Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  Oh. Emotions. Chiri-Chiri could nearly feel them thrumming through Rysn, like rhythms. She was sad? Why sad? They had enough to eat. It was warm and safe.

  Was it about the hollowness? The danger?

  “Babsk,” Rysn said. “You still blame yourself for my foolishness? My follies were mine alone.”

  “Ah, but I knew of your brashness,” he said. “And it was my duty to check it.” He took her hands, so Chiri-Chiri nipped at them a little—until Rysn glared at her. They didn’t taste good anyway.

  The two soft ones shared something. Almost like they could project emotions with a vibration or a buzz, instead of flapping their lips and squishing their too-melty faces. Those really were odd. Why didn’t all their skin flop off, without carapace to hold it in? Why didn’t they hurt themselves on everything they bumped?

  But yes, they shared thoughts. And finally the old one nodded, standing. “I will help you bear this, Rysn. Yes, I should not complain about my own deficiencies. You have come to me, and show me great honor in doing so.”

  “But you mustn’t tell anyone,” she said to him. “Not even the queen. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I will ponder what you’ve told me, then see what advice—if any—I can have on this unique situation.” He took his hat and moved to leave, but hesitated and said a single word. “Dawnshards.” He imbued it with meaning somehow. Disbelief and wonder.

  After he’d left, a few nips got Rysn to start scratching again. But she felt distracted, and soon Chiri-Chiri was unable to enjoy the scratches. Not with the hollow eyes speaking to her. Warning her.

  To enjoy easy days, sometimes you had to first do difficult things. Rysn activated her chair—which flew a few inches off the ground, though it didn’t have any wings. Chiri-Chiri jumped off onto the desk.

  “I need something to eat,” Rysn said. And Chiri-Chiri concentrated on the sounds, not the tired cadence.

  Eat. Food.

  “Eeeaaat.” Chiri-Chiri tried to get her mandibles to click the sounds, blowing through her throat and making her carapace vibrate.

  Rysn smiled. “I’m too tired. That almost sounded…”

  “Rrrrrizzznn,” Chiri-Chiri said. “Eeeeaat. Voood.” Yes, that seemed right. Those were good mouth noises. At least, Rysn dropped her cup of tea and made a shocked vibration.

  Perhaps doing it this way would be better. Not just because of the hollow skulls. But because, if the soft ones could be made to understand, it would be far easier to get scratches when they were required.

  Taravangian awoke hurting. Lately, each morning was a bitter contest. Did it hurt more to move or to stay in bed? Moving meant more pain. Staying in bed meant more anguish. Eventually he chose pain.

  After dressing himself with some difficulty, he rested at the edge of the bed, exhausted. He glanced at the notes scratched on the side of an open drawer. Should he hide that? He should. The words appeared jumbled to him today. He had to stare at them a long time to get them to make sense.

  Dumb. How dumb was he? Too … too dumb. He recognized the sensation, his thoughts moving as if through thick syrup. He stood. Was that light? Yes, sunlight.

  He shuffled into the main room of his prison. Sunlight, through an open window. Strange. He hadn’t left a window open.

  Windows were all boarded up, he thought. Someone broke one. Maybe a storm?

  No. He slowly realized that Dalinar must have ordered one opened. Kindly Dalinar. He liked that man.

  Taravangian made his way to the sunlight. Guards outside. Yes, they would watch. They knew he was a murderer. He smiled at them anyway, then opened the small bundle on the windowsill. A notebook, a pen, and some ink. Had he asked for that? He tried to remember.

  Storms. He wanted to sleep. But he couldn’t sleep through another day. He’d done that too often.

  He returned to his room and sat—then realized he had forgotten what he’d intended to do. He retraced his steps, looked down at the pen and paper again, and only then remembered. He went back into his bedroom. Unhooked the drawer with the instructions. Slowly read them.

  Then again.

  He laboriously copied them into the notebook. They were a list of things he needed to say if he could meet Szeth alone. Several times, the words “Don’t talk to Dalinar” were underlined. In his current state, Taravangian was uncertain about that. Why not talk to him?

  Smarter him was convinced they needed to do this themselves. Dalinar Kholin could not be entrusted with Taravangian’s plans. For Dalinar Kholin would do what was right. Not what was needed.

  Taravangian forced himself to get food. He had some in the other room, bread that had gone stale. He should have asked for better food. Only after chewing on it did he think to go look at the table right inside his door where they delivered his meals. Today was the day new food came. And there it was. Fresh bread. Dried meat. No jam.

  He felt like a fool. Why not look for fresh food before forcing yourself to choke down the old stuff? It was difficult to live like this. Making easy mistakes. Forgetting what he was doing and why.

  At least he was alone. Before he’d gotten good staff, people had always been so angry at him when he was stupid. And since he got emotional when stupid, he often cried. Didn’t they understand? He made their lives difficult. But he lived the difficulty. He wasn’t trying to be a problem.

  People took their minds for granted. They thought themselves wonderful because of how they’d been born.

  “Traitor!” a voice called into the room. “You have a visitor!”

  Taravangian felt a spike of alarm, his fingers shaking as he closed and gripped the notebook. A visitor? Szeth had come? Taravangian’s planted seed bore fruit?

  He breathed in and out, trying to sort through his thoughts. They were a jumble, and the shouting guard made him jump, then scramble toward the sound. He prepared himself for the sight of Szeth. That haunted stare. Those dead eyes. Instead, at the window, Taravangian saw a young man with black hair peppered blond. The Blackthorn’s son Renarin.

  Taravangian hesitated, though the guards waved for Taravangian to come speak to the youth.

  He hadn’t prepared for this. Renarin. Their quiet salvation. Why had he come? Taravangian hadn’t prepared responses in his notebook for this meeting.

  Taravangian stepped up to the window, and the guards retreated to give them privacy. Here Taravangian waited, expecting Renarin to speak first. Yet the boy stood silent, keeping his distance from the window—as if he thought Taravangian would reach out and grab him.

  Taravangian’s hands were cold. His stomach churned.

  “Something changed,” Renarin finally said, looking away as he spoke. He avoided meeting people’s eyes. Why? “About you. Recently. Why?”

  “I do not know, Brightlord,” Taravangian said—though he felt sweat on his brow at the lie.

  “You’ve hurt my father,” Renarin said. “I believe he thought, up until recently, that he could change you. I don’t know that I’ve seen him as morose as when he speaks of you.”

  “I would…” Taravangian tried to think. Words. What words? “I would that he had changed me, Brightlord. I would that I could have been changed.”

  “I believe that is true,” Renarin said. “I see your future, Taravangian. It is dark. Not like anything I’ve seen before. Except there’s a point of light flickering in the darkness. I worry what it will mean if that goes out.”

  “I would worry too.”

  “I can be wrong,” Renarin said. He hesitated, then closed his eyes—as if carefully thinking through his next words. “You are in darkness, Taravangian, and my father thinks you are lost. I lived through his return, and it taught me that no man is ever so far lost that he cannot find his way back. You are not alone.”

  The young man opened his eyes, stepped forward, then lifted his hand and presented it toward Taravangian. The gesture felt awkward. As if Renarin wasn’t quite sure what he was doing.

  He wants me to take his hand.
<
br />   Taravangian didn’t. Seeing it made him want to break into tears, but he contained himself.

  Renarin withdrew his hand and nodded. “I’ll let you know if I see something that could help you decide.” With that the boy left, accompanied by one of the guards—the man who had yelled at Taravangian earlier.

  That left one other guard: a short, nondescript Alethi man who walked up to the window to eye Taravangian. Taravangian watched Renarin walking away, wishing he had the courage to call after the boy.

  Foolish emotions. Taravangian was not lost in darkness. He had chosen this path, and he knew precisely where he was going. Didn’t he?

  “He is wrong,” the guard said. “We can’t all return from the dark. There are some acts that, once committed, will always taint a man.”

  Taravangian frowned. That guard had a strange accent. He must have lived in Shinovar.

  “Why did you ask for an Oathstone?” the guard demanded. “What is your purpose? Do you wish to tempt or trick me?”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  The man stared at him with unblinking eyes. Eyes like one of the dead … and Taravangian finally understood what on any other day he would have seen immediately. The guard wore a different illusion today.

  “Szeth,” Taravangian whispered.

  “Why? Why do you seek an Oathstone? I will not follow your orders again. I am becoming my own man.”

  “Do you have the sword?” Taravangian asked. He reached out, foolish though it was, and tried to grab Szeth. The man stepped away in an easy motion, leaving Taravangian grasping at air. “The sword. Did you bring it?”

  “I will not serve you,” Szeth said.

  “Listen to me,” Taravangian said. “You have to … the sword … Wait a moment.” He furiously began flipping through the notebook for the words he’d copied from the desk drawer.

  “‘The sword,’” he read, “‘is something we didn’t anticipate. It was nowhere in the Diagram. But Odium fears it. Do you understand? He fears it. I think it might be able to harm him. We attack him with it.’”

  “I will not serve you,” Szeth said. “I will not be manipulated by you again. My stone … was always only a stone.… My father said…”

  “Your father is dead, Szeth,” Taravangian said. “Listen to me. Listen.” He read from the notebook. “‘Fortunately, I believe his ability to see us here is limited. Therefore, we may talk freely. I doubt you can harm Odium directly unless you are in one of his visions. You must get into one of those visions. Can you do this?’”

  There were more notes in the book about how to manipulate Szeth. Taravangian read them, and the words made him hurt. Hadn’t this man been through enough?

  He rejected those manipulations and looked up at Szeth. “Please,” Taravangian whispered. “Please help me.”

  Szeth didn’t appear to have heard. He turned to go.

  No! “Listen,” Taravangian said, going off script, ignoring the orders of his smarter self. “Give Dalinar the sword. Dalinar is taken to Odium’s vision sometimes. It should travel with him. Do you understand? Odium thinks the sword is in Urithiru. He doesn’t realize you’re here. He can’t see it because of Renarin.”

  Smarter Taravangian claimed he didn’t want to work with Dalinar because it was too dangerous, or because Dalinar wouldn’t believe. Those lies made dumb Taravangian want to pound his fists at his own face out of shame. But the truth was more shameful.

  Szeth did not care which Taravangian he was speaking to. “I don’t understand your manipulations,” the man said as he walked away. “I should have realized I wouldn’t be able to understand the way your mind works. All I can do is refuse.”

  He left, sending the other guard back to watch Taravangian—who stood gripping his little notebook, crying.

  EIGHT YEARS AGO

  Venli could hear new rhythms. She tried to hide this fact, attuning the old, boring rhythms around others. It was so difficult. The new rhythms were her majesty, the proof that she was special. She wanted to shout them, flaunt them.

  Quiet, Ulim said from her gemheart. Quiet for now, Venli. There will be time enough later to enjoy the Rhythm of Praise.

  She attuned Exultation, but did not hum it as she walked through the room where her scholars worked. Ulim had given her hints about finding another form, nimbleform. He wouldn’t tell her the exact process yet, so she’d gathered these scholars and set them to work.

  Over time, she intended to use them as an excuse to reveal many important discoveries. Including ones that Ulim had promised her. Greater forms than these. Power.

  You are special, Ulim whispered as she idled near a pair of her scholars who were trying to trap a windspren that had flown in to tease them. I could sense you from far away, Venli. You were chosen by our god, the true god of all singers. He sent me to explain how wonderful you are.

  The words comforted her. Yes. That was right. She would wear forms of power. Only … hadn’t she once wanted those … for her mother? Wasn’t that the point?

  You will be great, he said within her gemheart. Everyone will recognize your majesty.

  “Well, I want nimbleform soon,” she whispered to Ulim, stepping out of the chamber. “It has been too long since warform. My sister and her sycophants get to tromp around the cities on display like heroes.”

  Let them. Those are your grunts, who will be sent to die fighting the humans once our plot is accomplished. You should take time “finding” nimbleform. It will be too suspicious for you to find another so soon.

  She folded her arms, listening to the new rhythm praise her. The city buzzed with activity, thousands of listeners from a dozen families passing by. Eshonai and the others had made great strides toward true unity, and the elders of the various families were talking to one another.

  Who would get the glory for that? Venli had orchestrated this grand convergence, but everyone ignored her.

  Perhaps she should have taken warform. Ulim had urged her to be one of the first, but she’d hesitated. She hadn’t been frightened, no, but she’d assumed she could manipulate better without taking the form.

  That had been a mistake, and this was her reward: Eshonai taking all the credit. Next time, Venli would do it herself.

  “Ulim,” she whispered, “when will the other Voidspren be ready?”

  Can’t say for certain, he replied. That stupid Herald is still standing strong all these years later. We have to work around him.

  “The new storm,” Venli whispered.

  Yes. It’s been building in Shadesmar for centuries. We need to get our agents close enough to it on this side—a place that is out in the ocean, mind you—so they can use gemstones to pull my brothers and sisters across. Then those stones have to be physically transported here. You have no idea how much of a pain it all is.

  “I’m well acquainted by now,” she said to Derision. “You never shut up about it.”

  Hey, you’re the only one I get to talk to. And I like to talk. So …

  “Nimbleform. When?”

  We have bigger problems. Your people aren’t ready to accept forms of power. At all. They’re far too timid. And the way they fight …

  “What’s wrong with the way we fight?” Venli asked to Conceit. “Our warriors are powerful and intimidating.”

  Please, Ulim replied. The humans have remembered how to make good steel all these centuries, and even figured out some things we never learned. Meanwhile, your people throw spears at each other like primitives. They yell and dance more than they fight. It’s embarrassing.

  “Maybe you should have gone to the humans then.”

  Don’t be childish, Ulim said. You need to know what you’re facing. Imagine a hundred thousand men in glistening armor, moving in coordinated blocks, lifting a wall of interlocking shields—broken only by the spears coming out to bite your flesh.

  Imagine thousands upon thousands of archers loosing waves of arrows that sweep in a deadly rain. Imagine men on horseback charging—thunder without l
ightning—and riding down anyone in their path. You think you can face that with a few semicoherent boasts?

  Venli’s confidence wavered. She looked out toward the Shattered Plains, where their warforms trained on a nearby plateau. She’d nudged them toward that, following Ulim’s suggestions. He knew a lot about manipulating people; with his help she could get the others to do pretty much anything.

  A part of her thought she should be concerned about that. But when she tried to think along those lines, her mind grew fuzzy. And she ended up circling back to whatever she’d been thinking about before.

  “Eshonai guesses that the humans are bluffing about how many cities they have,” she said. “But if they have dozens like they told us, then our numbers would be roughly equal. If we can get all the families to listen to us.”

  Roughly equal? Ulim said, then started laughing. An outrageous sound, uproarious. It made her gemheart vibrate. You and them? Even? Oh, you blessed little idiot.

  Venli felt herself attune Agony. She hated the way he made her feel sometimes. He’d whisper about how great she was, but then they’d get deep into a conversation and he’d speak more freely. More derogatorily.

  “Well,” she said, “maybe we don’t have to fight them. Maybe we can find another way.”

  Kid, you’re not gonna have a choice on that one, Ulim said. They will make sure of it. You know what they’ve done to all the other singers in the world? They’re slaves.

  “Yes,” Venli said. “Proof that my ancestors were wise in leaving.”

  Yeah, please don’t say that around any of my friends, Ulim said. You’ll make me look bad. Your ancestors were traitors. And no matter what you do, the humans will make you fight. Trust me. It’s what they always do.

  Your primitive little paradise here is doomed. Best you can do is train some soldiers, practice using the terrain to your advantage, and prepare to get some actual forms. You don’t get to choose to be free, Venli. Just which master to follow.

  Venli pushed off from the wall and began walking through the city. Something was wrong about Ulim. About her. About the way she thought now …