Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

—Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days

  A black storm.

  Black wind.

  Black rain.

  Then, piercing the blackness like a spear, a lance of light.

  Kaladin Stormblessed.

  Reborn.

  Kaladin exploded through the darkness, surrounded by a thousand joyful windspren, swirling like a vortex. “Go!” he shouted. “Find him!”

  Though it felt like he’d been falling for hours, he had spent most of that time in the place between moments. If he was still falling through the sky, mere seconds had passed, and his father was falling somewhere below him.

  Still alive.

  Kaladin pointed downward, reaching out, preparing himself as hundreds of windspren met the storm and blew it back, creating an open path. A tunnel of light leading toward a single figure tumbling in the air, distant.

  Still alive.

  Kaladin’s Lashings piled atop one another as Syl spun around him, laughing. Storms, how he’d missed her laughter. With his hand outstretched, Kaladin watched as a windspren slammed into it and flashed, outlining his hand with a glowing transparent gauntlet.

  A dozen others slammed into him, joyful, exultant. Lines of light exploded around him as the spren transformed—being pulled into this realm and choosing to Connect to him.

  He watched that tiny tumbling figure as it drew closer and closer. The ground, so near. They’d fallen the length of the tower and hundreds of feet below it in the storms.

  The ground rose up to meet them.

  Almost. Almost. Kaladin stretched out his hand, and—

  * * *

  Not worthy.

  The words echoed against Navani’s soul, and for the moment she forgot Moash. She forgot the tower. She was someplace else.

  Not good enough.

  Not a scholar.

  Not a creator.

  You have no fame, accomplishment, or capacity of your own. Everything that is distinctive about you came from someone else.

  “Lies,” she whispered. And they were.

  They truly were.

  She pressed her hand to the pillar. “Take me as your Bondsmith. I am worthy, Sibling. I say the Words. Life before death.”

  No. So soft. We are … too different.… You capture spren.

  “Who better to work together than two who believe differently?” she said. “Strength before weakness. We can compromise. Isn’t that the soul of building bonds? Of uniting?”

  Moash kicked Raboniel away and she hit the wall, limp as a doll.

  “We can find the answers!” Navani said, blood dribbling from her lips. “Together.”

  You … just want … to live.

  “Don’t you?”

  The Sibling’s voice grew too soft to hear. Moash looked down the hallway toward Navani.

  So she closed her eyes and tried to hum. She tried to find Stormlight’s tone, pure and vibrant. But she faltered. Navani couldn’t hear that tone, not right now. Not with everything falling apart, not with her life seeping away.

  She found herself humming a different tone instead. The one Raboniel had always given her, with its chaotic rhythm. Yes, this close to death, Navani could only hear that. His tone. Eager to claim her.

  The Sibling whimpered.

  And Navani inverted the tone.

  All it took was Intent. Odium gave her the song, but she twisted it back upon him. She hummed the song of anti-Voidlight, her hand pressed to the pillar.

  Navani! the Sibling said, voice growing stronger. The darkness retreats ever so slightly. What are you doing?

  “I … created this for you…” Navani said. “I tried to…”

  Navani? the Sibling said. Navani, it’s not enough. The song isn’t loud enough. It seems to be hurting that man though. He has frozen in place. Navani?

  Her voice faltered. Her bloody hand slipped down to her side, leaving marks on the pillar.

  I can hear my mother’s tone, the Sibling said. But not my tone. I think it’s because my father is dead.

  “Honor…” Navani whispered. “Honor is not … dead. He lives inside the hearts … of his children.…”

  Does he? Truly? It seemed a plea, not a challenge.

  Does he? Navani searched deep. Was what she’d been doing honorable? Creating fabrials? Imprisoning spren? Could she really say that? Odium’s tone rang in her ears, though she’d stopped humming its inverse.

  Then, a pure song. Rising up from within her. Orderly, powerful. Had she done harm without realizing it? Possibly. Had she made mistakes? Certainly. But she’d been trying to help. That was her journey. A journey to discover, learn, and make the world better.

  Honor’s song welled up inside her, and she sang it. The pillar began to vibrate as the Sibling sang Cultivation’s song. The pure sound of Lifelight. The sound began to shift, and Navani modulated her tone, inching it closer and closer to …

  The two snapped into harmony. The boundless energy of Cultivation, always growing and changing, and the calm solidity of Honor—organized, structured. They vibrated together. Structure and nature. Knowledge and wonder. Mixing.

  The song of science itself.

  That is it, the Sibling whispered to the Rhythm of the Tower. My song.

  “Our emulsifier,” Navani whispered to the Rhythm of the Tower.

  The common ground, the Sibling said. Between humans and spren. That is … that is why I was created, so long ago.…

  A rough hand grabbed Navani and spun her around, then pressed her against the pillar. Moash raised his Blade.

  Navani, the Sibling said. I accept your Words.

  Power flooded Navani. Infused her, making her pain evaporate like water on a hotplate. Together, she and the Sibling created Light. The energy surged through her so fully, she felt it bursting from her eyes and mouth as she looked up at Moash and spoke.

  “Journey before destination, you bastard.”

  * * *

  Lirin hung in the air, his eyes squeezed closed, trembling. He remembered falling, and the awful tempest. Darkness.

  It had all vanished. Something had yanked on his arm—slowing him carefully enough to not rip his arm off, but jarringly enough that it ached.

  Stillness. In a storm. Was he dead?

  He opened his eyes and searched upward to find a column of radiant light stretching hundreds of feet in the air, holding back the storm. Windspren? Thousands upon thousands of them.

  Lirin dangled from the gauntleted fist of a Shardbearer in resplendent Shardplate. Armor that seemed alive as it glowed a vibrant blue at the seams, Bridge Four glyphs emblazoned across the chest.

  A flying Shardbearer. Storms. It was him.

  Kaladin proved it by rotating so that they were right-side up—then hoisting Lirin into a tight embrace. Remarkably, as Lirin touched the Plate, he couldn’t feel it. It became completely transparent—barely visible, in fact, as a faint outline around Kaladin.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Kaladin said.

  “Sorry? For … for what?”

  “I thought your way might be correct,” Kaladin said. “And that I’d been wrong. But I don’t think it’s that simple. I think we’re both correct. For us.”

  “I think perhaps I can accept that,” Lirin said.

  Kaladin leaned back—still holding him as they dangled barely twenty feet above the rocks. Storms. Was that how close they’d come? “Cutting it a little tight, don’t you think, son?”

  “A surgeon must be timely and precise.”

  “This is timely?” Lirin said.

  “Well, you do hate it when people waste time,” Kaladin said, grinning. Then he paused, letting go of Lirin with one arm—which was somewhat disconcerting, though Lirin now seemed to be floating on his own. Kaladin touched Lirin’s forehead with fingers that felt normal, despite being faintly outlined by the gauntlet.

  “What is this?” Kaladin asked.

  Lirin remembered, with some embarrassment, what he’d finally let that one-armed fool Noril do to him. A pa
inted shash glyph on Lirin’s forehead.

  “I figured,” Lirin said, “that if an entire tower was going to show faith in my son, I could maybe try to do the same. I’m sorry, son. For my part.” He reached up and brushed aside Kaladin’s hair to see the brand there.

  But as he did, he found scabs flaking away, the brands falling off to the stones below like a shell outgrown, discarded. Clean, smooth skin was left behind.

  Kaladin reached to his forehead in shock. He prodded at the skin, as if amazed. Then he laughed, grabbing Lirin in a tighter embrace.

  “Careful, son,” Lirin said. “I’m not a Radiant. We mortals break.”

  “Radiants break too,” Kaladin whispered. “But then, fortunately, we fill the cracks with something stronger. Come on. We need to protect the people in that tower. You in your way. Me in mine.”

  And so I am not at all dissatisfied with recent events.

  —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days

  Dalinar returned from the Stormfather’s vision and found himself still flying with the Windrunners—face mask in place, wrapped in several layers of protective clothing.

  He felt clunky and slow after being the winds moments ago. But he reveled in what he’d heard and felt. What he’d said.

  These Words are accepted.

  Whatever was happening at Urithiru, Kaladin would face it standing up straight. God Beyond bless it to be enough, and that the Windrunner could reach Navani. For now, Dalinar had to focus on his current task.

  He urged his speed to increase, but of course that did nothing. He had no control over this lesser flight; in it, Dalinar was little more than an arrow propelled through the air by someone else’s power—buffeted by the jealous winds, which did not want him invading their sky.

  A part of him acknowledged the puerile nature of these complaints. He was flying. Covering a hundred miles in less than half an hour. His current travel was a wonder, an incredible achievement. But for a brief time he’d known something better.

  At least this particular flight was nearly finished. It was a relatively quick jump from the battlefields of Emul down to the border of Tukar, where Ishar’s camp had been spotted. The main bulk of the god-priest’s armies had repositioned during the coalition’s campaign, fortifying positions in case the singers or Dalinar’s army tried to advance into Tukar.

  So as Dalinar’s team reached the coast, they found several depopulated camps, marked by large bonfire scars on the stone. The region had been denuded—trees chopped for lumber, hills stripped of anything edible. An army could forage and hunt to stay alive here in the West, where plants grew more readily. In the Unclaimed Hills, that had never been possible.

  Sigzil slowed their group of five Windrunners, Dalinar, and Szeth into a hovering position. Beneath them, Ishar’s large pavilion remained, and some hundred soldiers stood in a ring in front. These wore similar clothing: hogshide battle leathers with hardened cuirasses painted a dark blue, closer to black than the Kholin shade. Not a true uniform, but in a theme at least. Considering their lack of Soulcasters and the prevalence of herdsmen in the area, the equipment made sense. They were armed mostly with spears, though some had steel swords.

  “They’re ready for us all right,” the Azish Windrunner said, steadying Dalinar in the air so he didn’t drift away. “Brightlord, I don’t like this.”

  “We’re all Radiant,” Dalinar said, “with plenty of gemstones and a Bondsmith to renew our spheres. We’re as prepared as anyone could be for whatever will happen below.”

  The companylord glanced toward Szeth, who had been ostensibly flown by Sigzil, but had actually used his own Stormlight. Dalinar had let Sigzil in on the secret, naturally—he wouldn’t leave an officer ignorant of his team’s capabilities.

  “Let me at least send someone else down first,” Sigzil said. “To talk, find out what they want.”

  Dalinar took a deep breath, then nodded. He was impatient, but one did not build good officers by ignoring their legitimate suggestions. “That would be wise.”

  Sigzil conferred with his Windrunners, then swooped toward the ground. Apparently “someone else” had meant him. Sigzil landed and was met by Ishar himself, who emerged from the pavilion. Dalinar could identify the Herald immediately. There was a bond between them. A Connection.

  Sigzil was not attacked by the soldiers in the large ring. Talking to Shalash these last few days, Dalinar thought he had a good picture of the old Herald. He had always imagined Ishi as a wise, careful man, thoughtful. Really, Dalinar’s image of him had always been similar to that of Nohadon, the author of The Way of Kings.

  Shalash had disabused him of these notions. She presented Ishar as a confident, eager man. Energetic, more a battlefield commander than a wise old scholar. He was the man who had discovered how to travel between worlds, leading humans to Roshar in the first place.

  One word that Shalash had never used was “crafty.” Ishar was a bold thinker, a man who pulled others after him on seemingly crazed ideas that worked. But he was not a subtle man. Or at least he hadn’t been. Shalash warned that all of them had changed over the millennia, their … personal quirks growing more and more pronounced.

  Dalinar was not surprised that Sigzil was able to speak to the man, then fly back up safely. Ishar did not seem the type to plan an ambush.

  “Sir,” Sigzil said, floating up beside Dalinar. “I … don’t think he’s altogether sane, despite what Shalash says.”

  “That was expected,” Dalinar said. “What did he say?”

  “He claims to be the Almighty,” Sigzil said. “God, born again, after being shattered. He says he’s waiting for Odium’s champion to come and fight him for the end of the world. I think he means you, sir.”

  Chilling words. “But he’s willing to talk?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sigzil said. “Though I must warn you I don’t like this entire situation.”

  “Understood. Take us down.”

  Sigzil gave the orders, and they made their way to the ground and landed in the center of the ring of soldiers. A few Windrunners summoned Shardblades; the others, not yet of the Third Ideal, carried spears. They surrounded Dalinar in a circular formation, but he patted Sigzil on the shoulder and made them part.

  He walked toward Ishar, Szeth shadowing him on one side, Sigzil on the other. Dalinar had not expected the old Herald to look so strong. Dalinar was used to the frailty of men like Taravangian, but the person before him was a warrior. Though he was outfitted in robes and wearing an ardent’s beard, his forearms and stance clearly indicated he was accustomed to holding a weapon.

  “Champion of Odium,” Ishar said in a loud, deep voice, speaking Azish. “It has been a long wait.”

  “I am not Odium’s champion,” Dalinar said. “I wish to be your ally in facing him, however.”

  “Your lies cannot fool me. I am Tezim, first man, aspect of the Almighty. I alone prepare for the end of the worlds. I should not have ignored your previous messages to me; I see now what you are. What you must be. Only a servant of my enemy could have captured Urithiru, my holy seat.”

  “Ishar,” Dalinar said softly. “I know what you are.”

  “I am that man no longer,” Ishar said. “I am Herald of Heralds, sole bearer of the Oathpact. I am more than I once was and I will become yet more. I shall absorb your power, Odium, and become a god among gods, Adonalsium reborn.”

  Dalinar took a tentative step forward, waving for the others to stay back. “I spoke to Ash,” Dalinar said calmly. “She said to tell you that Taln has returned. He’s hurt, and she pleads for your help in restoring him.”

  “Taln…” Ishar said. He adopted a far-off look. “Our sin. Bearer of our agonies…”

  “Jezrien is dead, Ishar,” Dalinar said. “Truly dead. You felt it. Ash felt it. He was captured, but his soul faded away after that. Her father, Ishar. She lost her father. She needs your counsel. Taln’s madness terrifies her. She needs you.”

  “I prepared myself for your lie
s, champion of Odium,” Ishar said. “I had not realized they would be so … reasonable. Yet you have already done too much to prove who you are. Taking my holy city. Summoning your evil storm. Sending your minions to torment my people. You have corrupted the spren to your side, so you can have false Radiants, but I have discovered your secrets.” He held his hands as if to summon a Blade. “The time for the end is upon us. Let us begin the battle.”

  A weapon appeared from mist in his hands. A sinuous Shardblade lined with glyphs Dalinar did not recognize—though the Blade itself was vaguely familiar. Had he seen it before?

  Szeth hissed loudly. “That Blade,” he said. “The Bondsmith Honorblade. My father’s sword. Where did you get it? What have you done to my father?”

  Ishar stepped forward to strike at Dalinar.

  * * *

  While some humans left Rlain’s band of rebels—returning to their rooms, hoping they hadn’t been recognized—most of them stayed. Indeed, the numbers increased as many of the resisters fetched their families. Because Rlain had to let them go fetch families. What else could they do? Leave them to the Pursuer, who was known to target the loved ones of people he hunted?

  All of this ate away at their time. They were also slowed by the need to carry both the wounded and the unconscious Radiants. Rlain did what he could to keep the main group moving, taking them through the Breakaway, avoiding the central corridor—where they’d be too easily exposed to Heavenly Ones from above.

  However, he found himself attuning Despair. They were being watched—that cremling that harbored a Voidspren was following them along the wall. Rlain’s band wasn’t quite halfway through the market—still a fair distance from the front of the tower—when cracks broke the air, causing gawking marketgoers to flee. Stormform lightning strikes, used as a signal to empty the streets.

  Rlain backed his haggard group against the wall of the large cavern and put their soldiers up front, the Heavenly Ones flying above. Deepest Ones began to emerge from the floor in front of them, and dozens of stormforms approached.

  “You’re right, listener,” Leshwi said, lowering down beside him. “I couldn’t have talked us out of this. He knows what we did. Those who approach are humming the Rhythm of Executions.”