Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive, #4)

by Brandon Sanderson

All Gavilar cared about was his legacy. He wanted to be known as a great king, a great leader.

“You realize that girl still loves you, Gavilar. They all do. Elhokar, Dalinar, the boys … they worship you. Are you sure you want to reveal to them what you truly are? They are your legacy. Treat them with care. They will define how you are remembered.”

I have discovered the entrance to the realm of gods and legends, and once I join them, my kingdom will never end. I will never end.”

Yes, he knew he should be something more. But … somehow she brought out the monster in him. And he somehow brought out the weakness in her.

Now they barely spoke without reaching for their sharpest knives—stabbing them right into the most painful spots with an accuracy gained only through longtime familiarity.

“Heroism is a myth you tell idealistic young people—specifically when you want them to go bleed for you. It got one of my sons killed and another taken from me. You can keep your heroism and return to me the lives of those wasted on foolish conflicts.”

Storms, he thought. Where would I be if I hadn’t found her? The answer was obvious. He’d be dead at the bottom of a chasm, having leaped into the darkness.

Those who had served with him in the early days still wore their Bridge Four patches with pride, but Bridge Four was something they used to belong to. A legendary team already passed into myth.

Though he’d once seen her fascination as childlike, he’d evolved on that idea. She was just curious, desirous to learn. If that was childlike, then everyone needed more of it.

“Actually, everything is a fragment of divinities. We’re relatives that way.” She zipped in closer to him. “You humans are merely the weird relatives that live out in the stormshelter; the ones we try not to let visitors know about.”

“You want to know what I am? Well, I’m a lot of things. Tired, mostly. But I’m also a Type Two Invested entity. Used to call myself a Type One, but I had to throw the whole scale out, once I learned more. That’s the trouble with science. It’s never done. Always upending itself. Ruining perfect systems for the little inconvenience of them being wrong.” “I…” Kaladin swallowed. “I don’t know what any of that meant, but thanks for replying. Wit never gives me answers. At least not straight ones.” “That’s because Wit is an asshole,” Zahel said.

Be wary of those Fused, kid. The longer one of us exists, the more like a spren we become. Consumed by a singular purpose, our minds bound and chained by our Intent. We’re spren masquerading as men. That’s why she takes our memories. She knows we aren’t the actual people who died, but something else given a corpse to inhabit.…” “She?” Kaladin asked.

“Wit?” Dalinar asked. “Is this one of your jokes?” “Odium is a punch line, Dalinar, but not to any joke you’ve been told.”

“Your abilities are what made the original Oathpact,” she said. “And they existed—and were named—long before the Knights Radiant were founded. A Bondsmith Connected the Heralds to Braize, made them immortal, and locked our enemies away. A Bondsmith bound other Surges and brought humans to Roshar, fleeing their dying world. A Bondsmith created—or at least discovered—the Nahel bond: the ability of spren and humans to join together into something better. You Connect things, Dalinar. Realms. Ideas. People.”

There was a weakness here. In the division between the Vessel and the Shard.

“This side might be a Herald,” Kaladin said, squinting at the strange glyphs. “What does it say?” “‘War is the last option of the state that has failed,’”

“I talk to my sword too,” Adolin told them. “Funny thing is, she eventually talked back. Never be afraid to show a little respect to those you depend upon, friends.”

Adolin really did want to bring a Truthwatcher. They had once been well-regarded by the honorspren. Though the woman’s name was Arshqqam, everyone called her the Stump—a nickname that Lift had spread, he believed.

Whimsy was not terribly useful, and Mercy worries me. I do think that Valor is reasonable, and suggest you approach her again. It has been too long, in her estimation, since your last conversation.

I have begun searching for a pathway out of this conundrum by seeking the ideal person to act on my behalf. Someone who embodies both Preservation and Ruin. A … sword, you might say, who can both protect and kill.

Radiants are so outwardly focused. They change the world, but ignore themselves.

“Then I heard her saying those things. I don’t think I’d ever realized, until that moment, that a person could be beautiful and ugly at the same time.

They had no forms, but compensated with training, sacrificing individuality until they were practically spren—having become so good at a single thing, they could never change to another purpose.

The last time things felt right, Lift thought, I was with her. Before she got sick. And I was her little girl. If she saw me now, she wouldn’t recognize me.

“How…” Venli said, then hummed to Betrayal. “Oh, I’ve always been good with languages,” the female said. “My name is Axindweth. Though few here know me by that name, I give it to you.”

I am led to wonder, from experiences such as this, if we have been wrong. We call humans alien to Roshar, yet they have lived here for thousands of years now. Perhaps it is time to acknowledge there are no aliens or interlopers. Only cousins.

Eventually Dalinar had done what any good commander did when faced by such persistent mass insubordination: He backed down. When good men disobeyed, it was time to look at your orders.

Time. It was a sadistic master. It made adults of children—then gleefully, relentlessly, stole away everything it had given.

“If we can choose, we can change. If we can’t change, then choice means nothing. I’m glad I feel this way, to remind me that I haven’t always felt the same.

“There are no fair fights, Jasnah,” Wit said. “There’s never been such a thing. The term is a lie used to impose imaginary order on something chaotic.

And at the end, when I face Odium and win, you will be there. I’ll give you this gift.” “The pain of knowing I was wrong?” “You told me earlier that you wished to be proven wrong. If you’re sincere—and this was never about being right or about gaining power—then on that day we can embrace, knowing it is all over. Old friend.” Taravangian looked at him, and there were tears in his eyes. “To that day, then,” he whispered. “And to that embrace.”

“I think,” he finally said, “we have been doing this wrong, Radiant. I once tried to help Shallan remember, and that was painful for her. Too painful. So I started to think it was good for her not to remember. And the lies were delicious. Nothing is better than a lie with so much truth.”

Gavilar Kholin—king, husband, occasional monster—had been searching for a way to kill a god.

“I am an artist,” Wit said. “I should thank you not to demean me by insisting my art must be trying to accomplish something. In fact, you shouldn’t enjoy art. You should simply admit that it exists, then move on. Anything else is patronizing.”

“Any meaning,” Wit said softly, “is for you to assign, Kaladin. I merely tell the stories.

“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.”

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.

“By this music,” Raboniel said, “I give you the title Voice of Lights, Navani Kholin. As is my right.”

“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.”

“Elithanathile,” Navani said, whispering the tenth name of the Almighty. “You killed her forever, didn’t you?” “No more rebirth,” Raboniel whispered. “No more Returns. Free at last, my baby. Free.”

But to you and the budding Radiants, a thousand years is a long time. Long as a soulless star slumbers.” “A soulless star.” “Yes.” “Slumbers.” “As they do.”

So do this, and I can help you openly. As myself.” “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.”

“I feel,” she said, “like I should be terrified by that statement.” “That’s why I’m so fond of you,” he said. “You are poised, you are smart, and you are always ready with a ploy; but when each of those things fails you, Jasnah, you are—above all else—paranoid.”

“Live … as long as I … and you can appreciate … anything … that still surprises you.… Go, Navani. Run … The war must … end.”

“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!”

You have performed a kindness, the Sibling said in her head. “I feel awful.” That is part of the kindness.

No one here recognized the variety of spren, but Wit called it a seon.

“The illusion without Lightweaving is superior, Design.” “Because it’s fake?” “Because the audience knows it’s fake,” Wit said. “When they watch and let themselves be amazed, they are joining in the illusion. They’re giving you something vital. Something powerful. Something essential. Their belief.