Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  “This is dangerous,” one of the Nine loudly said to the room. “The humans are suspicious of Taravangian already. He reports that he is watched at all times. If we use his intelligence in this way, there is little doubt he will be compromised entirely.”

  “Let him be compromised!” Raboniel said. “What good is a weapon if you don’t swing it? Why have you delayed? The humans are untrained, their powers fledgling, their understanding laughable. I find it embarrassing to awaken and find you struggling against these pitiful shadows of our once-mighty enemies.

  “Without the tower, their coalition will disintegrate, as they will be unable to deliver support through the Oathgates. We will gain great advantage through the use of those same portals. In addition, this endeavor will give me the opportunity to test some … theories I have developed while slumbering these last millennia. I am increasingly certain I have discovered a path that will lead to an end to the war.”

  Leshwi hissed out slowly, and Venli felt cold. It seemed that whatever Raboniel thought would end the war would involve techniques best left untouched.

  The rest of the room, however, appeared impressed. They whispered to Subservience, indicating consent to the idea. Even the Nine started humming to the rhythm. The Fused put on a strong Passionate show, but there was a fatigue to these ancient souls. It underpinned their other Passions, like the true color of a dyed cloth. Wash it, leave it out in the storms long enough, and the core shone through.

  These creatures were fraying, surrendering their minds—their will and very individuality offered up to Odium on the altar of eternal war. Perhaps the humans were new to their abilities, untested, but the Fused were old axes, chipped and weathered. They would take great risks, after so many rebirths, to be finished at last.

  “What of Stormblessed?” a voice called out, thickly accented, from the recesses of the grand chamber.

  Venli found herself humming to Abashment as she searched the room. Who had spoken so brashly without first ordering their Voice to step forward? She found him sitting on a raised ledge up above, in shadow, right as her mind connected the accent to the lack of decorum.

  Vyre. The human, once called Moash. He dressed like a soldier, with perfectly trimmed hair, a sharp uniform cut after human tailoring. He was an oddity. Why did the Nine continue to suffer him? Not only that, why had they given him an Honorblade, one of the most precious relics on Roshar?

  He draped one leg off the ledge. Held in his lap, his sword reflected sunlight as the tip moved. “He’ll stop you,” Vyre said. “You should have a plan for dealing with him.”

  “Ah, the human,” Raboniel said, looking at Vyre on his ledge. “I’ve heard of you. Such an interesting specimen. Odium favors you.”

  “He takes my pain,” Vyre said. “And leaves me to achieve my potential. You did not answer my question. What of Stormblessed?”

  “I’m not afraid of a Windrunner, no matter how … mythical his reputation may be growing,” Raboniel said. “We will focus our attention on the Bondsmith and the Elsecaller. They are more dangerous than any simple soldier.”

  “Well,” Vyre said, pulling the tip of his sword back into the shadows, “I’m sure you know your business, Fused.”

  The Nine, as always, suffered the strange human. His position had been chosen by Odium. Leshwi seemed to think highly of him—of course, he’d once killed her, and that was a sure way to gain her respect.

  “Your proposal is bold, Raboniel,” one of the Nine said. “And decisive. We have long been without your guidance in this Return, and we welcome your Passion. We will move forward as you request. Prepare a team for your infiltration of the tower, and we shall contact the human Taravangian with instructions. He can divert the Bondsmith and Elsecaller.”

  Raboniel sang loudly to Satisfaction, a stately and decisive sound. Venli was reasonably certain this entire meeting had been for show—the Nine had not stopped to debate the plan. They’d known what Raboniel would suggest, and had already worked out the details.

  The other Fused waited respectfully as Raboniel—her victorious proposal elevating her further in their eyes—walked toward the exit. Only one of the Fused moved. Leshwi.

  “Come,” she said, floating after Raboniel.

  Venli hurried, joining Leshwi as she intercepted the tall femalen just outside the doors. Raboniel looked over Leshwi, humming to Derision as the two emerged into sunlight on the balcony rooftop around the chamber. The stairwell down was to the right.

  “Why did you seek to block my proposal, Leshwi?” Raboniel asked. “Have you begun to feel the effects of madness?”

  “I am not mad, but afraid,” Leshwi said to Abashment—and Venli started at the words. Lady Leshwi, afraid? “Do you truly think you can end the war?”

  “I’m certain of it,” Raboniel said to Derision. “I have had a long time to ponder on the discoveries made before the end of the false Return.” She reached into the pocket of her robe and removed a gemstone glowing with Stormlight, a shifting spren captured inside. A fabrial like the humans created.

  “They imprisoned some of the Unmade in these, Leshwi,” Raboniel said. “How close do you think they are to discovering they could do the same for us? Can you imagine it? Forever imprisoned in a gemstone, locked away, able to think but unable to ever break free?”

  Leshwi hummed to Panic, a pained rhythm with unfinished measures and chopped-up beats.

  “One way or another,” Raboniel said, “this is the final Return. The humans will soon discover how to imprison us. If not, well, the best of us who remain are but a few steps from madness. We must find a solution to this war.”

  “You are newly Returned,” Leshwi said. “You have no servants or staff. Your undertaking will require both.” She gestured to the side, to Venli. “I have gathered a staff of faithful and highly capable singers. I would lend them to you for this enterprise, and would attend you myself, as an apology for my objections.”

  “You do always have the best servants,” Raboniel said, eyeing Venli. “This one is the Last Listener, is she not? Once Voice of Odium himself? How did you collect her?”

  Timbre pulsed inside Venli—she was annoyed by the term “collect,” and Venli felt the same. She bowed her head and hummed to Subservience to keep from revealing her true feelings.

  “She was cast off by Odium,” Leshwi said. “I have found her an excellent Voice.”

  “The daughter of traitors,” Raboniel said, but to Craving—she was curious about Venli. “Then a traitor to her own kind. I will take her, and those you send, as my servants during the infiltration. You may join us as well. Serve, and perhaps I will forgive your crass objections. There were certainly others thinking the same; you gave opportunity for refutation.”

  Raboniel strode away, though as she reached the steps, Venli spotted someone waiting for her in the shadows below. The hulking figure of the Pursuer, who had been dismissed earlier. He bowed to Raboniel, who hesitated at the top of the stairwell. Their exchange was not audible to Venli.

  “He’s begging for a chance to go with her,” Leshwi whispered. “Raboniel will have jurisdiction during this infiltration—and can authorize him to continue his hunt. He will try anything to justify another chance at that Windrunner. I fear he will ignore the Nine, particularly if Raboniel approves of him.” She looked to Venli. “You must gather our people and attend her. You will not need to fight; that will be done by others. You will serve her as you have me, and report to me in secret.”

  “Mistress?” Venli asked. She lowered her voice. “So you don’t trust her.”

  “Of course not,” Leshwi said. “Last time, her recklessness nearly cost us everything. The Nine favor her boldness; they feel the weight of time. Yet boldness can be one step from foolishness. So we must prevent a catastrophe. This land is for the ordinary singers to inherit. I will not leave it desolate simply to prove we can murder better than our enemies.”

  Venli swelled at that. Timbre surged inside her, pulsing, encouraging her
.

  “Mistress,” she whispered, “do you think there … could be a way to re-form my people? Find a land away from both Fused and humans? To be on our own again, as we were?”

  Leshwi hummed to Reprimand, glancing toward the chamber with the other Fused. None had left yet. They wouldn’t want to be seen rushing after Raboniel—and Venli realized, in a moment of understanding, why Leshwi preferred to remain lowly among them. Her lack of standing gave her freedom to do things others considered beneath them.

  “Do not speak of such things,” Leshwi hissed. “Others already mistrust you for what your ancestors did. You wish to rule yourselves? I commend that—but the time is not right. Help us defeat the humans, and then we Fused will fade into time and leave this world to you. That is how to achieve your independence, Venli.”

  “Yes, mistress,” she said to Subservience. She didn’t feel it, and Timbre pulsed her own frustration.

  Venli had felt Odium’s hand directly. He would not leave this people alone, and she suspected the other Fused—tired though they might be—would not abandon ruling the world. Too many of them enjoyed the luxury of their positions. Victory for them was no path to independence for Venli and her people.

  Leshwi soared off, leaving Venli to walk down the steps. As she did, she caught sight of Raboniel and the Pursuer speaking conspiratorially in the dim reaches of the third floor. Storms, what was Venli getting pulled into now?

  Timbre pulsed inside her.

  “Opportunity?” Venli said. “What kind of opportunity?”

  Timbre pulsed again.

  “I thought you hated the human Radiants,” Venli whispered. “Who cares if we’re going to find them at the tower?”

  Timbre pulsed decisively. She had a point. Perhaps the humans could train Venli. Maybe she could capture one of their Radiants and make them teach her.

  At any rate, she needed to prepare her staff to leave the city. Her recruitment efforts would have to be put on hold. Like it or not, she was going to be at the forefront of another invasion of the human lands.

  Logicspren react curiously to imprisonment. Unlike other spren, they do not manifest some attribute—you cannot use them to make heat, or to warn of nearby danger, or conjoin gemstones. For years, artifabrians considered them useless—indeed, experimenting with them was uncommon, since logicspren are rare and difficult to capture.

  A breakthrough has come in discovering that logicspren will vary the light they radiate based on certain stimuli. For example, if you make the Light leak from the gemstone at a controlled rate, the spren will alternate dimming and brightening in a regular pattern. This has led to fabrial clocks.

  When the gemstone is tapped with certain metals, the light will also change states from bright to dim. This is leading to some very interesting and complex mechanisms.

  —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175

  In the weeks following the assault on Hearthstone, Kaladin’s anxiety began to subside, and he pushed through the worst of the darkness. He always emerged on the other side. Why was that so difficult to remember while in the middle of it?

  He’d been given time to decide what to do after his “retirement,” so he didn’t rush the decision, and didn’t tell anyone other than Adolin. He wanted to find the best way to introduce the idea to his Windrunners—and if he could, make his decision first. Better to bring them a clear plan.

  He found himself understanding Dalinar’s order more and more as the days passed. At least Kaladin didn’t have to keep pretending he wasn’t exhausted. He did delay his decision though. So Dalinar eventually gave him a gentle—but firm—nudge. Kaladin could have a little more time to decide his path, but they needed to start promoting other Windrunners to take over his duties.

  So it was that ten days after the mission to Hearthstone, Kaladin stood in front of the army’s command staff and listened to Dalinar announce that Kaladin’s role in the army was “evolving.”

  Kaladin found the experience humiliating. Everyone applauded his heroism even as he was forced out. Kaladin announced that Sigzil—with whom he’d conferred earlier in the day—would take over daily administration of the Windrunners, overseeing things like supplies and recruitment. He’d be named to the rank of companylord. Skar, when he returned from leave at the Horneater Peaks, would be named company second, and would oversee and lead active Windrunner missions.

  A short time later, Kaladin was allowed to go—fortunately, there was no forced “party” for him. He retreated down a long dark hallway in Urithiru, relieved that he didn’t feel nearly as bad as he had worried he would. He wasn’t a danger to himself today.

  Now he just had to find new purpose in life. Storms, that scared him—having nothing to do reminded him of being a bridgeman. When he wasn’t on bridge runs, those days had stretched. Full of blank space that numbed the mind, a strange mental anesthetic. His life was far better now. He wasn’t so lost in self-pity that he couldn’t notice or acknowledge that. Still, he found the similarity uncomfortable.

  Syl hovered in front of him in the Urithiru hallway, taking the form of a fanciful ship—only with sails on the bottom. “What is that?” Kaladin asked her.

  “I don’t know,” she said, sailing past him. “Navani was drawing it during a meeting a few weeks ago. I think she got mixed up. Maybe she hasn’t seen boats before?”

  “I sincerely doubt that’s the case,” Kaladin said, looking down the hallway. Nothing to do.

  No, he thought. You can’t pretend you have nothing to do because you’re scared. Find a new purpose.

  He took a deep breath, then strode forward. He could at least act confident. Hav’s first rule of leadership, drilled into Kaladin on his first day as a squadleader. Once you make a decision, commit to it.

  “Where are we going?” Syl asked, transforming into a ribbon of light to catch up to him.

  “Sparring grounds.”

  “Going to try some training to take your mind off things?”

  “No,” Kaladin said. “I’m going to—against my better judgment—seek wisdom there.”

  “Many of the ardents who train there seem pretty wise to me,” she said. “After all, they shave their heads.”

  “They…” Kaladin frowned. “Syl, what does that have to do with being wise?”

  “Hair is gross. It seems smart to shave it off.”

  “You have hair.”

  “I do not; I just have me. Think about it, Kaladin. Everything else that comes out of your body you dispose of quickly and quietly—but this strange stuff oozes out of little holes in your head, and you let it sit there? Gross.”

  “Not all of us have the luxury of being fragments of divinity.”

  “Actually, everything is a fragment of divinities. We’re relatives that way.” She zipped in closer to him. “You humans are merely the weird relatives that live out in the stormshelter; the ones we try not to let visitors know about.”

  Kaladin could smell the sparring grounds before he arrived—the mingled familiar scents of sweat and sword oil. Syl shot to the left, making a loop of the room as Kaladin hurried past shouting pairs of men engaged in bouts of all types. He made his way to the rear wall where the swordmasters congregated.

  He’d always found martial ardents to be a strange bunch. Ordinary ardents made more sense: they joined the church for scholarly reasons, or because of family pressure, or because they were devout and wanted to serve the Almighty. Most martial ardents had different pasts. Many had once been soldiers, then given themselves over to the church. Not to serve, but to escape. He’d never really understood what might lead someone to walk that path. Not until recently.

  As he walked among the training soldiers, he was reminded why he’d stopped coming. Bowing, murmurs of “Stormblessed,” people making way for him. That was fine in the hallways, when he passed people who didn’t know him. But the ones who trained here were his brothers—and in some few cases sisters—in ar
ms. They should know he didn’t need such attention.

  He reached the swordmasters—but unfortunately, the man he sought wasn’t among them. Master Lahar explained that Zahel was on laundry detail, which surprised Kaladin. Though he knew all ardents took turns on service detail, he wouldn’t have thought a swordmaster would be sent to wash clothing.

  As he left the sparring chamber, Syl came soaring back to him, wearing the shape of an arrow in flight. “Did I hear you asking for Zahel?” she asked.

  “You did. Why?”

  “It’s just that … there are several swordmasters, Kaladin. A few of them are actually useful. So why would you want to talk to Zahel?”

  He wasn’t certain he could explain. One of the other swordmasters—or likely any of the ardents who frequented the sparring grounds—could indeed answer his questions. But they, like the others, regarded Kaladin with an air of respect and awe. He wanted to talk to someone who would be completely honest with him.

  He made his way out to the edge of the tower. Here, open to the sky, various tiered discs of stone projected from the base of the structure like enormous fronds. Over the last year, a number of these had been turned into pastures for chulls, lobberbeasts, or horses. Others were hung with lines for drying wash. Kaladin started toward the drying wash, but paused—then decided to make a short detour.

  Navani and her scholars claimed that these outer plates around the tower had once been fields. How could that ever have been the case? The air up here was cold, and though Rock seemed to find it invigorating, Kaladin could tell it lacked something. He grew winded more quickly, and if he exerted himself, he sometimes felt light-headed in ways he never did at normal elevations.

  Highstorms hit here infrequently. Nine out of ten didn’t get high enough—passing as an angry expanse below, rumbling their discontent with flashes of lightning. Without the storms, there simply wasn’t enough water for crops, let alone proper hillsides for planting polyps.