Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  Raboniel hummed to a rhythm, but Navani couldn’t tell what it represented. However, Raboniel seemed skeptical as she stood and waved for Navani to sit down. She placed a reed in Navani’s hands and folded her arms to wait.

  Well, fine. Navani began drawing with quick, efficient lines. She made a diagram of a conjoined fabrial, with a quick explanation of how it worked, then she drew the expanded vision of hundreds of them embedded into the flying machine.

  “Yes,” Raboniel said as Navani sketched the last portions, “but how do you make it move laterally? Surely with this construction, you could raise a machine high in the air—but it would have to remain there, in one place. You don’t expect me to believe that you have a ground machine moving in exact coordination to the one in the sky.”

  “You understand more about fabrials than I assumed, Lady of Wishes.”

  Raboniel hummed a rhythm. “I am a quick learner.” She gestured to the notes on Navani’s desk. “In the past, my kind found it difficult to persuade spren to manifest themselves in the Physical Realm as devices. It seems Voidspren are not as naturally … self-sacrificing as those of Honor or Cultivation.”

  Navani blinked as the implications of that sank in. Suddenly a dozen loose threads in her mind tied together, forming a tapestry. An explanation. That was why the fabrials of the tower—the pumps, the climbing mechanisms—didn’t have gemstones with captive spren. Storms … that was the answer to Soulcasting devices.

  Awespren burst around her in a ring of blue smoke. Soulcasters didn’t hold spren because they were spren. Manifesting in the Physical Realm like Shardblades. Spren became metal on this side. Somehow the ancient spren had been coaxed into manifesting as Soulcasters instead of Blades?

  “You didn’t know, I see,” Raboniel said, pulling a chair over for herself. Even sitting, she was a foot taller than Navani. She made such an odd image: a carapace-armored figure, as if prepared for war, picking through notes. “Odd that you should have made so many advances that we never dreamed of in epochs past, yet you’ve forgotten the far simpler method your ancestors used.”

  “We … we didn’t have access to spren who would talk to us,” Navani explained. “Vev’s golden keys … this … I can’t believe we didn’t see it. The implications…”

  “Lateral movement?” Raboniel asked.

  Feeling almost in a daze, Navani sketched out the answer. “We learned to isolate planes for conjoined fabrials,” she explained. “You have to use this construction of aluminum wires, rigged to touch the gemstone. That maintains vertical position, but allows the gemstone to be moved horizontally.”

  “Fascinating,” Raboniel said. “Ralkalest—you call it aluminum in your language—interfering with the Connection. That’s quite ingenious. It must have taken a great deal of testing to get the correct configuration.”

  “Over a year’s worth,” Navani admitted. “After the initial possibility was theorized. We have a problem that we can’t move vertically and laterally at the same time—the fabrials that move us upward and downward are finicky, and we have been touching aluminum to them only after locking them into place.”

  “That’s inconvenient.”

  “Yes,” Navani said, “but we’ve found a system where we stop, then do our vertical motions. It can be a pain, since spanreeds are very difficult to make work in moving vehicles.”

  “It seems there should be a way to use this knowledge to make spanreeds that can be used while moving,” Raboniel said, inspecting Navani’s sketch.

  “That was my thought as well,” Navani said. “I put a small team on it, but we’ve been mostly occupied by other matters. Your weapons against our Radiants still confuse me.”

  Raboniel hummed to a quick and dismissive rhythm. “Ancient technology, barely functional,” she said. “We can suck the Stormlight from a Radiant, yes—so long as they remain hanging there impaled by one of our weapons. This method does nothing to prevent the spren from bonding a new Radiant. I should like it if your spren were easier to capture in gemstones.”

  “I’ll pass the request along,” Navani said.

  Raboniel hummed to a different rhythm, then smiled. It was difficult not to see the expression as predatory on her marbled face, with its lean danger. Yet there was also something tempting about the efficiency of this interaction. A few minutes of exchange, and Navani knew secrets she’d been trying to crack for decades.

  “This is how we end the war, Navani,” Raboniel said, standing. “With information. Shared.”

  “And this ends the war how?”

  “By showing everyone that our lives will all be improved by working together.”

  “With the singers ruling.”

  “Of course,” Raboniel said. “You are obviously a keen scholar, Navani Kholin. If you could improve the lives of your people manyfold, is that not worth abandoning self-governance? Look what we’ve done in mere minutes by sharing our knowledge.”

  Shared only because of your threats, Navani thought, careful not to show that on her face. This wasn’t some free exchange. It doesn’t matter what you tell me, Raboniel. You can reveal any secret you desire—because I’m in your power. You can just kill me once you have everything you want.

  She smiled at Raboniel, however. “I would like to check on my scholars, Lady of Wishes, to see how they’re being treated, and find out the extent of our … losses.” That made one point clear, Navani hoped. Some of her friends had been murdered. She was not simply going to forget about that.

  Raboniel hummed, gesturing for Navani to join her. This was going to require a delicate balance, with both of them trying to play one another. Navani had to be explicitly careful not to let herself be taken in by Raboniel. That was one advantage Navani had over her scholars. She might never be worthy to join them, but she did have more experience with the real world of politics.

  Raboniel and Navani entered the second of the two library rooms—the one with more desks and chairs. Navani’s best—ardents and scholars alike—sat on the floor, heads bowed. They’d plainly been made to sleep here, judging by the spread-out blankets.

  A few looked up to see her, and she noted with relief that Rushu and Falilar were both unharmed. She did a quick count, immediately picking out the notable exceptions. She stepped over to Falilar, squatting down and asking, “Neshan? Inabar?”

  “Killed, Brightness,” he said softly. “They were in the crystal pillar room, along with both of Neshan’s wards, Ardent Vevanara, and a handful of unfortunate soldiers.”

  Navani winced. “Pass the word,” she whispered. “For the time being, we are going to cooperate with the occupation.” She stopped by Rushu next. “I am glad you are well.”

  The ardent—who had obviously been crying—nodded. “I was on my way down here to gather some scribes to help catalogue the destruction up in that room, when … this happened. Brightness, do you think it’s related?”

  In the chaos, Navani had nearly forgotten the strange explosion. “Did you by chance find any infused spheres in the wreckage?” Specifically, a strange Voidlight one?

  “No, Brightness,” Rushu said. “You saw the place. It was in shambles. But I did darken it to see if anything glowed, and saw nothing. Not a hint of Stormlight, or even Voidlight.”

  As Navani had feared. Whatever that explosion had been, it had to be tied to the strange sphere—and that sphere was likely now gone.

  Navani stood and walked back to Raboniel. “You didn’t need to kill my scholars during your attack. They were no threat to you.”

  Raboniel hummed to a quick-paced rhythm. “You will not be warned again, Navani. You will use my title when addressing me. I do not want to see you harmed, but there are proprieties thousands of years old that you will follow.”

  “I … understand, Lady of Wishes. I think putting my remaining people to work immediately would be good for morale. What would you like us to do?”

  “To ease the transition,” Raboniel said, “have them continue whatever they were doing
before my arrival.”

  “Many were working on fabrials, which will no longer function.”

  “Have them do design sketches then,” Raboniel said. “And write about the experiments they’d done before the occupation. I can see that their new theories get tested.”

  Did that mean there was a way to get fabrials working in the tower? “As you wish.”

  Then she got to work on the real problem: planning how she was going to get them out of this mess.

  * * *

  Kaladin was awakened by rain. He blinked, feeling mist on his face and seeing a jagged sky lit by spears of lightning frozen in place—not fading, just hanging there, framed by black clouds in a constant boil.

  He stared at the strange sight, then rolled to his side, half submerged in a puddle of frigid water. Was this Hearthstone? The warcamps? No … neither?

  He groaned, forcing himself to his feet. He didn’t appear to be wounded, but his head was pounding. No weapons. He felt naked without a spear. Gusts of rain blew around him, the falling water moving in sheets—and he swore he could see the outlines of figures in the rainfall. As if it were making momentary shapes as it fell.

  The landscape was dark, evoking distant crags. He started through the water, surprised to see no spren around—not even rainspren. He thought he saw light atop a hill, so he started up the incline, careful not to lose his footing on the slick rock. A part of him wondered why he could see. The frozen jagged lightning bolts didn’t give off much illumination. Hadn’t he been in a place like this once? With omnipresent light, but a black sky?

  He stopped and stared upward, rain scouring his face. This was all … all wrong. This wasn’t real … was it?

  Motion.

  Kaladin spun. A short figure moved down the hill toward him, emerging from the darkness. It seemed composed entirely of swirling grey mist with no features, though it wielded a spear. Kaladin caught the weapon with a quick turn of his hand, then twisted and pushed back in a classic disarming move.

  This phantom attacker wasn’t terribly skilled, and Kaladin easily stole the weapon. Instinct took command, and he spun the spear and rammed it through the figure’s neck. As the short figure dropped, two more appeared as if from nothing, both wielding spears of their own.

  Kaladin blocked one strike and threw the attacker off with a calculated shove, then spun and dropped the other one with a sweep to the legs. He stabbed that figure with a quick thrust to the neck, then easily rammed his spear into the stomach of the other one as it stood up. Blood ran down the spear’s shaft onto Kaladin’s fingers.

  He yanked the spear free as the smoky figure dropped. It felt good to hold a spear. To be able to fight without worries. Without anything weighing him down other than the rainwater on his uniform. Fighting used to be simple. Before …

  Before …

  The swirling mist evaporated off the fallen figures and he found three young messenger boys in Amaram’s colors, killed by Kaladin’s spear. Three corpses, including his brother.

  “No!” Kaladin screamed, ragged and hateful. “How dare you show me this? It didn’t happen that way! I was there!”

  He turned away from the corpses, looking toward the sky. “I didn’t kill him! I just failed him. I … I just…”

  He stumbled away from the dead boys and dropped his spear, hands to his head. He felt the scars on his forehead. They seemed deeper, like chasms cutting through his skull.

  Shash. Dangerous.

  Thunder rumbled overhead and he stumbled downhill, unable to banish the sight of Tien dead and bleeding on the hillside. What kind of terrible vision was this?

  “You saved us so we could die,” a voice said from the darkness.

  He knew that voice. Kaladin spun, splashing in the rainwater, searching for the source. He was on the Shattered Plains now. In the rain he saw the suggestions of people. Figures made by the falling drops, but somehow empty.

  The figures began attacking each other, and he heard the thunder of war. Men shouting, weapons clashing, boots on stone. It surrounded him, overwhelmed him, until—in a flash—he emerged into an enormous battle, the suggested shapes becoming real. Men in blue fighting against other men in blue.

  “Stop fighting!” Kaladin shouted at them. “You’re killing your own! They’re all our soldiers!”

  They didn’t seem to hear him. Blood flowed beneath his feet instead of rainwater, sprays and gushes melding as spearmen climbed eagerly over the bodies of the fallen to continue killing one another. Kaladin grabbed one spearman and pushed him away from another, then seized a third and pulled him back—only to find that it was Lopen.

  “Lopen!” Kaladin said. “Listen to me! Stop fighting!”

  Lopen bared his teeth in a terrible grin, then knocked Kaladin aside before launching himself at yet another figure—Rock, who had stumbled on a corpse. Lopen killed him with a spear through the gut, but then Teft killed Lopen from behind. Bisig stabbed Teft, and Kaladin didn’t see who brought him down. He was too horrified.

  Sigzil dropped nearby with a hole in his side, and Kaladin caught him.

  “Why?” Sigzil asked, blood dribbling from his lips. “Why didn’t you let us sleep?”

  “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

  “You should have let us die on the Shattered Plains.”

  “I wanted to protect you!” Kaladin shouted. “I had to protect you!”

  “You cursed us…”

  Kaladin dropped the dying body and stumbled away. He ducked his head, his mind cloudy, and started running. A part of him knew this horror wasn’t real, but he could still hear the screaming. Accusing him. Why did you do this, Kaladin? Why have you killed us?

  He pressed his hands to his ears, so intent on escaping the carnage that he nearly ran straight into a chasm. He pulled up, teetering on the edge. He stumbled, then looked to his left. The warcamps were there, up a short slope.

  He’d been here. He remembered this place, this storm, lightly raining. This chasm. Where he’d nearly died.

  “You saved us,” a voice said, “so we could suffer.”

  Moash. He stood on the edge of the chasm near Kaladin. The man turned, and Kaladin saw his eyes—black pits. “People think you were merciful to us. But we both know the truth, don’t we? You did it for you. Not us. If you were truly merciful, you’d have given us easy deaths.”

  “No,” Kaladin said. “No!”

  “The void awaits, Kal,” Moash said. “The emptiness. It lets you do anything—even kill a king—without regret. One step. You’ll never have to feel pain again.”

  Moash took a step and dropped into the chasm. Kaladin fell to his knees on the edge, rain streaming around him. He stared down in horror.

  Then started awake someplace cold. Immediately, a hundred pains coursed through his joints and muscles, each demanding his attention like a screaming child. He groaned and opened his eyes, but there was only darkness.

  I’m in the tower, he thought, remembering the events of the previous day. Storms. The place is controlled by the Fused. I barely got away.

  The nightmares seemed to be getting worse. Or they’d always been this bad, but he didn’t remember. He lay there, breathing deeply, sweating as if from exertion—and remembered the sight of his friends dying. Remembered Moash stepping into that darkness and vanishing.

  Sleeping was supposed to refresh you, but Kaladin felt more tired than when he’d collapsed. He groaned and put his back to the wall, forcing himself to sit up. Then he felt around in a sudden panic. In his addled state, a part of him thought for sure he’d find Teft dead on the floor.

  He let out a sigh of relief as he located his friend lying nearby, still breathing. The man had wet himself, unfortunately—he’d grow dehydrated quickly if Kaladin didn’t do something, and the potential for rotspren was high if Kaladin didn’t get him cleaned up and properly situated with a bedpan.

  Storms. The weight of what Kaladin had done hung above him, nearly as oppressive as the weight of the to
wer. He was alone, lost in the darkness, without Stormlight or anything to drink—let alone proper weapons. He needed to take care of not only himself, but a man in a coma.

  What had he been thinking? He didn’t believe the nightmare—but he couldn’t completely banish its echoes either. Why? Why couldn’t he have let go? Why did he keep fighting? Was it really for them?

  Or was it because he was selfish? Because he couldn’t let go and admit defeat?

  “Syl?” he asked in the darkness. When she didn’t answer him, he called again, his voice trembling. “Syl, where are you?”

  No reply. He felt around his enclosure, and realized he had no idea how to get out. He’d entombed himself and Teft here in this too-thick darkness. To die slow deaths alone …

  Then a pinprick of light appeared. Syl, blessedly, entered the enclosure. She couldn’t pass through walls—Radiant spren had enough substance in the Physical Realm that they were impeded by most materials. Instead she appeared to have come in through some sort of vent high in the wall.

  Her appearance brought with it a measure of his sanity. He released a shuddering breath as she flitted down and landed on his outstretched palm.

  “I found a way out,” she said, taking the shape of a soldier wearing a scout’s uniform. “I don’t think you’d be able to get through it though. Even a child would be cramped.

  “I looked around, though I couldn’t go too far. Guards are posted at many stairwells, but they don’t seem to be searching for you. These floors are big enough that I think they’ve realized finding one man in here is virtually impossible.”

  “That’s some good news, I guess,” Kaladin said. “Do you have any idea what that light was that led me in here?”

  “I … have a theory,” Syl said. “A long time ago, before things went poorly between spren and humans, there were three Bondsmiths. One for the Stormfather. One for the Nightwatcher. And one other. For a spren called the Sibling. A spren who remained in this tower, hidden, and did not appear to humans. They were supposed to have died long ago.”