Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  “You learn to read rhythms,” Raboniel said, standing up.

  “Or I simply understand logic.” Navani stood, and took Raboniel’s hands. The Fused allowed it. “You don’t have to kill the Sibling. Let’s find another path.”

  “I’m not killing the Sibling,” Raboniel said. “I’m … doing something worse. I’m unmaking the Sibling.”

  “Then let’s find another path.”

  “You think I haven’t searched for one already?” She removed her hands from Navani’s, then picked up and proffered their notebook, the one where they logged their experiments. Rhythm of War, they called it. Odium and Honor working together, if only for a short time.

  “I’ve run some experiments on the conjoined rubies you created—the ones of different sizes,” Raboniel said. “I think you’ll like the implications of what I’ve discovered; I wrote them in here earlier. This might make moving your enormous sky platforms easier.”

  “Raboniel,” Navani said, taking the notebook. “Negotiate with me, help me. Let’s join forces. Let’s make a treaty, you and I, ignoring Odium.”

  “I’m sorry,” the Fused said. “But the best chance we have of ending this war—barring a discovery between us—is for my kind to control Urithiru. I will finish my work with the Sibling. Ultimately, we are still enemies. And I would not be where I am—able to contemplate a different solution—if I were not fully willing to do what has been asked of me. Regardless of the cost, and regardless of the pain it causes.”

  Navani steeled herself. “I had not thought otherwise, Lady of Wishes. Though it leaves me sorrowful.” On a whim, she tried humming to the Rhythm of War. It didn’t work—the rhythm required two people in concert with one another.

  In return, however, Raboniel smiled. “I would give you something,” she said, then left.

  Confused, Navani sat at the table, feeling tired. These days of furious study were catching up to her. Had it been selfish to spend so much time pretending to be a scholar? Didn’t Urithiru beg for a queen? Yes, it would be wonderful to find a power to use against Odium, but … did she really think she could solve such a complex problem?

  Navani tried to return to her experiments. After an hour, she conceded that the spark wasn’t there. For all her talk of control and organization, she now found herself subject to the whims of emotion. She couldn’t work because she didn’t “feel” it. She would have called that nonsense—though of course not to their face—if one of her scholars had told her something similar.

  She stood abruptly, her chair clattering to the ground. She’d picked up a habit of pacing from Dalinar, and found herself prowling back and forth in the small chamber. Eventually Raboniel appeared in the doorway, accompanied by two nimbleform singers.

  The Fused waved, and the femalens hurried into the room. They carried odd equipment, including two thin metal plates perhaps a foot and a half square and a fraction of an inch thick, with some odd ridges and crenellations cut into them. The nimbleforms attached them to Navani’s desk with clamps, so the metal plates spread flat, one on each side—like additions to the desk’s workspace.

  “This is an ancient form of music among my kind,” Raboniel said. “A way to revel in the rhythms. As a gift, I have decided to share the songs with you.”

  She gestured and hummed to the two young singers, who jumped to obey, each pulling out a long bow—like one might use on a stringed instrument. They drew these along the sides of the metal plates, and the metal began to vibrate with deep tones, though they had a rougher texture to them. Full and resonant.

  Those are Honor’s and Odium’s tones, Navani thought. Only these were the shifted versions that worked in harmony with one another.

  Raboniel stepped up beside Navani. In accompaniment to the two tones, she played a loud rhythm with two sticks on a small drum. The sequence of beats grew loud and stately, then soft and fast, alternating. It wasn’t exactly the Rhythm of War, but it was as close as music could likely get. It vibrated through Navani, loud and triumphant.

  They continued at it for an extended time, before Raboniel called a stop and the two young singers—sweating from the work of vigorously making the tones—quickly gathered the plates, unclamping them from the sides of the desk.

  “Did you like it?” Raboniel asked her.

  “I did,” Navani said. “The tones were a terrible cacophony when combined, but somehow beautiful at the same time.”

  “Like the two of us?” Raboniel asked.

  “Like the two of us.”

  “By this music,” Raboniel said, “I give you the title Voice of Lights, Navani Kholin. As is my right.”

  Raboniel hummed curtly, then bowed to Navani. With no other words, she waved for the singers to take their equipment and go. Raboniel retreated with them.

  Feeling overwhelmed, Navani walked up to the open notebook on her desk. Inside, Raboniel had written about their experiments in the women’s script—and her handwriting was growing quite practiced.

  Navani understood the honor in what she’d just been given. At the same time, she found it difficult to feel proud. What did a title, or the respect of one of the Fused, mean if the tower was still being corrupted, her people still dominated?

  This is why I worked so hard these last few days, Navani admitted to herself, sitting at the desk. To prove myself to her. But … what good was that if it didn’t lead to peace?

  The Rhythm of War vibrated through her, proof that there could be harmony. At the same time, the nearly clashing tones told another story. Harmony could be reached, but it was exceedingly difficult.

  What kind of emulsifier could you use with people, to make them mix? She closed the notebook, then made her way to the back of the room and rested her hand on the Sibling’s crystal vein.

  “I have tried to find a way to merge spren who were split by fabrial creation,” she whispered. “I thought it might please you.”

  No response came.

  “Please,” Navani said, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against the wall. “Please forgive me. We need you.”

  I … The voice came into her mind, making Navani look up. She couldn’t see the spark of the Sibling’s light in the vein, however. Either it wasn’t there, or … or it had grown too dim to see in the light of the room.

  “Sibling?” she asked.

  I am cold, the voice said, small, almost imperceptible. They are killing … killing me.

  “Raboniel said she is … unmaking you.”

  If that is true I … I will … I will die.

  “Spren can’t die,” Navani said.

  Gods can die … Fused can … can die … Spren can … die. If I am made into someone else, that is death. It is dark. The singer you promised me though … I can see him sometimes. I like watching him. He is with the Radiants. He would have made … a good … a good bond.…

  “Then bond him!” Navani said.

  Can’t. Can’t see. Can’t act through the barrier.

  “What if I brought you Stormlight?” Navani said. “Infused you the same way they’ve been infusing you with Voidlight? Would that slow the process?”

  Cold. They listen. I’m afraid, Navani.

  “Sibling?”

  I don’t … want … to die.…

  And then silence. Navani was left with that haunting word, die, echoing in her mind. At the moment, the Sibling’s fear seemed far more powerful than the Rhythm of War.

  Navani had to do something. Something more than sitting around daydreaming. She stalked back to her desk to write down ideas—any ideas, no matter how silly—about what she could do to help. But as she sat, she noticed something. Her previous experiment rested there, mostly forgotten. A gemstone amid sand. When the singers had set up their plates, they hadn’t disturbed Navani’s work.

  The music of the plates had caused the entire desktop to vibrate. And that had made the sand vibrate—and it had therefore made patterns on her desktop. One pattern on the right, a different on the left, and a third where
the two mixed.

  Stormlight and Voidlight weren’t merely types of illumination. They weren’t merely strange kinds of fluid. They were sounds. Vibrations.

  And in vibration, she’d find their opposites.

  Regardless, I write now. Because I know they are coming for me. They got Jezrien. They’ll inevitably claim me, even here in the honorspren stronghold.

  Adolin stepped onto his podium at the honorspren forum. The circular disc had been pulled out to the center of the arena. Today, he would have the stage all to himself.

  He’d arrived early, so he wouldn’t have to push his way through the crowd. He wanted to appear in control, awaiting their scorn rather than taking the long walk down the steps with everyone watching. One felt like the action of a man who had orchestrated his situation. The other felt like a prisoner being led to execution.

  Shallan and Pattern seated themselves as others began to arrive. The forum could hold a couple hundred spren, and as the honorspren—all glowing faintly white-blue—settled, he noted that far more of them wore uniforms today. The ones who had seemed sympathetic to Notum’s proclamation were conspicuously absent from the seats. Adolin found that frustrating, though he did notice some spren from yesterday crowding around the top, where they could stand and watch.

  The honorspren seemed determined to seed the seated positions with those who were predisposed against him. No reason to sweat, Adolin thought, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. It’s just your one chance to speak for yourself. Your one chance to turn all this around.

  Ideally, this would be the day that went best for him. He could explain his case and answer questions from the audience. Kelek’s words from the day before weighed heavily upon him; this wasn’t merely about the honorspren and whether some would join the Windrunners. It was a much larger argument.

  Was humankind worth fighting for? Adolin somehow had to make that argument today. Blended had warned him he’d need to fend off questions and keep the argument on topic. He couldn’t afford to engage the crowd too directly, couldn’t afford to let them control the conversation.

  That done, the trial would convene for one final meeting, where the honorspren could present a single last witness, whom Adolin could question, to rebut his arguments.

  He bowed to Kelek as the Herald arrived. He’d changed into official-looking violet robes, a marked difference from yesterday. Did that mean he was taking this more seriously?

  Adolin waited respectfully for the High Judge to seat himself among the group of honorspren officials. Adolin had learned that six of them were among the “ten honored by storms.” The ten oldest existing honorspren, other than Syl. Hierarchy was important to this group.

  “All right,” Kelek said. “Let’s get this over with. You may speak.”

  “Thank you, Honored One,” Adolin said, then turned toward the crowd. “I don’t think my words today will surprise anyone. Yet I’ve staked my future on the opportunity to say them to you. In person. To look you in the eyes, and ask you if you truly think this is justice.

  “Men hold grudges. It is one of our greatest failings. Sometimes families will continue a cycle of hatred for generations, all for some slight that no one remembers. While I won’t compare your very real pain and betrayal to something so insignificant, I hope to find in you—immortal pieces of Honor—a more perfect way of—”

  “Did you know,” a spren in the front row interrupted, “that your father almost killed the Stormfather?”

  Adolin stumbled in his speech. “I will answer questions at the end,” he said. “As I was saying, I had hoped to find—”

  “Did you know about it?” the honorspren demanded, shouting. “Did you know he almost killed the Stormfather?”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Adolin said. He glanced up at the top of the forum, where the standing spren were shuffling and whispering to one another. The audience fell quiet, waiting for Adolin. A question had been asked, but he didn’t have to answer it, not yet. He controlled the floor.

  So he remained focused as Blended had taught him, then purposefully continued his statement. “In you,” Adolin said to the crowd, “I had hoped to find honor. Ancient spren bonded with us because they believed that together, we became something stronger, something better than we were alone.

  “I admit to human weakness. I will not hide it. But I have not seen you admit to your weakness. You claim to be creations of honor. That you are better than men. Yet you refuse to prove it, to show it.

  “I know of spren who do. Brave spren, who have come to the battle to join with men. In so doing, they have become stronger. They grow, like the people who bond them. Why do we need Radiants? Because they represent our best selves. We are of Honor and Cultivation. Honor, for an ideal. Cultivation, for the power to reach toward that ideal.

  “The Stormfather himself agrees that this is the correct choice. People may not be perfect, but they’re worth helping strive for perfection. And you are worth more than you can ever be sitting alone and refusing to grow.”

  That went over well. The honorspren liked a good speech, he’d learned—and those at the top in particular seemed swayed. He took a breath, preparing to move to his next point. Unfortunately, in the pause, that same honorspren from before leaped to his feet.

  “The Stormfather made his choice,” the spren said loudly, “and in so doing, put himself in danger—he nearly died. Did you know about this?”

  Kelek leaned forward in his judge’s seat. That was dangerously close to a statement, which the audience was not allowed to make. Trial by witness allowed Adolin to make declarations, but the audience could only question.

  “I did not know of this event,” Adolin told the spren. “So I cannot offer insight into why it happened, or what the circumstances were.”

  “How could you not know?” a different spren, in the second row, demanded. “If you’ve come to persuade us to become Radiant spren, shouldn’t you know the cost of what you’re asking? I think—”

  “Enough of that,” Kelek snapped. “Do you want to be ejected, Veratorim?”

  The spren quieted immediately.

  “Proceed, human,” Kelek said, settling back and lacing his fingers before himself.

  “My second argument,” Adolin said, “is to show to you that the kingdoms of the world have put aside their differences to unite together to face this challenge. I brought a letter from my cousin, Jasnah, which was torn up. Fortunately, I can quote parts to you. She proves that the modern kingdoms are—”

  “Has she tried to kill her spren?” the spren in the first row asked.

  “She proves,” Adolin continued, “that our modern kingdoms are united in ways that—”

  “Yes, but has she tried to kill her spren?”

  “Look,” Adolin snapped, “do you want me to talk or not? Do you want to hear my testimony, like you’ve offered, or do you just want to take shots at me?”

  The spren smiled. And Adolin realized what he’d done. By asking a question, Adolin had invited an answer.

  “I think,” the spren said, standing up, “that the most relevant question is if these new Radiants can be trusted. That’s what you need to prove. The Stormfather told us that Dalinar Kholin forced him to physically manifest. Dalinar Kholin, your father, using the Stormfather’s essence to work one of the Oathgates!”

  “That’s against his oath!” another one exclaimed. “Did you know about your father’s actions?”

  “I’m sure he had good reasons,” Adolin said. “If you would—”

  “Good reasons?” the standing honorspren said. “He was running away. Does this seem like the kind of behavior we should trust in a Bondsmith? From the man you said was ideal, that you promised would never betray us. How do you respond to this?”

  Adolin looked to Kelek. “Can I please continue my witness?”

  “You invited this discussion, son,” Kelek said. “You need to engage him now.” Kelek nodded toward the crowd at the top of the forum.
Those who had joined with Notum yesterday waited quietly, wanting answers.

  Adolin sighed, glancing to Shallan for strength before continuing. “I cannot speak for my father. You’ll have to ask him. I trust him; the Stormfather trusts him; that should be enough.”

  “He is a walking disaster,” the spren said. “He is a murderer by his own testimony. This is no Bondsmith.”

  Adolin ignored that, as it wasn’t a question. And theoretically, he could let this subject die and continue.

  “Jasnah’s letter,” he began, “is—”

  “Kaladin Stormblessed almost killed his spren too,” a completely different honorspren said. “The Ancient Daughter, most precious of children. Did you know that?”

  Adolin ground his teeth. “I do know what happened between Kaladin and Syl. It was a difficult time for all of us, a point of transition. Kaladin didn’t know he was breaking his oaths—he was merely having a difficult time navigating conflicting loyalties.”

  “So you’re ignorant and dangerous,” the spren in the second row said. “Your Radiants barely know what they’re doing! You could kill your spren by accident!”

  Kelek waved, and the spren was grabbed by attendants and carried up and out of the forum. But Adolin saw this for what it was. A coordinated attack, and the ejection a calculated risk to get the words out.

  “We’re not killing our spren,” Adolin said to the crowd. “These incidents are isolated, and we don’t have proper context to discuss them.”

  “Is that so?” yet another honorspren said. “You can swear that none of your Radiants have killed their spren?”

  “Yes! None of them have. They…” He trailed off.

  Damnation. He’d met one, hadn’t he? Killed recently—that Cryptic in the market.

  “They what?” the spren demanded.

  If he answered the question truthfully, it could be the end. Adolin took a deep breath, and did what Blended had warned him against. He engaged the audience. “I could answer, but you don’t care, do you? You obviously planned together how to attack me today. This is an ambush. You don’t care about honor, and you don’t care what I have to say. You simply want to throw things at me.”