Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,431

of a listener. He leaned forward, his eyes narrow.

“Bother,” he said.

“What?”

“Let me think, femalen,” he snapped.

“What does it say?”

“Axindweth says she’s been discovered,” he said. “She’s a very specific and rare kind of specialist—the details need not concern you—but there is apparently another of her kind in the palace. An agent for someone else. They found her and turned the human king against her. She’s decided to pull out.”

“… Pull out?” Venli said. “I don’t understand that phrasing.”

“She’s leaving! Or left. Perhaps days ago.”

“Left the palace?”

“The planet, you idiot.”

Ulim blurred, carapace-like barbs breaking his skin and jabbing out, then retracting. It seemed to happen to the beat of one of the new rhythms, perhaps Fury.

Ulim told her so little. Venli knew there was a way to travel from this world to the place the humans called Damnation. The land of the Voidspren. Many thousands of spren waited there to help her people, but they couldn’t get free without some Surge or power. Something to … pull them across the void between worlds.

So what did this mean? Had his agent returned to the world Ulim had come from? Or had she gone someplace else? Was she gone for good? How were they going to transfer spren across to this land, to build power for the storm?

Most importantly, did Venli want that to happen? He’d promised her forms of power, but she’d assumed that she’d bring this to the Five after frightening them with how powerful the humans were. Everything was moving so quickly, slipping out of her control. She almost demanded answers, but the way those spikes broke Ulim’s skin—the way he pulsed—made her remain quiet. He was a force of nature come alive. And the particular force he exhibited now was destructive.

Eventually his pulsing subsided. The spikes settled beneath his skin. He remained standing on the table, staring at the sheet of paper with the offending words.

“What do we do?” Venli finally asked.

“I don’t know. There is nothing here for us. I … I have to leave, see if I can find answers elsewhere.”

“Leave?” Venli said. “What about your promises? What about our plans?”

“We have no plans!” Ulim said, spinning on her. “You said coming here would intimidate your people. Is that happening? Because from what I’ve seen, they seem to be enjoying themselves! Planning to feast and laugh, maybe get into storming bed with the humans!”

Venli attuned Determination, and then it faded to Reconciliation. She had to admit it; her people weren’t intimidated, not like she was. Even Eshonai had grown more relaxed—not more worried—as they’d interacted with the humans. These days, Venli’s sister didn’t even wear warform.

Venli wanted to blame her alone, but the problems with the listeners were far bigger than Eshonai. No one else seemed to see what Venli did. They should have been terrified by all the parshmen—the enslaved singers—in the palace. Instead, Venli’s people seemed curious.

No one saw the threat Venli did. She didn’t understand, or believe, some of the things Ulim said. But in coming here, Venli realized for herself that the humans could not be trusted. If she didn’t do anything, it would be her people—her mother—enslaved to the humans.

Ulim formed into crackling lightning and zipped down the table leg and along the floor. She took a step after him, attuning the Terrors—but he was gone, out under the door. By the time she looked into the hall, he’d vanished.

She closed the door and found herself breathing heavily. She was alone in the enemy’s stronghold, having snuck into forbidden hallways. What should she do? What could she do?

Wait. Ulim would come back.

He didn’t though. And each moment she stood there attuned to the Terrors was more excruciating than the last. She had to strike out on her own. Perhaps she could sneak back the way she’d come? She ripped up the note, then dumped it out the shaft with the waste. She attuned Determination and slipped from the room.

“You there!”

She cringed, attuning Mourning. One hallway. She hadn’t been able to cross even one hallway.

A human soldier in a glistening breastplate marched up, a long, wicked weapon in his hand—a spear, but with an axe’s head.

“Why are you here?” he asked her in the Alethi tongue.

She played dumb, speaking in her own language. She pointed toward the steps. Perhaps if he thought she couldn’t speak Alethi, he’d simply let her go?

Instead he took her roughly by the arm and marched her along the hallway. Each time she tried to pull away he yanked