Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,402

perpendicularity to let spies in. Unfortunately, they didn’t know if it would work. Would he even be able to activate a perpendicularity in the area?

He had to try something. The latest letters from Navani, although they did contain her passcodes, felt unlike her. Too many delays, too many assurances she was fine. He’d ordered a team of workers to begin clearing the rubble that prevented his scouts from entering through the basement. That would reportedly take weeks, and Shardblades couldn’t be summoned in the region, being suppressed like fabrials and Radiant powers.

He pressed his palm flat against the table, gritting his teeth. He ignored the stack of reports from the front lines. Jasnah and the others were handling the war, and he could see their victory approaching. It wasn’t inevitable, but it was highly likely.

He should be focusing on his Bondsmith training. But how could he? He wanted to find a set of Plate, borrow a Blade, and go march to the battlefront and find someone to attack. The idea was so tempting, he had to acknowledge how much he’d come to depend on emotional support from the Thrill of battle. Storms, sometimes he longed so powerfully for the way he’d felt alive when killing. Such emotions were remarkably similar to what he’d felt upon giving up the drink. A quiet, anxious yearning that struck at unexpected moments—seeking the pleasure, the reward.

He couldn’t blame everything he’d done on the Thrill. That had been Dalinar in those boots, holding that weapon and glorying in destruction. That had been Dalinar lusting to kill. If he let himself go out and fight again, he knew he’d realize a part of him still loved it.

And so, he had to remain here. Find other ways of solving his problems. He stepped out of his personal dwelling, another small stone hut in Laqqi, their command city.

He took a deep breath, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind. The village was now fully fortified against both storms and attacks, with high-flying scout posts watching the land all around and Windrunners darting in to deliver reports.

I must get better with my powers, Dalinar thought. If I had access to the map I could make with Shallan, we might be able to see exactly what is happening at Urithiru.

It would not help, the Stormfather said in his mind, a sound like distant thunder. I cannot see the tower. Whatever weakens the Windrunners when they draw close weakens me too, so the map would not reveal the location. However, I could show it to you. Perhaps you can see better than I.

“Show me?” Dalinar asked, causing Szeth—his omnipresent shadow—to glance at him. “How?”

You can ride the storm with me, the Stormfather said. I have given others this privilege on occasion.

“Ride the storm with you?” Dalinar said.

It is like the visions that Honor instructed me to grant, only it is now. Come. See.

“Martra,” Dalinar said, looking to the scribe who had been assigned to him today. “I might act odd for a short time. Nothing is wrong, but if I am not myself when my next appointment begins, please make them wait.”

“Um … yes, Brightlord,” she said, hugging her ledger, eyes wide. “Should I, um, get you a chair?”

“That would be a good idea,” Dalinar said. He didn’t feel like being closed up inside. He liked the scent of the air, even if it was too muggy here, and the sight of the open sky.

Martra returned with a chair and Dalinar settled himself, facing eastward. Toward the Origin, toward the storms—though his view was blocked by the large stone stormbreak.

“Stormfather,” he said. “I’m—”

He became the storm.

Dalinar soared along the front of the stormwall, like a piece of debris. No … like a gust of wind blowing with the advent of the storm. He could see—comprehend—far more than when he’d flown under Windrunner power.

It was a great deal to take in. He surged across rolling hills with plants growing in the valleys between them. From up high it looked like a network of brown islands surrounded by greenery—each and every lowland portion filled to the brim with a snarl of underbrush. He’d never seen anything quite like it, the plants unfamiliar to him, though their density did faintly remind him of the Valley where he had met Cultivation.

He didn’t have a body, but he turned and saw that he towed a long shadow. The storm itself.

When the Windrunner flew on my winds, he zipped about, the Stormfather said, and Dalinar felt