Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

The woman leaped to her feet, reaching for the sword she wore at her side. She was of a difficult race to distinguish—maybe Azish, with that dark skin tone. But her eyes were wrong—like a Shin person. These two were beings trapped outside of time. Creatures almost as ancient as Roshar. The Heralds Shalash and Talenelat.

Dalinar ignored the woman’s threatening pose and strode forward, seizing her by the shoulders. “There were ten of you. Ten Heralds. All were members of an order of Knights Radiant.”

“No,” Shalash said. “We were before the Radiants. They were modeled upon us, but we were not in their ranks. Except for Nale.”

“But there was one of you who was a Bondsmith,” Dalinar said. “Ishi, Herald of Luck, Herald of Mysteries, Binder of Gods.”

“Creator of the Oathpact,” Shalash said, forcing herself out of Dalinar’s grip. “Yes, yes. We all have names like that. Useless names. You should stop talking about us. Stop worshipping us. Stop painting us.”

“He’s still alive,” Dalinar said. “He was unchained by the oaths. He would understand what I can learn to do.”

“I’m sure,” Shalash said. “If any—except me—are still sane, it would be him.”

“He’s near here,” Dalinar said, in awe. “In Tukar. Not more than a short flight southeast of this very town.”

“Isn’t there an army in the way?” Shalash said. “Isn’t pushing the enemy back—crushing them into Ishar’s army—our main goal right now?”

“That’s what Jasnah and our army are doing,” Dalinar said. “But I have another task. I need to find a way to speak to the god-priest, then convince him to help me rescue Urithiru.”

Intent matters. Intent is king. You cannot do what I attempt by accident. You must mean it. This seems a much greater law than we’ve ever before understood.

—From Rhythm of War, endnotes

Navani sat quietly in her cell of a library room, waiting. Hours passed. She requested food and was given it, but neither the guard nor the Deepest One watching her answered when she asked questions. So she waited. Too nervous to study. Too sick to her stomach to dare try speaking to the Sibling.

After all her assurances and promises, Navani had proven untrustworthy after all.

Raboniel finally arrived, wearing a simple outfit of trousers, a blouse, and a Thaylen vest. She’d previously said she found their designs fascinating. She’d chosen traditionally male clothing, but likely didn’t mind the distinction.

The Lady of Wishes observed Navani from the doorway, then shooed the guards away. Navani gritted her teeth, then stood up and bowed. She’d been hurt, outmatched, and defeated. But she couldn’t let anger and humiliation rule. She needed information.

“You didn’t persist in trying to contact me,” Raboniel said. “I assume you realized what had happened.”

“How long were you listening in on my conversations with the Sibling, Ancient One?” Navani said.

“Always,” Raboniel said. “When I could not be listening in, I had another Fused doing it.”

Navani closed her eyes. I gave them the secret to the third node. I pried it out of the Sibling, walking directly into the enemy’s plan.

“You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself,” Raboniel said. “The Sibling is truly to blame—they always have been so innocent. And unaware of their own naiveness. When I touched the pillar, I knew the Sibling was awake—but pretending to be dead. So I let the ruse continue, and I listened. I couldn’t know that decision would bear fruit, but that is why you nurture nine seeds and watch for the one that begins growing.”

“The Sibling told me…” Navani said. “They said we couldn’t outthink you.”

“Yes, I heard that,” Raboniel said. “It made me worry that you’d spotted my surveillance. It seemed too obvious a line said to distract me.”

“How?” Navani asked, opening her eyes. “How did you do it, Ancient One? Surely the Sibling would have known if their communication could be compromised.”

Raboniel hummed a rhythm, then walked over and tapped Navani’s stacks of notes. “Study. Find us answers about Light, Navani. Stop trying to fight me; help me end this war instead. That was always your purpose here.”

Navani felt nausea stirring her insides. She’d thrown up once already from the sick feeling of what she’d done. What she’d cost the Sibling. She forced it down this time, and as Raboniel left, she managed to ask one more question.

“Kaladin,” she said. “The Windrunner. Did you kill him, Ancient One?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “Though I did land a fine cut on him. You have likely realized that he succeeded in destroying the node, as the shield is still up. However, when the Windrunner was spotted fleeing the tower a good half hour after, his wound hadn’t healed—so I think the Sibling’s transformation is almost complete. This makes your Windrunner’s powers quite unreliable. I find it unlikely he survived after running out into the storm.”

“Into the storm?” Navani asked.

“Yes. A pity. Perhaps the Sibling can tell you if he is dead or not—if so, I should very much like to study his corpse.”

Raboniel left. Navani pushed through her sickness to write, then burn, a prayer of protection for Kaladin. It was all she could do.

Then she rested her head on the table to think about the profound scope of her failure.

THE END OF

Part Three

Szeth-son-Honor tried to slouch.

Dalinar said that slouching a little would help him imitate an ordinary soldier on a boring guard duty. Dalinar said Szeth prowled when he walked, and was too intense when standing at watch. Like a fire burning high when it should be smoldering.

How did one stop being intense? Szeth tried to understand this as he forced himself to lean against a tree, folding his arms as Dalinar had suggested. In front of him, the Blackthorn played with his grandnephew, the child of Elhokar. Szeth carefully checked the perimeter of the small clearing. Watching for shadows. Or for people suspiciously lingering in the nearby camp—visible through the trees.

He saw nothing, which troubled him. But he tried to relax anyway.

The cloudy sky and muggy weather today were reminiscent of the coast of Shinovar, where Szeth’s father had worked as a shepherd in his youth. With this thick grass, Szeth could almost imagine he was home. Near the beautiful white cliffs, listening to lambs bleat as he carried water.

He heard his father’s gentle words. The best and truest duty of a person is to add to the world. To create, and not destroy.

But no. Szeth was not home. He was standing on profane stone in a forest clearing outside a small town in Emul. Dalinar knelt down, showing Gavinor—a child not yet five—how to hold his practice sword.

It had been a few minutes, so Szeth left the tree and made a circuit of the clearing, inspecting a few suspicious bundles of vines. “Do you see anything dangerous, sword-nimi?” he asked softly.

Nope, the sword said. I think you should draw me. I can see better when I’m drawn.

“When you are drawn, sword-nimi, you attempt to drain my life.”