Notum’s face was impassive, but his words dripped with condescension. Why wasn’t he wearing his captain’s uniform? Was he on leave? His ship certainly wasn’t anywhere nearby.
The spren—as extremely formal as Adolin remembered him being—clasped his hands behind his back to wait for a reply, reminding Adolin of his father. Adolin waved for his soldiers to stay back, though Maya stuck by his side as he stepped closer to Notum. The honorspren gave her barely a glance; they tended to ignore deadeyes.
“I’ve been sent on a diplomatic mission, Notum,” Adolin said, “to visit Lasting Integrity. I’m representing the new orders of Radiants and my father, the king of Urithiru. Our monarchs have sent letters of introduction. We hope to forge a new alliance.”
The honorspren opened his eyes wide and drew in a sharp breath—something spren only did for effect, as they didn’t normally breathe.
“What?” Adolin said. “It’s that surprising?”
“It wouldn’t be polite for me to interrupt,” Notum said. “Please continue your insane rant.”
“We merely want to enter a dialogue,” Adolin said. “Regularize diplomatic relations between the human world and the spren one. It’s a perfectly reasonable request.”
The street nearby emptied as spren gave a wide berth to the honorspren. They’d glance at him and veer in another direction. He wasn’t liked here. His presence was suffered, but not enjoyed.
“Let me posit a similar situation for you,” he said to Adolin. “A criminal, on the run, has stolen a precious memento from the king—his beloved goblet, perhaps. A memory of his lost wife. Would it be reasonable for this thief to stroll up to the palace one day and try to normalize relations between him and the king? Would that instead not be idiocy?”
“We took nothing from the honorspren.”
“Save the Stormfather’s most precious daughter.”
“Syl made that choice,” Adolin said. “Even the Stormfather has acknowledged that. Besides, if she’s so precious, maybe you all could listen to her once in a while.” Maya growled softly at this comment, which drew both Adolin and Notum to glance at her. Sounds from a deadeye were always an oddity.
“The Stormfather,” Notum said, “won’t be much help to you. Now that he’s agreed to be bound, the honorspren no longer revere him as they once did. They think he must have been wounded by the death of Honor, and that wound is now manifesting as irrational behavior. So yes, he no longer commands the return of the Ancient Daughter. But do not think that will make the honorspren welcome you.”
“As soon as someone they respect tells them something reasonable, they cast him aside?” Adolin asked. “Spren are supposed to be better than men.”
“I wish that were so,” Notum said, his voice quieter. “Prince Adolin. I am not an unreasonable person. You know this. I seek only to do my duty, the best I can. Still, I can tell you exactly what will happen if you approach Lasting Integrity. You will be turned away. Even friends of the honorspren are not allowed into the fortress currently, and you are anything but a friend.
“To many there, you are a criminal. Your entire race is one of criminals. It isn’t about the Ancient Daughter so much as it is about what you did to us.” Notum nodded his chin toward Maya.
“Again, we did nothing to them,” Adolin said, keeping his tone calm through sheer force of will. “Maya and the others were killed thousands of years ago.”
“Not even a single lifetime to many spren,” Notum said. “We have long memories, Prince Adolin. Perhaps you would not be blamed, save for the fact that your people have returned to those oaths. You have not learned from the past, and are restarting the abomination, bonding spren and risking their lives.”
“These Radiants won’t do what those of the past did,” Adolin said. “Look, for thousands of years before the Recreance, spren and humans got along. Will we let one event wipe that all out?”
“One event?” Notum said. “One event that caused eight genocides, Prince Adolin. Pause and think on that. Nearly every honorspren was bound, and those were all killed. Can you imagine the betrayal? The pain of being murdered by the person you trusted with your life? Your very soul? Men die, and their souls travel to the Spiritual Realm to meld with deity. But what of us?”
He waved to Maya, standing in her rags, eyes scratched away. “We are left,” Notum said, “to wander Shadesmar as dead souls, unable to think or talk. Our bodies are used, screaming, as weapons by the descendants of the ones who killed us. It was not a simple mistake that led us to this state, but a coordinated and calculated betrayal of oaths.
“Your people are criminals. The sole reason there was no swift retribution was because you killed every spren who could have acted against you. Do not go to Lasting Integrity. They will not accept letters from your kings and queens. They will not even speak to you.”
Notum turned and stalked toward a small caravan set up outside. Judging by the organized layout—and the two uniformed Reachers guarding the perimeter—Adolin guessed it was Notum’s own caravan.
“Captain,” Adolin called after him. “Perhaps my task is doomed as you say. However, I can’t help but think that it would be helped if we had someone vouch for my intentions. Perhaps a respected honorspren, a ship’s captain and military man. Someone who understands the urgency of our mission.”
Notum froze, then turned on his heel, his head cocked. “Ship’s captain? You didn’t see my clothing?”
“You’re … on leave?”
“I was removed from duty,” Notum said, “for letting the Ancient Daughter go after capturing her. I spent five months in prison, and when I was released I was demoted to the lowest rank an honorspren can hold. I’ve been assigned to spend two centuries patrolling the empty land between here and Lasting Integrity, traveling back and forth endlessly. I am not allowed to set foot in Lasting Integrity. I can see it, but not enter.”
“Until when?” Adolin asked. “Until … your patrol is done?”
“Until never, Prince Adolin. I am exiled.” He looked up at the sky, where shimmering lights revealed a highstorm beginning to pass in the Physical Realm. “I knew what I was doing, what I was tempting, when I let you go. At least tell me, did you save him? The Bondsmith?”
Adolin swallowed, his mouth having gone dry. Exiled for eternity? Because he had done the right thing? Adolin had known not to expect the honorspren of Lasting Integrity to be like Syl was, but he’d been expecting to be able to speak with people such as Notum. Tough, strict, but ultimately fair-minded people capable of listening to reason.
But if they had treated Notum—who had seemed the ultimate embodiment of propriety and honor—in such a terrible way … Stormwinds.
Notum was still waiting for an answer. He’d let Syl and the rest of them go because Kaladin had insisted they needed to rescue Dalinar. Adolin wanted to offer some kind of quick assurance that Notum’s sacrifice had been vital … but the words wouldn’t come out. This spren deserved honesty.
“He saved us, Notum,” Adolin said. “My father didn’t ultimately end up needing our help—though I think that Shallan and Kaladin helped turn the battle when we arrived.”
Notum nodded. “I am marching along this road toward Lasting Integrity, but will be forced to turn back when I draw near. Perhaps we will meet again along the path, human prince, and I can dissuade you from this course.” He continued on.
Ua’pam and Zu were already on the barge, and they’d apparently arranged for Adolin’s party to set up in one of the several camps established outside town. So Adolin joined the others as they unloaded their gear—helping with the horses, then moving his weapons—all the while lost in thought.
Adolin had been useless in that battle at Thaylen City. The world was about gods and Radiants now, not handsome young lighteyes who fancied themselves skilled with the sword. Best thing he could do was accept that, then find a different way to be useful.
He would find a way to get the honorspren to listen to him. Somehow.
I do not share their attitude. If you can, as you suppose, maintain Odium’s prison for now, it would give us necessary time to plan. This is a threat beyond the capacity of one Shard to face.
Even weeks after first meeting one, Venli caught herself staring at the new brand of Fused.
These ones—called the makay-im, or “Those Ones of the Depths”—had access to one of her same Surges: the ability to turn stone into a liquid.
The Deepest Ones had smooth skin, no hair, and barely any carapace—just shells over their heads and genitals. This put their vibrant patterns on display across the full lengths of their sinuous bodies. Long-legged and long-armed, they reminded Venli of her current form, which was tall without reaching the unnatural willowy level of Raboniel and the builders like her.
The makay-im wore open-fronted robes, if they wore anything at all. They stayed aloof from the rest of the strike team as they moved through the frozen mountain passes. After weeks of traveling together, Venli still hadn’t been addressed directly by one of the Deepest Ones—though the pace Raboniel set left little time for chitchat.
These mountains, as far as Venli could tell, weren’t claimed by any particular kingdom. The isolated valleys were too inaccessible from the outside. Her team had been dropped in by Heavenly Ones several weeks before, then left to travel the rest of the way to Urithiru on foot.
The human fortress lay somewhere in here—presumed hidden and unassailable. Windrunner patrols made it impossible to fly in too close, but Raboniel felt that a small group of ground troops—moving carefully at night or during storms—would be able to approach the lower tunnels to the tower unseen.
So it was that Venli joined the rest of the group in moving out from the shadow of tree cover, crossing the stone ground. As on other days, Raboniel set a characteristically difficult pace, though Venli knew she wouldn’t start to feel tired until they’d been going for a few hours.
The ancient scholar had changed from stately robes into travel leathers suitable for battle, her topknot of pure red-orange hairstrands spilling down around her otherwise carapace-covered skull. She urged the group forward, increasingly eager. They were nearing the tower; only a few days now.
This highland valley was mostly barren, supporting just the most rugged of rockbuds and the occasional clump of squat trees, their branches interwoven to create a storm-resistant snarl. Though leaves on these trees would retract before storms, the branches remained firm and interlocked. There wasn’t a single lifespren in sight, though coldspren lined the ground, pointing toward the sky.
As one might expect, there were more rockbuds on the leeward slopes, but blasted scars of black ground and burned patches showed that when the Everstorm came through, it did not temper its fury. The heights seemed to suffer more lightning strikes than the lowlands did.
She hiked more quickly to pass the soldiers and position herself next to the Deepest Ones. She liked watching them, because they melded with the stone, even as they moved. The bright azure light of Honor’s Moon revealed thirty figures, some in rippling robes, sliding across the ground while standing. It wasn’t quite like the shetel-im, the Flowing Ones, who could slide across any surface as if it were slick. This was something different. The Deepest Ones stood with their feet sunken into the ground up past their ankles.
They moved like nothing Venli had ever seen. Like sticks in a current following a powerful highstorm, as if the stone were pushing them along while they stood perfectly still. Their eyes glowed red—like those of all Fused and Regals—but theirs seemed a more sinister, dark shade.
“They interest you, I’ve noticed,” a voice said from Venli’s side.
She jumped, and turned to find Raboniel walking alongside her. Venli attuned Anxiety, and Timbre thrummed within her, worried. Had she been paying too much attention? Would it be seen as suspicious? She lowered her head and hummed to Agony. Already she worried this mission risked exposing her bond.
“No need to be ashamed,” Raboniel said to Conceit. “Curiosity is welcome in singers. It is a worthy Passion, Last Listener.”
Venli held Anxiety as she walked—at a swift hike—beneath Raboniel’s gaze. She intended to serve this Fused well, as Leshwi had asked. Of the staff, only Venli was Regal, so only she could make this difficult trip. So far, she had served the femalen in quiet capacities: setting out her bedroll at night, fetching water for her to drink. She hadn’t been given many other duties, and had barely been addressed. She’d begun to think that serving Raboniel would be—if not easy—at least uneventful. Why was she now drawing the femalen’s attention?
“You are such an odd choice by Leshwi,” Raboniel said. “When I discovered just who had been given as my new Voice … To so many, you are merely the child of traitors. Yet Leshwi gave you honor. Named you Last Listener.”
“She was kind, Ancient One.”
“She thinks highly of you,” Raboniel said. “Fused are not kind; they reward competence and Passion. Even if one is the daughter of traitors. I should have expected Leshwi’s Voice to be someone … irregular. She is among the most clever and capable of the Heavenly Ones.”
“She … might dispute that, Ancient One.”
“Yes, I realize how much work she does to make others underestimate her.” Raboniel said it to Satisfaction. “She is dangerous, and that is good.” She looked to Venli and blinked her red eyes once, humming softly to Satisfaction.
Timbre thrummed within Venli. Raboniel knew too much. She’d plainly discerned that Venli was a spy for Leshwi. But how much more had Raboniel figured out? Surely she didn’t know the full truth.
“Tell me,” Raboniel said. “What about the Deepest Ones interests you so? Why do you spend hours staring at them?”
“I find their powers fascinating,” Venli said—best not to lie until she had to.
“Nine brands of Fused,” Raboniel said. “Nine Surges. You know of the Surges?”
“The innate forces by which all life, all reality, are connected. Gravitation. Transportation. Transformation. But … I thought there were ten?”
“That is human talk,” Raboniel said to Derision. “They claim a tenth, of Honor alone. Adhesion is not a true Surge, but a lie that was presented to us as one. True Surges are of both Honor and Cultivation—Cultivation for life, Honor to make the Surge into natural law. Things must fall to the ground, so they created Surges to make it happen.”
“And the Surge of these ones?” Venli asked, gesturing toward the Deepest Ones.
“Cohesion,” Raboniel said. “The Surge of Axial Connection—the Surge that binds the smallest pieces of all objects to one another. The Surge that holds us together. The makay-im can meld their essence into the essences of other things, intermingling their axi. All things are mostly emptiness, though we cannot see that it is so. A stone, like a mind, exists to be filled by thought and Investiture.”
Venli hummed to Craving. Answers. Finally, answers. She didn’t know what half of any of this meant, but to have one of the Fused answer so easily … It excited her, though Timbre thrummed to Caution.
“The Radiants each have two Surges,” Venli said. “The Fused each have one. So are the Radiants more powerful?”
“Powerful? Is it better to have more abilities, or to have one ability handled expertly? We of the Fused know our Surge with an intimacy a Radiant will never know. Humans. They were not created for this world, these Surges, or the storms. Light leaks from humans like water through fingers. They get flares of great power, but cannot hold what they have.
“One of the Fused can contain Light and bask in it indefinitely. Even a Regal such as you knows this power in a lesser way—most don’t know it, but you contain a small amount of Voidlight in your gemheart. You can’t use it actively, of course, but you might have felt it enflaming your emotions.
“As for Fused, our dominance over our Surge is eternal. Where humans visit, we reign.” She gestured toward the Deepest Ones. “Can any Radiant claim to know the stones as these do, melding wit
h rock, mixing their very axi? Radiants are so outwardly focused. They change the world, but ignore themselves. Yes, a Radiant can cast a stone into the sky, but the shanay-im can soar without worry of ever dropping.”
Venli hummed to Craving, though she wasn’t certain she agreed. Although she had been timid about using her Radiant powers in Kholinar, they excited her. Timbre said that she would be able to move stone, shape it.
She glanced at the Deepest Ones, who moved so quietly, so smoothly. Next to them, Venli’s own hiking gait—and that of the five hundred stormform soldiers marching behind—felt awkward. And she did feel envy at the way they flowed. So … why was it that the powers manifested differently in Radiants than they did in Fused?
She attuned Annoyance as she considered what Raboniel had said. Each answer seemed to give rise to a dozen new questions, but Venli knew that the Fused—even one that was in an accommodating mood like Raboniel—would not suffer questions forever. So, Venli settled on one last thing to ask.
“If Surges are from Honor and Cultivation,” she said, “then why do we serve Odium?”
“A dangerous question,” Raboniel said to Derision. “You truly are the daughter of traitors, aren’t you?”
“I—”
“Don’t cover up your ambition, child,” Raboniel said, leading Venli past a line of snarled shrubs, with little furry creatures scampering underneath in the night. “I like it in my servants. Still, there is a certain silliness to your question. Which would you rather worship? A god of plants? Or a god of emotions?” She waved to the southeast. “Cultivation hides in these mountains somewhere. She is everywhere, but she is also here. Alive, but frightened. She knows. She is not a god of people, but of creatures.
“And Honor? A god of laws? Again, which would you prefer? A god who knows only how to make a rock fall to the ground? Or a god who knows us, understands us, feels as we do? Yes, Surges are bound by Honor. Yet as you can see, his death did not change the world in any appreciable manner. His power binds all things together, but this alone is not worthy of worship. Odium … Passion … he will grant rewards.”
Rhythm of War (9781429952040) Page 51