Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  Lirin stiffened, bandages held in front of him. She turned away, trying to contain her emotions. She hadn’t planned to snap at him, but … well, she supposed she hadn’t forgiven him for driving Kaladin away.

  Lirin quietly stepped over, then settled down on the floor beside her, putting aside the bandages. Then he held up his hands. “What do you want of me, Hesina? Do you want me to abandon my convictions?”

  “I want you,” she said, “to appreciate your incredible son.”

  “He was supposed to be better than this. He was supposed to be better than … than I am.”

  “Lirin,” she said softly. “You can’t keep blaming yourself for Tien’s death.”

  “Would he be dead if I hadn’t spent all those years defying Roshone? If I hadn’t picked a fight?”

  “We can’t change the past. But if you continue like this, you’ll lose another son.”

  He looked up, then shifted his eyes away immediately at Hesina’s cold glare. “I wouldn’t have let him die,” Lirin said. “If they hadn’t decided to go get that Edgedancer, I’d have gone to Kaladin like they asked.”

  “I know that. But would you have insisted on bringing him here?”

  “Maybe. He could have needed extended care, Hesina. Isn’t it better to bring him here, where I can watch him? Better than letting him go on fighting an impossible battle, getting himself and others killed in this foolish war.”

  “And would you have done that to another soldier?” she pressed. “Say it wasn’t your son who was wounded. Would you have brought that boy here and risked him being imprisoned, maybe executed? You’ve healed soldiers before, sending them back out to fight. That’s always been your conviction. Treat anyone, no strings attached, no matter the circumstances.”

  “Maybe I need to rethink that policy,” he said. “Besides, Kaladin has told me many times that he’s not my son any longer.”

  “Great. I’m glad we could chat so I could persuade you to be more stubborn. I see that your thoughts and feelings are evolving on this topic—and because you’re you, they’re going the absolute wrong direction.”

  Lirin sighed. He stood and grabbed the stack of bandages, then turned to leave their little draped-off chamber.

  Storm it, she wasn’t done with him yet. Hesina rose, surprised at the depth of her frustration. “Don’t you leave,” she snapped, causing him to stop by the drapes.

  “Hesina,” he said, sounding tired. “What do you want from me?”

  She stalked over to him, pointing. “I left everything for you, Lirin. Do you know why?”

  “Because you believed in me?”

  “Because I loved you. And I still love you.”

  “Love can’t change the realities of our situation.”

  “No, but it can change people.” She seized his hand, less a comforting gesture and more a demand that he remain there with her, so they could face this together. “I know how stressed you feel. I feel it too—feel like I’m going to get crushed by it. But I’m not going to let you continue to pretend Kaladin isn’t your son.”

  “The son I raised would never have committed murder in my surgery room.”

  “Your son is a soldier, Lirin. A soldier who inherited his father’s determination, skill, and compassion. You tell me honestly. Who would you rather have out there fighting? Some crazed killer who enjoys it, or the boy you trained to care?”

  He hesitated, then opened his mouth.

  “Before you say you don’t want anyone fighting,” Hesina interrupted, “know that I’ll recognize that as a lie. We both know you’ve admitted that people need to fight sometimes. You simply don’t want it to be your son, despite the fact that he’s probably the best person we could have chosen.”

  “You obviously know the responses you want from me,” Lirin said. “So why should I bother speaking?”

  Hesina groaned, tipping her head back. “You can be so storming frustrating.”

  In return, he squeezed her hand gently. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softer. “I’ll try to listen better, Hesina. I promise.”

  “Don’t just listen better,” she said, pulling him out of the draped-off section and waving toward the larger room. “See better. Look. What do you see?”

  The place was busy with humans who wanted to care for the Radiants. Hesina had instituted a rotation so that everyone got a chance. Beneath the gaze of two watching stormform Regals, people of all ethnicities—and wearing all kinds of clothing—moved among the comatose Radiants. Administering water, changing sheets, brushing hair.

  Hesina and Lirin used a more carefully cultivated group—mostly ardents—to handle delicate matters like bathing the patients, but today’s caregivers were common inhabitants of the tower. Darkeyes made up the majority of these, but each and every one wore a shash glyph like Kaladin’s painted on their forehead.

  “What do you see?” Hesina whispered again to Lirin.

  “Honestly?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I see fools,” he said, “refusing to accept the truth. Resisting, when they’ll just get crushed.”

  She heard the words he left off: Like I was.

  She towed him by his arm to one side of the room, where a man with only one arm sat on a stool, painting the glyph on a young girl’s head. She ran off to her duty as Lirin and Hesina arrived. The man stood respectfully. Bearded, wearing a buttoned shirt and trousers, he had three moles on his cheek. He nodded to Hesina and Lirin. Almost a bow. As far as he could go without provoking a reaction from the watching Fused, who didn’t like such signs of respect shown to other humans.

  “I know you,” Lirin said, narrowing his eyes at the man. “You’re one of the refugees who came to Hearthstone.”

  “I’m Noril, sir,” the man said. “You sent me to the ardents, on suicide watch. Thank you for trying to help.”

  “Well,” Lirin said, “you seem to be doing better.”

  “Depends on the day, sir,” Noril said. “But I’d say I’m better than I was when you met me.”

  Lirin glanced at Hesina, who squeezed his hand and gestured her chin toward Noril’s forehead and the glyph.

  “Why do you wear that glyph?” Lirin asked.

  “To honor Stormblessed, who still fights.” Noril nodded, as if to himself. “I’ll be ready when he calls for me, sir.”

  “Don’t you see the irony in that?” Lirin asked. “It was fighting in your homeland that made you flee, and therefore get into all the trouble you’ve faced. Fighting lost you everything. If people would stop with this nonsense, I would have to see far fewer men with battle shock like yours.”

  Noril settled down on his stool and used his hand to stir his cup of black paint, which he placed between his knees. “Suppose you’re right, sir. Can’t argue with a surgeon about the nonsense we do. But sir, do you know why I get up each day?”

  Lirin shook his head.

  “It’s hard sometimes,” Noril said, stirring. “Coming awake means leaving the nothingness, you know? Remembering the pain. But then I think, ‘Well, he gets up.’”

  “You mean Kaladin?” Lirin asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Noril said. “He’s got the emptiness, bad as I do. I can see it in him. We all can. But he gets up anyway. We’re trapped in here, and we all want to do something to help. We can’t, but somehow he can.

  “And you know, I’ve listened to ardents talk. I’ve been poked and prodded. I’ve been stuck in the dark. None of that worked as well as knowing this one thing, sir. He still gets up. He still fights. So I figure … I figure I can too.”

  Hesina squeezed Lirin’s hand again, pulling him away as she thanked Noril with a smile.

  “You want me to acknowledge,” Lirin whispered, “that what Kaladin’s doing is helping that man, while my surgeon’s treatments could have done nothing.”

  “You said you’d listen,” she said. “You asked what I want of you? I want you to talk to them, Lirin. The people in this room. Don’t challenge them. Don’t argue
with them. Simply ask them why they wear that glyph. And see them, Lirin. Please.”

  She left him standing there and returned to her maps. Trusting in him, and the man she knew he was.

  Adin was going to be a Windrunner someday.

  He had it all figured out. Yes, he was just a potter’s son, and spent his days learning how to turn crem into plates. But the highmarshal himself had once been a darkeyed boy from an unknown village. The spren didn’t just pick kings and queens. They watched everyone, looking for warriors.

  So, as he followed his father through the halls of Urithiru, Adin found opportunities to glare at the invaders. Many might have said that at thirteen, he was too young to become a Radiant. But he knew for a fact there was a girl who had been chosen when she was younger than him. He had seen her leaving food out for old Gavam, the widow who sometimes forgot to collect her rations.

  You had to be brave, even when you thought nobody was watching. That was what the spren wanted. They didn’t care how old you were, if your eyes were dark, or if the bowls you made were lopsided. They wanted you to be brave.

  Glaring at singers wasn’t much. He knew he could—and would have to—do more. When the time was right. And he couldn’t let the enemy catch him being unruly. So for now, he stepped to the side of the corridor with his father and let the large group of warforms pass. He dutifully stood there, his father’s hand on his shoulder, their heads bowed.

  But as soon as the warforms had passed, Adin looked up. And he glared after them, angry as he could be.

  He wasn’t the only one. He caught Shar, the seamstress’s daughter, glaring too. Well, her uncle was a Windrunner, so maybe she figured she had a better chance than most—but surely the spren were more discerning than that. Shar was so bossy, you’d think she was lighteyed.

  Doesn’t matter, Adin reminded himself. The spren don’t care if you’re bossy. They just want you to be brave. Well, he could handle a little competition from Shar. And when he got his spren first, maybe he could give her a few tips.

  Adin’s father caught him glaring, unfortunately, and squeezed his shoulder. “Eyes down,” he hissed.

  Adin obeyed reluctantly, as another group of soldiers marched past—all heading for the atrium. Had there been some kind of disturbance? Adin had better not have missed another appearance by Stormblessed. He couldn’t believe he’d spent the last fight napping.

  He hoped the spren would look at people’s parents when choosing their Radiants. Because Adin’s father was extremely brave. Oh, he didn’t glare at passing soldiers, but he didn’t need to. Adin’s father spent many afternoons tending the fallen Radiants. Directly beneath the gaze of the Fused. And every night he went out in secret, doing something.

  Once the soldiers passed, everyone else continued on their way. Adin’s ankle hurt a little, but it mostly felt better from when he’d hurt it. So he didn’t even limp anymore. He didn’t want a spren to see him acting weak.

  What was going on? He went up on his toes, trying to look over the crowd, but his father didn’t let him linger. Together they entered the market, then turned toward Master Liganor’s shop. It felt strange to keep following their normal routine. How could they continue making pottery at a time like this? How could Master Liganor open the shop for business like nothing was happening? Well, that was part of their bravery. Adin had figured it out.

  They entered the back of the shop and set up in the workroom. Adin got busy, knowing that they had to act normal—so the enemy wouldn’t figure out something was up. You had to get them to feel secure, comfortable. Today, Adin did that by heaving out his bucket of crem, pouring off the water on top, and mixing it until it was a paste. Then he mashed it for his father until it was just the right consistency—a little more squishy than dough.

  He worked the lump aggressively, showing those spren—who were undoubtedly watching him by now—that he had good strong arms. Windrunners needed strong arms, because they didn’t use their legs much, on account of them flying around everywhere.

  As he worked the crem—his arms starting to burn, the earthy scent of wet rock filling the air—he heard the front door shut. Master Liganor had arrived. The old man was nice, for a lighteyes. Once upon a time, he’d done all the glaze work on the pottery himself, but now it was all completed by Gub, the other journeyman besides Adin’s father.

  Adin mashed the crem to the proper consistency, then handed a chunk to his father, who had been cleaning and setting the wheel. Adin’s father hefted it, pushed one finger in, then nodded approvingly. “Make another batch,” he said, putting the chunk onto his wheel. “We’ll practice your plates.”

  “I won’t need to be able to make plates once I can fly,” Adin said.

  “And what if it takes you until your twenties to become a Windrunner?” his father asked. “You’ll need to do something with your time until then. Might as well make plates.”

  “Spren don’t care about plates.”

  “They must,” his father said, spinning up the wheel by pumping his foot on the pedal. “Their Radiants have to eat, after all.” He started shaping the crem. “Never underestimate the value of a job well done, Adin. You want a spren to notice you? Take pride in every job you do. Men who make sloppy plates will be sloppy fighting Fused.”

  Adin narrowed his eyes. How did his father know that? Was it merely another piece of wisdom drawn from his never-ending well of fatherly quips, or … was it from personal experience? Regardless, Adin dragged out another bucket of crem. They were running low. Where would they get more, now that traders weren’t coming in from the Plains?

  He was halfway through mixing the new batch when Master Liganor entered, wringing his hands. Short, bald, and tubby, he looked like a vase—the kind that had been made with too short a neck to really be useful. But he was nice.

  “Something’s happening, Alalan,” the master said. “Something in the atrium. I don’t like it. I think I’ll close the shop today. Just in case.”

  Adin’s father nodded calmly, still shaping his current pot. When he was on a pot, nothing could shake him. He kept sculpting, wetting his fingers absently.

  “What do you think?” Master Liganor asked.

  “A good idea,” Adin’s father replied. “Put out the glyph for lunch, and maybe we can reopen later.”

  “Good, good,” the master said, bustling out of the workshop into the attached showroom. “I think … I think I’ll head to my room for a while. You’ll keep working? We’re low on water pots. As always.”

  Master Liganor closed and latched the wooden windows at the front of the small shop, then locked the door. Then he went upstairs to his rooms.

  As soon as he was gone, Adin’s father stood up, leaving a pot half-finished on the wheel. “Watch the shop, son,” he said, washing his hands, then walked toward the back door.

  Short, with curly hair and a quiet way about him, he was not the type someone would pick out of a crowd as a hero. Yet Adin knew exactly where he was going. Adin stood up, hands coated in crem. “You’re going to go see what’s happening, aren’t you? In the atrium?”

  His father hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. “Stay here and watch the shop.”

  “You’re going to paint your head with the glyph,” Adin said, “and go watch over the Radiants. Just in case. I want to go with you.”

  “Your ankle—”

  “Is fine now,” Adin said. “If something does go wrong, you’ll need me to run home and tell Mother. Plus, if there’s trouble, there could be looting here in the market. I’ll be safer with you.”

  Adin’s father debated, then sighed and waved him forward. Adin felt his heart thundering in his chest as he hurried to obey. He could feel it, an energy in the air. It would happen today.

  Today, he’d pick up a spear and earn his spren.

  Taravangian had given up on being smart.

  It seemed that the longer he lived, the less his intelligence varied each day. And when it did vary, it seemed to move steadily downward.
Toward stupidity. Toward sentimentality. His “smart” days lately would have been average just months ago.

  He needed to act anyway.

  He could not afford to wait upon intelligence. The world could not afford to wait upon the whims of his situation. Unfortunately, Taravangian had no idea how to proceed. He’d failed to recruit Szeth; Taravangian was too stupid to manipulate that man now. He’d started a dozen letters to Dalinar, and ripped them all up.

  The right words. Dalinar would only respond to the right words. Plus, whatever Taravangian wrote seemed too much a risk to Kharbranth. He couldn’t sacrifice his home. He couldn’t.

  Worse, each day he found time slipping away faster and faster. He’d wake from a nap in his chair and the entire day had passed. Usually it was the pain that woke him.

  He wasn’t simply old. He wasn’t simply feeble. This was worse.

  Today, Taravangian forced himself to move to keep from drifting off again. He hobbled through his prison of a house. Trying so hard to think. There had to be a solution!

  Go to Dalinar, a part of him urged. Don’t write him. Talk to him. Was Taravangian actually waiting on the right words, or was there another reason he delayed? A willing disregard for the truth. The slightly smarter version of him didn’t want to give this up to the Blackthorn.

  He shuffled toward the small bathroom on the main floor, leafing through his notebook, looking over hundreds of crossed-out notes and ideas. The answer was here. He felt it. It was so frustrating, knowing how smart he could be, yet living below that capacity so much of the time. Other people didn’t understand intelligence and stupidity. They assumed people who were stupid were somehow less human—less capable of making decisions or plans.

  That wasn’t it at all. He could plan, he merely needed time. He could remember things, given a chance to drill them into his brain. Part of being smart, in his experience, was about speed more than capacity. That and the ability to memorize. When he’d created problems to test his daily intelligence, they had taken these dynamics into account, measuring how quickly he could do problems and how well he could remember the equations and principles needed to do so.