Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

“As long as it’s what you want to become. Not what someone else thinks you should become.”

He continued staring at the sky, stretched out, somehow making it seem comfortable to be lying with his head on a rock. Wonderfully messy hair, blond peppered black, impeccable uniform. And that face in between. Not messy, not impeccable, just … him.

“It wasn’t long ago,” Adolin said, “that all I wanted was for everyone to respect my father again. We thought he was aging, losing his senses. I wanted everyone else to see him as I did. How did I lose that, Shallan? I mean, I’m proud of him. He’s becoming someone who deserves love, and not merely respect.

“But storms, these days I can’t stand to be around him. He’s become everything I wanted him to be, and that transformation shoved us apart.”

“It wasn’t what you found out he’d done? To … her?”

“That’s part of it,” Adolin admitted. “It hurts. I love him, but can’t yet forgive him. I think I will, with time. There’s more though. Straining our relationship. He has this misguided notion that I’ve always been better than him.

“To Father, I’m some pristine remnant of my mother—this noble little statue who got all of her goodness and none of his coarseness. He doesn’t want me to be me, or even him. He wants me to be this imagined perfect child who was born better than he ever could be.”

“And that makes you not a person,” Shallan said, nodding. “It erases your ability to make choices or mistakes. Because you’re perfect. You were born to be perfect. So you can never earn anything on your own.”

He reached over, putting his hand on her knee, and met her gaze—almost teary-eyed. Because she understood. And storms, she did. She rested her hand on his, then pulled him closer. Feeling his breath on her neck as he drew close. She kissed him then, and as she did, she caught a glimpse of the sky. The majestic spren had started to fade into the cloud—perhaps feeling ignored now that her attention was on someone else.

Well, it wasn’t the spren’s fault.

It simply couldn’t compete.

You say that the power itself must be treated as separate in our minds from the Vessel who controls it.

Adolin walked a little easier, knowing he could get through to Shallan. So, after returning from seeing the starspren, he gave Ua’pam a thumbs-up. It had been an excellent suggestion, and the alone time had been exactly what they needed.

Shallan gave him a fond hug and a squeeze of the arms before hurrying off to gather her things. It made sense, he supposed, that she’d been nervous lately. A spy had infiltrated their quest here. Perhaps he hadn’t devoted enough thought to that particular problem.

That was Shallan’s area of expertise though. Illusions, lies, art, and fiction. Politics was supposed to be his. He’d been raised as second in line for the throne—eventually third, following little Gav’s birth. Though Adolin had turned down that very throne when it had been offered to him, he should make a competent emissary to a foreign nation.

Appeal to their honor, he thought, remembering Arshqqam’s suggestion.

He sought out Gallant and took him from the grooms to load the horse’s burden himself: the swords in their sheaths, the box of other weapons, then the trunk of clothing on the opposite side. He stared into Gallant’s blue eyes. Adolin often felt he could see some kind of light deep within them.

“Must be nice,” Adolin said, patting the horse, “to not have to worry about things like politics or relationships.”

The horse snorted in a way that Adolin thought was distinctly dismissive. Well, perhaps there was more to complicate a horse’s life than a man could ever see.

Malli, Felt’s wife, led Maya over. Adolin had asked the scribe to look after Maya while he went on his walk. He gestured toward the Ryshadium. “Shall we?”

It was hard to get any kind of acknowledgment out of Maya, but he did prefer to ask. Indeed, he thought he got a nod out of her. He took it as permission, so he helped her up onto the horse. The first few times getting her mounted had been a difficult process, involving stepping on some boxes and pulling her awkwardly into the saddle. Now she knew what to do, though—and only needed a hand over the saddle to help her into place.

Maya was heavier than she appeared, made of thick cords that were tight and dense, like muscle. Still, even at the start, it had been worth the effort to get her into the seat. It made traveling easier, as she would sit placidly on the horse and follow the rest of them. Plus, Adolin admitted that he felt better with Gallant watching over her. The Ryshadium understood. You took special care of a soldier who had left part of herself on the battlefield.

They started out for the day, Adolin leading the column, though Godeke and his spren were scouting ahead. The solemn Edgedancer didn’t have any Stormlight—they’d used the last of it the previous night, making food stores for the trip home—but Godeke had practice scouting as part of his Radiant training.

Adolin spent the early part of the hike trying to settle on a final strategy for approaching the honorspren. The others were right; the ideas he’d presented were unlikely to work. So, he’d start with the letters. Could he develop a backup plan though?

Nothing came to him, and by midday he’d lost any sense of calm or satisfaction he’d gained from the morning with Shallan. With effort, he kept himself from snapping when Felt came up from the rear guard. The foreign scout had been a stable, valuable part of the mission so far. Felt might not be quite as spry as he’d once been, but he seemed to have a sixth sense for traveling in unknown places.

“Brightlord,” the man said, wearing a floppy old hat. He’d inherited that when Bashin had retired from service, and he now wore it as a memento. While not regulation, it was the kind of thing you let a man like Felt get away with. “The humans just broke and turned away toward the south. Looks like they’ve given up on following us.”

“Really?” Adolin asked. “Now, of all times?”

“Yeah. Feels strange to me, though I can’t exactly pinpoint why.”

Adolin gave the call for a break and a snack. Merit approached to unload Gallant to give him a rest, and Adolin followed Felt to the rear of the small column. Here they climbed up a small outcropping of obsidian—fragile glass plants crackling and shattering underfoot, lifespren dodging away—where they could use spyglasses to observe the Tukari.

The strange group of humans was now far enough away that he could barely make them out in the dim Shadesmar landscape. They had indeed turned southward.

“Why would they chase us all this way,” Adolin said, “then give up now?”

“Maybe they weren’t chasing us. They could have simply been going this direction anyway; that would explain why they were always careful to stay away from us and not catch up.”

A valid point—in fact, if the humans hadn’t seemed so unusual to him upon their first meeting, Adolin probably would have assumed this all along. He hadn’t thought it odd that Notum was traveling this same way. Why should he have worried so much about these humans?

There is something odd about them, he thought. The way they hovered so close, the way they watched us …

Adolin studied them through the spyglass, though at this distance he could make out little more than the shadows of figures carrying torches. “Well, they do appear to be leaving,” he said to Felt, handing back the spyglass. “Keep watch while we eat, just in case.”