Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

The tower was the same color the sky turned in Shadesmar when a highstorm was passing over Roshar. And the place was positively swarming with emotion spren on this side. They soared through it in great swarms, taking a variety of shapes—most distant enough that Adolin saw them only as small bits of color, though he knew they had strange shapes here. More organic, more beastly. They flew, crawled, and climbed across and through the tower’s shimmering light, making it look like a hive. It wasn’t until coming here that Adolin had realized just how many spren the humans of Urithiru attracted.

Some of those could be dangerous on this side, but they’d been told the nature of the tower offered protection from that. Spren here were glutted on emotions, and were calmer.

Everyone took a few minutes to absorb the stunning vista—the mountain of iridescent colors, the sentinels, the spren, and the long drop to the ocean below. Adolin finally tore his eyes away to do a quick recount of their numbers, as the Radiants had been joined by their personal spren.

Pattern stood near Shallan; he was a tall figure in too-stiff robes with a changing symbol for a head. Adolin felt he could tell Pattern from the other Cryptics. There was a spring to Pattern’s step; he bounced when the other three Cryptics glided. Their symbols were also slightly … different.

Adolin cocked his head, trying to decide why he should think that, as the symbols were always changing, never repeating that he could see. Yet the speed at which they changed, and the general feel of each one, was distinct.

Zu—the closest Radiant to Adolin—leaped up and grabbed her tall spren in a hug. “Ha!” said the golden-haired Stoneward. “You’re a mountain on this side, Ua’pam!”

Her spren’s skin appeared as if it were made of cracked rock, and it was glowing from within as if molten. Otherwise, he had generally humanlike features. Ua’pam wore fur-lined clothing on this side, like one might expect from one who lived high in the mountains. Adolin wasn’t certain how all that worked. Did spren get cold?

Godeke was an Edgedancer, so his spren was a cultivationspren, a type Adolin had seen many times before: shaped roughly like a short woman, she was composed entirely of vines. Those vines wound tightly together into a face that had two crystals for eyes. Crystal hands, incredibly fine and delicate, emerged from the sleeves of her robe, and she had an aloof air as she looked around.

The last spren was the oddest to Adolin. She seemed to be made entirely from mist, all save for the face, which hovered on the front of the head in the shape of a porcelain mask. That mask had a kind of twinkling reflection to it, always catching the light—in fact, he could have sworn that from some perspectives it was made of translucent crystal. The spren seemed to be female, or at least had a feminine figure and voice.

This would be the spren of Arshqqam, the Truthwatcher. The spren wore a vest and trousers, both of which somehow floated and encapsulated the body made entirely of white fog. Her hands ended in gloves. Was it mist inside there, moving her fingers?

“Do you like staring at me, human?” she asked with a delicate voice that tinkled like cracking glass. The mask’s lips didn’t move when she spoke. “We mistspren can choose our forms, you know. We usually choose a shape like a person, but we don’t need to. You seem so fascinated. Do you think me pretty, or do you think me a monster?”

“I…” Adolin said.

“Answer not,” Zu’s peakspren—Ua’pam—said with a grinding voice. “You. Tease not.”

“I’m not teasing,” she replied. “Merely questioning. I like to know how minds think.”

“A worthy enough goal,” Adolin said, searching around again. All of the Radiant spren were there, but where was she?

Shallan caught his eyes and nodded toward the ramp down, so he hurried over, stopping at the top as he found a final spren sitting there waiting. She was another cultivationspren, with cordlike vines making up her face. But her vines were a dull brown and they pulled tighter—giving her features a sunken-in cast.

Maya still wore the same dull brown rags. However, he saw hints of what they’d once been. Not robes as Godeke’s spren wore. This had been a uniform.

Her most unnerving feature was her scratched-out eyes. It seemed as if someone had taken a knife to her face, except she hadn’t bled or been scarred by the cuts. She’d been erased. Ripped apart. Removed from existence. When she looked at Adolin, she seemed like a painting that had been vandalized.

She sat huddled on the ramp. She didn’t speak; she never did—except one time over a year ago when she’d told him her name. She was his Shardblade. And, he hoped, his friend.

“Mayalaran,” he said, holding out his hand toward her.

She regarded the hand, then cocked her head. As if it were some strange alien object for which she could determine no use. Adolin moved down the ramp and lightly took her hand, then put it into his. The coiled cords of her skin had a firm, smooth texture. Like a good hogshide hilt.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me introduce the others.”

He tugged on her hand and she followed, standing up and wordlessly joining him on the top of the platform.

“That’s Shallan,” Adolin said, pointing. “My wife. You remember her and Pattern, right? There’s Godeke—he was once an ardent. Arshqqam is our Truthwatcher; she used to take care of orphans. And Zu, she’s…” Adolin hesitated. “Zu, what did you used to do?”

“Make trouble, mostly,” the Iriali woman said. She pulled off her thick coat, letting out a deep sigh. Underneath she wore a tight wrap around her upper torso, a little like a warrior’s sarashi. She had bronze skin that seemed metallic to Adolin, and her hair wasn’t like his own blond—it was too golden. Though his mother had been from Rira, near Iri, the two peoples were distinct.

“Come on, Ua’pam!” she said. “Let’s see what’s at the bottom of this ramp!”

“Be careful,” the peakspren said as Zu put her coat over her shoulder and strolled to the side of the ramp.

“Well,” Adolin said to Maya, “that’s Zu. Those other six are Shallan’s Lightweavers and their spren. Here, meet my soldiers.…”

As he pulled Maya over to introduce her to Felt, the mistspren walked over beside him. “There is no use talking to a deadeye,” the creature said with unmoving lips. “Do you not understand this? What about you makes you wish to talk to something that cannot understand you?”

“She understands,” Adolin said.

“You think that she does. This is curious.”

Adolin ignored the odd spren, instead introducing Maya to his team. He’d told them to expect her, so they each bowed respectfully and didn’t stare at her strange eyes too much. Ledder even complimented her appearance as a Blade, saying he’d always admired her beauty.

Maya took it all with her characteristic mute solemnity. She didn’t cock her head; she simply stood by Adolin, looking at whoever was speaking.

She did understand. He’d felt her emotions through the sword; in fact, he felt like he’d always been able to sense her encouraging him.

Shallan came over and took him by the arm. “We should be moving on,” she said. “See if the ship has arrived.”