Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

She felt that every time though. So today, she just pushed the basket ahead of her as she crawled through the small tunnel. The next intersection was a tight squeeze, but she could make herself slick with Stormlight, so she got through.

Two turns and a straight crawl later, they entered a small intersection where she’d left a sphere for light. The roof of the tunnel was a little higher here, letting her settle with her back against the stone wall so she could inspect her prize.

Wyndle came in on the ceiling, taking the shape of a growing vine that crept across the stone. He formed a face again right above her as she rifled through the basket. Flatbread … some curry … sugared mashed beans … a little jar of jam with a cute face drawn on top above the Horneater symbol for “love.”

Lift glanced up at the ceiling and the blinking vine face hanging from it. “Fine,” she admitted. “Maybe he left it out for me.”

“Maybe?”

“Starvin’ stupid Horneater boy,” Lift grumbled, slathering jam on the flatbread. “His dad knew how to make it appear like an accident, leavin’ stuff out so I could take it. Let me stormin’ pretend.”

She stuffed the bread into her mouth. Damnation. It was good. Only made the experience more humiliating.

“I don’t see the problem, mistress,” Wyndle said.

“That’s ’cuz you’re a dummyspren,” she said, then stuffed the rest of the flatbread into her mouth, talking around it. “Dodnoif lifhf anyfunf inftor lif.”

“I do too like fun in my life!” he said. “Last month, with the help of some human children, I displayed the most beautiful art installation of chairs. The other cultivationspren thought it quite majestic. They complimented the stools in particular.”

Lift sighed, leaning back, slumping there. Too annoyed to even make a good stool joke. She wasn’t really angry. Wasn’t really sad. Just … blarglegorf. Supremely blarglegorf.

Storms. The wrap she wore underneath her shirt was itchy today. “Come on,” she said, grabbing the basket and sphere, then moving on through the tower’s innards.

“Is it really so bad?” Wyndle said, following. “Gift likes you. That is why he leaves things out for you.”

“I’m not supposed to be liked,” Lift snapped. “I’m a shadow. A dangerous and unknown shadow, moving mysteriously from place to place, never seen. Always feared.”

“A … shadow.”

“Yes, a starvin’ shadow, all right?” She had to squeeze through the next tunnel too. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “This tower, it’s like a big ol’ corpse. And I’m like blood, sneaking around through its veins.”

“Why would a corpse have blood in its veins?”

“Fine. It’s not dead. It’s sleepin’ and we are its stormin’ blood. All right?”

“I should think,” Wyndle said, “these air vents are much more like intestines. So the allegory would make you more akin to … um … well, feces I guess.”

“Wyndle?” she said, pulling through.

“Yes, mistress?”

“Maybe stop tryin’ to help with my deevy metaphors.”

“Yes, all right.”

“Storming lamespren,” she muttered, finally reaching a section of larger air vents. She did like this tower. There were a lot of places to hide and to explore. Up here in this network of stone ventilation shafts, she found the occasional mink or other scavenger, but it was actually her domain. The adults were too big, and the other children too frightened. Plus she could glow—when properly fed—and her awesomeness could get her through tight squeezes.

A year ago, there hadn’t been nearly as many of those as there were now.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

They eventually reached her nest, a large opening where four tall ventilation shafts met. Here she’d piled up blankets, food stores, and some treasures. One of Dalinar’s knives she was absolutely sure he hadn’t wanted her to steal. Some interesting shells. An old flute that Wyndle said looked strange.

They were near a well where she could get all the water she wanted—but far enough away from people that she could talk freely. Her previous nest had let her listen in on the echoes of people nearby—but they’d also been able to hear her.

She’d heard them talking about the echoing. The spirit of the tower, they’d called her. That had been nifty at first, but then they’d started leaving stuff out for her, like she was the stormin’ Nightwatcher. And she’d started feeling guilty. You can’t be taking stuff from people who don’t have much. That was the first rule of not being a total-and-utter-useless-piece-of-chull-dung.

She munched on more of the “stolen” food from her basket, then sighed and got up. She stepped up to a side wall, putting her back to the stone. “Come on,” she said. “Do it.”

Wyndle moved up the wall. As always, he left a trail of vines behind him. They would crumble and decay soon after, but could be used to mark something for a short time. He moved across the wall atop her head, then she turned around and marked the line with a more permanent one out of chalk.

“That’s almost a full inch since last time,” she said.

“I’m sorry, mistress.”

She flopped down in her nest of blankets, wanting to curl up and cry. “I’ll stop eating,” she said. “That’ll stunt my growth.”

“You?” Wyndle said. “Stop eating.”

Storming spren. She pulled off her shirt, redid the wrap tighter—although it pinched her skin—then replaced her shirt. After that, she lay and stared up at the marks on the wall, which showed the progress of her height over the last year.

“Mistress,” Wyndle said, curling up like an eel and raising a vine head beside her. He was getting better at making faces, and this one was one of her favorites—it had vines that looked like little mustaches. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me what exactly it was you asked the Nightwatcher?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “It was all lies. The boon. The promises. Lies, lies, lies.”

“I have met the Nightwatcher,” Wyndle said. “She does not … think the same way the rest of us do. Cultivation created her to be apart, separated from humankind, un-Connected. Mortal perception of the Nightwatcher does not influence her like it does other spren. Mother wanted a daughter whose shape and personality would grow organically.

“This makes the Nightwatcher less … well, human … than a spren like me. Still, I don’t believe her capable of lying. It isn’t something she could conceive of, I believe.”

“She’s not the liar,” Lift said, closing her eyes. Storms. She’d made the wrap too tight. She could barely breathe. “It’s the other one. The one with a dress like leaves, merging into the underbrush. Hair like twigs. Skin the color of deep brown stone.”

“So you did see Cultivation herself. Both you and Dalinar … Mother has been intervening far more than we assumed, but behind a cloud of subterfuge. She uses tales of the Old Magic to distract, and to make it less obvious the specific ones she is drawing to her.…”

Lift shrugged.