Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,238

of how he’d refused to hold a spear when first training Bridge Four in the chasms.

His illness stretched all the way back to before that time. He’d never treated it—he’d merely kept heaping on the stress, the pain, the problems.

If this went well, maybe he wouldn’t ever have to pick up the spear again. And maybe he’d be fine with that. He smiled at Rlain. “It has been helping,” he said. “I think … I think I might be putting myself back together, for the first time in my life.”

* * *

Venli could see the exact moment when the tower broke. Raboniel stood, her hands on the pillar, glowing fiercely with Voidlight. The pillar, in turn, began glowing with its own light: a vivid white, tinged faintly green-blue. This light that seemed to transcend the type of gemstones in the pillar. The tower was resisting.

An alarm sounded from the corridor; the invasion had been noticed. Raboniel didn’t move, though Venli pulled back against the wall—trying not to step on corpses—as a hundred stormforms pushed out into the corridor.

Shouting humans, clashes of metal, cracks of sound. Any moment now, the Radiants would arrive and shear through the Regals and Deepest Ones like a flash of lightning on a dark night. Still Raboniel worked, calmly humming to a rhythm that Venli did not know.

Then finally it happened: the Voidlight moved from Raboniel into the pillar. It infused a small section of the majestic construction, crawling into an embedded grouping of garnets.

Raboniel stumbled away and Venli managed to dash over and catch her, keeping her from tumbling to the ground. Raboniel sagged, her eyes drooping, and Venli held her tight, attuned to the Rhythm of the Terrors.

Cries continued in the hallway outside.

“Is it done?” Venli asked softly.

Raboniel nodded, then righted herself and spoke to the rest of the singers gathered in the tunnel leading to the caverns. “The tower is not fully corrupted, but I have achieved my initial goal. The tower’s defenses have been activated and inverted to our favor. The Radiants will be unable to fight. Go. Give the signal to the shanay-im. Seize the city.”

However, though you think not as a mortal, you are their kin. The power of Odium’s Shard is more dangerous than the mind behind it. Particularly since any Investiture seems to gain a will of its own when not controlled.

Teft dropped limp, as if he’d suddenly lost motor functions, his head thumping against the table and his arm flopping to the side, pushing his empty mug off it to crash to the floor.

Kaladin felt a striking moment of disorientation. A feeling of oppression on his mind, like a dark force trying to smother him. He gasped, then gritted his teeth. Not now. He would not let his treasonous mind overwhelm him now! His friend was in trouble.

Kaladin pushed through the melancholy and was on Teft in a second, loosening the man’s collar, pressing fingers to his carotid artery. Good pulse, Kaladin thought. No arrhythmia I can sense, and no obvious signs of abrasion on the body. He pulled back an eyelid with his thumb. Dilated eyes. Trembling, shaking, sightless.

“Storms!” Rlain said, scrambling out of the booth and standing up. People from nearby tables leaped up in shock, then began crowding to see what was happening, shockspren like breaking triangles appearing around them.

“Kaladin?” Rlain asked. “What’s wrong with him?”

Kaladin felt it again, the oppressive sense of gloom and darkness. It felt more external than normal, but he’d learned—these last few months—that his battle shock could take many forms. He was getting to where he could confront it. But later. Not now.

“Have the people stand back,” Kaladin said to Rlain, his voice calm. Not because he felt calm, but because of his father’s training. A calm surgeon inspired trust. “Give us some air. He’s breathing and his pulse is good.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Rlain held out his hands to get the people to back away. His voice had fallen into a thick Parshendi accent—which in this case meant a heavy rhythm as if he were singing.

Kaladin held Teft’s hand, watching for signs of epileptic motion. “I think it might be a seizure,” Kaladin said, feeling inside Teft’s mouth. “Some firemoss addicts have them during withdrawal.”

“He hasn’t touched the stuff in months.”

So he says, Kaladin thought. Teft had lied before. He had tells, though, and he usually came clean to Kaladin. He’s not clamping his jaw. No danger to his tongue. Still best to keep him