Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  She was plainly cautious, so Kaladin infused a patch of the rooftop with a Reverse Lashing, picturing it pulling on tassels of clothing. Leshwi’s robes rippled and were pulled toward Kaladin, but she took a knife from her belt and cut them, dropping her train and much of the excess clothing to flutter down to affix itself to the rooftop.

  Kaladin raised himself into the air again, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

  “What is wrong, Windrunner?” Leshwi asked in heavily accented Alethi, coming closer. “Your powers fail you.”

  “Fight me anyway,” Kaladin called up at her. As he did, he caught a glimpse of the Pursuer’s bloodred ribbon weaving out of a building below.

  Leshwi followed his gaze and seemed to understand, for she raised her lance toward him in an attack posture. Kaladin took a deep breath and returned his spear to the overhand grip, weapon up by his head, his elbow cocked. He’d been trained in this grip for shield and spear combat. It was best with a group of friends each with shields up—but what combat wasn’t?

  He waited for her to get close, then stabbed at her, causing her to dodge away. The Pursuer’s ribbon fluttered around nearby, weaving between watching Heavenly Ones.

  Leshwi made a few more token attempts to engage him, and for a moment the fight seemed almost fair. Then Leshwi rose into the air and passed overhead, while Kaladin was left to twist—then disengage his device and drop a few feet before lurching into a hanging position, facing her. She cocked her head, then flew to the side and attacked him from that direction.

  He tried to deflect, but he was too immobile. Her spear bit him in the left arm, causing him to grunt in pain. Blood spread from the wound, and—as before—it didn’t heal immediately. In fact, his Stormlight seemed to be responding slower than it had earlier in this fight.

  Storms, this had been a mistake. He couldn’t duel Leshwi like this. He’d be better off on the ground; he’d be outmatched against opponents with the high ground, but at least he wouldn’t be frozen in place. If Navani ever wanted these devices to be useful in aerial combat, she had a lot of work to do.

  So he fled, engaging the device and sending himself flying between a couple of Heavenly Ones who moved dutifully to the sides to let Leshwi follow. Even the Pursuer seemed to respect the duel, as his ribbon stopped following and vanished below.

  At least that part of Kaladin’s plan had worked. Unfortunately, Leshwi had clearly put together that he couldn’t veer to either side—and that his acceleration was limited to a single Lashing, the maximum from one falling weight. So while he crossed the vast room in seconds, the moment he slowed to prevent himself from hitting the wall, she slammed into him from behind. The force of the hit made him grip the speed-control bar by accident, and he was rammed into the wall by his own fist, Leshwi pressing him from behind.

  She put a knife to his neck. “This is a sham, Stormblessed,” she said in his ear. “This is no contest.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting off the pain of the hit and the cut to his arm—though that finally appeared to be healing. Slowly, but at least it was happening.

  “We could drop to the ground,” he said through gritted teeth. “Fight a duel without Surges.”

  “Would you actually do that?” Leshwi said. “I think you cannot spare the time. You’re here to interfere with whatever the Lady of Wishes is doing.”

  Kaladin grunted his reply, not wanting to waste Stormlight by speaking.

  Leshwi, however, pulled away in the air, leaving him to turn around awkwardly as he’d done before, with a dropping lurch. She drifted down to eye level with him. Past her, he spotted Syl rising into the air and coming toward him. She made a quick glyph in the air. Ready.

  As Leshwi started talking, he fixed his attention on her so she wouldn’t think anything was amiss.

  “Surrender,” she said. “If you give your weapon to me now, I might be able to get the Lady of Wishes to turn aside the Pursuer. Together we could start to work toward a true government and peace for Roshar.”

  “A true government and peace?” Kaladin demanded. “Your people are in the middle of conquering mine!”

  “And did your leader not conquer his way to the throne?” she asked, sounding genuinely confused. “This is the way of your people as well as mine. Besides, you must admit my people govern better. The humans under our control have not been treated unfairly. Certainly they live better than the singers fared under your domination.”

  “And your god?” Kaladin asked. “You can promise me that once humankind has been subdued, he won’t have us exterminated?”

  Leshwi didn’t respond, though she hummed to a rhythm he couldn’t distinguish.

  “I know the kind of men who follow Odium,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ve known them all my life. I bear their brands on my forehead, Leshwi. I could almost trust you for the honor you’ve shown me—if it didn’t mean trusting him as well.”

  She nodded, and seemed to accept this as a valid argument. She began lowering, perhaps to engage in that fight he’d suggested, without powers.

  “Leshwi,” he called after she had lowered partway. “I feel the need to point out that I didn’t agree to fight you below. I simply noted it was an option.”

  “What is the distinction?” she called up.

  “I’d rather you not see this as a broken oath,” he said, then disengaged the fabrial and pointed it right at Syl before launching himself that direction—straight over Leshwi’s head.

  He didn’t wait to see if she gave chase. Syl streaked ahead of him, leading him straight across the room toward the blue pool of water at the center. Guards were there, pushing people into buildings, but the way was open. The other Heavenly Ones kept their distance from him, assuming he was still dueling with Leshwi.

  He cut the fabrial right as he passed over the well, then pointed his hand down and engaged it. His aim was true, and he sucked in more Stormlight as he splashed into the water. It hurt to hit, far more than he’d expected from something soft like water. His arm kept pulling him downward though, despite the resistance.

  It quickly grew dark, and a part of him panicked at never having been this far beneath water before. His ears reacted oddly, painfully. Fortunately, his Stormlight sustained him in the chill depth. It also gave him light to see a figure below, swimming beside a group of glowing gemstones on the wall, secured here deep beneath the surface.

  The figure turned toward him, her topknot swirling in the water—lit from the side by a variety of gemstone hues. It was her, the one who had been so fascinated with him last time. This time she seemed surprised, drawing a dagger from her belt and swinging it at him.

  However, Kaladin found that Navani’s fabrial worked far better in this environment. He could easily disengage it and swing it in another direction without dropping or lurching—and the added pull meant he easily outmaneuvered this Fused.

  He spun around her and moved lower in the water. The well’s shaft was only about ten feet wide, so when she pushed off a wall, she could reach him—but behind her, Syl highlighted the correct gemstone.

  He engaged his own fabrial, which towed him past the Fused, letting her get a clean cut across his chest with her dagger. Blood clouded the water, but Kaladin connected his fist against the sapphire, knocking it free. He spun his spear in the water and jabbed it at the wires of the fabrial cage, then pried loose the glass sphere. That should do it.

  Now to get out. He looked upward through the red water, and began to feel dizzy. Healing was coming so slowly.

  Syl soared ahead of him as he used the fabrial to rise up, leaving the annoyed Fused behind. Syl’s light was encouraging, as it seemed to be getting darker in here.

  My Stormlight is running out. Storms. How was he going to get away? Dozens of Fused awaited him above. He … he might have to surrender, as Leshwi had insisted. Would they let him, now?

  What was that rumbling? He saw light shimmering above, but it was shrinking. Syl made it out, but she didn’t seem to have realize
d he was lagging behind her. And the light was vanishing.

  A lid, he realized with panic. They’re putting a lid over the top of the well. As he neared, in the last sliver of light he saw the hulking form of the Pursuer. Smiling.

  The lid thumped in place right before Kaladin arrived. He burst into the small section of air between the top of the well’s water level and the lid, gasping for breath.

  But he was trapped. He slammed against the wood, trying to use the power of Navani’s device to lift it—but he heard thumping as weights, likely stones, were set on top of it. More and more of them.

  The Pursuer had been ready for this. He knew that even if Kaladin’s gravitational Lashings worked, enough weight would keep the lid in place. In fact, it felt like the weights were alive. People, dozens of them, climbing on top of the lid. Of course. Why use stone when humans were heavy enough and far easier to move?

  Kaladin pounded on the wood as he felt Syl panicking, unable to reach him. His Stormlight was fading, and it seemed the walls and the lid were closing in on him. He’d die in here, and it wouldn’t take long. All the Pursuer had to do was wait. They could seal it above, denying him fresh air.…

  In that moment of pure terror, Kaladin was in one of his nightmares again.

  Blackness.

  Encircled by hateful shadows.

  Trapped.

  Anxiety mounted inside him, and he began to thrash in the water, screaming, letting out the rest of his Stormlight. In that moment of panic, he didn’t care. But as he fell hoarse from shouting, he heard—strangely enough—Hav’s voice. Kaladin’s old sergeant, from his days as a recruit.

  Panic on the battlefield kills more men than enemy spears. Never run. Always retreat.

  This water came from somewhere. There was another way out.

  Kaladin took a deep breath and dove beneath the black water, feeling it surround him. His panic returned. He didn’t know which way was up and which was down. How could you forget which way the sky was? But all was blackness. He fished in his pouch, finally managing to think clearly. He got out a glowing gemstone, but it slipped from his fingers.

  And sank.

  That way.

  He pointed his fist toward the falling light and engaged Navani’s device. He was in no state for delicacy, so he squeezed as tight as he could and lurched, towed by his arm farther into the darkness. He plunged past the fabrials and the Fused—she was swimming upward, and didn’t seem concerned with him.

  His ears screamed with a strange pain the deeper he went. He started to breathe in more Stormlight, but stopped himself. Underwater, he risked getting a lungful of liquid. But … he had no idea how to get Light when submerged. How had they never thought about this?

  It was good that the device kept pulling him, because he might not have had the presence of mind to keep moving on his own. That was proven as he reached the gemstone he’d dropped, a garnet, and found it sitting on the bottom of the tube. A bright sapphire glowed here too, the one he’d knocked free. He grabbed it and disengaged the gauntlet fabrial, but it took him precious seconds to think and search around.

  The tunnel turned level here. He moved in that direction, engaging the device, letting it pull him.

  His lungs started to burn. He was still surviving on the breath he’d taken above, and didn’t know how to get more Stormlight. He was still trailing blood as well.

  Was that light ahead, or was his vision getting so bad that he was seeing stars?

  He chose to believe it was light. When he reached it—more fabrial pumps—he shut off his fabrial, pointed his hand upward, and engaged the device again. Nightmares chased him, manifestations of his anxiety, and it was as if the world were crushing him. Everything became blackness once more.

  The only thing he felt was Syl, so distant now, terrified. He thought that would be his last sensation.

  Then he broke out of the water into the air. He gasped—a raw and primal action. A physiological response rather than conscious choice. Indeed, he must have blacked out anyway, for when he blinked and his senses returned, he found himself hanging by his aching arm from the ceiling in a reservoir beneath the tower.

  He shook his head, and looked at his hand. He’d dropped the sapphire, and when he tried to breathe in Stormlight, nothing came. His pouch was empty of it. He must have fed off it while drifting in and out of consciousness. He was tempted to let himself sleep again.…

  No! They’ll be coming for you!

  He forced his eyes open. If the enemy had explored the tower enough to know about this reservoir, they would come looking to be certain he was dead.

  He disengaged the fabrial and dropped into the water. The cold shocked him awake, and he was able to use the fabrial to tug himself to the side of the reservoir. He crawled out onto dry stone. Amusingly, he was enough a surgeon to worry about how he’d contaminated this drinking water. Of all the things to think about right now …

  He wanted to sleep, but could see blood dripping from his chest and arm, the wounds there not fully healed. So he stumbled to the side of the chamber and sucked the Stormlight from the two lamps there. Yes, the enemy knew about this place. If he hadn’t been so addled, he’d have put together earlier that the light meant someone was changing the gemstones.

  He stumbled, sodden and exhausted, down the hallway. There would be an exit. He vaguely remembered news of Navani’s scouts finding this reservoir. They’d only known about it by having Thaylen free divers inspect the fabrials in the well.

  Keep thinking. Keep walking. Don’t drift off.

  Where was Syl? How far was he from her now? He’d traveled quite a way in the darkness of that water.

  He reached steps, but couldn’t force himself to climb them. He just stood, numb, staring at them. So he used the fabrial. Slow, easy climbs with it tugging him up at one angle, then another. Back and forth. Again and again.

  He knew he was close when he heard rumbling. The highstorm. It was still blowing, so he hadn’t been in that blackness for an eternity. He let it call to him as he continued half-flying, half-trudging upward.

  Finally he staggered out of a room on the ground floor of the tower. He emerged right into the middle of a group of singer troops shouting for people to go to their quarters.

  The storm rumbled in the near distance. Several of the soldiers turned toward him. Kaladin had a moment of profound disconnect, as if he couldn’t believe he was still alive. As if he’d thought that trudge up the stairwell had been his climb to the Tranquiline Halls.

  Then one of the guards leveled a spear at him, and Kaladin’s body knew what to do. Exhausted, wounded, nerves worn all the way to Damnation, Kaladin grabbed that spear and twisted it out of the man’s hands, then swept the legs of the next soldier.

  A few Regals not far off shouted, and he caught sight of a Heavenly One—not Leshwi—rising into the air and pointing a lance at him. They weren’t through with him yet.

  He turned and ran, holding that stolen spear, drawing in Stormlight from lanterns—but feeling it do nothing at all to heal him. Even the slow healing from before had apparently stopped working. Either he’d further undermined his powers somehow by destroying the fabrial, or—more likely—the Sibling was too far gone toward corruption.

  Chased by dozens of soldiers, Kaladin ran for the storm. Though it was dangerous outside, at least the enemy would have difficulty finding him in the tempest. He couldn’t fight them—the only way to escape was to do something truly desperate.

  He reached the front entryway of the tower, where winds coursed in through a portal that might once have held a wooden gate. They’d never taken the time to put in a new one. Why would they? The storms rarely reached this high.

  Today they had.

  Today, Kaladin reached the winds.

  And like everything else today, they tried their best to kill him.

  Voice of Lights. Voice for Lights. If I speak for the Lights, then I must express their desires. If Light is Investiture, and all Investiture is d
eity, and deity has Intent, then Light must have Intent.

  —From Rhythm of War, final page

  Dalinar no longer feared highstorms.

  It had been some time now since he’d worried that he was mad. Yet—as a poorly treated horse learned to flinch at the mere sound of a whip—something had persisted inside of Dalinar. A learned response that a storm meant losing control.

  So it was with a deep and satisfying sense of relief that today, Dalinar realized he didn’t fear the storm. Indeed, when Elthebar listed the time of today’s storm, Dalinar felt a little surge of excitement. He realized he felt more awake on highstorm days. More capable.

  Is that you? he asked of the Stormfather.

  It is us, the Stormfather replied. Me and you. I enjoy passing over the continent, as it gives me much to see—but it also tires me as it energizes you.

  Dalinar stepped away from the table and dismissed his attendants and scribes, who had finished briefing him on the latest intelligence regarding Urithiru. He could barely control his mounting concern about Navani and the tower. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones.

  So he’d begun looking for options. The current plan was for him to lead an expedition into Shadesmar, sail to the tower, then open up a perpendicularity to let spies in. Unfortunately, they didn’t know if it would work. Would he even be able to activate a perpendicularity in the area?

  He had to try something. The latest letters from Navani, although they did contain her passcodes, felt unlike her. Too many delays, too many assurances she was fine. He’d ordered a team of workers to begin clearing the rubble that prevented his scouts from entering through the basement. That would reportedly take weeks, and Shardblades couldn’t be summoned in the region, being suppressed like fabrials and Radiant powers.

  He pressed his palm flat against the table, gritting his teeth. He ignored the stack of reports from the front lines. Jasnah and the others were handling the war, and he could see their victory approaching. It wasn’t inevitable, but it was highly likely.

  He should be focusing on his Bondsmith training. But how could he? He wanted to find a set of Plate, borrow a Blade, and go march to the battlefront and find someone to attack. The idea was so tempting, he had to acknowledge how much he’d come to depend on emotional support from the Thrill of battle. Storms, sometimes he longed so powerfully for the way he’d felt alive when killing. Such emotions were remarkably similar to what he’d felt upon giving up the drink. A quiet, anxious yearning that struck at unexpected moments—seeking the pleasure, the reward.