Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,401

to think about right now …

He wanted to sleep, but could see blood dripping from his chest and arm, the wounds there not fully healed. So he stumbled to the side of the chamber and sucked the Stormlight from the two lamps there. Yes, the enemy knew about this place. If he hadn’t been so addled, he’d have put together earlier that the light meant someone was changing the gemstones.

He stumbled, sodden and exhausted, down the hallway. There would be an exit. He vaguely remembered news of Navani’s scouts finding this reservoir. They’d only known about it by having Thaylen free divers inspect the fabrials in the well.

Keep thinking. Keep walking. Don’t drift off.

Where was Syl? How far was he from her now? He’d traveled quite a way in the darkness of that water.

He reached steps, but couldn’t force himself to climb them. He just stood, numb, staring at them. So he used the fabrial. Slow, easy climbs with it tugging him up at one angle, then another. Back and forth. Again and again.

He knew he was close when he heard rumbling. The highstorm. It was still blowing, so he hadn’t been in that blackness for an eternity. He let it call to him as he continued half-flying, half-trudging upward.

Finally he staggered out of a room on the ground floor of the tower. He emerged right into the middle of a group of singer troops shouting for people to go to their quarters.

The storm rumbled in the near distance. Several of the soldiers turned toward him. Kaladin had a moment of profound disconnect, as if he couldn’t believe he was still alive. As if he’d thought that trudge up the stairwell had been his climb to the Tranquiline Halls.

Then one of the guards leveled a spear at him, and Kaladin’s body knew what to do. Exhausted, wounded, nerves worn all the way to Damnation, Kaladin grabbed that spear and twisted it out of the man’s hands, then swept the legs of the next soldier.

A few Regals not far off shouted, and he caught sight of a Heavenly One—not Leshwi—rising into the air and pointing a lance at him. They weren’t through with him yet.

He turned and ran, holding that stolen spear, drawing in Stormlight from lanterns—but feeling it do nothing at all to heal him. Even the slow healing from before had apparently stopped working. Either he’d further undermined his powers somehow by destroying the fabrial, or—more likely—the Sibling was too far gone toward corruption.

Chased by dozens of soldiers, Kaladin ran for the storm. Though it was dangerous outside, at least the enemy would have difficulty finding him in the tempest. He couldn’t fight them—the only way to escape was to do something truly desperate.

He reached the front entryway of the tower, where winds coursed in through a portal that might once have held a wooden gate. They’d never taken the time to put in a new one. Why would they? The storms rarely reached this high.

Today they had.

Today, Kaladin reached the winds.

And like everything else today, they tried their best to kill him.

Voice of Lights. Voice for Lights. If I speak for the Lights, then I must express their desires. If Light is Investiture, and all Investiture is deity, and deity has Intent, then Light must have Intent.

—From Rhythm of War, final page

Dalinar no longer feared highstorms.

It had been some time now since he’d worried that he was mad. Yet—as a poorly treated horse learned to flinch at the mere sound of a whip—something had persisted inside of Dalinar. A learned response that a storm meant losing control.

So it was with a deep and satisfying sense of relief that today, Dalinar realized he didn’t fear the storm. Indeed, when Elthebar listed the time of today’s storm, Dalinar felt a little surge of excitement. He realized he felt more awake on highstorm days. More capable.

Is that you? he asked of the Stormfather.

It is us, the Stormfather replied. Me and you. I enjoy passing over the continent, as it gives me much to see—but it also tires me as it energizes you.

Dalinar stepped away from the table and dismissed his attendants and scribes, who had finished briefing him on the latest intelligence regarding Urithiru. He could barely control his mounting concern about Navani and the tower. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones.

So he’d begun looking for options. The current plan was for him to lead an expedition into Shadesmar, sail to the tower, then open up a