Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  Rlain gave Venli a hug and hummed to Praise.

  “I don’t deserve any of this,” she whispered to him. “I was weak, Rlain.”

  “Then start doing better,” he told her, pulling back. “That is the path of Radiance, Venli. We’re both on it now. Write me via spanreed once you find the others, and give my best to Thude and Harvo, if they made it.”

  She hummed to Appreciation. “You will come to us soon?”

  “Soon,” he promised, then watched her go.

  Kaladin stepped up beside Rlain and rested a hand on his shoulder. Rlain couldn’t feel the Plate, though it was apparently always there—invisible, but ready when needed. Like a Shardblade, but made up of many spren.

  Kaladin didn’t ask if Rlain wanted to leave with the others. Rlain had established that he needed to stay, at least until Renarin returned. Beyond that … well, there was something Rlain had started to fear. Something nebulous but—once it occurred to him—persistent. If the humans had a chance to win this war, but at the expense of taking the minds of all the singers as they’d done in the past, would they take it? Would they enslave an entire people again, if given the opportunity?

  The thought disturbed him. He trusted Kaladin and his friends. But humankind? That was asking a lot. Someone needed to remain close, in order to watch and be certain.

  He would visit the listeners. But he was a Radiant and he was Bridge Four. Urithiru was his home.

  “Come on,” Kaladin said. “It’s time to go give Teft a proper send-off. Among friends.”

  * * *

  Taravangian’s vision expanded, his mind expanded, his essence expanded. Time started to lose meaning. How long had he been like this?

  He became the power. With it, he began to understand the cosmere on a fundamental level. He saw that his predecessor had been sliding toward oblivion for a long, long time. Weakened by his battles in the past, then deeply wounded by Honor, this being had been enslaved by the power. Failing to claim Dalinar, then losing the tower and Stormblessed, had left the being frail. Vulnerable.

  But the power was anything but frail. It was the power of life and death, of creation and destruction. The power of gods. In his specific case, the power of emotion, passion, and—most deeply—the power of raw, untamed fury. Of hatred unbound.

  In this new role, Taravangian had two sides. On one was his knowledge: ideas, understandings, truths, lies … Thousands upon thousands of possible futures opened up to him. Millions of potentials. So numerous that even his expanded godly mind was daunted by their variety.

  On the other side was his fury. The terrible fury, like an unbridled storm, churned and burned within him. It too was so overwhelming he could barely control it.

  He was aware of what he’d left behind in the mortal realm. Szeth had long since climbed to his feet and sheathed Nightblood. Beside him, the assassin had found a burned-out corpse, mostly eaten by the sword’s attack. That was Rayse, Taravangian’s predecessor, but Szeth wasn’t able to tell. The sword had consumed clothing and most of the flesh, leaving bits of stone-grey bone.

  They think that’s me, Taravangian thought, reading the possible futures. Szeth didn’t see what happened to me spiritually. He doesn’t know Odium was here.

  Almost all possible futures agreed. Szeth would confess that he’d gone to kill Taravangian, but somehow Taravangian had drawn Nightblood—and the weapon had consumed him.

  They thought him dead. He was free.…

  Free to destroy! To burn! To wreak havoc and terror upon those who had doubted him!

  No. No, free to plan. To devise a way to save the world from itself. He could see so far! See so much! He needed to think.

  To burn!

  No, to plot!

  To … To …

  Taravangian was startled as he became aware of something else. A growing power nearby, visible only to one such as him. A godly power, infinite and verdant.

  He was not alone.

  * * *

  They gave Teft a king’s funeral, Soulcasting him to stone. A sculptor would be commissioned to create a depiction of Phendorana to erect next to him. The Sibling said there was a room, locked away, where the ancient Radiants stood forever as stone sentries. It would feel good to see Teft among them, in uniform and looking at them all with a scowl, despite the embalmer’s best efforts.

  It felt right.

  All of Bridge Four came, except for Rock. Skar and Drehy had relayed the news after returning to the Shattered Plains—it seemed Kaladin wouldn’t be seeing Rock again.

  Together, the men and women of Bridge Four praised Teft, drank to him, and burned prayers for him in turn. Afterward, they sought a tavern to continue celebrating in a way Teft would have loved, even if he wouldn’t have let himself participate.

  Kaladin waited as they drifted away. They kept checking on him, of course, worried for his health. Worried about the darkness. He appreciated each and every one of them for it, but he didn’t need that type of help today.

  He was kind of all right. A good night’s sleep, and finding peace restored to the tower, had helped. So he sat there, looking at the statue created from Teft’s body. The others finally seemed to sense he needed to be alone. So they left him.

  Syl landed beside him fully sized, in a Bridge Four uniform. He could faintly feel her when she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “We won’t stop missing him, will we?” she asked softly.

  “No. But that’s all right. So long as we cling to the moments we had.”

  “I can’t believe you’re taking this better than I am.”

  “I thought you said you were recovering.”

  “I am,” she said. “This still hurts though.” Once the tower had been restored, she’d mostly returned to herself. Some of what she’d felt had been gloom from what Raboniel had done.

  Some of it wasn’t.

  “We could ask Dalinar,” Kaladin said. “If maybe there’s something wrong with you. A bond or something unnatural.”

  “He won’t find one. I’m merely … alive. And this is part of being alive. So I’m grateful, even if part of it stinks.”

  He nodded.

  “Really stinks,” she added. Then for good measure, “Stinks like a human after … how long has it been since you had a bath?”

  He smiled, and the two of them remained there, looking up at Teft. Kaladin didn’t know if he believed in the Almighty, or in the Tranquiline Halls, or whether people lived after they died. Yes, he’d seen something in a vision. But Dalinar had seen many dead people in his visions, and that didn’t mean they still lived somewhere. He didn’t know why Tien had given the wooden horse to him, as if to prove the vision was real, only for it to immediately vanish.

  That seemed to indicate Kaladin’s mind had fabricated the meeting. He didn’t let it prevent him from feeling that he’d accomplished something important. He’d laid down a heavy burden. The pain didn’t go away, but most of the shame … that he let fall behind him.

  Eventually, he stood up and embraced Teft’s statue. Then he wiped his eyes and nodded to Syl.

  They needed to keep moving forward. And that involved deciding what he was going to do with himself, now that the crisis had ended.

  * * *

  Taravangian grew more capable by the moment.

  The power molded him as he bridled it. He stepped to the edge of infinity, studying endless possibilities as if they were a million rising suns and he were standing on the bank of an eternal ocean. It was beautiful.

  A woman stepped up beside him. He recognized her full hair, black and tightly curled, along with her vibrant round face and dark skin. She had another shape as well. Many of them, but one deeper and truer than the others.

  “Do you understand now?” she asked him.

  “You needed someone who could tempt the power,” Taravangian said, his light gleaming like gold. “But also someone who could control it. I asked for the capacity to save the world. I thought it was the intelligence, but later wo
ndered if it was the ability to feel. In the end, it was both. You were preparing me for this.”

  “Odium’s power is the most dangerous of the sixteen,” she said. “It ruled Rayse, driving him to destroy. It will rule you too, if you let it.”

  “They showed you this possibility, I assume,” Taravangian said, looking at infinity. “But this isn’t nearly as … certain as I imagined it. It shows you things that can happen, but not the hearts of those who act. How did you dare try something like this? How did you know I’d be up to the challenge?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “I couldn’t. You were heading this direction—all I could do was hope that if you succeeded, my gift would work. That I had changed you into someone who could bear this power with honor.”

  Such power. Such incredible power. Taravangian peered into infinity. He’d wanted to save his city, and had succeeded. After that, he’d wanted to save Roshar. He could do that now. He could end this war. Storms, Dalinar and Odium’s contract—which bound Taravangian just as soundly—would do that already.

  But … beyond that, what of the entire cosmere? He couldn’t see that far yet. Perhaps he would eventually be able to. But he did know his predecessor’s plans, and had access to some of his knowledge. So Taravangian knew the cosmere was in chaos. Ruled by fools. Presided over by broken gods.

  There was so much to do. He sorted through Odium’s previous plans and saw all their flaws. How had he let himself be maneuvered into this particular deal with Dalinar? How had he let himself rely so much upon a contest of champions? Didn’t he know? The way to win was to make sure that, no matter the outcome, you were satisfied. Odium should never have entered a deal he could not absolutely control.

  It can still be done, Taravangian realized, seeing the possibilities—so subtle—that his predecessor had missed. Yes … Dalinar has set himself up … to fail. I can beat him.

  “Taravangian,” Cultivation said, holding her hand out to him. “Come. Let me teach you about what you’ve been given. I realize the power is overwhelming, but you can control it. You can do better than Rayse ever did.”

  He smiled and took her hand. Inside, he exulted.

  Oh, you wonderful creature, he thought. You have no idea what you have done.

  He was finally free of the frailties of body and position that had always controlled and defined him. He finally had the freedom to do what he’d desired.

  And now, Taravangian was going to save them all.

  Yes, I look forward to ruling the humans.

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

  Shallan sat by candlelight, writing quietly in her notebook. Adolin pulled his chair up beside her. “She looks better,” he said, “than she did when I saw her in the market. But I don’t know, Shallan.”

  Shallan put down the pen, then took his hands, glancing to the side where—in their little chamber in Lasting Integrity—her first spren sat on a chair, Pattern standing beside her and humming. Had the limp fibers of her head pattern straightened?

  In talking with Pattern, they’d decided upon an Alethi name for Shallan’s previous Cryptic. One that fit, best they could tell, with the meaning of her individual pattern.

  “Testament does seem better, Adolin,” Shallan said. “Thank you for speaking with her.”

  Maya sat on the floor, cross-legged, in a kind of warrior’s pose. She hadn’t recovered completely, but she was improved. And though she still didn’t say much, Shallan doubted many beings—human or spren—had ever spoken words quite so valuable as Maya had at the trial. One might say, by simple economics, that Maya was one of the best orators who ever existed. If you aren’t going to say much, then you might as well make what you do say mean something.

  It gave them hope that whatever Shallan had done to Testament could also be repaired.

  “I’ll try to explain everything Maya and I have done,” Adolin said as honorspren bells rang somewhere near. “But the truth is, I don’t think either of us know. And I’m not exactly an expert on all this.”

  “Recent events considered? I think you’re the only expert.” Shallan reached up and cupped his face. “Thank you, Adolin.”

  “For?”

  “Being you. I’m sorry for the secrets.”

  “You did tell me,” he said. “Eventually.” He nodded toward the knife with the gemstone, still unused, which rested beside her open notebook on one side of the table. The cube Mraize had sent rested on the other side. “The bells are ringing. Time?”

  She removed her hand and situated herself at the desk. Adolin fell silent, waiting and watching as Shallan lifted the top of Mraize’s cube. With help from Kelek, they’d gotten it open without harming the thing inside: a spren in the shape of a glowing ball of light, a strange symbol at the center. No one here recognized the variety of spren, but Wit called it a seon.

  “Are you well, Ala?” Shallan asked. It was said like A-lay.

  “Yes,” the spren whispered.

  “You can come out of the cube. You don’t need to live in there anymore.”

  “I’m … supposed to stay. I’m not supposed to talk. To you. To anyone.”

  Shallan glanced at Adolin. The odd spren resisted attempts to get it free. It acted … like an abused child.

  Another in the list of Mraize’s crimes, Radiant thought.

  Agreed, Shallan replied.

  Radiant remained. They agreed that once they found the right path, she would eventually be absorbed as Veil had been. For now, Shallan’s wounds were still fresh. Practically bleeding. But what she’d done would finally let her begin to heal. And she knew why Pattern had always been so certain she would kill him. And why he’d acted like a newly bonded spren when she’d begun noticing him on the ship with Jasnah. The simple answer was the true one. He had been newly bonded.

  And Shallan had not one Shardblade, but two.

  She still had questions. Things about her past didn’t completely align yet, though her memory was no longer full of holes. There was much they didn’t understand. For example, she was certain that, during the years between killing Testament and finding Pattern, her powers had still functioned in some small ways.

  Some of this, Kelek said, had to do with the nature of deadeyes. Before the Recreance, they had never existed. Kelek said he thought this was why Mraize was hunting him. Something to do with the fall of the singers, and the Knights Radiant, so long ago—and the imprisoning of a specific spren.

  “Contact Mraize please, spren,” she whispered to the ball of light. “It is time.”

  The ball floated into the air, and the next part took barely a moment. The globe of light shifted to make a version of his face speaking to her. “Little knife,” the face said in Mraize’s voice. “I trust the deed has been done?”

  “I did it,” Shallan said. “It hurt so much. But she is gone.”

  “Excellent. That … She, little knife?”

  “Veil and I are one now, Mraize,” Shallan said, resting her hand on her notebook—which contained the fascinating things Kelek had told her about other worlds, other planets. Places he desperately wished to see.

  Like the other Heralds, Kelek wasn’t entirely stable. He was unable to commit to ideas or plans. However, to one thing he had committed: He wanted off Roshar. He was convinced that Odium would soon take over the world completely and restart torturing all the Heralds. Kelek would do practically anything to escape that fate.

  There was a long pause from Mraize. “Shallan,” he finally said, “we do not move against other Ghostbloods.”

  “I’m not one of the Ghostbloods,” Shallan said. “None of us ever were, not fully. And now we are stepping away.”

  “Don’t do this. Think of the cost.”

  “My brothers? Is that what you’re referencing? You must know by now that they are no longer in the tower, Mraize. Pattern and Wit got them out before the occupation even occurred. Thank you for this seon, by the way. Wit says that unbound ones are difficult to come by—but they mak
e for extremely handy communication across realms.”

  “You will never have your answers, Shallan.”

  “I have what I need, thank you very much,” she said as Adolin put a comforting hand on hers. “I’ve been speaking to Kelek, the Herald. He seems to think the reason you’re hunting him is because of an Unmade. Ba-Ado-Mishram? The one who Connected to the singers long ago, giving them forms of power? The one who, when trapped, stole the singers’ minds and made them into parshmen?

  “Why do you want the gemstone that holds Ba-Ado-Mishram, Mraize? What are you intending to do with it? What power do the Ghostbloods seek with a thing that can bind the minds of an entire people?”

  Mraize didn’t respond. The seon, imitating his face, hovered in place. Expressionless.

  “I’ll be returning to the tower soon,” Shallan said. “Along with those honorspren who have decided—in light of recent revelations—to bond with humans. When I do, I expect to find you and yours gone. Perhaps if you cover yourself well, I won’t be able to track you down. Either way, I am going to find that gemstone before you do. And if you get in my way … well, it will be a fun hunt. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “This will not end well for you, Shallan,” Mraize said. “You make an enemy of the most powerful organization in all the cosmere.”

  “I think we can handle you.”

  “Perhaps. Can you handle my master? Can you handle her master?”

  “Thaidakar?” Shallan guessed.

  “Ah, so you’ve heard of him?”

  “The Lord of Scars, Wit calls him. Well, when you next meet this Lord of Scars, give him a message from me.”

  “He comes here in avatar only,” Mraize said. “We are too far beneath his level to be worthy of more.”

  “Then tell his avatar something for me. Tell him … we’re done with his meddling. His influence over my people is finished.” She hesitated, then sighed. Wit had asked nicely. “Also, Wit says to tell him, ‘Deal with your own stupid planet, you idiot. Don’t make me come over there and slap you around again.’”