Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive, #4)

by Brandon Sanderson

“Without you, I’d be as dumb as a rock. And without me you’d fly like one. I think we’re better off not worrying about what we could do without the other.” She folded her arms. “Besides, what would I do if I caught her? Glare at her? I need you for the stabby-stabby part.”

Or—worse—that maybe there was no sequence. Maybe everything was random chaos, and she pretended the world made sense for her own peace of mind.

“Syl used to think human children came out through the nose in a particularly violent sneeze,” Kaladin said. “She is not an authority on this topic.”

I do not trust the Blackthorn, but perhaps I can trust the man who would write the words you did.”

“Many a locked room reveals a hidden path to escape, after all.”

“That seems to be putting our chulls to work before we’ve bought them.

seek the line of action that does the most possible good for the most people. This is in keeping with my moral philosophy.”

“I am the spire that draws the lightning. I am the bearer of our sins.

don’t accept the conclusions your father came to—but I’m glad people are talking about the church rather than merely going about their lives, assuming the ardents will take care of everything. Many people only thought of religion when it was time for one of their Elevations.”

monoculture.

You’ve made a misstep, but we all make those as we seek our truths. You do belong in the light. You’re there now. Stay there with me.”

What do polished buttons matter when you’ve got a child’s blood on your boots?”

It was hard for Veil to acknowledge that she didn’t actually have years of experience. Hard for her to admit that she was an alter—a part of Shallan’s personality, manifesting as a distinct person. But it was a good reminder. One that Radiant often brought up. They were learning, and they weren’t experts. Not yet.

You don’t mean that, Veil accused her. You think what you did was worse. You’re always willing to give others more charity than you extend yourself.

For the men chatting together softly, the change was in being shown sunlight again. In being reminded that the darkness did pass. But perhaps most important, the change was in not merely knowing that you weren’t alone—but in feeling it. Realizing that no matter how isolated you thought you were, no matter how often your brain told you terrible things, there were others who understood. It wouldn’t fix everything. But it was a start.

I don’t think I’d ever realized, until that moment, that a person could be beautiful and ugly at the same time.

“No one ever accomplished anything by being content with who they were, Shallan,” Adolin said. “We accomplish great things by reaching toward who we could become.” “As long as it’s what you want to become. Not what someone else thinks you should become.”

“Nobody knows anything,” Kaladin said. “Because they don’t want to know. People like me scare them.” “Don’t include yourself in that group, son,” Lirin said, adjusting his spectacles as he held up a medical chart written in glyphs. His father read glyphs far better than Kaladin had ever known. Lirin used them like a stormwarden. “Why shouldn’t I?” Kaladin asked, stacking blocks again. “You’re not…” Lirin lowered the chart.

“Insane?” Kaladin asked. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We don’t see them as our brothers, sisters, children. They make us feel helpless. We are afraid because we can’t bind a broken mind the way we do a broken finger.”

Strength before weakness. He was coming to understand that part of his first oath. He had discovered weakness in himself, but that wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Because of that weakness, he could help in ways nobody else could.

“If there is a god, then I think we could find him in the way we care about one another.

The best and truest duty of a person is to add to the world. To create, and not destroy.

“You know better than I what your limits are,” Wit said. “It’s not such a terrible thing, to be too weak. Makes us need one another. I should never complain if someone recognizes their failings, though it might put me out of a job if too many share your wisdom, young bridgeman.”

“Then best eat your stew,” Wit said, pointing with his spoon. “A man shouldn’t lie down and die on an empty stomach.”

“That night, the family set a place for the little dog at their table and gave him a sweater to keep him warm, his name written across the front with letters he could read. They served a feast with food the dog had helped grow. They gave him some of the cake celebrating the birthday of the child whose life he had saved. “That night, it rained on the other dogs, who slept outside in the cold barn, which leaked. But the little dog snuggled into a warm bed beside the fire, hugged by the farmer’s children, his belly full. And as he did, the dog sadly thought to himself, ‘I could not become a dragon. I am an utter and complete failure.’

“By looking up at the dragon, and by trying to become better, he outgrew the other dogs. He achieved something truly special.”

“This story is about me, isn’t it? I said I’m not good enough. You think I have impossible goals, and I’m intentionally ignoring the things I’ve accomplished.” Wit pointed with his spoon. “I told you this story has no meaning. You promised not to assign it one.”

“Can you tell me the real ending?” Kaladin asked, his voice small. “Before I go back out?” Wit stood and stepped over, then put his hand on Kaladin’s back and leaned in. “That night,” he said, “the little dog snuggled into a warm bed beside the fire, hugged by the farmer’s children, his belly full. And as he did, the dog thought to himself, ‘I doubt any dragon ever had it so good anyway.’” He smiled and met Kaladin’s eyes. “It won’t be like that for me,” Kaladin said. “You told me it would get worse.”

“It will,” Wit said, “but then it will get better. Then it will get worse again. Then better. This is life, and I will not lie by saying every day will be sunshine. But there will be sunshine again, and that is a very different thing to say. That is truth. I promise you, Kaladin: You will be warm again.”

“Irony tastes good. Like sausage.”

“Honor is not dead so long as he lives in the hearts of men!”

Those gods had never deserved reverence. What was a god who only made demands? Nothing but a tyrant with a different name.

“I accept it, Stormfather! I accept that there will be those I cannot protect!” The storm rumbled, and he felt warmth surrounding him, Light infusing him. He heard Syl gasp, and a familiar voice, not the Stormfather’s. THESE WORDS ARE ACCEPTED. “We couldn’t save Teft, Syl,” Kaladin whispered. “We couldn’t save Tien. But we can save my father.” And when he opened his eyes, the sky exploded with a thousand pure lights.

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.