Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

The head was a soggy mass of black flesh, soft like intestines, with no visible eyes or features.

“What on Roshar…” Dalinar said. “The hands seem human, if too long, but the rest of it…”

“I have no idea,” Mela said. She glanced away and shivered. “It’s not human, sir. I don’t know what it is.”

In the back of Dalinar’s mind, the Stormfather rumbled.

This … the spren said. This is not possible.

What? Dalinar asked.

That is a Cryptic, he said. The Lightweaver spren. Only they don’t have bodies in this realm. They can’t.

“Sir,” Lyn said from a nearby slab. The corpse she’d uncovered was a pile of vines vaguely shaped like a person.

Cultivationspren … the Stormfather said. Return to that first body you saw. NOW.

Dalinar did not object and walked toward the front of the pavilion. What he’d first dismissed as an ordinary body now seemed anything but. The white-blue hair, the pieces of clothing that were—he now recognized—the exact same color as the body. The Stormfather’s thunder grew distant.

I knew him, the Stormfather said. I could not see it at first. I did not want to see it. This is Vespan. Honorspren.

“So they’re not … some kind of attempt at making men into mimicries of spren,” Dalinar said. “These are actual spren corpses?”

Spren don’t have corpses, the Stormfather said. Spren do not die like men. They are power that cannot be destroyed. They … This is IMPOSSIBLE.

Dalinar searched through the chamber, where more and more drawn-back sheets revealed different strange corpses. Several just skeletons, others piles of rock.

This place is evil, the Stormfather said. Beyond evil. What has been done here is an abomination.

Sigzil jogged over, holding some ledgers he’d found in the rear. Dalinar couldn’t make sense of them, but Sigzil pointed at the Azish glyphs, reading them.

“This is a list of experiments, I think,” the companylord said. “The first column is the name of a spren, the second column a date. The third is a time … maybe how long they lived? None seem to have survived longer than a few minutes.”

“Blood of my fathers,” Dalinar said, his hands trembling. “And this last column?”

“Notes, sir,” Sigzil said. “Here, the last entry. ‘Our first honorspren lived nearly fifteen minutes. A new record, and orders of magnitude longer than all previous attempts. Honorspren seem to have the most humanlike essences. When transferred, the organs and muscles form most naturally. We must capture more of them.

“‘Cryptics and ashspren are impossible to bring over properly with our current knowledge. The process of creating bodies for them results in a physical form that collapses upon itself immediately. It appears their physiology works against the fundamental laws of the Physical Realm.’”

“Storms,” Leyten said, running a hand through his short hair. “What does it mean?”

Leave this place immediately, the Stormfather said. We must warn my children.

“Agreed,” Dalinar said. “Grab anything you think might be useful and meet me outside. We’re leaving.”

* * *

Moash fled through the tower, using Lashing after Lashing, as he felt the structure rumble. Felt it come alive. Felt light begin to surround him.

Her light. The queen’s light.

And before that, a terrible sound. It had pushed away his Connection to Odium, forcing Moash to feel pain for the things he’d done—pain he didn’t want. Pain he’d given away.

That pain seethed and spread inside him. He’d killed Teft.

He’d. Killed. TEFT.

Get out, get out, get out! he thought as he tore through a hallway, uncaring whether he hit people with his Shardblade as he passed over their heads. He needed it ready. In case Kaladin found him. In case he hadn’t broken.

The walls were glowing, and the light seemed brighter to Moash than it should have. He wasn’t supposed to feel afraid! He’d given that away! He couldn’t be the man he needed to be if he was afraid, or … Or.

The pain, the shame, the anger at himself was worse than the fear.

Get out. Go. Go!

The suffocating light surrounded him, burned him as he burst out the front gates of the tower. He felt more than saw what happened behind. Each level of the tower came alive, one at a time. The air warped with sudden warmth and pressure. So much light.

So much light!

Moash Lashed himself into the sky, darting out away from the tower. Soon after, however, he slammed into a hard surface. He dropped into something soft but cold, pained as his Stormlight kept him alive—barely. It ran out before it could fully heal him, so he lay there in the cold. Waiting for the numbness.

He wasn’t supposed to have to feel anymore. That was what he’d been promised.

He couldn’t blink. He didn’t seem to have eyelids anymore. He couldn’t see either—his vision had been burned away. He listened to distant cheers, distant sounds of exultation and joy, as he lay in the cold on the mountainside. The snow numbed his skin.

But not his soul. Not his wretched soul.

“Teft, I…” He couldn’t say it. The words wouldn’t form. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. He was only sorry for how his actions made him feel.

He didn’t want this pain. He deserved it, yes, but he didn’t want it.

He should have died, but they found him. A few Heavenly Ones who had been in the air when the tower was restored. They’d awoken, it seemed, after falling from the sky and leaving the tower’s protections. They gave him Stormlight, then lifted him, carrying him away.

Odium’s gift returned, and Moash breathed easier. Blissfully without his guilt. His spine healed. He could walk by the time they dropped him among a camp of a few others who had managed to flee the tower.

But he couldn’t see them. No matter how much Stormlight he was given, his eyes didn’t recover. He was blind.

Roshar will be united in its service of the greater war.

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

Exhausted and confused, Dalinar and the Windrunners eventually landed back at their Emuli warcamp, mere minutes before a highstorm was scheduled to arrive. He felt the weight of failure pulling him down, strong as gravity. He sagged as he dismissed the Windrunners to go rest.

He’d gone all that way for nothing. He was no closer to understanding his powers. No closer to doing something about the capture of Urithiru. No closer to rescuing Navani.

He probably should have gone to Jasnah to explain what they’d found, but he was so tired. He plodded through the camp, towing his failure like a cart behind him, populated by swirling exhaustionspren.

And that was when they found him: women running up with spanreeds to the tower that were suddenly working again. Messengers surrounded by gloryspren, bringing amazing news. Navani in contact, the tower and Oathgates functioning. Dalinar listened to it in a daze.

Good news. Finally, good news.

He wanted to immediately get flown to Azimir so he could go see Navani, but he recognized the foolishness in that. He needed at least a short rest before enduring another lengthy flight, and there was that imminent highstorm to worry about. He ordered a message sent to his wife, promising to come to her before the day was out. Then he asked Jasnah and the Prime if he could meet with them after the storm.