Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,215

and drifted off. Didn’t even take her storming gift.” He glanced at Shallan, then grinned. “I got to keep the sword though. Still have it.”

“Did you ever figure it out? What she was saying?”

“Eventually,” he said. “But by then … things had changed.”

She cocked her head, pausing in her sketch.

“I overheard her making fun of Renarin to her friends,” Adolin said. “She said some … nasty things. That ruined something in me. She was gorgeous, Shallan. At the time, my little mind figured she must be the most divine thing that ever walked the land.

“Then I heard her saying those things. I don’t think I’d ever realized, until that moment, that a person could be beautiful and ugly at the same time. When you’re a teenage boy, you want the beautiful people to be truly beautiful. It’s hard to see otherwise, stupid as it sounds. I guess I owe her for that.”

“It’s a lesson a lot of people never learn, Adolin.”

“I suppose. Thing is, there’s more to it. She was newly moved into the city, and was desperate to find a place. So her joking about Renarin was crass, yes, but she was trying so hard to find acceptance. I don’t see an evil child in her now. The others were unkind to Renarin, and she figured she could bond by doing likewise.”

“Doesn’t excuse that kind of behavior.”

“You used to think he was weird too,” Adolin noted.

“Maybe,” Shallan said, as it was uncomfortably true. “But I came around, and I never gossiped about him. It merely took you showing me that while he was weird, it was the good kind. As an expert on weird, I’m uniquely qualified to know.” She returned to her sketch of Adolin, focusing on his eyes. There was so much in his eyes.

“I don’t excuse the things Idani said,” Adolin said. “I simply feel it’s important to recognize that she might have had reasons. We all have reasons why we fail to live up to what we should be.…”

Shallan froze, pencil hovering above the sketchbook page. So. That was what he was about. “You don’t have to live up to what your father wants you to be, Adolin.”

“No one ever accomplished anything by being content with who they were, Shallan,” Adolin said. “We accomplish great things by reaching toward who we could become.”

“As long as it’s what you want to become. Not what someone else thinks you should become.”

He continued staring at the sky, stretched out, somehow making it seem comfortable to be lying with his head on a rock. Wonderfully messy hair, blond peppered black, impeccable uniform. And that face in between. Not messy, not impeccable, just … him.

“It wasn’t long ago,” Adolin said, “that all I wanted was for everyone to respect my father again. We thought he was aging, losing his senses. I wanted everyone else to see him as I did. How did I lose that, Shallan? I mean, I’m proud of him. He’s becoming someone who deserves love, and not merely respect.

“But storms, these days I can’t stand to be around him. He’s become everything I wanted him to be, and that transformation shoved us apart.”

“It wasn’t what you found out he’d done? To … her?”

“That’s part of it,” Adolin admitted. “It hurts. I love him, but can’t yet forgive him. I think I will, with time. There’s more though. Straining our relationship. He has this misguided notion that I’ve always been better than him.

“To Father, I’m some pristine remnant of my mother—this noble little statue who got all of her goodness and none of his coarseness. He doesn’t want me to be me, or even him. He wants me to be this imagined perfect child who was born better than he ever could be.”

“And that makes you not a person,” Shallan said, nodding. “It erases your ability to make choices or mistakes. Because you’re perfect. You were born to be perfect. So you can never earn anything on your own.”

He reached over, putting his hand on her knee, and met her gaze—almost teary-eyed. Because she understood. And storms, she did. She rested her hand on his, then pulled him closer. Feeling his breath on her neck as he drew close. She kissed him then, and as she did, she caught a glimpse of the sky. The majestic spren had started to fade into the cloud—perhaps feeling ignored now that her attention was on someone else.

Well, it wasn’t the spren’s fault.

It simply couldn’t compete.

You say that the power itself must