Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  “So it must be,” Mraize said. “Know that in doing this, you have moved against the Ghostbloods in the most offensive of ways. We are now at war, Shallan.”

  “You’ve always been at war,” Shallan said. “I’ve finally picked a side. Goodbye, Mraize. End contact.”

  The floating spren molded into a globe instead of Mraize’s face. Shallan sat back, trying not to feel overwhelmed.

  “Whoever they are,” Adolin said, “we can handle them.”

  Ever optimistic. Well, he had good reason. With the leaders of the honorspren in disgrace, and Lasting Integrity open again to all who would visit, he had accomplished his mission. He’d been correct all along, both about the honorspren and about Shallan herself.

  Shallan reached forward and flipped to the next page in her notebook, where she’d done a drawing using Kelek’s descriptions. It showed a pattern of stars in the sky, and listed the many worlds among them.

  Shallan had kept her head down too long. It was time to soar.

  * * *

  The listeners raised bows toward Venli as she walked up to their camp, alone, after insisting that the others stay back a few hundred feet.

  She didn’t blame the listeners for turning weapons against her. They assumed she had come to finish the job she’d started. So she raised her hands and hummed to Peace, waiting.

  And waiting.

  And waiting.

  Finally, Thude himself emerged from behind their fortification of piled rocks. Storms, it was good to see him. By the counts they’d done from the air, almost all of them must have made it through the narrows and out this side. A thousand listener adults, along with many children.

  Thude approached, wearing warform, but he stopped short of striking range. Venli continued to stand and hum, feeling a hundred bows focused on her. This eastern plain beyond the hills was a strange place—so open, and full of a surprising amount of grass.

  “Storms. Venli?” Thude turned to dash back behind the fortifications.

  She realized he must have just now seen her patterns. She was wearing a form he’d never known, so of course he hadn’t recognized her from a distance. “Thude!” she called out, taking in enough Stormlight to glow in the daylight. “Thude, please!”

  He stopped, seeing her Light.

  “Did my mother make it?” she asked to Longing. “Is she alive?”

  “She is,” he called. “But her mind is gone.”

  “I think I might have a way to heal her.”

  “Traitor,” he shouted. “You think I believe you? You would have had us killed!”

  “I understand,” she said softly to Consolation. “I deserve everything you can call me, and more. But I’m trying as I never did before. Please, listen to what I have to say.”

  He wavered, then crossed the stone to meet her. “Do the others know where we are? Does the enemy know?”

  “I’m not sure,” Venli said. “The humans found you. One Fused knew of you, but she is dead now. I don’t know who she told.”

  “What is a Fused?”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know,” Venli said. “Our gods have returned, terrible as warned. I was largely responsible for this, even if Rlain says he’s certain they would have found their way back anyway.”

  Thude perked up at Rlain’s name.

  “We’re going to have to do something to protect ourselves,” Venli said. “Something to make everyone leave us alone.” She held out her hand, and a little spren in the shape of a comet flew up from the grass and started circling it. “She’s new to this realm and a little confused. But she’s seeking someone to bond and make into a Radiant. Like me and my friends.”

  “You came to us last time with a spren who wanted a bond,” Thude said to Reprimand. “And what happened?”

  “This will be different,” Venli said, alight with Stormlight. “I’ve changed. I promise you all the time you need to test my words. To decide without being pushed. For now, please let me see my mother.”

  He hummed to Winds at last, a sign for her to follow, as he started walking back to camp. Venli attuned Joy.

  “There are more of these spren that will make listeners into Radiants?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How many?”

  “Hundreds,” she said.

  The Rhythm of Joy grew loud inside Venli as she entered the camp—though many who saw her hummed to Anxiety. She cared for only one sight. An old singer woman sitting by a tent made from woven reeds.

  Venli’s heart leaped, and the rhythms sounded more pure. More vibrant. Jaxlim really was alive. Venli rushed forward, collapsing to her knees before Jaxlim, feeling as if she were again a child. In the good way.

  “Mother?” she asked.

  Jaxlim looked up at her. There was no recognition in the old listener’s eyes.

  “Without her,” Thude said, stepping up beside Venli, “we’re losing the songs. Nobody else who knew them escaped.…”

  “It’s all right,” Venli said, wiping her tears. “It’s going to be all right.” Timbre, within Venli, let out a glorious song.

  Venli held out her hand, and the little lightspren inched into the air, then began spinning around Venli’s mother. The Reachers were searching for people who exemplified their Ideal: freedom. And the listeners were the perfect representation.

  However, a Radiant bond required volition, and her mother couldn’t speak Ideals—though the Reachers indicated that the start of the bonding process didn’t require that. They also thought becoming Radiant would heal her mother, though they couldn’t say for certain. Mental wounds were difficult, they explained, and healing depended greatly on the individual.

  Jaxlim could still want this, couldn’t she? She could still choose? “Listen, Mother,” Venli pled to Peace. “Hear me. Please.” Venli began singing the Song of Mornings. The first song she’d learned. Her mother’s favorite. As she sang, listeners gathered around, lowering their weapons. They started humming rhythms to match hers.

  When she finished, Thude knelt beside her. The little spren had slipped into Jaxlim’s body to seek her gemheart, but no change had happened yet. Venli took out a Stormlight sphere, but her mother did not drink it in.

  “It was beautiful,” Thude said. “It’s been too long since I heard one of the songs.”

  “I will restore them to you,” Venli whispered, “if you’ll have me. I understand completely if you won’t—but I’ve brought other Radiants with me, my friends. Along with some of the enemy who have chosen to defect and become listeners.”

  Thude hummed to Skepticism.

  “Again, if you turn me aside, that is understandable,” Venli said. “But at least listen to my friends. You’re going to need allies to survive in this new world, a world of Surgebinders. We can’t go alone as we did before.”

  “We’re not alone,” Thude said. “I think you’ll find that things have changed for us, as they have for you.”

  Venli hummed to Consideration. Then she heard a scraping sound, like rock on rock. Or … claws on rock?

  A shadow fell over Venli, and she started, staring up at a powerful long neck with a wicked arrowhead face on the end. A chasmfiend. Here. And no one was panicking.

  Storms. “That’s…” she whispered. “That’s how you got out of the chasms that night, during the storm?”

  Thude hummed Confidence.

  Before she could demand answers, something else interrupted her. A voice.

  “Venli? Venli, is that you?”

  Venli looked down to see that her mother’s eyes had focused, seeing her.

  Your Words, Venli, a distant femalen voice said in her mind, are now accepted.

  Nearly as much as I look forward to serving you, newest Odium. Who was so recently one of them. You understand. And you are the one I’ve been waiting to worship.

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

  Around four hours after Teft’s funeral, Kaladin went looking for Dalinar. The Blackthorn h
ad returned the previous night, but Kaladin had been too exhausted that evening to do more than salute him, then find his bed.

  So, he excused himself from the party at Jor’s winehouse and soared up toward the top of the tower. It felt good to fly up all on his own. Here, as reported by the messenger who’d brought him the news, Kaladin and Syl found the Bondsmith … er, the Stormfather’s Bondsmith … taking reports with Navani. The other Bondsmith. That was going to take some getting used to.

  Kaladin and Syl intended to linger outside the small council room until Dalinar finished his current meeting, but as soon as he saw them, he broke it off and came trotting over.

  “Kaladin,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

  “You’ve been busy, sir,” Kaladin said. He glanced down at his uniform. “Maybe I shouldn’t be wearing this.”

  Dalinar actually blushed. What a remarkable sight. “About that,” he said. “I should have known I couldn’t—and shouldn’t—try to relieve someone like you from—”

  “Sir,” Kaladin interrupted. He glanced at Syl, who nodded. He turned back to Dalinar. “Sir, you were right. I have a lot of healing to do before I should be in command again.”

  “Even still?” Dalinar asked, glancing at Kaladin’s forehead—and the missing brands. “After what you have accomplished? After swearing the Fourth Ideal?”

  “The Ideals don’t fix us, sir,” Kaladin said. “You know that. We have to fix ourselves. Perhaps with a little help.” He saluted. “We were on the correct path with me, sir. I need to take time away from the battle. Maybe so much time that I never return to full command. I have work to do, helping men like me and Dabbid. I’d like your permission to continue.”

  “Granted,” Dalinar said. “You’ve grown, soldier. Few men have the wisdom to realize when they need help. Fewer still have the strength to go get it. Well done. Very well done.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kaladin said.

  Dalinar hesitated—something seemed to be troubling him. He put his hands behind his back, watching Kaladin. Everyone else was celebrating. Not Dalinar.

  “What is it, sir?” Kaladin asked.

  “I haven’t made it public knowledge yet, but Odium and I have set a time for our contest of champions.”

  “That’s excellent,” Kaladin said. “How long?”

  “Ten days.”

  “Ten … days?”

  Dalinar nodded.

  Syl gasped, and Kaladin felt a spike of alarm. He’d always kind of thought … He’d spent this year assuming that …

  “Sir,” Kaladin said. “I can’t…”

  “I know, son,” Dalinar said quietly. “You weren’t right for the champion job anyway. This is the sort of thing a man must do himself.”

  Kaladin felt cold. Ten days. “The war … Does this mean … it will be over?”

  “One way or another, it will end,” Dalinar said. “The terms will enforce a treaty in ten days, following the contest. The contest will decide the fate of Alethkar, among … other items. Regardless, the hostilities will continue until that day, and so we must remain vigilant. I expect the enemy to make a play to capture what he can, before the treaty finalizes borders. I perhaps made a miscalculation there.

  “Regardless, an end is in sight. But I’m going to need help from someone before this contest arrives. The fight won’t simply be a swordfight— I can’t explain what it will be. I don’t know that I understand yet either, but I’m increasingly confident I need to master what I can of my powers.”

  “I don’t know if I can help with that, sir,” Kaladin said. “Though we share a Surge, our abilities seem very different.”

  “Yes, but there is one who can help me. Unfortunately, he’s insane. And so, Kaladin, I do not need you as a soldier right now. I need you as a surgeon. You are of the few who personally understand what it means to have your own mind betray you. Would you be willing to go on a mission to recover this individual and find a way to help him, so he can help me?”

  “Of course, sir,” Kaladin said. “Who is it?”

  “The Herald Ishi,” Dalinar said. “Creator of the Oathpact, Herald of Truth, and original binder of the Fused.”

  Syl whistled softly.

  “Sir,” Kaladin said, feeling unnerved. “Ten days isn’t enough to help someone with ordinary battle shock. It will take years, if we can even find proper methods. To help a Herald … Well, sir, their problems seem far beyond mine.”

  “I know, soldier,” Dalinar said. “But I think Ishar’s malady is supernatural in nature, and he gave me clues to help him recover. All I need from you now is an agreement to help. And a willingness to travel to Shinovar in somewhat … odd company.”

  “Sir?” Kaladin asked.

  “I’ll explain later,” Dalinar said. “I need time to think this over, decide what I really want to do.”

  Kaladin nodded, but glanced at Syl, who whistled again. “Ten days?” she said. “I guess it’s happening.…”

  Dalinar started back toward his meeting—then paused and reached for something on a nearby table. A flute?

  Wit’s flute.

  “Lift had this,” Dalinar said, handing it toward Kaladin. “She said that Dabbid recognized it as yours.”

  “It is,” Kaladin said with awe. “How is Lift, by the way?”

  “My lunch is gone,” Dalinar said. “So I’d say she’s doing fine. We found her spren once the tower was restored, and they have—for some reason—decided to begin carrying around a bright red chicken.” He sighed. “Anyway, she said she found that flute in a merchant’s bin down in the Breakaway. One who sells salvage from the Shattered Plains. There might be other things your men were forced to abandon there.”

  Huh. “Did she say which merchant?” Kaladin asked.

  * * *

  The Pursuer drew in a deep, angry breath as he woke.

  Then he screamed in rage.

  It felt good to have lungs again. It felt good to shout his frustration. He would continue to scream it. Killed. A second time. By that Windrunner. That insolent mortal, who thought his victory was due to his skill and not raw luck!

  The Pursuer screamed again, glad for the sound to accompany his fury. His voice echoed; he was someplace dark, but enclosed. That made him pause. Shouldn’t he … be out in the storm?

  “Are you quite done, Defeated One?” a voice said in their language, but with no rhythm.

  The Pursuer sat up, twisting to look around. “Who dares call me—” He cut off as he saw who stood on the other side of the room, lit only by a Voidlight sphere held casually in his hand: a sleek figure looking out a dark window, his back to the Pursuer. The figure had twisting horns on his head and carapace that reflected the light wrong. He always ripped off his natural carapace formations at each rebirth, then replaced them with metal inclusions. They were incorporated into his body by Voidlight healing and his own special talents.

  El. The one with no title.

  The Pursuer silenced himself. He didn’t fear this Fused. He feared no one. But … to El, he did not complain.

  “Where am I?” the Pursuer asked instead. “Why have I been reborn so quickly? I was on Braize for barely a day before I felt the pull.”

  “We didn’t want to wait,” El said softly, still facing away from the Pursuer. No rhythms. El was forbidden rhythms. “So we had it done the old way. The way before the storms.”

  “I thought Odium wasn’t doing that any longer.”

  “Our new god made an exception, Defeated One.”

  The Pursuer grunted, picking himself up off the ground. “They gave your title to another, you know. A human.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Disrespectful,” the Pursuer said to Derision. “It should have remained unused. Give me that Voidlight. I need to recharge myself, to earn back my legacy.”

  “Earn back?”

  The Pursuer forced himself to keep his tone respectful, to not shout. The one with no title could be … difficult. “I will h
unt the mortal who killed me,” the Pursuer said. “I will kill him, and then anyone he ever loved. I will murder mortal after mortal until my vengeance is recognized, my atonement made. I assume you all know this, if you couldn’t wait for me to be reborn. So give me that damn Voidlight.”

  El turned, smiling in the shadows. “It is for you, Lezian.”

  “Excellent,” the Pursuer said, stalking forward.

  “But you mistook me,” El said. “When we said we did not want to have to wait for your rebirth, it was not your convenience that troubled us, but mine. I am very curious, you see, and you were the sole appropriate subject.”

  “Subject for what?” the Pursuer asked, reaching the window and looking out over Kholinar at night.

  “Oh, to see if this really works.” El raised the Voidlight sphere … and the Pursuer saw it was attached to a knife. Did the Light look wrong somehow? Warping the air around the gemstone?

  “I think this might hurt,” El said, then grabbed the Pursuer by the front of his beard. “Enjoy this final Passion, Defeated One.”

  He plunged the knife down as the Pursuer struggled.

  And his soul ripped itself apart.

  * * *

  Kaladin walked the now-bright streets of the Breakaway, bathed in cool steady light from above. The transformation the tower had undergone already was amazing. The air had become as warm as it was in Azir, an envelope of temperate weather that extended out to the fields.

  People breathed more easily now. The entire tower was not only properly ventilated, it had water running through hidden pipes into many rooms, like they had in rich cities such as Kharbranth. And that was just the beginning. While some rooms in the tower had once held normal wooden doors, many others had stone doors that opened to the touch. They hadn’t realized how many rooms they’d missed while exploring because they’d been closed when the tower had last shut down. The place was truly a wonder.

  He finally found the merchant shop Lift had told Dalinar about. Though the hour was growing late, the market was busy with people celebrating, so a lot of the shops were open, this one included. Kaladin was directed to a bin of salvage, and he began rifling through it, Syl on his shoulder. He found Rock’s razor. And some of Sigzil’s brushpens. And …