Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Intent matters. Intent is king. You cannot do what I attempt by accident. You must mean it. This seems a much greater law than we’ve ever before understood.

  —From Rhythm of War, endnotes

  Navani sat quietly in her cell of a library room, waiting. Hours passed. She requested food and was given it, but neither the guard nor the Deepest One watching her answered when she asked questions. So she waited. Too nervous to study. Too sick to her stomach to dare try speaking to the Sibling.

  After all her assurances and promises, Navani had proven untrustworthy after all.

  Raboniel finally arrived, wearing a simple outfit of trousers, a blouse, and a Thaylen vest. She’d previously said she found their designs fascinating. She’d chosen traditionally male clothing, but likely didn’t mind the distinction.

  The Lady of Wishes observed Navani from the doorway, then shooed the guards away. Navani gritted her teeth, then stood up and bowed. She’d been hurt, outmatched, and defeated. But she couldn’t let anger and humiliation rule. She needed information.

  “You didn’t persist in trying to contact me,” Raboniel said. “I assume you realized what had happened.”

  “How long were you listening in on my conversations with the Sibling, Ancient One?” Navani said.

  “Always,” Raboniel said. “When I could not be listening in, I had another Fused doing it.”

  Navani closed her eyes. I gave them the secret to the third node. I pried it out of the Sibling, walking directly into the enemy’s plan.

  “You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself,” Raboniel said. “The Sibling is truly to blame—they always have been so innocent. And unaware of their own naiveness. When I touched the pillar, I knew the Sibling was awake—but pretending to be dead. So I let the ruse continue, and I listened. I couldn’t know that decision would bear fruit, but that is why you nurture nine seeds and watch for the one that begins growing.”

  “The Sibling told me…” Navani said. “They said we couldn’t outthink you.”

  “Yes, I heard that,” Raboniel said. “It made me worry that you’d spotted my surveillance. It seemed too obvious a line said to distract me.”

  “How?” Navani asked, opening her eyes. “How did you do it, Ancient One? Surely the Sibling would have known if their communication could be compromised.”

  Raboniel hummed a rhythm, then walked over and tapped Navani’s stacks of notes. “Study. Find us answers about Light, Navani. Stop trying to fight me; help me end this war instead. That was always your purpose here.”

  Navani felt nausea stirring her insides. She’d thrown up once already from the sick feeling of what she’d done. What she’d cost the Sibling. She forced it down this time, and as Raboniel left, she managed to ask one more question.

  “Kaladin,” she said. “The Windrunner. Did you kill him, Ancient One?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “Though I did land a fine cut on him. You have likely realized that he succeeded in destroying the node, as the shield is still up. However, when the Windrunner was spotted fleeing the tower a good half hour after, his wound hadn’t healed—so I think the Sibling’s transformation is almost complete. This makes your Windrunner’s powers quite unreliable. I find it unlikely he survived after running out into the storm.”

  “Into the storm?” Navani asked.

  “Yes. A pity. Perhaps the Sibling can tell you if he is dead or not—if so, I should very much like to study his corpse.”

  Raboniel left. Navani pushed through her sickness to write, then burn, a prayer of protection for Kaladin. It was all she could do.

  Then she rested her head on the table to think about the profound scope of her failure.

  THE END OF

  Part Three

  Szeth-son-Honor tried to slouch.

  Dalinar said that slouching a little would help him imitate an ordinary soldier on a boring guard duty. Dalinar said Szeth prowled when he walked, and was too intense when standing at watch. Like a fire burning high when it should be smoldering.

  How did one stop being intense? Szeth tried to understand this as he forced himself to lean against a tree, folding his arms as Dalinar had suggested. In front of him, the Blackthorn played with his grandnephew, the child of Elhokar. Szeth carefully checked the perimeter of the small clearing. Watching for shadows. Or for people suspiciously lingering in the nearby camp—visible through the trees.

  He saw nothing, which troubled him. But he tried to relax anyway.

  The cloudy sky and muggy weather today were reminiscent of the coast of Shinovar, where Szeth’s father had worked as a shepherd in his youth. With this thick grass, Szeth could almost imagine he was home. Near the beautiful white cliffs, listening to lambs bleat as he carried water.

  He heard his father’s gentle words. The best and truest duty of a person is to add to the world. To create, and not destroy.

  But no. Szeth was not home. He was standing on profane stone in a forest clearing outside a small town in Emul. Dalinar knelt down, showing Gavinor—a child not yet five—how to hold his practice sword.

  It had been a few minutes, so Szeth left the tree and made a circuit of the clearing, inspecting a few suspicious bundles of vines. “Do you see anything dangerous, sword-nimi?” he asked softly.

  Nope, the sword said. I think you should draw me. I can see better when I’m drawn.

  “When you are drawn, sword-nimi, you attempt to drain my life.”

  Nonsense. I like you. I wouldn’t try to kill you.

  The weapon projected its pleasant voice into Szeth’s mind. Dalinar didn’t like the sensation, so the sword now spoke only to Szeth.

  “I see nothing dangerous,” Szeth said, returning to his place beside the tree, then tried to at least appear relaxed. It was difficult, requiring vigilance and dedication, but he did not want to be chastised by Dalinar again.

  That’s good, right? Nothing dangerous?

  “No, sword-nimi,” Szeth said. “It is not good. It is concerning. Dalinar has so many enemies; they will be sending assassins, spies. If I do not see them, perhaps I am too lax or too unskilled.”

  Or maybe they aren’t here to find, the sword said. Vasher was always paranoid too. And he could sense if people were near. I told him to stop worrying so much. Like you. Worry, worry, worry.

  “I have been given a duty,” Szeth said. “I will do it well.”

  Dalinar laughed as the young boy held his toy sword high and proclaimed himself a Windrunner. The child had been through a horrifying experience back in Kholinar, and he was quiet much of the time. Haunted. He’d been tortured by Voidspren, manipulated by the Unmade, neglected by his mother. Though Szeth’s sufferings had been different, he couldn’t help but feel a kinship with the child.

  Dalinar clearly enjoyed seeing the child become more expressive and enthusiastic as they played. Szeth was reminded again of his own childhood spent playing with the sheep. A simple time, before his family had been given to the Honorblades. Before his gentle father had been taught to kill. To subtract.

  His father was still alive, in Shinovar. Bearer of a different sword, a different burden. Szeth’s entire family was there. His sister, his mother. It had been long since he’d considered them. He let himself do so now because he’d decided he wasn’t Truthless. Before, he hadn’t wanted to sully their images with his mind.

  Time to make another round of the clearing. The child’s laughter grew louder, but Szeth found it painful to hear. He winced as the boy jumped up on a rock, then leaped for his granduncle to catch him. And Szeth … if Szeth moved too quickly, he could catch sight of his own frail soul, attached incorrectly to his body, trailing his motions like a glowing afterimage.

  Why do you hurt? the sword asked.

  “I am afraid for the child,” Szeth whispered. “He begins to laugh happily. That will eventually be stolen from him again.”

  I like to try to understand laughter, the sword said. I think I can feel it. Happy. Ha! HA! Vivenna always liked my jokes. Even the
bad ones.

  “The boy’s laughter frightens me,” Szeth said. “Because I am near. And I am … not well.”

  He should not guard this child, but he could not bring himself to tell Dalinar, for fear the Blackthorn would send him away. Szeth had found purpose here in following an Ideal. In trusting Dalinar Kholin. He could not afford to have that Ideal shaken. He could not.

  Except … Dalinar spoke uncertainly sometimes. Concerned that he wasn’t doing the right thing. Szeth wished he didn’t hear Dalinar’s weakness, his worries. The Blackthorn needed to be a moral rock, unshakable, always certain.

  Dalinar was better than most. He was confident. Most of the time. Szeth had only ever met one man more confident than Dalinar in his own morality. Taravangian. The tyrant. The destroyer. The man who had followed Szeth here to this remote part of the world. Szeth was certain that, when he’d been visiting Taravangian with Dalinar the other day, the old man had seen through his illusory disguise.

  The man would not let go. Szeth could feel him … feel him … plotting.

  When Szeth returned to his tree, the air split, showing a blackness speckled faintly with stars beyond. Szeth immediately set down his sword by the trunk of the tree.

  “Watch,” he said, “and shout for me if danger comes.”

  Oh! All right! the sword said. I can do that. Yes, I can. You might want to leave me drawn though. You know, so that if someone bad comes along, I can really get ’em.

  Szeth walked around the rear of the tree, following the rift in the air. It was as if someone had pried back the fabric of reality, like splitting skin to look at the flesh underneath.

  He knelt before the highspren.

  “You do well, my acolyte,” the spren said, its tone formal. “You are vigilant and dedicated.”

  “I am,” Szeth said.

  “We need to discuss your crusade. You are a year into your current oath, and I am pleased and impressed with your dedication. You are among the most vigilant and worthy of men. I would have you earn your Plate. You still wish to cleanse your homeland?”

  Szeth nodded. Behind, Dalinar laughed. He didn’t seem to have noticed Szeth’s momentary departure.

  “Tell me more of this proposed crusade,” the highspren said. It had not blessed Szeth with its name, though Szeth was its bonded Radiant.

  “Long ago, my people rejected my warnings,” Szeth said. “They did not believe me when I said the enemy would soon return. They cast me out, deemed me Truthless.”

  “I find inconsistencies to the stories you tell of those days, Szeth,” the highspren said. “I fear that your memory, like those of many mortals, is incomplete or corrupted by the passage of time. I will accompany you on your crusade to judge the truth.”

  “Thank you,” Szeth said softly.

  “You may need to fight and destroy those who have broken their own laws. Can you do this?”

  “I … would need to ask Dalinar. He is my Ideal.”

  “If you progress as a Skybreaker,” the highspren said, “you will need to become the law. To reach your ultimate potential, you must know the truth yourself, rather than relying on the crutch presented by the Third Ideal. Be aware of this.”

  “I will.”

  “Continue your duty for now. But remember, the time will soon come when you must abandon it for something greater.”

  Szeth stood as the spren made itself invisible again. It was always nearby, watching and judging his worthiness. He entered the clearing and found Dalinar chatting quietly with a woman in a messenger uniform.

  Immediately Szeth came alert, seizing the sword and striding over to stand behind Dalinar, prepared to protect him.

  I hope it’s all right that I didn’t call for you! the sword said. I could sense her, although I couldn’t see her, and she seemed to be not evil. Even if she didn’t come over to pick me up. Isn’t that rude? But rude people can be not evil, right?

  Szeth watched the woman carefully. If someone wanted to kill Dalinar, they’d surely send an assassin who seemed innocent.

  “I’m not sure about some of the things on this list,” she was saying. “A pen and paper? For a man?”

  “Taravangian has long since abandoned the pretense of being unable to read,” Dalinar said.

  “Then paper will let him plot against us.”

  “Perhaps,” Dalinar said. “It could also simply be a mercy, giving him the companionship of words. Fulfill that request. What else?”

  “He wishes to be given fresh food more often,” she said. “And more light.”

  “I asked for the light already,” Dalinar said. “Why hasn’t the order been fulfilled?”

  Szeth watched keenly. Taravangian was making demands? They should give him nothing. He was dangerous. He …

  Szeth froze as the little boy, Gavinor, stepped up to him. He raised a wooden sword hilt-first toward Szeth. The boy should fear him, yet instead he smiled and waggled the sword.

  Szeth took it, hesitant.

  “The stone is the oddest request,” the messenger woman said. “Why would he have need of a perfectly round, smooth stone? And why would he specify one with a vein of quartz?”

  Szeth’s heart nearly stopped. A round stone. With quartz inclusions?

  “An odd request indeed,” Dalinar said, thoughtful. “Ask him why he wants this before fulfilling the request.”

  A round stone.

  With quartz inclusions.

  An Oathstone.

  For years, Szeth had obeyed the law of the Oathstone. The centuries-old tradition among his people dictated the way to treat someone who was Truthless. An object, no longer a man. Something to own.

  Taravangian wanted an Oathstone. Why?

  WHY?

  As the messenger trotted away, Dalinar asked if Szeth would like to join sword practice, but he could barely mumble an excuse. Szeth returned to his spot by the tree, clutching the little wooden sword.

  He had to know what Taravangian was planning.

  He had to stop the man. Before he killed Dalinar.

  Chiri-Chiri tried to hide in her grass. Unfortunately, she was growing too big. She wasn’t like a regular cremling, those that scuttled around, tiny and insignificant. She was something grander. She could think. She could grow. And she could fly.

  None of that helped as she tumbled out of the grass of the pot onto the desktop. She rolled over and clicked in annoyance, then looked toward Rysn, who sat making noises with another soft one. Chiri-Chiri did not always understand the mouth noises of the soft ones. They did not click, and there was no rhythm to them. So the sounds were sometimes just noises.

  Sometimes they were not. There was a pattern to them that she was growing better at understanding. And there was a mood at times to their tones, almost like a rhythm. She crawled closer along the desk, trying to listen.

  It was difficult. Chiri-Chiri did not like listening. She liked to do what felt right. Sleeping felt right. Eating felt right. Saying she was happy, or hungry, or sad felt right.

  Communication should be about moods, desires, needs. Not all these flapping, flapping, sloppy wet noises.

  Like the ones Rysn made now, talking to the old soft one who was like a parent. Chiri-Chiri crawled over the desk and into her box. It didn’t smell as alive as the grass, but it was nice, stuffed with soft things and covered over with some vines. She clicked for it. Contentment. Contentment felt right.

  “I do not understand half of what you explain, Rysn,” the old soft one said as the two sat in chairs beside the table. Chiri-Chiri understood some of the words. And his hushed tone, yet tense. Confused. That was confusion. Like when you are bitten on the tail by one you thought was happy. “You’re saying these things … these Sleepless … are all around us? Moving among us? But they aren’t … human?”

  “They are as far from human as a being can get, I should guess,” Rysn said, sipping her tea. Chiri-Chiri understood her better. Rysn wasn’t confused. More thoughtful. She’d been that way ever since … the event
at the homeland.

  “This is not what I thought I was preparing you for,” the old soft one said, “with your training in negotiation.”

  “Well, you always liked to travel paths others thought too difficult,” Rysn said. “And you relished trading with people ignored by your competition. You saw opportunity in what others discarded. This is somewhat the same.”

  “Pardon, Rysn—dear child—but this feels very different.”

  The two fell silent, but it wasn’t the contented silence of having just eaten. Chiri-Chiri turned to snuggle back into her blankets, but felt a vibration coming up through the ground. A kind of call, a kind of warning. One of the rhythms of Roshar.

  It reminded her of the carapace of the dead ones she had seen in the homeland. Their hollow skull chitin, their gaping emptiness, so still and noiseless. A silence of having eaten all, and having then been consumed.

  Chiri-Chiri could not hide. The rhythm whispered that she could not do only easy things. Dark times were coming, the hollow skulls warned. And the vibrations of that place. Encouraging. Demanding. Be better. You must be better.

  And so, Chiri-Chiri climbed out of her box and crawled up onto the arm of Rysn’s chair. Rysn scooped her up, assuming she wanted scratches at the part along her head where carapace met skin. And it did feel nice. Nice enough that Chiri-Chiri forgot about hollow skulls and warning rhythms.

  “Why do I feel,” the old soft one said, “that you shouldn’t have told me about any of this? The more people who know what you’ve done, Rysn, the more dangerous it will be for you.”

  “I realize this,” she said. “But … Babsk … I had to tell someone. I need your wisdom, now more than ever.”

  “My wisdom does not extend to the dealings of gods, Rysn,” he said. “I am just an old man who thought himself clever … until his self-indulgences nearly destroyed the life and career of his most promising apprentice.”

  Rysn sat up sharply, causing Chiri-Chiri to start and nip at her fingers. Why did she stop scratching?