Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

Glaring at singers wasn’t much. He knew he could—and would have to—do more. When the time was right. And he couldn’t let the enemy catch him being unruly. So for now, he stepped to the side of the corridor with his father and let the large group of warforms pass. He dutifully stood there, his father’s hand on his shoulder, their heads bowed.

But as soon as the warforms had passed, Adin looked up. And he glared after them, angry as he could be.

He wasn’t the only one. He caught Shar, the seamstress’s daughter, glaring too. Well, her uncle was a Windrunner, so maybe she figured she had a better chance than most—but surely the spren were more discerning than that. Shar was so bossy, you’d think she was lighteyed.

Doesn’t matter, Adin reminded himself. The spren don’t care if you’re bossy. They just want you to be brave. Well, he could handle a little competition from Shar. And when he got his spren first, maybe he could give her a few tips.

Adin’s father caught him glaring, unfortunately, and squeezed his shoulder. “Eyes down,” he hissed.

Adin obeyed reluctantly, as another group of soldiers marched past—all heading for the atrium. Had there been some kind of disturbance? Adin had better not have missed another appearance by Stormblessed. He couldn’t believe he’d spent the last fight napping.

He hoped the spren would look at people’s parents when choosing their Radiants. Because Adin’s father was extremely brave. Oh, he didn’t glare at passing soldiers, but he didn’t need to. Adin’s father spent many afternoons tending the fallen Radiants. Directly beneath the gaze of the Fused. And every night he went out in secret, doing something.

Once the soldiers passed, everyone else continued on their way. Adin’s ankle hurt a little, but it mostly felt better from when he’d hurt it. So he didn’t even limp anymore. He didn’t want a spren to see him acting weak.

What was going on? He went up on his toes, trying to look over the crowd, but his father didn’t let him linger. Together they entered the market, then turned toward Master Liganor’s shop. It felt strange to keep following their normal routine. How could they continue making pottery at a time like this? How could Master Liganor open the shop for business like nothing was happening? Well, that was part of their bravery. Adin had figured it out.

They entered the back of the shop and set up in the workroom. Adin got busy, knowing that they had to act normal—so the enemy wouldn’t figure out something was up. You had to get them to feel secure, comfortable. Today, Adin did that by heaving out his bucket of crem, pouring off the water on top, and mixing it until it was a paste. Then he mashed it for his father until it was just the right consistency—a little more squishy than dough.

He worked the lump aggressively, showing those spren—who were undoubtedly watching him by now—that he had good strong arms. Windrunners needed strong arms, because they didn’t use their legs much, on account of them flying around everywhere.

As he worked the crem—his arms starting to burn, the earthy scent of wet rock filling the air—he heard the front door shut. Master Liganor had arrived. The old man was nice, for a lighteyes. Once upon a time, he’d done all the glaze work on the pottery himself, but now it was all completed by Gub, the other journeyman besides Adin’s father.

Adin mashed the crem to the proper consistency, then handed a chunk to his father, who had been cleaning and setting the wheel. Adin’s father hefted it, pushed one finger in, then nodded approvingly. “Make another batch,” he said, putting the chunk onto his wheel. “We’ll practice your plates.”

“I won’t need to be able to make plates once I can fly,” Adin said.

“And what if it takes you until your twenties to become a Windrunner?” his father asked. “You’ll need to do something with your time until then. Might as well make plates.”

“Spren don’t care about plates.”

“They must,” his father said, spinning up the wheel by pumping his foot on the pedal. “Their Radiants have to eat, after all.” He started shaping the crem. “Never underestimate the value of a job well done, Adin. You want a spren to notice you? Take pride in every job you do. Men who make sloppy plates will be sloppy fighting Fused.”

Adin narrowed his eyes. How did his father know that? Was it merely another piece of wisdom drawn from his never-ending well of fatherly quips, or … was it from personal experience? Regardless, Adin dragged out another bucket of crem. They were running low. Where would they get more, now that traders weren’t coming in from the Plains?

He was halfway through mixing the new batch when Master Liganor entered, wringing his hands. Short, bald, and tubby, he looked like a vase—the kind that had been made with too short a neck to really be useful. But he was nice.

“Something’s happening, Alalan,” the master said. “Something in the atrium. I don’t like it. I think I’ll close the shop today. Just in case.”

Adin’s father nodded calmly, still shaping his current pot. When he was on a pot, nothing could shake him. He kept sculpting, wetting his fingers absently.

“What do you think?” Master Liganor asked.

“A good idea,” Adin’s father replied. “Put out the glyph for lunch, and maybe we can reopen later.”

“Good, good,” the master said, bustling out of the workshop into the attached showroom. “I think … I think I’ll head to my room for a while. You’ll keep working? We’re low on water pots. As always.”

Master Liganor closed and latched the wooden windows at the front of the small shop, then locked the door. Then he went upstairs to his rooms.

As soon as he was gone, Adin’s father stood up, leaving a pot half-finished on the wheel. “Watch the shop, son,” he said, washing his hands, then walked toward the back door.

Short, with curly hair and a quiet way about him, he was not the type someone would pick out of a crowd as a hero. Yet Adin knew exactly where he was going. Adin stood up, hands coated in crem. “You’re going to go see what’s happening, aren’t you? In the atrium?”

His father hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. “Stay here and watch the shop.”

“You’re going to paint your head with the glyph,” Adin said, “and go watch over the Radiants. Just in case. I want to go with you.”

“Your ankle—”

“Is fine now,” Adin said. “If something does go wrong, you’ll need me to run home and tell Mother. Plus, if there’s trouble, there could be looting here in the market. I’ll be safer with you.”

Adin’s father debated, then sighed and waved him forward. Adin felt his heart thundering in his chest as he hurried to obey. He could feel it, an energy in the air. It would happen today.

Today, he’d pick up a spear and earn his spren.

Taravangian had given up on being smart.

It seemed that the longer he lived, the less his intelligence varied each day. And when it did vary, it seemed to move steadily downward. Toward stupidity. Toward sentimentality. His “smart” days lately would have been average just months ago.

He needed to act anyway.

He could not afford to wait upon intelligence. The world could not afford to wait upon the whims of his situation. Unfortunately, Taravangian had no idea how to proceed. He’d failed to recruit Szeth; Taravangian was too stupid to manipulate that man now. He’d started a dozen letters to Dalinar, and ripped them all up.