Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive, #4)

by Brandon Sanderson

She couldn’t honestly speak those words. Not when she was concerned with freeing Rlain primarily because she wanted another listener to confide in. Not when she was willing to ignore the need of a child locked in a cage. If she wanted to honestly progress as a Radiant, she’d need to do as Rlain had said and start thinking about someone other than herself. And it was beyond time for her to begin treating her powers with the respect they deserved.

“Casualties?” “Never take casualty reports on the night of the battle, Brightness,” he said. “Give yourself a little time to enjoy the meal before you look at the bill.”

“I believe it is time,” Wit said, “that I told you about Thaidakar.” “I know of him,” Jasnah said. “Oh, you think you do,” he said. “But I’ve met him, several times. On other planets, Jasnah. The Ghostbloods are not a Rosharan organization, and I don’t think you appreciate the danger they present.…”

“Continue your experiments,” Raboniel said, putting down the sphere. “Anything you need for your science shall be yours. If you can combine Voidlight and Stormlight without destroying them—therefore proving they are not opposites … well, I should like to know this. It will require me to discard years upon years of theories.”

“Fine,” Navani said, “but I have no idea what I’m doing. If I were trying to do this with liquids, I’d use an emulsifier—but what kind of emulsifier does one use on light? It defies reason.” “Try anyway,” Raboniel said. “Do this, and I’ll free your tower. I’ll take my troops and walk away. This knowledge is worth more than any one location, no matter how strategic.”

“No, my friend,” Taravangian said. “A monarch cannot make such oaths and expect to be able to keep them. He must realize that a greater need might arise at any time.” “If so, it’s impossible for a king to be a moral man.” “Or perhaps you can be moral and still break oaths.” “No,” Dalinar said. “No, oaths are part of what define morality, Taravangian. A good man must strive to accomplish the things he’s committed to do.”

“And did your leader not conquer his way to the throne?” she asked, sounding genuinely confused. “This is the way of your people as well as mine. Besides, you must admit my people govern better. The humans under our control have not been treated unfairly. Certainly they live better than the singers fared under your domination.” “And your god?” Kaladin asked. “You can promise me that once humankind has been subdued, he won’t have us exterminated?”

“I know the kind of men who follow Odium,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ve known them all my life. I bear their brands on my forehead, Leshwi. I could almost trust you for the honor you’ve shown me—if it didn’t mean trusting him as well.”

Anxiety mounted inside him, and he began to thrash in the water, screaming, letting out the rest of his Stormlight. In that moment of panic, he didn’t care. But as he fell hoarse from shouting, he heard—strangely enough—Hav’s voice. Kaladin’s old sergeant, from his days as a recruit. Panic on the battlefield kills more men than enemy spears. Never run. Always retreat. This water came from somewhere. There was another way out.

The idea was so tempting, he had to acknowledge how much he’d come to depend on emotional support from the Thrill of battle. Storms, sometimes he longed so powerfully for the way he’d felt alive when killing. Such emotions were remarkably similar to what he’d felt upon giving up the drink. A quiet, anxious yearning that struck at unexpected moments—seeking the pleasure, the reward. He couldn’t blame everything he’d done on the Thrill. That had been Dalinar in those boots, holding that weapon and glorying in destruction. That had been Dalinar lusting to kill. If he let himself go out and fight again, he knew he’d realize a part of him still loved it.

Dalinar cursed, an action that translated as crackling lightning in the nearby air. “How can a being so close to divinity be so utterly lacking in honor?” I am a storm. I cannot— You are not merely a storm! Dalinar bellowed, his voice changing to rumbles of thunder. You are capable of choice! You hide from that, and in so doing, you are a COWARD!

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.

“I will not serve you,” Szeth said. “Listen to me,” Taravangian said. “You have to … the sword … Wait a moment.” He furiously began flipping through the notebook for the words he’d copied from the desk drawer. “‘The sword,’” he read, “‘is something we didn’t anticipate. It was nowhere in the Diagram. But Odium fears it. Do you understand? He fears it. I think it might be able to harm him. We attack him with it.’”

Without direction from Shallan, and with the honorspren taking their time preparing their trial, Radiant and Veil had reached a compromise. They’d find Restares, the person Mraize had sent them to locate. They wouldn’t take any actions against him unless they could get Shallan to decide, but Radiant was perfectly willing to locate him. This man, the phantom leader of the Sons of Honor, was a key part of this entire puzzle—and she was intensely curious why Mraize wanted him so badly.

The target called himself “Sixteen.” He supposedly came out of his home once every sixteen days exactly—the regularity of it amused the honorspren, who suffered the odd fellow because of the novelty. No one knew how he survived without food, and no one reported a terrible stench or anything like that from him—though he didn’t ever seem to bathe or empty a chamber pot. Indeed, the more she’d learned about him, the more Veil was certain this mysterious man was her target.

“That was…” Ulim said. “Wow. He’s far gone. As bad as some of the Fused. But that was well done, Venli. I’m trying not to sound too surprised. I think you may have fooled someone who is basically a god.” “It’s an old trick, Ulim,” she said. “Everyone—humans, listeners, and apparently gods—deep down suspects that every failure is their own. If you reflect blame on them, most people will assume they are responsible.”

“I’m not strong enough, Wit,” Kaladin whispered. “It has all been a lie. I’ve never been strong enough.” Wit took a bite of his stew, then nodded. “You … agree?” Kaladin asked. “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.”

“It is funny, you can’t realize,” Wit said. “Humans will selectively breed for the same traits regardless of the planet they’re on. But you can’t be amazed at the convergent examples of domestication across the cosmere. You can’t know any of this, because you live on a giant ball of rock full of slime where everything is wet and cold all the time. This is a dog, Kaladin. They’re fluffy and loyal and wonderful. This, on the other hand, is a dragon.”

Kaladin nodded, standing up again. He realized that somehow, the story fired him up. He felt stronger, less for the words and more for how annoyed he’d grown at Wit.

“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.”

“The Herald is erratic,” Mraize said. “All of them are now. With a few pointers, you could escape notice. Honorspren are not good at noticing subterfuge—or at distinguishing what is odd behavior for humans, or those who were once human. You can accomplish this. And after the trial, ‘Kelek’ could insist he has to visit Urithiru himself, leaving the spren completely ignorant of what you’ve done.”

How on Roshar was that ever considered a deity? Adolin thought, in a daze. The Heralds had fallen so far. Either that, or … perhaps these ten people had always been only that. People. After all, crowning a man a king or highprince didn’t necessarily make him anything grander than he’d been. Adolin knew that firsthand. “That could have gone better,” Blended said, “but at least a trial by witness is. Come. I have one day, it seems, to prepare you to be thrown into the angerspren’s den.…”

Listeners were not like humans, who grew slow as trees. Listeners grew like vines, quick and eager. By age three, she’d been singing with her mother. By age ten, she’d been considered an adult. Venli remembered those years—looking up to Eshonai, who seemed so big, although just a year older than Venli. She had vague memories of holding her father’s finger as he sang with her mother. She remembered love. Family. Grandparents, cousins. How had she forgotten? As a child, ambition and love had been like two sides of her face, each with its own vibrant pattern. To the sound of Odium’s rhythms, one side had shone, while the other withered.

The games of men and singers are petty things … but so are their lives.…

He didn’t like it when people used the word “stupid” for the way he was. People called one another stupid when they made mistakes. Dabbid wasn’t a mistake. He could make mistakes. Then he was stupid. But not always. He couldn’t think fast like others. But that made him different, not stupid. Stupid was a choice.

In the past, his speech had told people he was different. He’d figured that out when he was moving from job to job after his mother died. When he’d spoken, they’d known. So … with Bridge Four … he’d just kept on not speaking. That way they wouldn’t know. That way they wouldn’t realize he was Dabbid different. He could just be Bridge Four different.

No, I’m not a fool, he told himself. Just an optimist. How can they not see? How can they sit here and judge me, when men are dying and other spren fight? The same way, he realized, that the highprinces had spent so long playing games with the lives of soldiers on the Shattered Plains. The same way any man could turn his back on an atrocity if he could persuade himself it wasn’t his business. Men and spren were not different. Blended had tried to tell him this, and now he saw it firsthand.

Some hours after Adolin’s second day of trial, Shallan closed her eyes, resting her head against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat. She would never have thought she’d find that sound so comforting. For most of her life, she’d never considered what it would mean to be this close to someone. It would have been alien for her to imagine the blissful warmth of skin against skin, her safehand reaching alongside his face, fingers curled into his hair. How could she possibly have anticipated the wonderful intimacy of feeling his breath on her hair, of listening to his heartbeat, louder to her than her own. The rhythm of his life. Lying there, everything seemed—for a moment—perfect.

“Who do you think is stronger?” Adolin asked. “The man who has walked easily his entire life, or the man with no legs? The man who must pull himself by his arms?”

You had to be brave, even when you thought nobody was watching. That was what the spren wanted. They didn’t care how old you were, if your eyes were dark, or if the bowls you made were lopsided. They wanted you to be brave.

“Spren don’t care about plates.” “They must,” his father said, spinning up the wheel by pumping his foot on the pedal. “Their Radiants have to eat, after all.” He started shaping the crem. “Never underestimate the value of a job well done, Adin. You want a spren to notice you? Take pride in every job you do. Men who make sloppy plates will be sloppy fighting Fused.”

Dalinar walked a careful line for the local generals. He did not want them to see how much he reviled the deaths. A commander could not afford to revile the work in which he engaged. It did not make them bad men to be proud of their victory, or to enjoy tactics and strategy. Dalinar’s forces would not get far employing pacifists as field generals.

“My dear,” he said, “you pay me no heed. Be careful not to give undue attention only to the ravings of the mad. I warn you, without proper affection, your Wit will wilt.”

“If we’re revealing a new world, Jasnah, should we not do it together? Arguments and all? I feel like … like we are never going to agree on the details, you and I. This book though—it could show that we agree on the more important matters. After all, if an avowed atheist and a man starting his own religion can unite, then who can object that their personal differences are too large to surmount?”

Some people charged toward the goal, running for all they had. Others stumbled. But it wasn’t the speed that mattered. It was the direction they were going.

Navani loved her daughter, but couldn’t see it the same way. Organization and order existed in the very way the world worked. From the patterns on leaves to the system of compounds and chemical reactions. It all whispered to her. Someone had known anti-Voidlight was possible. Someone had known Navani would create it first. Someone had seen all this, planned for it, and put her here. She had to believe that. She had to believe, therefore, that there was a way out. Please, she prayed, painting the glyph for divine direction. Please. I’m trying so hard to do what is right. Please guide me. What do I do?

Kaladin nodded, then turned and continued, shadowed by the hopes and prayers of hundreds. Shadowed by his own reputation. A man who would never cry in the night, huddled against the wall, terrified. A man he was determined to pretend to be. One last time.

People in the atrium began to scatter as they saw him, accompanied by anticipationspren. As the place emptied, he picked out a hulking figure standing in the dead center of the chamber, blocking the way to the room on the other side—the infirmary. Kaladin brandished his spear in challenge. But the Pursuer cared nothing for honor. He was here for the kill, and he came streaking at Kaladin to claim it.

“I killed you,” Kaladin said. “And I’ll kill you now. Then every time you return for me, I’ll kill you again.” “I’m immortal,” the Pursuer growled. But his rhythm had changed. Not so confident. “Doesn’t matter,” Kaladin said. “I’ve heard what people say about you. Your life isn’t the blood in your veins, but the legend you live. Each death kills that legend a little more. Each time I defeat you, it will rip you apart. Until you’re no longer known as the Pursuer. You’ll be known as the Defeated. The creature who, no matter how hard he tries, can’t ever beat ME.”

“You’re no soldier,” Kaladin said loudly, his voice echoing to all of those listening. “That’s what I realized about you, Defeated One. You’ve never faced death.” “Silence,” the Pursuer growled, twisting Kaladin’s wrist. Kaladin grunted, then rolled them both to the side, narrowly protecting his wrist from serious damage. He dropped the knife. Fortunately, he had found others. “I’ve faced it every day of my life!” Kaladin shouted, rolling on top of the Fused. “You wonder why I don’t fear you? I’ve lived with the knowledge that death is hounding me. You’re nothing new.” “Be. QUIET!” “But I’m something you have never known,” Kaladin shouted, slamming the Pursuer down by his shoulders. “Thousands of years of life can’t prepare you for something you’ve never met before, Defeated One! It can’t prepare you for someone who does not fear you!”

“I am death itself, Defeated One,” Kaladin said. “And I’ve finally caught up to you.”

“You are a monster,” Teft whispered. Moash took Teft calmly by the front of his burned shirt and hoisted him up. “I am no monster. I am merely silence. The quiet that eventually takes all men.” “Tell yourself that lie, Moash,” Teft growled, gripping the hand that held him, his own hand clawlike from the horrible pain. “But know this. You can kill me, but you can’t have what I have. You can never have it. Because I die knowing I’m loved.”

IT IS HIS ULTIMATE LIE, SON OF HONOR. THE LIE THAT SAYS YOU HAVE NO CHOICE. THE LIE THAT THERE IS NO MORE JOURNEY WORTH TAKING.

“I’m here. To help you feel brave.” “I’m not the child you see,” Kaladin whispered. “I know who you are, Kal.”

“None of it matters.” “See, that’s the wrong way of looking at it.” Tien held him tighter. “Since we all go to the same place in the end, the moments we spent with each other are the only things that do matter. The times we helped each other.” Kaladin trembled. “Look at it, Kal,” Tien said softly. “See the colors. If you think letting Teft die is a failure—but all the times you supported him are meaningless—then no wonder it always hurts. Instead, if you think of how lucky you both were to be able to help each other when you were together, well, it looks a lot nicer, doesn’t it?” “I’m not strong enough,” Kaladin whispered. “You’re strong enough for me.”

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.