Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,280

Go, my son. Make good on your part of our compact, and earn salvation for those you love.”

The golden expanse faded, depositing Taravangian on the floor of his stormwagon. He opened his hand, finding the fragment of the Diagram in it. But … the other pieces were gone. They had vanished when the vision ended. That stunned him, for it implied that he had truly been in another place. That he’d taken the papers there with him, but only this one piece remained when he returned.

He stared at the fragment for a long time, then forced himself into his seat. He took a moment to recover before digging into his satchel. He brought out the spanreed board, oriented it, and positioned the pen. When he finally got a response, he wrote out two simple words.

Do it.

He had to go through with the betrayal, of course. He needed to keep his agreement; he had to protect Kharbranth. That came before any other plots or plans. And any other such plots would have to be executed in such a way that Odium either did not know what he’d done, or couldn’t act against him to remove Kharbranth’s protections.

It took less than fifteen minutes for Dalinar’s soldiers to arrive and break into his wagon, shattering the door and storming in with weapons drawn. Yes, they’d been waiting for this betrayal. Odium had his distraction. They’d need to dedicate weeks of frantic work to be certain the Veden armies didn’t gain too much of an advantage—and Dalinar would be occupied here, fighting off Taravangian’s soldiers.

Taravangian groaned as the soldiers seized his spanreeds, a scribe among them reading the two words he’d sent.

They didn’t harm him. Odium was probably right. Taravangian likely had a few weeks before his execution. He found that he hurt less, felt less tired, as they bound and gagged him. It was painful, yes, but he could suffer a little pain. For he knew something powerful. A quiet, furtive secret as dangerous as the Diagram had been.

Taravangian had decided not to give up.

I find this format most comfortable, as it is how I’ve collaborated in the past. I have never done it in this way, and with this kind of partner.

—From Rhythm of War, page 1

Kaladin jogged through the dark tunnels of Urithiru, Teft across his shoulders, feeling as if he could hear his life crumbling underfoot with each step. A phantom cracking, like glass shattering.

Each painful step took him farther from his family, farther from peace. Farther into the darkness. He’d made his decision. He would not leave his friend to the whims of enemy captivity. But though he’d finally thought to take off his bloodied shoes—and now carried them with the laces looped around his neck—he still felt as if he were leaving stained tracks behind him.

Storms. What did he think he could accomplish by himself? He was effectively disobeying the queen’s order to surrender.

He tried his best to banish such thoughts and keep moving. He would have time later to ruminate on what he’d done. For now, he needed to find a safe place to hide. The tower was no longer home, but an enemy fortress.

Syl zipped out in front of him, checking each intersection before he arrived. Stormlight kept him moving, but he worried what would happen when it ran out. Would his strength fail him? Would he collapse in the center of the corridor?

Why hadn’t he collected more spheres from his parents or Laral before leaving? He hadn’t even thought to take the stormform’s axe. That left him unarmed, save for a scalpel. He was too used to having Syl as his Shardspear, but if she couldn’t transform—

No, he thought to himself. No thoughts. Thoughts are dangerous. Just move.

He pushed forward, relying on Syl, who sped toward a stairwell. The easiest way to lose themselves would be to find a hiding place on the uninhabited floors, perhaps somewhere on eleven or twelve. He took the stairs two at a time, propelled by the pulsing Light in his veins. His glow was enough to see by. Teft began muttering quietly, perhaps responding to the jostling.

They reached the seventh floor, then started straight up toward the eighth. Here, Syl led him farther inward. Try as he might to ignore them, Kaladin continued to hear the echoes of his failure. His father’s shouts. His own tears …

He’d been so close. So close.

He lost track of their location in the endless tunnels. The floor here wasn’t painted to give directions,