Kaladin hesitated. Could he really leave them here?
“Storms…” Lirin whispered. “Storms, my son has become a monster.…”
Kaladin steeled himself, then slipped into the back room and recovered an extra pouch of spheres he kept there. Then he returned to the exam room, trying—and failing—to avoid the blood. He lifted Teft with a grunt, putting him in a medic’s carry across his back.
“I’ve taken oaths too, Father,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m not the man you wanted me to be. But if I were a monster, I would never have let that other soldier go.”
He left, running for the uninhabited center of the sixth floor as shouts in the singer tongue began to sound behind him.
THE END OF
Part Two
Vyre was unchained.
Moash, the man he’d once been, had lived his entire life chained up and never known it. Oh, he’d recognized the bonds the lighteyes used on him. He’d experienced their tyranny both directly and indirectly—most painfully in the deaths of those he loved, left locked away in their dungeons.
But he hadn’t recognized the truer chains. The ones that bound his soul, constraining him to mere mortality, when he could always have been so much more.
Vyre threw his Shardblade with a wide, overhand throw. Sunlight flashed along the spinning blade as it soared across the quarry and then clanged against a large rock before bouncing free, tearing a gash in the ground, then finally coming to a rest wedged in the stone.
“I … still don’t understand what you’re doing, Vyre,” Khen said to Confusion. Warform suited her. It always had. “That weapon was not meant to be thrown.”
They worked together in the quarry—which had been created by mining through the crem many feet down to reach marble—outside of Kholinar. As usual, his small band of singers went where he did, and started working—quietly—as he did. Moments earlier, Vyre had been cutting stones out with this Blade.
Now, his attention had turned inward. Toward chains, and bindings, and prisons unseen. He gestured, and the distant Shardblade vanished to mist. Yet it took him ten heartbeats to summon it again.
“I saw Prince Adolin throw his Blade,” Vyre said. “Three months ago, on the battlefield in northern Jah Keved. He is no Radiant, yet his Blade responds to him as if he were one.…”
“Maybe it was just a lucky throw.”
Vyre threw his Blade again. It clanged uselessly off his target. He narrowed his eyes, then dismissed it into a puff of mist.
“No,” Vyre said. “He must be able to change the balance to allow for this maneuver. And it returned to him faster than ten heartbeats, even accounting for the accelerated pulse of battle.”
Vyre waited until the weapon appeared in his grip. This was an ancient weapon, one of the mighty Honorblades. Yet it was inferior. It couldn’t change shape, and cost far more Stormlight to use, often crusting his clothing with frost when he used it too quickly.
He didn’t feel anger at his Blade’s inferiority. Or humiliation. The lack of those emotions let him consider the situation clearly, fueling his curiosity, his determination. This was what it was like to be unchained. To be freed from captivity.
To never again feel guilt.
He strode through the quarry. A thousand clinks of metal on stone surrounded him, like the dancing feet of cremlings. An overcast sky and a calm wind chilled his skin as he picked a new section of the quarry in which to work. He began slicing at the wall to cut free another large block of the precious marble.
“Vyre,” Khen said. To Determination. Curious. What did she want that made her so afraid? “I … I am leaving.”
“Very well,” Vyre said, working.
“You’re … not angry?”
“I can’t be angry,” he said, truthfully. “Nor can I feel disappointment.”
After all these months together, she still didn’t understand—because she rushed to explain, worried he’d be upset, despite what he’d said. “I don’t want to go on these raids and fight anymore, Vyre. I feel like I woke up to life, and then immediately started killing. I want to see what it is like to live. Really live. With my own mind, my own Passions.”
“Very well,” Vyre said.
She hummed to Reconciliation.
“You are chained, Khen,” Vyre explained. “You haven’t given your negative emotions to him. Your insecurities. Your fears. Your pain. I was like you for many years.” He narrowed his eyes, turning and looking to the west. Toward him. “Then I took the chains off and saw what I could truly become.”
She hummed to … was that Curiosity? Yes, he thought it was.
“What?” Vyre asked.
“You say you’re unburdened, Vyre,” she said. “That you don’t care anymore. But you keep hunting him. The Windrunner.”
At the mention of Kaladin, Moash felt a hint of old, painful emotions—though Odium quickly sucked them away. “Kaladin is a friend,” Moash said. “It is important to me that he find his freedom. Go your way, Khen. If you become unchained in the future, seek me out. You are a capable warrior, and I would fight beside you again.”
Vyre heaved a rock onto his right shoulder and began hauling it out of the quarry. The others remained in place, working.
Vyre enjoyed hauling rocks. Simple work was best to pass the time. It reminded him of days spent walking with caravans. Except this was better, because it tired out his body, but left him capable of thinking on his curious state. His new state.
Large stone settled on his shoulder, he hiked steadily up the path toward Kholinar. The marble was heavy, but not so much that he needed Stormlight or supernatural help. That would defeat the purpose. For a time, he walked, happy with his status. And he thought about Kaladin.
Poor Kaladin. There was freedom available for his old friend. Two freedoms, in fact. But he doubted Kaladin would ever accept the same freedom as Vyre, so he offered the other one. The sweet peace of nonexistence.
Khen was correct in questioning Vyre. So many things that had once been important didn’t bother him any longer, so why did Kaladin tease at him, draw his attention? Why did Kaladin always make the old emotions churn again, if briefly?
There was one chain still holding to him, Vyre admitted. That of his friend. I have to be right, Vyre thought. And he has to be wrong. Kaladin had to acknowledge that Vyre was right. Until he did …
Until he did, that last chain would remain.
Vyre eventually reached Kholinar and passed through the gates. The city had well and truly settled into its new existence. The peoples intermixed, though singers were properly given deference. They were models of behavior the humans needed to learn to follow. When disputes happened, the singers forced men to be fair to one another. After all, when the parents came home, it was their duty to remove privileges if they found a mess. Humankind had been given millennia to prove they could self-govern properly, and they had failed.
People stared at him. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, and he’d covered his Bridge Four shoulder tattoo with elbow-length sleeves. He was not distinctive. Yet he was. For they knew him; they whispered of him. Vyre. He Who Quiets.
He who hauls rocks.
Vyre soon reached a building site near the District of Colors. Here, workers were constructing special housing for some of the Deepest Ones. Each brand of Fused had its particularities. These liked to have homes without floors, so they could touch the natural stone ground with their unshod feet. They could move through other materials too, so long as they were solid, but they liked the feeling of uncut stone underfoot, stretching to the heart of Roshar. So Vyre’s marble would be used for the walls.
Vyre hadn’t been asked to help with this job. If negative emotions could rule him, he suspected he’d have been annoyed at their neglect. Hard labor in the city? Not telling him was like hiding sweets from a child. Fortunately, he’d found out about it a few days ago, and had started cutting his own rocks and hauling them.
Vyre set his block of marble down by the masons’ sta
tion, where they were honing them. Then he helped unload a cart that had pulled in from the other quarry, full to the brim.
One stone at a time. Heave, haul, drop. It was excellent work. Difficult, grueling. He was so lost in the effort that when the chull carts were all empty, he dusted his hands off—and was surprised to find himself virtually alone. When had the masons and other workers left? It wasn’t yet midday.
“Where is everyone?” he asked the chull keeper, who was quickly gathering his beasts to take them to their pen.
“Everstorm tonight, Brightlord. We were given a half day off, in celebration.”
“I’m not a brightlord,” Vyre said, checking the sky—though, as he now recalled, the storm wouldn’t arrive for many more hours. But it was likely approaching Urithiru right now. The armies were preparing to attack. Well, he’d been told to stay back from that fight, so he looked at the chull keeper. “How much more stone do you need?”
“Well, um, Bright … er, Lord Silencer? Sir? Um. Yes, we need about double what we have now. There’s a pile at the second quarry, but we have chulls and carts to—”
“We shouldn’t let the chulls have all the fun,” Vyre said, turning and walking along the road toward the city gates.
Before Vyre reached the gates, however, he was taken into a vision. He materialized on a vast field of golden light. Odium was there, a hundred feet tall, seated on a throne. In the guise of a mighty Fused, majestic like a king should be.
Vyre walked closer and knelt. “You can take me without a storm now, Lord?”
OUR CONNECTION GROWS STRONGER, Odium said. I HAVEN’T NEEDED A STORM TO BRING YOU INTO A VISION FOR MONTHS NOW, VYRE. I USUALLY DO IT FOR TRADITION’S SAKE.
That made sense. Vyre waited for further instructions.
I’VE NOTICED YOU WALKING FREELY ABOUT IN STORMS ON PREVIOUS DAYS, VYRE, Odium said, his voice like thunder. YOU HAVE GIVEN ME YOUR WORST EMOTIONS, BUT YOU SHOULD MAINTAIN A SENSE OF SELF-PRESERVATION. FEAR OF MY MAJESTY. WHY ARE YOU NOT WARY OF THE LIGHTNING?
“You won’t strike me down,” Vyre said.
HOW DO YOU KNOW THIS?
“I haven’t finished what I’m supposed to do,” Vyre said. “I still have a truth to prove.”
INTERESTING, Odium said. YOU RESPOND TO MY GIFT IN SUCH AN ODD WAY. YOU ARE BECOMING SOMETHING I HAVE NEVER BEFORE CREATED, VYRE.
“Some people say I’ve become your avatar,” Vyre said. “That you act through me, control me.”
Odium laughed. AS IF I WOULD GIVE SUCH POWER TO A MORTAL. NO, VYRE, YOU ARE UNIQUELY YOURSELF. SO INTERESTING.
“I am unchained.”
AND YET, YOU THINK SO OFTEN OF KALADIN.
“I am … mostly unchained.”
Odium leaned forward, lightning crackling across his carapaced body. I NEED YOU AT URITHIRU. WE CANNOT MAKE THE OATHGATES WORK, AND SO I NEED YOU TO TRANSPORT THE GROUND FORCES. I SUSPECT YOUR SWORD WILL STILL FUNCTION.
“I will go right away,” Vyre said. “But I thought you didn’t want me there.”
I WORRY ABOUT THE EFFECT yOUR FRIEND HAS ON YOU. THE WINDRUNNER.
“You needn’t worry. Those emotions belong to you now.”
INDEED. Odium leaned closer. YOUR FRIEND IS A PROBLEM TO ME—A BIGGER PROBLEM THAN I HAD ASSUMED. I HAVE FORESEEN THAT HE WILL CONTINUE TO BE ONE.
That was not surprising. Kaladin was a problem to many.
HE HAS LEFT THE BATTLE, WHICH I HADN’T THOUGHT HIM CAPABLE OF DOING, Odium said. STRANGELY, THIS WILL MAKE HIM FAR MORE DANGEROUS IN THE FUTURE. UNLESS WE ACT. BUT I CANNOT STRIKE HIM DOWN DIRECTLY. NOT UNLESS HE PUTS HIMSELF INTO MY HANDS.
“Kaladin can’t be killed,” Vyre said. He knew it, sure as he knew the sun was hot, and that it circled Roshar forever.
NOT EVEN BY YOU?
“Especially not by me.”
I DO NOT THINK THAT IS TRUE, VYRE, THOUGH I UNDERSTAND WHY YOU THINK IT SO. I FEEL YOUR PASSIONS, AS THEY ARE MINE. I UNDERSTAND YOU.
Vyre remained kneeling.
I WOULD CLAIM THIS ONE, AS I HAVE CLAIMED YOU, Odium said.
And Vyre would see him dead first. A mercy.
CAN YOU THINK OF A WAY TO HURT HIM? Odium asked. DRIVE HIM TOWARD ME?
“Isolate him. Take away his friends.”
HE WILL SOON BE ALONE.
“Then make him afraid. Make him dread. Break him.”
HOW?
Vyre looked up, across the endless field of golden stone. “How do you bring me here?”
THIS IS NOT A PLACE, BUT A WARPING OF THE REALMS. A VISION.
“Could you show me anything?”
YES.
“Could you show him anything?”
I HAVEN’T THE CONNECTION TO HIM. Odium considered, humming softly to a rhythm. I SEE A WAY. THERE ARE HOLES IN HIS SOUL. SOMEONE COULD GET IN. SOMEONE WHO KNOWS HIM, SOMEONE CONNECTED TO HIM. SOMEONE WHO FEELS AS HE DOES.
“I will do it.”
PERHAPS. YOU COULD INFLUENCE HIM IN SMALL WAYS ONLY. PERHAPS EACH NIGHT, WHEN HE SLUMBERS … HE THINKS OF YOU STILL, AND THERE IS MORE. A CONNECTION BECAUSE OF YOUR PAST, YOUR SHARED DREAMS. ANY BOND SUCH AS THAT CAN BE MANIPULATED.
WILL THIS BE ENOUGH? IF WE SHOW HIM VISIONS, WILL THAT BREAK HIM?
“It will be a start. I can bring him to the brink. Get him to step up to the ledge.”
THEN WHAT?
“Then we find a way to make him jump,” Moash said softly.
As Lift hung from the ceiling—dangling precariously from a rope with one hand, reaching out with the other toward the basket—she was forced to acknowledge that stealing food just didn’t give her the same thrill it once had.
She continued to pretend because she didn’t want her life to change. She hated change. Stealing people’s food was basically her thing. She’d been doing it for years, and she did get a thrill when she saw their starvin’ faces. They’d turn away, then when they looked back, their chouta wrap would be gone. Or they’d lift the cover on their meal, and find the plate empty. After that came the most sublime moment of cross-eyed panic and confusion.
But then they’d smile and look to see where she was. They didn’t see her, of course. She was way too good at hidin’. But they’d look, and they seemed fond.
You weren’t supposed to be fond when someone stole from you. Ruined the entire experience.
Then there was this. She stretched a little farther, fingers brushing the basket.…
There. She snatched the handle.
She stuffed the handle between her teeth, scuttled up the rope, then vanished into the hidden labyrinth of small tunnels that latticed the ceilings and walls of Urithiru. Up here Wyndle waited, coiled up on himself and making a face out of vines and crystal.
“Oh!” he said. “A full basket! Let’s see what he left you this time!”
“Ain’t nobody leaving me nothin’,” Lift snapped. “I stole it, unfair and square. Also hush. Someone might hear.”
“They can’t hear me, mistress. I am—”
“I can hear you. So hush, whineyspren.” She crept down the tunnel. There was an Everstorm going on right now, and she wanted to be safe at her nest. The things felt creepy in ways that the other Radiants didn’t seem to notice. And even though everything seemed normal in the tower, she couldn’t help noticing the strange sensation that everything was wrong.
She felt that every time though. So today, she just pushed the basket ahead of her as she crawled through the small tunnel. The next intersection was a tight squeeze, but she could make herself slick with Stormlight, so she got through.
Two turns and a straight crawl later, they entered a small intersection where she’d left a sphere for light. The roof of the tunnel was a little higher here, letting her settle with her back against the stone wall so she could inspect her prize.
Wyndle came in on the ceiling, taking the shape of a growing vine that crept across the stone. He formed a face again right above her as she rifled through the basket. Flatbread … some curry … sugared mashed beans … a little jar
of jam with a cute face drawn on top above the Horneater symbol for “love.”
Lift glanced up at the ceiling and the blinking vine face hanging from it. “Fine,” she admitted. “Maybe he left it out for me.”
“Maybe?”
“Starvin’ stupid Horneater boy,” Lift grumbled, slathering jam on the flatbread. “His dad knew how to make it appear like an accident, leavin’ stuff out so I could take it. Let me stormin’ pretend.”
She stuffed the bread into her mouth. Damnation. It was good. Only made the experience more humiliating.
“I don’t see the problem, mistress,” Wyndle said.
“That’s ’cuz you’re a dummyspren,” she said, then stuffed the rest of the flatbread into her mouth, talking around it. “Dodnoif lifhf anyfunf inftor lif.”
“I do too like fun in my life!” he said. “Last month, with the help of some human children, I displayed the most beautiful art installation of chairs. The other cultivationspren thought it quite majestic. They complimented the stools in particular.”
Lift sighed, leaning back, slumping there. Too annoyed to even make a good stool joke. She wasn’t really angry. Wasn’t really sad. Just … blarglegorf. Supremely blarglegorf.
Storms. The wrap she wore underneath her shirt was itchy today. “Come on,” she said, grabbing the basket and sphere, then moving on through the tower’s innards.
“Is it really so bad?” Wyndle said, following. “Gift likes you. That is why he leaves things out for you.”
“I’m not supposed to be liked,” Lift snapped. “I’m a shadow. A dangerous and unknown shadow, moving mysteriously from place to place, never seen. Always feared.”
“A … shadow.”
“Yes, a starvin’ shadow, all right?” She had to squeeze through the next tunnel too. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “This tower, it’s like a big ol’ corpse. And I’m like blood, sneaking around through its veins.”
Rhythm of War (9781429952040) Page 68
