“One cannot kill a Herald,” Mraize said. “They are immortal. Do not think of Kelek as a person. He is an ageless, eternal spren formed of Honor’s substance and will. He is as gravity or light. Force, not man.”
“And you want me to stab that force with this knife,” Veil said, undoing the straps and prying it out from the cube. The cavity was only a small part of the hollow portion in the cube, and a layer of steel sectioned off the rest. Mraize’s voice came from the sealed portion. How had he weighted the cube such that she didn’t feel one end was heavier than the other?
“I want you,” he said, “to collect the soul of Kelek, also known as Restares. The knife will trap his essence in that gemstone.”
“That seems overly cruel,” Veil said, looking over the knife.
“Cruel like the spanreeds you so eagerly use, despite the spren trapped inside? It is no different. The being called Kelek is a receptacle of incredible knowledge. Gemstone imprisonment will not hurt him, and we will be able to communicate with him.”
“We have two other Heralds in the tower,” Veil said. “I could ask them anything you want to know.”
“You think they’d answer? How useful have they been, talking to Jasnah? Talenelat is completely insane, and Shalash is deceptively reticent. They talk of their Oathpact, yes, and fighting the Fused—but rarely reveal anything practical.”
“This isn’t very persuasive,” Veil said. “Yes, I know what you want me to do—but I suspected it from the beginning. If you want me to do this, I need to know why. What specifically do you expect to learn from him?”
“Our master, Thaidakar, has an … affliction similar to that of the Heralds. He needs access to a Herald to learn more about his state so he might save himself from the worst of its effects.”
“That’s not good enough,” Veil said. “Radiant and Shallan won’t let me do your dirty work for such a petty reason.” She put the dagger back in the cube. “I came here to report on Restares’s location. Shallan specifically told you we wouldn’t kill him—and yes, I count stabbing him with this device as the same thing.”
“Little knife,” Mraize said, his voice growing softer, “why did Sadeas need to die?”
She hesitated, her hand still on the dagger, which she was trying to reattach to the straps in the cube.
“This being,” Mraize continued, “that they call Kelek is a monster. He, along with the other eight, abandoned their Oathpact and stranded Talenelat—the Bearer of Agonies—alone in Damnation, to withstand torture for thousands of years. The enemy has returned, but have the Heralds come to help? No. At best they hide. At worst, their madness leads them to hasten the world’s destruction.
“Kelek has become indecisive to the point of madness. And like most of them, he is afraid. He wants to escape his duties. He worked with Gavilar knowing full well that doing so would cause the return of the Fused and the end of our peace, because he hoped to find a way to escape this world. A way to abandon us as he had already abandoned his oaths and his friends.
“He possesses knowledge essential to our fight against the invaders. However, he will not share it willingly. He hides himself away in the world’s most remote fortress and tries to pretend there is no war, that he is not culpable. He is. The only way to make him do his duty is to bring him back by force—and the best and easiest way to do that is to trap his soul.”
Storms. That was a longer speech than she usually got out of Mraize. There was passion, conviction to his voice. Veil almost felt persuaded.
“I can’t move against him,” she said. “He is set to judge Adolin in this trial. If Kelek vanished, that would throw all kinds of suspicion on us—and Adolin would most certainly be imprisoned. I can’t risk it.”
“Hmm…” Mraize said. “If only there were a way that someone—having locked away Kelek’s soul—could take his place. Wear his face. Pass judgment, vindicating your husband and commanding the honorspren to join the war again. If only we had sent a person capable of single-handedly turning the tide of this war through the use of a targeted illusion.”
In that moment, Veil lost control to Shallan. Because what Mraize said here … it made too much sense.
Oh storms, Shallan thought, growing cold. Stormfather above and Nightwatcher below … He’s right. That is a solution to this problem. A way to let Adolin win. A way to bring the honorspren back.
So this was how he manipulated her this time. She wanted to buck him for that reason alone. If only what he said weren’t so logical. It would be easy to replace Kelek, assuming she could get some Stormlight.…
No, Veil warned. It’s not that easy. We’d have a difficult time impersonating a Herald.
We’d do the replacement at the last moment, Shallan thought. On the final day of the trial—to reduce the amount of time we need to pretend, and to give us a few days to scout out his personality.
“Killing Sadeas saved thousands of lives,” Mraize continued in his soft, oily voice. “Delivering Kelek to us, sending the honorspren to bond Windrunners, could save millions.”
“Veil isn’t certain we could imitate a Herald,” Shallan said.
“The Herald is erratic,” Mraize said. “All of them are now. With a few pointers, you could escape notice. Honorspren are not good at noticing subterfuge—or at distinguishing what is odd behavior for humans, or those who were once human. You can accomplish this. And after the trial, ‘Kelek’ could insist he has to visit Urithiru himself, leaving the spren completely ignorant of what you’ve done.”
“It would be wrong, Mraize. It feels wrong.”
“Earlier, Veil demanded a deal. Though I normally reject this sort of talk, I find it encouraging that she did not demand money, or power. She wanted information, to know why she was doing what she did. You three are worthy hunters.
“So I will revise the deal as requested. Perform as I ask here, and I will release you from your apprenticeship. You will become a full member of our organization—you will not only have access to the knowledge you seek, but also have a say in what we are doing. Our grand plans.”
Inside, Veil perked up at this. But Shallan was surprised by how much she responded to that offer. A full Ghostblood? That was the way … The way to …
“Strike at a Herald,” she said. “It sounds wrong, Mraize. Very wrong.”
“You are weak,” he said. “You know it.”
She bowed her head.
“But part of you is not,” he continued. “A part that can be that strong. Let that side of you do what needs to be done. Save your husband, your kingdom, and your world all at once. Become that hunter, Shallan.
“Become the knife.”
* * *
The honorspren surrounding the High Judge made room for Adolin as he approached, Blended following behind. He didn’t miss the glares that many of them gave her. No, there was no love lost between the two varieties of spren.
He should probably feel reverence for the High Judge. This was Kelek, though the spren called him Kalak for some reason. Either way, he was one of the Heralds—so Blended had explained. Many people back home thought of him as the Stormfather, and though that had never been true, he was one of the most ancient beings in all of creation. A god to many. An immortal soldier for justice and Honor.
He was also short, with thinning hair. He felt like the type of man you’d find administering some minor city in the backwater of Alethkar. And if he was anything like Ash or Taln, the two Heralds who now resided at Urithiru …
Well, his acquaintance with those two caused Adolin to lower his expectations in this particular case.
Kelek spoke with several honorspren leaders as they strolled up the lower portion of the western plane, entering a stone pathway made up of a multitude of colored cobblestones vaguely in the pattern of a gust of wind. The group paused as they saw Adolin ahead.
He removed his hand from his sword out of respect, then bowed to the Herald.
“Hmm? A human?” Kelek said. “Why is he here? He looks dangerous, Sekeir.”
“He is,” said the honorspren beside Kelek. Sekeir was a leader of the fortress, and appeared as an ancient honorspren with a long blue-white beard. “This is Adolin Kholin, son of Dalinar Kholin.”
“The Bondsmith?” Kelek said, and shied away from Adolin. “Good heavens! Why have you let him in here?”
“I have come, great one,” Adolin said, “to petition the honorspren for their aid in our current battle.”
“Your current battle? Against Odium?” Kelek laughed. “Boy, you’re doomed. You realize that, right? Tanavast is dead. Like, completely dead. The Oathpact is broken somehow. The only thing left is to try to get off the ship before it sinks.”
“Holy Lord,” Sekeir said, “we let this one in because he offered to stand trial in the stead of the humans, for the pain they have caused our people.”
“You’re going to try him for the Recreance?” Kelek asked, looking around uncertainly at the others near him. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“He offered, Holy Lord.”
“Not a smart one, is he?” Kelek looked to Adolin, who hesitantly pulled up from his bow. “Huh. You’ve gotten yourself in deep, boy. They take this kind of thing very seriously around here.”
“I hope to show them, great one, that we are not their enemies. That the best course forward is for them to join us in our fight. It is, one might say, the honorable choice.”
“Honor is dead,” Kelek snapped. “Aren’t you paying attention? This world belongs to Odium now. He has his own storm, for heaven’s sake.”
Blended nudged Adolin. Right. He was so distracted by Kelek that he’d forgotten the purpose of meeting with him.
“Great one,” Adolin said, “I’ve decided to petition for a trial by witness. Would you be willing to grant me this?”
“Trial by witness?” Kelek said. “Well, that would make this mess end faster. What do you think, Sekeir?”
“I don’t think this would be a wise—”
“Hold on; I don’t care what you think,” Kelek said. “Here I am, years after joining you, and you still don’t have a way for me to get off this cursed world. Fine, boy, trial by witness it is. We can start it … um, the day after tomorrow? Is that acceptable for everyone?”
No one objected.
“Great,” Kelek said. “Day after tomorrow. Okay then. Um … let’s have it at the forum, shall we? I guess everyone will want to watch, and that has the most seats.”
“Object to this,” Blended whispered to Adolin. “Do not let it be. You don’t want to have to persuade the audience as well as the judge.”
“Great one,” Adolin said, “I had hoped this to be an intimate, personal discussion of—”
“Tough,” Kelek said. “You should have thought of that before coming in here to create a storm. Everyone knows how this trial will end, so we might as well make a good time of it for them.”
Adolin felt a sinking sensation as Kelek led the group of honorspren around him. Though few lighteyed judges were ever truly impartial, there was an expectation that they’d try to act with honor before the eyes of the Almighty. But this Herald basically told him the trial would be a sham. The man had made his judgment before hearing any arguments.
How on Roshar was that ever considered a deity? Adolin thought, in a daze. The Heralds had fallen so far.
Either that, or … perhaps these ten people had always been only that. People. After all, crowning a man a king or highprince didn’t necessarily make him anything grander than he’d been. Adolin knew that firsthand.
“That could have gone better,” Blended said, “but at least a trial by witness is. Come. I have one day, it seems, to prepare you to be thrown into the angerspren’s den.…”
I remember so few of those centuries. I am a blur. A smear on the page. A gaunt stretch of ink, made all the more insubstantial with each passing day.
Venli knelt on the floor of a secluded hallway on the fifteenth floor of Urithiru. The stones whispered to her that the place had once been called Ur. The word meant “original” in the Dawnchant. An ancient place, with ancient stones.
There was a spren that lived here. Not dead, as Raboniel had once proclaimed. This spren was the veins of the tower, its inner metal and crystal running through walls, ceilings, floors.
The stones had not been created by that spren, though a grand project had reshaped them. Reshaped Ur, the original mountain that had been here before. The stones remembered being that mountain. They remembered so many things, which they expressed to Venli. Not with words. Rather as impressions, like those a hand left in crem before it dried.
Or the impression Venli’s hands left in the floor as they sank into the eager stone. Remember, the stones whispered. Remember what you have forgotten.
She remembered sitting at her mother’s feet as a child, listening to the songs. The music had flowed like water, etching patterns in her brain—memories—like the passage of time etched canals in stone.
Listeners were not like humans, who grew slow as trees. Listeners grew like vines, quick and eager. By age three, she’d been singing with her mother. By age ten, she’d been considered an adult. Venli remembered those years—looking up to Eshonai, who seemed so big, although just a year older than Venli. She had vague memories of holding her father’s finger as he sang with her mother.
She remembered love. Family. Grandparents, cousins. How had she forgotten? As a child, ambition and love had been like two sides of her face, each with its own vibrant pattern. To the sound of Odium’s rhythms, one side had shone, while the other withered. She had become a person who wanted only to achieve her goals—not because those goals would help others, but because of the goals themselves.
It was in that moment that Venli saw for herself the depth of his lies. He claimed to be of all Passions, and yet where was the love she’d once felt? The love for her mother? Her sister? Her friends? For a while, she’d even forgotten her love for Demid, though it had helped to awaken her.
It felt wrong to be using his Light to practice her Surgebinding, but the stones whispered that it was well. Odium and his tone had become part of Roshar, as Cultivation and Honor—who had not been created alongside the planet—had become part of it. His power was natural, and no more wrong or right than any other part of nature.
Venli searched for something else. The tone of Cultivation. Odium’s song could suffuse her, fueling her powers and enflaming her emotions, but that tone … that tone had belonged to her people long before he’d arrived. While she searched for it, she listened to her mother’s songs in her mind. Like chains, spiked into the stone so they’d remain strong during storms, they reached backward through time. Through generations.
To her people, leaving the battlefield. Walking away rather than continuing to squabble over the same ground over and over. They hadn’t merely rejected the singer gods, they’d rejected the conflict. Holding to family, singing to Love despite their dull forms, they’d left the war and gone a new way.
The tone snapped into her mind, Cultivation and Odium mixing into a harmony, and it thrummed through Venli. She opened her eyes as power spread from her through the stones. They began to shake and vibrate to the sound of her rhythm, liquid, forming peaks and valleys in time with the music. The floor, ceiling, and walls before her rippled, and a trail of people formed from the stone. Moving, alive again, as they strode away from pain, and war, and killing.
Freedom. The stones whispered to her of freedom. Rock seemed so stable, so unchangeable, but if you saw it on the timescale of spren, it was always changing. Deliberately. Over centuries. She had never known her ancestors, but she knew their songs. She could sing those and imitate their courage. Their love. Their wisdom.
The power slipped from her, as it always did. The tone faded, and her control over the stone ended. She needed more practice and more Light. Still, she didn’t need Timbre’s encouraging thrum to keep her spirits high as she stood. For she had in front of her, in miniature, a sculpture of her ancestors str
iking out toward the unknown.
More, she had their songs. Because of her mother’s diligent and insistent teaching, the songs had not died with the listeners.
* * *
An hour later, Venli walked the hallways much lower in the tower, waiting for Leshwi.
She met with the Heavenly One almost every day. Raboniel knew the meetings were happening, of course. And Leshwi knew that Raboniel knew. Still, Venli and Leshwi met in secret; it was all part of the dance of politics between the Fused.
They met as if by happenstance. Leshwi hovered solemnly through a corridor at the right time, her long black train rustling against the stone. Venli fell into step beside her mistress.
“The Pursuer has found the Windrunner’s parents, Ancient One,” Venli said. “I’m certain of it. He posted two nightform Regals at the Radiant infirmary.”
“Which ones?”
“Urialin and Nistar.”
“‘Light’ and ‘mystery,’” Leshwi said, translating their names from the ancient language. Like many of the Regals, they had taken new names for themselves upon their awakening. “Yes, this is a signal. But the Pursuer is not that subtle; if you look, I suspect that Raboniel is the one who suggested those two.”
“What do we do?” Venli said to Anxiety.
“Nothing, for now. My authority extends far enough to protect them. This is merely a warning.”
“Raboniel threatens to let the Pursuer have the humans,” Venli said. “That is why she posted those two guards. To lord her advantage over us.”
“Perhaps,” Leshwi said, floating with her hands behind her back. “Perhaps not. Raboniel does not think like other Fused, Venli. She hears a much grander song. A skewed and twisted one, but one she seeks to sing without traditional regard for Odium’s plans or those of Honor, now dead.”
“She makes her own side then,” Venli said. “She seeks to play both armies against one another and profit herself.”
“Do not transpose your mortal ambitions upon Raboniel,” Leshwi said to Ridicule. “You think too small, Venli, to understand her. I think too small to understand her. Regardless, you did well in bringing this to me. Watch for other signs like this.”
Rhythm of War (9781429952040) Page 114