Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive, #4)

by Brandon Sanderson

Aesudan—her daughter-in-law, Elhokar’s wife—

Being able to bring them back and forth from Braize doesn’t mean anything,” one said. “It’s too close to be a relevant distance.” “It was impossible only a few short years ago,” said a deep, powerful voice. Gavilar. “This is proof. The Connection is

not severed, and the box allows for travel. Not yet as far as you’d like, but we must start the journey somewhere.”

The king was speaking with two men that Navani vaguely recognized. A tall Makabaki man with a birthmark on his cheek and a shorter Vorin man with a round face and a small nose.

On the table between Gavilar and the men lay a group of spheres and gemstones. Navani’s breath caught as she saw them. They were arrayed in a variety of colors and brightness, but several seemed strangely off. They glowed with an inverse of light, as if they were little pits of violet darkness, sucking in the color around them.

She’d never seen anything like them before, but gemstones with spren trapped inside could have all kinds of odd appearances and effects. Those … they must be meant for fabrials. What was Gavilar doing with spheres, strange light, and distinguished artifabrians? And why wouldn’t he talk to her about—

The nervous Vorin man ran his hand through his wispy hair. “I want to know more of the project, Gavilar. Plus, you

need to know that another of us is here tonight. I spotted her handiwork earlier.”

Shalash that ruins her own paintings?

“There’s more here, Nale!” the Vorin man said, though he followed as his friend left. “This is important! I want out. This is the only way.…”

Instead, he held out his hand for her sphere. “This does not concern you, Navani. Return to the feast.”

She closed her hand around the sphere. “So I can continue to cover for you? Did you promise Highlord Rine you’d mediate his dispute tonight of all times? Do you know how many people are expecting you? And did you say you have

another meeting to go to now, before the feast begins? Are you simply going to ignore our guests?” “Do you know,” he said softly, “how tired I ...

“Perhaps try answering one or two, then. It’d be a novel experience, treating your wife like a human being—rather than like a machine built to count the days of the week for you.”

Gavilar was not a good man...

He wagged his hand, demanding the sphere. Instinctively she gripped it tighter. “Why? Why do you continue to shut me out? Please, just tell me.” “I deal in secrets you could not handle, Navani. If you knew the scope of what I’ve begun…” She frowned. The scope of what? He’d already conquered Alethkar. He’d united the highprinces. Was this about how he had turned his eyes toward the Unclaimed Hills? Surely settling a patch of wildlands—populated by nothing more than the odd tribe of parshmen—was nothing compared to what he’d already accomplished.

She didn’t fight him; he would not react well. He had never used his strength against her, not in that way, but there had been words. Comments. Threats.

“You’re punishing me, aren’t you?” Navani demanded. “You know my love of fabrials. You taunt me specifically because you know it will hurt.” “Perhaps,” Gavilar said, “you will learn to consider before you speak, Navani. Perhaps you will learn the dangerous price of rumors.” This again? she thought. “Nothing happened, Gavilar.” “Do you think I care?” Gavilar said. “Do you think the court cares? To them, lies are as good as facts.” That was true, she realized. Gavilar didn’t care if she’d been unfaithful to him—and she hadn’t. But the things she’d said had started rumors, difficult to smother.

All Gavilar cared about was his legacy.

If a king’s court thought he couldn’t control his own wife, wouldn’t that stain his legacy? What good was a kingdom if Gavilar knew that his wife secretly loved his brother? In this, Navani represented a chip in the marble of his all-important legacy.

Navani sniffed. “You speak to her. If what you want is so important, maybe you could do it yourself for once. Besides, I don’t care for Amaram. Jasnah can do better.” He froze, then looked back and spoke in a low, quiet voice. “Jasnah will marry Amaram, as I have instructed her. She will put aside this fancy of becoming famous by denying the church. Her arrogance stains the reputation of the entire family.”

“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.”

“Greatness will define me, Navani. No mediocre effort by someone like Dalinar or my son could undermine that—and I personally doubt Elhokar could rise to even mediocre.”

“And what about me?” she said. “I could write your history. Your life. Whatever you think you’ve done, whatever you think you’ve accomplished … that’s ephemeral, Gavilar. Words on the page define men to future generations. You spurn me, but I have a grip on...

You have no fame, accomplishment, or capacity of your own. Everything distinctive about you came from someone else. You have no power—you merely like to marry men who have it.”

“Deny that you loved one brother, but married the other. You pretended to adore a man you detested—all because you knew he would be king.”

It was more complicated than he implied, as she had loved both of them—and Dalinar’s intensity had frightened her, so Gavilar had seemed the safer choice.

“You went where the money and power would be greatest,” Gavilar said. “Like any common whore. Write whatever you want about me. Say it, shout it, proclaim it. I will outlive your accusations, and my legacy will persist. 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.”

Even in an argument he controlled the situation.

She might be the things he said, but he was no more than a backwater thug with too much luck and a knack for fooling good men into following him. If a man like that could pretend to be a king, she could pretend to be a queen. At any rate, they had a kingdom. At least one of them should try to run it.

even a few rare anguishspren, like teeth growing from the walls.

New spren?

I will be the better person, Gavilar, she thought, closing his eyes. For what you once were, I’ll let the world pretend. I’ll give you your legacy.

Gavilar had left this life as he’d lived it: with grand drama that afterward required Navani to pick up the pieces.

Mental shock wasn’t something Lirin could cut out with a scalpel.

“You told that man you were sorry for his loss,” Abiajan said. “You say it so readily to each of them—but you seem to have the compassion of a stone. Do you feel nothing for these people?”

“I feel, Brightness,” Lirin said, “but I must be careful not to be overwhelmed by their pain. It’s one of the first rules of becoming a surgeon.”

“Do you remember setting my arm when I was a child?” “I do.” Abiajan had returned—with a new name and a new commission from the Fused—after fleeing with the others following the Everstorm. She had brought many parshmen with her, all from this region, but of those from Hearthstone only Abiajan had returned. She remained closed-lipped about what she had experienced in the intervening months.

“That life feels like a dream now. I remember pain. Confusion. A stern figure bringing me more pain—though I now recognize you were seeking to heal me. So much trouble to go through for a slave child.”

“Have you seen any plaguespren on these refugees? If those spren get into the city, it could kill everyone.” “Disease isn’t caused by spren,” Lirin said. “It is spread by contaminated water, improper sanitation, or sometimes by the breath of those who bear it.” “Superstition,” she said.

Though their clothing was of Alethi cut and fashion, the colors were lighter, more muted. The Fused had explained that singers in the past eschewed bright colors, preferring to highlight their skin patterns instead.

Lirin sensed a search for identity in the way Abiajan and the other parshmen acted. Their accents, their dress, their mannerisms—they were all distinctly Alethi. But they grew transfixed whenever the Fused spoke of their ancestors, and they sought ways to emulate those long-dead parshmen.

“He bears a terrible responsibility; he perpetuated a war against an overwhelming enemy force. He threw away the lives of his men in a hopeless battle.” “Some would call that heroism.” “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.”

Dieno enne Calah. Dieno “the Mink” in Old Herdazian. Hesina had explained that enne was an honorific that implied greatness. One might have expected the Mink—as Laral apparently had—to be a brutal warrior forged on the same anvil as men like Dalinar Kholin or Meridas Amaram. Lirin, however, knew that killers came in all kinds of packages. The Mink might be short and missing a tooth, but there was a power to his lean build, and Lirin spotted not a few scars in his examination. Those around the wrists, in fact … those were the scars manacles made on the skin of slaves. “Thank you,” Dieno whispered, “for offering us refuge.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” Lirin said. “Still, you ensure that the resistance will escape to live on. Heralds bless you, surgeon.”

“Surely you don’t intend to obey these monsters.” “I obey the person who holds the sword to my neck, General,” Lirin said. “Same as I always have.”

They loved watching him. Every one of these newly born singers had been owned by one wealthy lighteyes or another. Watching a former citylord reduced to a stumbling drunk who spent his days doing the most menial of jobs? To them it was more captivating than any storyteller’s performance.

The

dreadful creature had a beard and long hair the color of dried blood, and it seemed to meld with his simple wrap of clothing—as if he wore his hair itself for a covering. He had a pure black skin coloring, with lines of marbled red under his eyes. Most importantly, he had a jagged carapace unlike any Lirin had seen, with a strange pair of carapace fins—or horns—rising above his ears. The creature’s eyes glowed a soft red.

Looks like ghe “horned god,” often how people view Satan.

the carapace on this creature looked far more wicked—like something one might expect to have come from Damnation.

The warform stepped forward to translate for the Fused. From what Lirin had heard, even those Fused who spoke Alethi often used interpreters, as if speaking human tongues were beneath them.

“You would remember this man,” the interpreter continued. “Tall for a human, with wavy black hair worn to the shoulders. Clean shaven, he has a slave’s brand on his forehead. Including the glyph shash.” Slave’s brand. Shash. Dangerous. Oh no … Nearby, one of the Fused’s soldiers threw back the hood of another cloaked refugee—revealing a face that should have been intimately familiar to Lirin. Yet the harsh man Kaladin had become looked like a crude drawing of the sensitive youth Lirin remembered. Kaladin immediately burst alight with power. Death had come to visit Hearthstone today, despite Lirin’s every effort.

Great scene!