Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,376

said, putting down the sphere. “Anything you need for your science shall be yours. If you can combine Voidlight and Stormlight without destroying them—therefore proving they are not opposites … well, I should like to know this. It will require me to discard years upon years of theories.”

“I have no idea where to begin,” Navani protested. “If you let me have my team back…”

“Write them instructions and put them to work,” Raboniel said. “You have them still.”

“Fine,” Navani said, “but I have no idea what I’m doing. If I were trying to do this with liquids, I’d use an emulsifier—but what kind of emulsifier does one use on light? It defies reason.”

“Try anyway,” Raboniel said. “Do this, and I’ll free your tower. I’ll take my troops and walk away. This knowledge is worth more than any one location, no matter how strategic.”

I’m sure, Navani thought. She didn’t believe for a single heartbeat that Raboniel would do so—but at the same time, this knowledge would obviously give Navani an edge. Why did Raboniel want to prove, or disprove, that the two Lights were opposites? What was her game here?

She wants a weapon, perhaps? That explosion I inadvertently caused? Is that what Raboniel is hunting?

The Fused by the wall started talking again, louder this time. Again Raboniel hummed and glanced over.

“What does she say?” Navani asked.

“She … asks if anyone has seen her mother. She’s trying to get the wall to talk.”

“Her mother?” Navani thought, cocking her head. She hadn’t thought that the Fused would have parents—but of course they did. The creatures had been born mortal, thousands of years ago. “What happened to her mother?”

“She’s right here,” Raboniel said softly, gesturing to herself. “That was another hypothesis of mine that was disproven. Long ago. The thought that a mother and daughter, serving together, might help one another retain their sanity.”

Raboniel walked to her daughter and turned her to steer her out the door. And while singers tended not to show emotion on their faces, Navani thought for sure she could read pain in Raboniel’s expression—a wince—as the daughter continued to ask for her mother. All the while staring unseeingly past her.

I am not convinced any of the gods can be destroyed, so perhaps I misspoke. They can change state however, like a spren—or like the various Lights. This is what we seek.

—From Rhythm of War, page 21 undertext

Dalinar touched his finger to the young soldier’s forehead, then closed his eyes and concentrated.

He could see something extending from the soldier, radiating into the darkness. Pure white lines, thin as a hair. Some moved, though one end remained affixed to the central point: the place where Dalinar’s finger touched the soldier’s skin.

“I see them,” he whispered. “Finally.”

The Stormfather rumbled in the back of his mind. I was not certain it could be done, he said. The power of Bondsmiths was tempered by Honor, for the good of all. Ever since the destruction of Ashyn.

“How did you know about this ability?” Dalinar said, eyes still closed.

I heard it described before I fully lived. Melishi saw these lines.

“The last Bondsmith,” Dalinar said. “Before the Recreance.”

The same. Honor was dying, possibly mad.

“What can I do with these?” Dalinar asked.

I don’t know. You see the Connections all people have: to others, to spren, to time and reality itself. Everything is Connected, Dalinar, by a vast web of interactions, passions, thoughts, fates.

The more Dalinar watched the quivering white lines, the more details he could pick out. Some were brighter than others, for example. He reached out and tried to touch one, but his fingers went through it.

Spren have these too, the Stormfather said. And the bond that makes Radiants is similar, but far stronger. I don’t think these little ones are particularly useful.

“Surely these mean something,” Dalinar said.

Yes, the Stormfather said. But that doesn’t mean they can be exploited. I heard Melishi say something once. Imagine you had two pieces of cloth, one red, one yellow. Before you and your brother parted, you each reached into a bag and selected one—but kept it hidden, putting it away in a box, unseen.

You parted, traveling to distant quarters of the land. Then, by agreement, let us say that on the same day at the same time you each opened your box and took out your cloth. Upon finding the red one, you’d instantly know your brother had found the yellow one. You shared something, that bond of knowledge—the Connection exists, but isn’t something that can necessarily be exploited. At least