Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  It didn’t seem like he had a choice either way. That should have frustrated him. Instead he found himself feeling warm. They weren’t all gone.

  “Thank you, Teft,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t have given up so much. But … thank you.”

  Teft nodded.

  “There is a refugee woman here looking for her uncle,” Kaladin said. “Shall we see if we can track him down for her?”

  Endowment at least responded to my overtures, though I have not been able to locate Invention again following our initial contact.

  Radiant did not want to be in control at the moment.

  As the second day of their voyage dawned—or, well, occurred, since the sun didn’t move in Shadesmar—Shallan retreated entirely. Spending the last day feigning an upbeat attitude had left her exhausted. Unfortunately, after Veil’s stunt in seizing control a few days back—violating the compact—neither wanted her to be in charge.

  So it rested on Radiant to rise, do her exercises, and then try to figure out something to do with her day. Adolin’s soldiers busied themselves tidying the camp space on the barge, then doing the multitude of other things—like sharpening weapons or oiling armor—that military men used to pass the time. Zu was chatting with the other peakspren, Arshqqam was reading, and Adolin was caring for his swords.

  Radiant set Beryl and Ishnah to recording observations about Shadesmar, and assigned Vathah to see if the peakspren sailors needed any help.

  And what to do with herself? Find the spy, Shallan whispered deep inside. We need to find out which one is the spy.

  I am ill-equipped for espionage, Radiant thought. She walked the perimeter of the deck, observing the Radiant spren. Four different varieties, each unique. Perhaps you can do drawings for now, until we decide to let Veil finish her punishment. Finding the spy isn’t something we need to do immediately, after all.

  But Shallan didn’t emerge. Sometimes this was how it was; they couldn’t always choose which of them would be in control. But Shallan’s growing tension … that was worrisome.

  You’re still troubled by how Veil violated our compact, aren’t you? Radiant asked.

  We’re supposed to be getting better, not worse, Shallan thought.

  Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone slips.

  Not you, Shallan thought. You have never seized control like that.

  Radiant felt an immediate stab of guilt. But there was nothing to be done about that; best to move forward. Radiant took a seat on the deck near the railing, then flipped through Ialai’s book as she listened to the churning beads.

  Together, the Three had figured out most everything in the book. The place names were locations beyond the various expanses in Shadesmar—worlds beyond the edge of the map. Pattern had confirmed this by chatting with a few other spren who had met travelers from these places.

  Another section of the book contained Ialai’s conjectures and information about the leader of the Ghostbloods, the mysterious Thaidakar. Whoever this was, Radiant thought—from the context of what was written—that he must be someone from one of those far-off worlds.

  There was a final clue in the book, one that Radiant found most curious. Ialai had discovered that the Ghostbloods were obsessed with a specific spren named Ba-Ado-Mishram. That was a name from myth, one of the Unmade. It had been this spren who had taken over for Odium following the Final Desolation; she had granted the singers forms of power.

  By capturing Ba-Ado-Mishram—locking her in a gemstone—humankind had stolen the minds of the singers in ancient times. They knew this from the brief—but poignant—messages left by the ancient Radiants before they abandoned Urithiru. By cross-referencing those with musings in Ialai’s book, Radiant began to get a picture of what had happened so many centuries ago.

  She was increasingly certain Mraize was hunting the gemstone that held Ba-Ado-Mishram. He’d likely thought he would find it at Urithiru; but if it had been there, then the Midnight Mother—who had controlled the place for centuries—surely would have found it and rescued her ally.

  He also wants to transport Stormlight offworld, Shallan thought, emerging. I believe he was honest in that point. So perhaps these two are related? Perhaps Ba-Ado-Mishram can help him in this quest?

  You’d do better at connecting these ideas than I will, Radiant thought to her. Why don’t you take control?

  Is that what this is? Shallan demanded. You’re trying to trick me? Go find the spy.

  It is not my area of expertise, Shallan.

  Fine, she thought. It’s time to let Veil out then. I vote to end her punishment.

  Radiant subsided, and Veil surprisingly found herself in control. It had been four days now since she’d taken over and invited the three most questionable Lightweavers to join the expedition.

  She leaped to her feet, looking around the barge. It felt good to be in charge again, particularly in this place of mystery and secrets. Shadesmar. The bead ocean, a black sky, strange spren, and infinite questions to investigate. It was …

  It was the perfect place for Shallan.

  Find the spy, Shallan said.

  Veil hesitated, then sat back down and pointedly dug through Shallan’s satchel. She got out a charcoal pencil and flipped to an empty page, then began to draw.

  What are you doing? Shallan demanded. You’re a terrible artist.

  “I know,” Veil whispered. “And you hate watching me try.” She made a crude attempt at drawing Ua’pam, the peakspren, as he thumped past. The result was cringeworthy.

  Why? Shallan asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Veil said, “for violating the compact. I needed to get those three on the mission so I could watch them. But I should have persuaded you two first.”

  So go investigate.

  “Radiant is right,” Veil said. “That can wait.” It was painful for her to admit, but something was more important. She continued her terrible drawing.

  We’re not going to let you retreat and hide, Radiant thought—and Veil could feel her relief in discovering the two of them agreed on this. Something is wrong, Shallan. Something bigger than what Veil did. Something that’s affecting all of us, making us erratic.

  “I used to think you kept secrets from Adolin because you were like me and enjoyed the thrill of being part of the Ghostbloods,” Veil said. “I was wrong. There’s something more, isn’t there? Why do you keep lying? What is going on?”

  I … Shallan said. I …

  The dark thing stirred inside her. Formless, the personality that could be. The dark thing that represented Shallan’s fears, compounded.

  Veil had her flaws. She was a drunkard and had trouble with scope and perspective. She represented a whole host of attributes Shallan wanted, but knew she shouldn’t.

  Yet at her core, Veil had a singular purpose: She’d been created to protect Shallan. And she would send herself to Damnation before she let that Formless thing take her place.

  She gripped her pencil and started drawing Adolin. Really, really poorly.

  I don’t care, Shallan thought.

  Veil gave him a unibrow.

  Veil …

  Veil drew him with crossed eyes.

  That’s going too far.

  Veil put him in an ugly coat. And cut-off, knee-length trousers.

  “Fine!” Shallan said, ripping the page out of the sketchbook and wadding it up. “You win. Insufferable woman.” She settled back against the barge’s railing and took a deep breath. Then, as the other two insisted, she let herself relax.

  It really … really was all right. Yes, someone had used the communication cube to call Mraize. Yes, someone had invaded her things. Yes, one of her friends was undoubtedly a spy. But she could handle the problem. She could get through this.

  But they had two weeks of travel ahead of them. So today, she could relax. Because she was on a barge full of spren, and they were all so fascinating. Storms, how had she let herself retreat at a time like this? And for Veil to give up so willingly …

  I�
��m sorry, Veil thought. I’ll do better. And we can work on the spy another time.

  Right, then. Shallan pointedly ripped up the sketch of Adolin and stuffed the pieces in her satchel, then gripped her charcoal pencil and allowed herself to just draw.

  * * *

  Adolin found her five hours later, still sitting on the deck, her back to the railing, sketching furiously. He’d brought her food—warm curry and lavis, from the smell of it. That would be some of the last “real” food they’d have for a while. A part of her acknowledged the way the scents made her stomach growl. But for the moment, she remained mesmerized as she worked on her sketches of the peakspren.

  It felt so good to let go and draw. To not worry about a mission, or her own psychosis, or even about Adolin. To become so wrapped up in the art that nothing else mattered. There was an infinite sensation to creation, as if time smeared like paint on a canvas. Mutable. Changeable.

  When she finally drifted out of it to the scent of sweet curry and the sight of Adolin smiling as he sat down beside her, she felt worlds better. More whole. More herself than she’d been in months.

  “Thanks,” she said, handing him the sketchbook and taking the food. She leaned against him as she began to eat, watching Arshqqam and her mistspren pass—Shallan needed to do a sketch of that strange spren at some point.

  “Have you made any progress on that book of Ialai’s?” Adolin asked.

  “I’ve figured out nearly the entire thing,” Shallan said. “It’s filled with conjectures, though, and not much substance. The Ghostbloods seem to be searching for Ba-Ado-Mishram, one of the Unmade. But I can’t determine for certain what they intend to do once they find her.”

  Adolin grunted. “And the spy? Among our numbers?”

  “Still working on it,” she said. “But I’d rather not talk about that today. I need some time to mull it over.” She took another bite, feeling his chest against her back. “You’re tense, Adolin. Aren’t we supposed to be able to relax, this part of the trip?”

  “I’m worried about the mission.”

  “Because of what Syl said? About the honorspren being unlikely to listen?”

  He nodded.

  “If they turn us away, they turn us away,” she said. “But you can’t blame yourself for things that haven’t happened yet. Storms, who knows what will change between now and the time we arrive.”

  “I suppose,” he said.

  She took a spoonful of lavis and felt the individual grains with her tongue, plump and saturated with sweet curry making a mush in her mouth—gross, but wonderful. Pattern always talked about how strange humans were, surviving off the things they destroyed.

  “When I left my homeland,” she said to Adolin, “I thought I knew what I was heading into. But I had no idea what would happen to me. Where I’d end up.”

  “You had a pretty good idea,” Adolin said. “You set out to be Jasnah’s ward, and you managed it.”

  “I set out to rob her,” Shallan said softly. She felt Adolin shift, looking toward her. “My family was impoverished, threatened by creditors, my father dead. We thought maybe I could rob that heretic Alethi woman, steal her Soulcaster—then we could use it to become rich again.”

  She braced herself for the criticism. The shock.

  Instead, Adolin laughed. Bless him, he laughed. “Shallan, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

  “Isn’t it though?” she said, twisting and grinning at him.

  “Robbing Jasnah.”

  “Yes.”

  “Robbing Jasnah.”

  “I know!”

  He eyed her, then his grin broadened. “She’s never mentioned this, so I bet you did it, didn’t you? At least, you fooled her for a little while?”

  Storms, I love this man, she thought. For his humor, his brightness, his genuine goodness. With that smile, brighter than the cold Shadesmar sun, she became Shallan. Deeply and fully.

  “I totally did,” she whispered to him. “I swapped it for a fake one, and almost escaped. Except, you know, she’s Jasnah.”

  “Yes, the big flaw in your plan. You’d probably have managed it against a normal person.”

  “Well, the Soulcaster was always a dummy, so I was doomed from the start. Even if it had been real … I had this overinflated idea of how great a thief I could be. It’s funny to remember I had those same silly inclinations before Veil.”

  “Shallan,” he said. “You don’t need to feel insecure any longer. The mission in the warcamps? You executed that perfectly.”

  “Until someone else executed Ialai. Perfectly.” She looked at him, then smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t struggle with feelings of insecurity any longer.”

  “Good.”

  “I’d say I’m pretty good at them.”

  “Shallan…”

  She grinned again, letting him know she was feeling all right despite the comment. He stared into her eyes, then grinned himself. And somehow she knew what was coming.

  “Well, I’d say you’re a pretty good thief…” he began.

  “Oh, don’t you dare.”

  “… because you stole my heart.”

  She groaned, leaning her head back. “You dared.”

  “What? You’re the only one who can make bad jokes?”

  “My jokes are not bad. They’re incredible. And they take a ton of work to create on the spot for the exact perfect situation.”

  “A ton of work. To create on the spot. As if you don’t prepare them ahead of time?”

  “Never.”

  “Yeah? I’ve noticed you often seem to have one ready when you meet someone.”

  “Well, of course. That kind of joke is a great greeting. They’re supposed to be hilarious.”

  He frowned.

  “As in,” she added, “not goodbyelarious.”

  He stared at her. Then he went a little cross-eyed.

  Ha! Veil thought. HA!

  “Oh dear,” Shallan said. “Did I break you?”

  “But … ‘hilarious’ doesn’t start with a ‘hi’ sound.… It doesn’t make sense.…”

  “It was a stealth joke,” Shallan said. “Hiding in plain sight, like a Lightweaver. That’s what makes it genius.”

  “Genius? Shallan, that was awful.”

  “You’re full of awe,” she said. “Got it.” She smiled and snuggled against him, relaxing as she set down her bowl and took her sketchbook from him. She would finish her meal after she drew a little more. The moment demanded it.

  Adolin put his arm around her and watched, then whistled softly. “Those sketches are really good, Shallan. Even for you. Have you done any others?”

  Feeling warm, she turned the page to show off the cultivationspren she’d drawn. “I’d like to find both male and female subjects for each variety of spren. There might not be time for it on this trip, but it occurred to me that no one, at least not in the modern era, has ever done a natural history of the Radiant spren.”

  “This is wonderful,” he said. “And thank you. For helping me relax. You’re right—I can’t know what is coming. The entire situation could change by the time we reach the honorspren. I’ll try to remember that.” He wrapped his arm loosely around her, the skin of his hand brushing her face. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “Help me get the clothing correct?” she asked, turning back to the peakspren page. “I feel like this garment pinned to the shoulder isn’t hanging right in the picture.…”

  They moved on to light topics. A piece of Shallan felt like she should be doing something more important, but Veil whispered a promise. They’d worry about the spy on the next day. Work on something else for a while. Then approach the problem fresh.

  You told Adolin about robbing Jasnah, Radiant said. Well done. It wasn’t so bad, was it?

  No. It hadn’t been. But that was the least of her crimes. Others were darker, hidden deeply—so deeply she honestly couldn’t remember them. And didn’t want to.

  Eventually, the strange mists
pren drifted near. The creature’s free-form shape seemed like it would be difficult to capture in a sketch. Like steam, somehow trapped into a humanoid shape, contained by clothing and that strange mask.

  She flipped to a new page and began drawing, but the spren—who had introduced herself as Dreaming-though-Awake—peeked at the sketchbook.

  “Oh,” she said. “It is just me?”

  “What did you expect?” Adolin asked.

  “She mentioned the Unmade earlier,” Dreaming-though-Awake said. “I thought she might be drawing them.”

  Shallan paused, lifting her pencil. “Do you know anything of the Unmade?”

  “Hardly anything,” the spren said. “What do you want to know?”

  “What happened to Ba-Ado-Mishram?” Shallan asked, eager. “What was she like? How did she Connect to the singers, and how did trapping her cause them to become parshmen?”

  “Excellent questions,” the spren said.

  “And…” Adolin prompted.

  “I told you, I know hardly anything,” she replied. “I find the questions fascinating. What you wonder tells me so much.” She began to move off.

  “Seriously?” Shallan said. “You don’t know anything about Ba-Ado-Mishram.”

  “I was not alive when she was free,” the spren said. “If you wish to know more, ask the Heralds. I have heard several were there for her binding. Nalan. Kelek. Find them; ask them.” She walked off, more drifting than stepping, though she did have legs and feet.

  “That one makes me uncomfortable,” Adolin said.

  “Yeah,” Shallan said, setting aside the sketchbook and picking up her bowl of food—now cold, but still tasty. “But that’s comforting, in a way. Spren should be alien, should have their own ways of thinking and talking. I like that Dreaming-though-Awake is a little weird.”

  “You simply like the company,” Adolin said.

  She smiled, but the words the spren had said lingered with her. Heralds were there. And the Heralds were a major focus of the Sons of Honor—whose leader Mraize has sent me to hunt.

  It was all connected. She had to figure out how to unravel it all. Without unraveling herself.