Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

“I will need the authority of Raboniel to countermand this particular order,” Leshwi said to Abashment. “The Pursuer has command of law in the tower. I have already sent another of the Heavenly Ones to ask Raboniel.”

Venli winced at the screams. “But Raboniel said these Radiants were to be preserved!”

“No longer,” Leshwi said. “Something happened in the night. Raboniel had needed the Radiants for tests she intended to perform, but she had one of them brought to her, and afterward she said she needed no further tests. The rest are now a liability, possibly a danger, should they wake.” She looked toward the dying humans, then shied away as some warforms ran past with bloody axes.

“It is … unfortunate,” Leshwi said. “I do not sing to Joy in this type of conflict. But we have done it before, and will do it again, in the name of reclaiming our world.”

“Can’t we be better?” Venli begged to Disappointment. “Isn’t there a way?”

Leshwi looked at her, cocking her head. Venli had again used one of the wrong rhythms.

Venli searched the room, past the angerspren and fearspren. Some of the singer troops weren’t joining in the killing. She picked out Rothan and Malal, Leshwi’s soldiers. They hesitated and did not join in. Leshwi picked better people than that.

Show her, Timbre pulsed. Showhershowhershowher.

Venli braced herself. Then she drew in Stormlight from the spheres in her pocket, and let herself begin glowing.

Leshwi hummed immediately to Destruction and grabbed Venli by the face in a powerful grip.

“What?” she said. “What have you done?”

* * *

Kaladin entered the place between moments.

He’d met the Stormfather here on that first horrible night when he’d been strung up in the storm. The night when Syl had fought so hard to protect him.

This time he drifted in the darkness. No wind tossed him, and the air became impossibly calm, impossibly quiet. As if he were floating alone in the ocean.

WHY WON’T YOU SAY THE WORDS? the Stormfather asked.

“I’ve forgotten them,” Kaladin whispered.

YOU HAVE NOT.

“Will they mean anything if I don’t feel them, Stormfather? Can I lie to swear an Ideal?”

Silence. Pure, incriminating silence.

“He wants me, as he wanted Moash,” Kaladin said. “If he keeps pushing, he’ll have me. So I have to go.”

THAT IS A LIE, the Stormfather said. IT IS HIS ULTIMATE LIE, SON OF HONOR. THE LIE THAT SAYS YOU HAVE NO CHOICE. THE LIE THAT THERE IS NO MORE JOURNEY WORTH TAKING.

He was right. A tiny part of Kaladin—a part that could not lie to himself—knew it was true.

“What if I’m too tired?” Kaladin whispered. “What if there’s nothing left to give? What if that is why I cannot say your Words, Stormfather? What if it’s just too much?”

YOU WOULD CONSIGN MY DAUGHTER TO MISERY AGAIN?

Kaladin winced, but it was true. Could he do that to Syl?

He gritted his teeth as he began to struggle. Began to fight through the nothingness. Through the inability to think. He fought through the pain, the agony—still raw—of losing his friend.

He screamed, trembled, then sank inward.

“Too weak,” he whispered.

There simply wasn’t anything left for him to give.

* * *

It’s not enough, Dalinar said. He couldn’t see in this endless darkness, yet he could feel someone inside it. Two someones. Kaladin and his spren.

Storms. They hurt.

We need to give them more time, Dalinar said.

We cannot, the Stormfather said. Respect his frailty, and don’t force me on this, Dalinar! You could break things you do not understand, the consequences of which could be catastrophic.

Have you no compassion? Dalinar demanded. Have you no heart?

I am a storm, the Stormfather said. I chose the ways of a storm.

Choose better, then! Dalinar searched in the darkness, the infinity. He was full of Stormlight in a place where that didn’t matter.

In a place where all things Connected. A place beyond Shadesmar. A place beyond time. A place where …

What is that? Dalinar asked. That warmth.

I feel nothing.

Dalinar drew the warmth close, and understood. This place is where you make the visions happen, isn’t it? Dalinar asked. Time sometimes moved oddly in those.

Yes, the Stormfather said. But you must have Connection for a vision. You must have a reason for it. A meaning. It cannot be just anything.

GOOD, Dalinar said, forging a bond.

What are you doing?

CONNECTING HIM, Dalinar said. UNITING HIM.

The Stormfather rumbled. With what?

For ones so confused, they are somehow brilliant.

—Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days

Kaladin jolted, opening his eyes in confusion. He was in a small tent. What on Roshar?

He blinked and sat up, finding himself beside a boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, in an antiquated uniform. Leather skirt and cap? Kaladin was dressed similarly.

“What do you think, Dem?” the boy asked him. “Should we run?”

Kaladin scanned the small tent, baffled. Then he heard sounds outside. A battlefield? Yes, men yelling and dying. He stood up and stepped out into the light, blinking against it. A … hillside, with some stumpweight trees on it. This wasn’t the Shattered Plains.

I know this place, Kaladin thought. Amaram’s colors. Men in leather armor.

Storms, he was on a battlefield from his youth. The exhaustion had taken a toll on him. He was hallucinating. The surgeon in him was worried at that.

A young squadleader walked up, haggard. Storms, he couldn’t be older than seventeen or eighteen. That seemed so young to Kaladin now, though he wasn’t that much older. The squadleader was arguing with a shorter soldier beside him.

“We can’t hold,” the squadleader said. “It’s impossible. Storms, they’re gathering for another advance.”

“The orders are clear,” the other man said—barely out of his teens himself. “Brightlord Sheler says we’re to hold here. No retreat.”

“To Damnation with that man,” the squadleader said, wiping his sweaty hair, surrounded by jets of exhaustionspren. Kaladin immediately felt a kinship with the poor fool. Given impossible orders and not enough resources? Looking along the ragged battle line, Kaladin guessed the man was in over his head, with all the higher-ranked soldiers dead. There were barely enough men to form three squads, and half of those were wounded.

“This is Amaram’s fault,” Kaladin said. “Playing with the lives of half-trained men in outdated equipment, all to make himself look good so he’ll get moved to the Shattered Plains.”

The young squadleader glanced at Kaladin, frowning. “You shouldn’t talk like that, kid,” the man said, running his hand through his hair again. “It could get you strung up, if the highmarshal hears.” The man took a deep breath. “Form up the wounded men on that flank. Tell everyone to get ready to hold. And … you, messenger boy, grab your friend and get some spears. Gor, put them in front.”

“In front?” the other man asked. “You certain, Varth?”

“You work with what you have…” the man said, hiking back the way he had come.