Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

“Not even a single lifetime to many spren,” Notum said. “We have long memories, Prince Adolin. Perhaps you would not be blamed, save for the fact that your people have returned to those oaths. You have not learned from the past, and are restarting the abomination, bonding spren and risking their lives.”

“These Radiants won’t do what those of the past did,” Adolin said. “Look, for thousands of years before the Recreance, spren and humans got along. Will we let one event wipe that all out?”

“One event?” Notum said. “One event that caused eight genocides, Prince Adolin. Pause and think on that. Nearly every honorspren was bound, and those were all killed. Can you imagine the betrayal? The pain of being murdered by the person you trusted with your life? Your very soul? Men die, and their souls travel to the Spiritual Realm to meld with deity. But what of us?”

He waved to Maya, standing in her rags, eyes scratched away. “We are left,” Notum said, “to wander Shadesmar as dead souls, unable to think or talk. Our bodies are used, screaming, as weapons by the descendants of the ones who killed us. It was not a simple mistake that led us to this state, but a coordinated and calculated betrayal of oaths.

“Your people are criminals. The sole reason there was no swift retribution was because you killed every spren who could have acted against you. Do not go to Lasting Integrity. They will not accept letters from your kings and queens. They will not even speak to you.”

Notum turned and stalked toward a small caravan set up outside. Judging by the organized layout—and the two uniformed Reachers guarding the perimeter—Adolin guessed it was Notum’s own caravan.

“Captain,” Adolin called after him. “Perhaps my task is doomed as you say. However, I can’t help but think that it would be helped if we had someone vouch for my intentions. Perhaps a respected honorspren, a ship’s captain and military man. Someone who understands the urgency of our mission.”

Notum froze, then turned on his heel, his head cocked. “Ship’s captain? You didn’t see my clothing?”

“You’re … on leave?”

“I was removed from duty,” Notum said, “for letting the Ancient Daughter go after capturing her. I spent five months in prison, and when I was released I was demoted to the lowest rank an honorspren can hold. I’ve been assigned to spend two centuries patrolling the empty land between here and Lasting Integrity, traveling back and forth endlessly. I am not allowed to set foot in Lasting Integrity. I can see it, but not enter.”

“Until when?” Adolin asked. “Until … your patrol is done?”

“Until never, Prince Adolin. I am exiled.” He looked up at the sky, where shimmering lights revealed a highstorm beginning to pass in the Physical Realm. “I knew what I was doing, what I was tempting, when I let you go. At least tell me, did you save him? The Bondsmith?”

Adolin swallowed, his mouth having gone dry. Exiled for eternity? Because he had done the right thing? Adolin had known not to expect the honorspren of Lasting Integrity to be like Syl was, but he’d been expecting to be able to speak with people such as Notum. Tough, strict, but ultimately fair-minded people capable of listening to reason.

But if they had treated Notum—who had seemed the ultimate embodiment of propriety and honor—in such a terrible way … Stormwinds.

Notum was still waiting for an answer. He’d let Syl and the rest of them go because Kaladin had insisted they needed to rescue Dalinar. Adolin wanted to offer some kind of quick assurance that Notum’s sacrifice had been vital … but the words wouldn’t come out. This spren deserved honesty.

“He saved us, Notum,” Adolin said. “My father didn’t ultimately end up needing our help—though I think that Shallan and Kaladin helped turn the battle when we arrived.”

Notum nodded. “I am marching along this road toward Lasting Integrity, but will be forced to turn back when I draw near. Perhaps we will meet again along the path, human prince, and I can dissuade you from this course.” He continued on.

Ua’pam and Zu were already on the barge, and they’d apparently arranged for Adolin’s party to set up in one of the several camps established outside town. So Adolin joined the others as they unloaded their gear—helping with the horses, then moving his weapons—all the while lost in thought.

Adolin had been useless in that battle at Thaylen City. The world was about gods and Radiants now, not handsome young lighteyes who fancied themselves skilled with the sword. Best thing he could do was accept that, then find a different way to be useful.

He would find a way to get the honorspren to listen to him. Somehow.

I do not share their attitude. If you can, as you suppose, maintain Odium’s prison for now, it would give us necessary time to plan. This is a threat beyond the capacity of one Shard to face.

Even weeks after first meeting one, Venli caught herself staring at the new brand of Fused.

These ones—called the makay-im, or “Those Ones of the Depths”—had access to one of her same Surges: the ability to turn stone into a liquid.

The Deepest Ones had smooth skin, no hair, and barely any carapace—just shells over their heads and genitals. This put their vibrant patterns on display across the full lengths of their sinuous bodies. Long-legged and long-armed, they reminded Venli of her current form, which was tall without reaching the unnatural willowy level of Raboniel and the builders like her.

The makay-im wore open-fronted robes, if they wore anything at all. They stayed aloof from the rest of the strike team as they moved through the frozen mountain passes. After weeks of traveling together, Venli still hadn’t been addressed directly by one of the Deepest Ones—though the pace Raboniel set left little time for chitchat.

These mountains, as far as Venli could tell, weren’t claimed by any particular kingdom. The isolated valleys were too inaccessible from the outside. Her team had been dropped in by Heavenly Ones several weeks before, then left to travel the rest of the way to Urithiru on foot.

The human fortress lay somewhere in here—presumed hidden and unassailable. Windrunner patrols made it impossible to fly in too close, but Raboniel felt that a small group of ground troops—moving carefully at night or during storms—would be able to approach the lower tunnels to the tower unseen.

So it was that Venli joined the rest of the group in moving out from the shadow of tree cover, crossing the stone ground. As on other days, Raboniel set a characteristically difficult pace, though Venli knew she wouldn’t start to feel tired until they’d been going for a few hours.

The ancient scholar had changed from stately robes into travel leathers suitable for battle, her topknot of pure red-orange hairstrands spilling down around her otherwise carapace-covered skull. She urged the group forward, increasingly eager. They were nearing the tower; only a few days now.

This highland valley was mostly barren, supporting just the most rugged of rockbuds and the occasional clump of squat trees, their branches interwoven to create a storm-resistant snarl. Though leaves on these trees would retract before storms, the branches remained firm and interlocked. There wasn’t a single lifespren in sight, though coldspren lined the ground, pointing toward the sky.

As one might expect, there were more rockbuds on the leeward slopes, but blasted scars of black ground and burned patches showed that when the Everstorm came through, it did not temper its fury. The heights seemed to suffer more lightning strikes than the lowlands did.