Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive 3)

Days had passed since Venli had first arrived at Kholinar. And, as Rine had warned, this was her true labor. Venli now gave her presentation a dozen times each day, speaking to groups of singers brought out of the city for the purpose. She wasn’t allowed into Kholinar herself. They kept her sequestered in this stormshelter outside, which they called the hermitage.

Venli hummed to Spite as she leaned against the window, annoyed by the incarceration. Even the window had only been installed—cut by a Shardblade and set with thick stormshutters—after her repeated requests. The city outside called to her. Majestic walls, beautiful buildings. It reminded her of Narak … which, actually, her people hadn’t built. In living there, the listeners had profited from the labors of ancient humans, as modern humans had profited from the enslaved singers.

Timbre floated over to her, then hovered by the window, as if to sneak out and look around outside.

“No,” Venli said.

Timbre pulsed to Resolve, then inched forward in the air.

“Stay inside,” Venli said to Command. “They’re watching for spren like you. Descriptions of your kind, and others, have been spread all through the city.”

The little spren backed away, pulsing to Annoyance, before settling in the air beside Venli.

Venli rested her head on her arms. “I feel like a relic,” she whispered. “Already I seem like a cast-off ruin from a nearly forgotten day. Are you the reason I feel like that, suddenly? I only get this way when I let you out.”

Timbre pulsed to Peace. Upon hearing that, something stirred deep within Venli: the Voidspren that occupied her gemheart. That spren couldn’t think, not like Ulim or the higher Voidspren. It was a thing of emotions and animal instincts, but the bond with it granted Venli her form of power.

She started to wonder. So many of the Fused were obviously unhinged; perhaps their inordinately long lives had taken a toll on their psyches. Wouldn’t Odium need new leaders for his people? If she proved herself, could she claim a place among them?

New Fused. New … gods?

Eshonai had always worried about Venli’s thirst for power, and had cautioned her to control her ambitions. Even Demid, at times, had been worried for her. And now … and now they were all dead.

Timbre pulsed to Peace, then to Pleading, then back to Peace.

“I can’t,” Venli said to Mourning. “I can’t.”

Pleading. More insistent. The Rhythm of the Lost, of Remembrance, and then Pleading.

“I’m the wrong one,” Venli said to Annoyance. “I can’t do this, Timbre. I can’t resist him.”

Pleading.

“I made this happen,” she said to Fury. “Don’t you realize that? I’m the one who caused all this. Don’t plead to me!”

The spren shrank, her light diminishing. Yet she still pulsed to Resolve. Idiot spren. Venli put a hand to her head. Why … why was she not more angry about what had happened to Demid, Eshonai, and the others? Could Venli really think about joining the Fused? Those monsters insisted her people were gone, and rebuffed her questions about the thousands of listeners who had survived the Battle of Narak. Were they all … all being turned into Fused? Shouldn’t Venli be thinking about that, not her ambitions?

A form changes the way you think, Venli. Everyone knew that. Eshonai had lectured—incessantly, as had been her way—about not letting the form dictate one’s actions. Control the form, don’t let it control you.

But then, Eshonai had been exemplary. A general and a hero. Eshonai had done her duty.

All Venli had ever wanted was power.

Timbre suddenly pulsed with a flash of light, and zipped away under the bed, terrified.

“Ah,” Venli said to Mourning, looking past the city at the sudden darkening of the sky. The Everstorm. It came about every nine days, and this was the second since her arrival. “So that’s why they didn’t bring an evening batch to listen to me.”

She folded her arms, took a deep breath, and hummed to Resolve until she lost track and shifted unconsciously to the Rhythm of Destruction. She didn’t close the window. He didn’t like that. Instead, she closed her eyes and listened to the thunder. Lightning flashed beyond her eyelids, red and garish. The spren in her leaped to feel it, and she grew excited, the Rhythm of Destruction swelling inside her.

Her people might be gone, but this … this power was worth it. How could she not embrace this?

How long can you keep being two people, Venli? She seemed to hear Eshonai’s voice. How long will you vacillate?

The storm hit, wind blasting through the window, lifting her … and she entered some kind of vision. The building vanished, and she was tossed about in the storm—but she knew that after it passed, she wouldn’t be hurt.

Venli eventually dropped onto a hard surface. She hummed to Destruction and opened her eyes, finding herself standing on a platform hanging high in the sky, far above Roshar, which was a blue and brown globe below. Behind her was a deep, black nothingness marred only by a tiny blip that could have been a single star.

That yellow-white star expanded toward her at an awesome speed, swelling, growing, until it overwhelmed her with an incredible flame. She felt her skin melting, her flesh burning away.

You are not telling the story well enough, Odium’s voice declared, speaking the ancient tongue. You grow restless. The Fused inform me of it. This will change or you will be destroyed.

“Y-yes … Lord.” Speaking burned away her tongue. She could no longer see; the fire had claimed her eyes. Pain. Agony. But she couldn’t bend to it, for the god before her demanded all of her attention. The pain of her body being consumed was nothing compared to him.

You are mine. Remember this.

She was vaporized completely.

And woke on the floor of her hermitage, fingers bleeding from having clawed the stone again. The storm’s rumbling had grown distant—she’d been gone for hours. Had she burned the entire time?

Trembling, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her skin melting, her eyes, her tongue burning away …

The Rhythm of Peace pulled her out of it, and she knew Timbre hovered beside her. Venli rolled over and groaned, eyes still shut, seeking Peace in her own mind.

She couldn’t find it. Odium’s presence was too fresh; the spren inside her thrummed to Craving instead.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered to Derision. “You’ve got the wrong sister.”

The wrong sister had died. The wrong sister lived.

Venli had schemed to return their gods.

This was her reward.

EIGHT YEARS AGO

Gavilar was starting to look worn.

Dalinar stood at the back of the king’s den, listening with half an ear. The king spoke with the heirs of the highprinces, staying to safe topics, like Gavilar’s plans for various civic projects in Kholinar.

He’s looking so old, Dalinar thought. Grey before his time. He needs something to revitalize him. A hunt, maybe?

Dalinar didn’t need to participate in the meeting; his job was to loom. Occasionally, one of the younger men would glance toward the perimeter of the room, and see the Blackthorn there in shadow. Watching.

He saw fires reflected in their eyes, and heard the weeping of children in the back of his mind.

Don’t be weak, Dalinar thought. It’s been almost three years.