambivalent. They wanted to prove themselves, but stories of Shadesmar disturbed them. In the end, she had a short list of the most eager. Ishnah, naturally. Vathah and Beryl, the former prostitute, and Stargyle, the male recruit she’d picked up before Beryl. A tall fellow who was talented at seeing into Shadesmar.

  These four were already among the most suspicious, Veil thought. Ishnah, who knows about the Ghostbloods. Vathah, who is always so quiet, so dark, hard to read. Beryl and Stargyle, our newest recruits—and therefore least known to me and the others.

  All had been on the mission to the warcamps. So, did she bring three of these four as Veil wanted, or leave them behind as Radiant wanted? Little as she wanted it right now, Shallan took control at the urging of the other two. She had to make the deciding vote.

  Strong. With Veil and Radiant supporting her, she found she could face this. She made her decision—she’d leave these four behind, and pick others who hadn’t been on the mission to the Shattered Plains.

  She started toward Ishnah to break the news to her, but felt something like nausea. A twisting of her insides. She hunched over, then tried to suppress it, embarrassed to so suddenly lose control. But then, appearing foolish in front of the others was a small price to pay for an opportunity. And really, if it made them underestimate her, then what harm was done? Veil could use that; she could use most anything.

  Veil cleared her throat and took a few deep breaths.

  “You all right, Brightness?” Ishnah asked, walking up.

  “Fine,” Veil said. “I’ve made my decision; you’ll be joining me in Shadesmar. Would you kindly go tell Vathah and Stargyle that I’d like them to join us as well? I’ll do as you suggested—one more practiced Lightweaver for the resource they offer, one newer agent to learn from the experience.”

  “Great,” Ishnah said. “That puts Red in charge during our absence, I suppose? And I assume you could come up with some Lightweaving exercises everyone else can perform while we’re gone.”

  “Perfect,” Veil said.

  Ishnah grinned as she hurried off. Yes, she did feel suspicious. And if Veil had chosen wrong? Well, she suspected the true spy would somehow end up on the mission anyway. Mraize would make certain of it.

  The compact, Shallan thought. Veil … we agreed …

  But this was important. Veil had to find out which one of them was the spy. She couldn’t let them stay behind and fester.

  We don’t even know if there is a spy, Radiant said. We can’t take too much of what Mraize says as truth.

  Well, they would see. Leaving your suspected spy behind, so they could run amok unwatched? They would poison her friends against her. Besides, once she unmasked the actual spy, Veil could use this knowledge against Mraize.

  She braced herself for anger from Radiant at breaking the compact. It did set a dangerous precedent, didn’t it?

  This is important to you, I see, Radiant thought. She felt strangely quiet. I change my vote, then. I agree to bring them with us.

  Veil found this odd. Was Radiant well? Just in case, Veil kept control. She stood tall, trying to appear puffed up like Radiant always acted—as if she wanted to be bigger than she was, some hulking monster in armor.

  Veil held full control all through the rest of the day. She almost let go—Shallan was pounding at her from the inside, and that kind of mental doublethink could really wear a woman down. However, Veil needed to see to the rest of the preparations. The mission would be leaving in mere days.

  Only when Veil stepped into her rooms—late into the evening—did she begin to relax her grip. However, on the floor inside the room she found a green feather. Mraize?

  It was a sign. Veil scanned the room, and her eyes landed on a dresser near the door to the bedroom. A green cloth peeked from one of the drawers.

  Holding an amethyst mark for light, she eased the drawer open. Inside she found a metal cube roughly the size of a person’s head. The note on it was in one of Mraize’s ciphers.

  “Mmm…” Pattern said from where he dimpled the skirt of her vakama. “What is it, Veil?”

  Damnation. She’d hoped to be able to fool Pattern into thinking she was Shallan, but of course he saw through her.

  “A note.” She showed it to him, holding the light near the text. “Can you break the cipher, or do I have to go dig out the notebook Mraize gave us?”

  “I memorized the patterns. It reads, ‘Spanreeds do not work between realms, but this will. Be very careful with it. It has a value beyond that of some kingdoms. Do not open it, or you risk destroying it. Once on your mission and in a secluded place, hold the cube and call my name. I will speak to you through it. Good hunting, little knife.’”

  Curious. She immediately glimpsed into Shadesmar, and found a sphere of light on the other side, glowing with a strange mother-of-pearl coloring. There was power inside the cube
, but no Stormlight. Her attention back to the Physical Realm, she shook it and knocked on the sides. It seemed hollow, but she couldn’t find the slightest crack in it.

  Storms. How was she going to hide this from Adolin? Well, she’d have to find a way. She would make another trip into Shadesmar, but not by accident. Veil would go on her terms—and she would not spend this trip running.

  This time, she was the hunter.

  I have been fascinated to discover how much you’ve accomplished on Scadrial without me noticing your presence. How is it that you hide from Shards so well?

  Choosing an outfit for the day was a lot like fighting a duel. In both, instincts—rather than conscious decisions—were the key to victory. Adolin didn’t often fret about what to wear; nor did he plan each strike of the sword. He went with what felt right.

  The real trick in both cases was making the effort to build your instincts. You couldn’t parry a thrust with muscle memory if you hadn’t spent years practicing those maneuvers. And you couldn’t rely on your gut in fashion choices if you hadn’t already spent hours studying the folios.

  That said, once in a while your instincts locked up. Even he sometimes hesitated in a duel, uncertain. And similarly, some days he simply couldn’t decide upon the right jacket.

  Adolin stood in his underclothing as he held up the first jacket. Traditional: Kholin blue with white cuffs. Bold white embroidery, with his glyphs—the tall tower and a stylized version of his Blade—on the back. It made him easy to see in battle. It was also boring.

  He glanced at the trendy yellow jacket on his bed. He’d ordered that tailored after the fashions he’d seen in Kholinar. It didn’t fully button closed, and it had silver embroidery up the sides and covering the pocket and cuffs. Storms, it was bold. Daring. A bright yellow outfit? Most men couldn’t ever have pulled it off.

  Adolin could. Walk into a feast wearing something like this, and you would own everyone’s attention. Look confident, and at the next feast half the men would be trying to imitate you.

  He wasn’t going to a feast though. He was starting out on an important mission into Shadesmar. He began rifling through his bureau again.

  Shallan strolled in as he tossed three more jackets onto the bed. She wore Veil’s clothing—trousers, long loose jacket, a buttoned shirt. At his suggestion she’d replaced the white trousers and jacket with a more practical tan and blue ensemble. White wouldn’t travel well; she wanted something more rugged, something that wouldn’t show the dirt. Blue and tan matched her white hat, though he’d added a leather band around the base of the crown.

  Clothing notwithstanding, she wasn’t Veil today—not with the red hair. Plus, he could usually tell by the way she looked at him. It had been three days since she’d chosen her members for the team, but it was only today that they were finally ready to leave.

  Shallan leaned against the door, folding her arms and surveying his work. “You know,” she said, “a girl could get jealous over how much attention you give a choice like this.”

  “Jealous?” Adolin said. “Of jackets?”

  “Of the one you’re wearing them for.”

  “I doubt you have anything to worry about from a group of stuffy old honorspren.”

  “I don’t have anything to worry about regardless,” Shallan said. “But you’re not fussing today because of the honorspren. We won’t meet them for a few weeks at best.”

  “I’m not fussing. I’m strategizing.” He tossed another jacket onto the bed. No. Too outdated. “Don’t give me that look. Are we ready?”

  “Pattern’s run off to say goodbye to Wit for some reason,” she said. “Said it was very important—but I suspect that he’s misunderstood some joke Wit made. Other than waiting on him, everything is ready. We just need you.”

  Supplies were gathered, transportation secured, and traveling companions chosen. Adolin had packed for the trip quickly and efficiently, and his trunks were already loaded. Those choices had been easy. But today’s jacket …

  “So…” Shallan said. “Shall I tell them two more hours or three?”

  “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,” he promised, checking the fabrial clock set in the leather bracer Aunt Navani had given him. Then he eyed Shallan. “Maybe thirty.”

  “I’ll tell them an hour,” Shallan said, with a grin. She trailed out, tossing her satchel over her shoulder.

  Adolin put his hands on his hips and surveyed his options. None of them were right. What was he looking for?

  Wait. Of course.

  He emerged from his room a few minutes later wearing a uniform he hadn’t put on in years. It was Kholin blue, still a military outfit, but cut for a more relaxed fit. Though not specifically trendy, it had a more stylized set of glyphs on the back and thicker cuffs and collar than a standard uniform.

  Many would have simply assumed it to be an ordinary Kholin uniform. Adolin had designed it himself four years earlier. He’d wanted to create something that would look sharp while satisfying his father’s requirements to be in uniform. The project had excited him for weeks; it had been his first—and only—real attempt at clothing design.

  The first day he’d worn it, Dalinar had chewed him out. So it had gone into the trunk, tucked away. Forgotten.

  Father probably still wouldn’t approve, but these days Dalinar didn’t approve of Adolin in general. So what was the harm? He replaced his arm bracer, strapped on his side sword, and entered the hallway. Then he hesitated.

  Shallan had given him an hour, and there was something else Adolin wanted to check off his list before leaving. So he turned the other direction and climbed the steps toward the sixth floor.

  * * *

  Adolin was surprised to find a line at the clinic. The sixth floor wasn’t particularly well populated, but news had apparently spread. None of the waiting patients seemed too unfortunate—children cradling scrapes, with hovering parents nearby. A line of women with coughs or aches. Anything serious would warrant the attention of an Edgedancer or a Truthwatcher.

  Some bowed to Adolin as he slipped into the front room, where Kaladin’s mother was greeting each patient and recording their symptoms. She smiled at Adolin, holding up two fingers, and waved him down the hallway beyond.

  Adolin went that direction. The first room he passed had the door cracked, revealing Kaladin’s father seeing a young man. A town girl stood next to him, reading aloud the notes Lirin’s wife had taken.

  The second room along the hallway was a similar—but empty—exam room. Adolin slipped in, and Kaladin entered a few minutes later, drying his hands on a cloth. It was odd to see him in simple brown trousers and a white buttoned shirt—in fact, had Adolin ever seen Kaladin out of uniform? Honestly … Adolin had assumed the man slept in the thing. Yet here he was, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his shoulder-length hair pulled back into a tail.

  Kaladin stopped when he saw Adolin. “You can go to your brother for healing, Adolin. I have real patients that need help.”

  Adolin ignored the comment and glanced out into the hallway, looking toward the waiting room. “You’re a popular fellow, bridgeboy.”

  “I’m convinced half of them are here to get a peek at me,” Kaladin said, with a sigh. He tied on a white surgeon’s apron. “I fear my notoriety could overshadow the clinic’s purpose.”

  Adolin chuckled. “Be careful. Now that I’ve vacated the position, you’re Alethkar’s most eligible bachelor. Shardbearer, Radiant, Landed, and single? I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that half the young ladies in the kingdom are suddenly coming down with headaches.…” He trailed off as he noticed Kaladin’s frown.

  “It’s already happened, hasn’t it!” Adolin said, pointing.

  “I … had wondered why so many lighteyed women suddenly needed medication,” he said. “I’d thought that maybe their personal surgeons had been recruited into the war.…” He glanced at Adolin, then blushed.

  “You can be deliciously naive sometimes, Kal,” Adolin said. “You need to
use this angle. Work it.”

  “That would betray the ethics of the surgeon-patient relationship,” Kaladin said, closing the door—preventing Adolin from counting the suspiciously well-dressed young women in the waiting room. “Have you come to torment me, or is there an actual purpose behind this visit?”

  “I just wanted to check on you,” Adolin said. “See how retirement is going.”

  Kaladin shrugged. He walked over to begin arranging the medications and bandages on the shelf, where sphere lanterns glowed with a pure white light.

  Syl winked into existence beside Adolin’s head, forming from luminous mist, as if she were a Shardblade. “This is good for him,” she said, leaning in. “He’s actually relaxing for once.”

  “There aren’t many serious cases,” Kaladin said, his back to them. “It can be grueling with so many people in line, but … it isn’t as tense as I worried it would be.”

  “It’s working,” Syl continued, landing on Adolin’s shoulder. “His parents are always around, so he’s almost never alone. He still has nightmares, but I think he’s getting more sleep.”

  Adolin watched Kaladin fold bandages, then noticed how Kaladin glanced at the surgery knives laid out in a row. He shouldn’t keep them out like that, should he?

  Adolin made a sudden motion, standing up straight from where he’d been leaning against the door, his feet scraping the stone. Kaladin immediately reached for the knives, then glanced back, and—seeing nothing was wrong—relaxed.

  Adolin walked over and put his hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “It chases us all. Including me, Kal.” He fished in his pocket, then brought out a metal disc about an inch across. He held it toward Kaladin. “I dropped by to give you this.”

  “What is it?” Kaladin asked, taking the disc. One side was engraved with a picture of a divine figure in robes, while the other side bore the same figure in battle gear. Both were surrounded by strange foreign glyphs. It had been coated with some colored enamel at one point, but that had mostly worn off.