Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive, #4)

by Brandon Sanderson

“You could have caught her,” Kaladin said, “if you’d been flying on your own without me.” “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.”

need a Wayne, Pattern and Syl spinoff book asap I don’t even care if it makes sense

“I haven’t read the entire thing,” Shallan said. “It seems to be Ialai’s attempts to piece together what the Ghostbloods are planning. Like this page—a list of terms or names her spies had heard. She was trying to define what they were.” Shallan moved her finger down the page. “Nalathis. Scadarial. Tal Dain. Do you recognize any of those?” “They sound like nonsense to me. Nalathis might have something to do with Nalan, the Skybreaker Herald.”

Ask a better question. “Nalathis,” Radiant said. “Scadarial. What are they?” “Nalthis. Scadrial.” He spoke the words with a different accent. “Where are they. That’s an excellent question, Radiant. Suffice it to say they are places in Shadesmar where our Stormlight—so easily captured and transported—would be a valuable commodity.”

“No,” Zahel said. “I don’t think there’s anyone else quite like Hoid. I knew him by the name Dust when I was younger. I think he must have a thousand different names among a thousand different peoples.”

I have been fascinated to discover how much you’ve accomplished on Scadrial without me noticing your presence. How is it that you hide from Shards so well?

“You are welcome. Should we not walk? On our feet? The ones I now have again? I do like my feet. They are befittingly perambulatory.” He held up his leg, and showed bare feet beneath his robe. Curious. Adolin had always assumed they didn’t have feet. Pattern moved off, humming delightedly to himself.

Endowment at least responded to my overtures, though I have not been able to locate Invention again following our initial contact.

“Yes, very brave,” Shallan said. “We humans are known to bite.” “Ha ha. Yes, bite. And break your oaths and murder your spren. Ha ha.”

That said, the most worrying thing I discovered in this was the wound upon the Spiritual Realm where Ambition, Mercy, and Odium clashed—and Ambition was destroyed. The effects on the planet Threnody have been … disturbing.

With limited locations to search, she’d assumed her task would be easy. Indeed, it had started out that way. She’d started with the largest group of people: a caravan of traders from a kingdom called Nalthis, a place out in the darkness beyond the edges of the map. Veil had chatted with them at length, discovering that Azure—who had moved on from the fortress by now—was from the same land.

There was an opposite to Voidlight. It wasn’t Stormlight. Nor was it this new mixed Light they’d created. But Navani had seen it. Held it. Her husband had given it to Szeth, who had given it to her.

“There is an inn,” he whispered, “that you cannot find on your own. You must stumble across it on a misty street, late at night, lost and uncertain in a strange city. “The door has a wheel on it, but the sign bears no name. If you find the place and wander inside, you’ll meet a young man behind the bar. He has no name. He cannot tell it to you, should he want to—it’s been taken from him. But he’ll know you, as he knows everyone who enters the inn. He’ll listen to everything you want to tell him—and you will want to talk to him. And if you ask him for a story, he’ll share one. Like he shared with me. I will now share it with you.”

“I know of just one on Roshar,” Wit noted, “and she prefers to hide her true form. This story isn’t about her, however, or any of the dragons I’ve met.

Notum lowered his sheet, then said in a loud voice, “Honor is not dead so long as he lives in the hearts of men!”

This was technology Shallan hadn’t heard of before coming to Shadesmar, and apparently not even the honorspren knew how it worked. They could be purchased from a group of strange traveling merchants called the Eyree.

“We! CHOSE!” The two words rang through the forum, silencing the agitated honorspren. Sekeir, standing with his back to her, hesitated. He turned to see who had interrupted his dramatic speech.

“You. Cannot. Have. My. SACRIFICE!” she shouted. “Mine. My sacrifice. Not yours.” She pointed at the crowd. “Not theirs.” She pointed at Adolin. “Not his. Mine. MY SACRIFICE.” “You knew what was going to happen when the Radiants broke their oaths,” Adolin said. “They didn’t murder you. You decided together.” She nodded vigorously. “All this time,” Adolin said, his voice louder—for the audience. “Everyone assumed you were victims. We didn’t accept that you were partners with the Radiants.”

“And who is that, Wit?” she asked. “Who are you really?” “Someone,” he said, “who wisely turned down the power the others all took—and in so doing, gained freedoms they can never again have. I, Jasnah, am someone who is not bound.”

“Besides,” he whispered, “I know the Words.” Say them, Tien whispered. “I have always known these Words.” Say it, lad! Do it! “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.

Kaladin’s Fourth Ideal!!!

Navani, the Sibling said. I accept your Words. Power flooded Navani. Infused her, making her pain evaporate like water on a hotplate. Together, she and the Sibling created Light. The energy surged through her so fully, she felt it bursting from her eyes and mouth as she looked up at Moash and spoke. “Journey before destination, you bastard.”

Navani’s first ideal!!!

“Cephandrius,” Odium spat. “Ever the rat. No matter where I go, there he is, scratching in the wall. Burrowing into my strongholds. He could have been a god, yet he insists on living in the dirt.”

Taravangian seized the sword and pulled it free of its scabbard, hearing it scream for pleasure. He turned and thrust it upward—black smoke curling around his hands. “Destroy!” the sword bellowed. “DESTROY!” Taravangian rammed it up into Odium’s chest.

Taravangian hesitated briefly, then thrust his hands into the well of power. And Ascended to godhood, becoming Odium.

With help from Kelek, they’d gotten it open without harming the thing inside: a spren in the shape of a glowing ball of light, a strange symbol at the center. No one here recognized the variety of spren, but Wit called it a seon. “Are you well, Ala?” Shallan asked. It was said like A-lay. “Yes,” the spren whispered. “You can come out of the cube. You don’t need to live in there anymore.” “I’m … supposed to stay. I’m not supposed to talk. To you. To anyone.”

“Perhaps. Can you handle my master? Can you handle her master?” “Thaidakar?” Shallan guessed. “Ah, so you’ve heard of him?” “The Lord of Scars, Wit calls him. Well, when you next meet this Lord of Scars, give him a message from me.” “He comes here in avatar only,” Mraize said. “We are too far beneath his level to be worthy of more.” “Then tell his avatar something for me. Tell him … we’re done with his meddling. His influence over my people is finished.” She hesitated, then sighed. Wit had asked nicely. “Also, Wit says to tell him, ‘Deal with your own stupid planet, you idiot. Don’t make me come over there and slap you around again.’”