Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

Either that or Odium would see that his minions scoured Venli and her faction from the planet.

Timbre pulsed, saying no great work could be accomplished without risk. Venli hated when she said things like that. It reminded her exactly how dangerous her current actions were. She drew in a little Light to check Shadesmar again. She saw nothing spying on her, so—

A dark, pulsing flame was moving down from above.

Leshwi.

Venli leaped to her feet, her chair slamming to the ground. Dul and Mazish noticed her urgency and stood upright, searching around, trying to decide what to do.

“Open the shades!” Venli said. “Quickly! So she doesn’t see anything odd!”

They slammed the windows open right as the hatch rattled. Lady Leshwi—brilliant in her outfit of gold and black—entered, skimming above the steps. She almost never came down here. What was going on?

Timbre trembled inside Venli. They’d been discovered. It had to mean they’d—

“Gather yourself, Last Listener,” Leshwi said to the Rhythm of Agony. “Something is happening. Something dangerous. I fear the war is about to take a distinctly different turn.”

One of my pleas is for artifabrians to stop shrouding fabrial techniques with so much mystery. Many decoy metals are used in cages, and wires are often plated to look like a different metal, with the express intent of confusing those who might try to learn the process through personal study. This might enrich the artifabrian, but it impoverishes us all.

—Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175

As they arrived at Urithiru, Kaladin wanted nothing more than to vanish. To go someplace where he wouldn’t have to listen to everyone laughing. There were a hundred of them together, mostly squires of the various Windrunners who had once been his team.

Kaladin didn’t have many squires left—none, unless you counted Dabbid and Rlain. Rock didn’t have a spren either, but he … had moved on to something else. Kaladin wasn’t sure what it was, but he didn’t call himself a squire.

Rlain would soon have a spren, and would finally be able to move on too. Dabbid had gone on the mission today to help Renarin deliver water and supplies to the townspeople. He’d never recovered from his battle shock, however, and didn’t have Radiant powers. He wasn’t so much a squire as someone Kaladin and the others looked after.

The rest had all ascended to at least the Second Ideal. That made them more than a squire, but not yet a full Radiant—having bonded a spren, but not yet having earned a Blade. They were all so jovial as they walked together across the Oathgate plateau, and Kaladin didn’t begrudge them their mirth. They were dear to him, and he wanted them to laugh.

Yet at the moment, he couldn’t imagine anything more painful than the way they all tried to cheer him up. They sensed his mood, though he hadn’t spoken to them regarding his … relegation? His retirement?

Storms. It made him sick to think about it.

As they walked, Lopen told him a particularly bad joke. Skar asked him for a sparring session—which was his way of offering help. Normally Kaladin would have agreed. But today … sparring would remind him of what he’d lost.

Sigzil, showing admirable restraint, told him that battle reports could wait until tomorrow. Storms. How bad did he look? Kaladin did his best to deflect them all, pasting on a smile so wide it felt like it cracked his skin.

Rock kept his distance, carefully ignoring Kaladin. Rock generally did have a better sense of his true mood than most. And Rock could see Syl, who—fretful as she buzzed around Kaladin—eventually zipped off. She caught a current nearby, flying into the air. She found flight as reassuring as he did.

I need to be careful not to let this break her, he thought. Keep up a strong front for her, for all of them. They shouldn’t have to be in pain because of how I feel. He could do this gracefully. He could fight this one last battle.

They crossed the open field of stone before the tower city. Kaladin almost managed to keep walking without staring up at the tower. He nearly didn’t feel a shock of dissociation at its immensity. He spent only a split second in disbelief that something so grand could exist. Yes, these days the tower was practically mundane.

“Hey,” Leyten said as they reached the tower entrance. “Rock! Got any stew for us maybe? For old times’ sake?”

Kaladin turned. The word “stew” pierced the cloud.

“Ah, coming up to the beautifully thin air makes you suddenly think straight!” Rock said. “You remember the glories of good cooking! But … this thing cannot be today. I have appointment.”

“It’s not with the surgeons, is it?” Kara called. “Because I don’t think they can do anything about your breath, Rock!”

“Ha!” Rock said, then bellowed a laugh, going so far as to wipe a tear from his eye. Kara grinned, but then Rock held out his hand. “No no, you think I am laughing at what you said? Airsick! I’m laughing because you thought that to be funny joke, Kara. Ha! Ha!”

Kaladin smiled. A real smile, for a moment.

Then they started to break apart into small clusters, usually a Knight with their squad of squires. His friends all had their own teams now. Even Teft was pulled away by one of the groups, though his squires had been in Bridge Thirteen—and they had stayed behind to guard the ship. In fact, many of them had become Radiants themselves. Kaladin wasn’t certain how many squires Teft had left.

Could Kaladin do as Dalinar wanted? Could he stand being highmarshal of the Windrunners without going into the field? Being a part of their lives, but not being able to help them, fight alongside them?

No. A clean break would be better.

A few groups invited him to go with them, but he found himself turning them down. He stood tall, like a commander should, and gave them the nod. The captain’s nod that said, “You run along, soldier. I have important things to be about, and cannot be bothered with frivolity.”

Nobody pushed him, though he wished that one of them would. But these days, they had their own lives. Many had families; all had duties. Those who had served with him in the early days still wore their Bridge Four patches with pride, but Bridge Four was something they used to belong to. A legendary team already passed into myth.

Kaladin kept his back straight, his chin high, as he left them and strode through the now-familiar corridors of the tower city. Lined with entrancing patterns of different shades of strata, the tower had sphere lanterns lining most major hallways—locked, of course, but changed regularly. The place was starting to feel truly lived in. He passed families, workers, and refugees. People of all walks, as varied as a goblet full of spheres.

They saluted him, or stepped aside for him, or—in the case of many children—waved to him. The highmarshal. Kaladin Stormblessed. He kept on the proper face all the way to his rooms, and was proud of himself for it.

Then he stepped inside and found an empty nothingness.

His were the quarters of a highlord, supposedly luxurious and spacious. He had little furniture though, and that left it feeling hollow. Dark, the sole light coming from the balcony.

Every honor he’d been given seemed to highlight how vacant his life really was. Titles couldn’t fill a room with life. Still, he turned and closed the door with a firm push.