Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,570

it himself: If Odium had wanted to crush Azir, he could have. Instead, he’d secured what he had. Odium knew that in controlling Jah Keved, Alethkar, and Iri, he owned the strongest portion of Roshar.

Without this deal, Dalinar saw years of fighting ahead. Decades. Against an enemy whose Fused were constantly reborn. From years spent defending Alethkar, he knew exactly how difficult it would be to retake. Dalinar saw his people dying by the thousands, unsuccessfully trying to seize lands he himself had fortified.

Dalinar would lose this war in the long run. Honor had all but confirmed it. Renarin said victory in a traditional sense was nearly impossible as long as Odium drove his forces. And Taravangian, whom Dalinar didn’t trust but did believe, had foreseen the same fact. The enemy would win, wearing them down over centuries if need be.

Their best chance was for Dalinar’s champion to defeat Odium’s. If that champion failed, then Dalinar’s only reasonable option would be surrender anyway. He knew that, deep in his gut. Most importantly, this seemed his only real chance to free Alethkar.

He had to do it. He hadn’t achieved what he had through indecision. He either trusted his instincts, and the promises of his god, or he had nothing.

He took a deep breath. “Final terms are these: A contest of champions to the death. On the tenth day of the month Palah, tenth hour. We each send a willing champion, allowed to meet at the top of Urithiru, otherwise unharmed by either side’s forces. If I win that contest, you will remain bound to the system—but you will return Alethkar and Herdaz to me, with all of their occupants intact. You will vow to cease hostilities and maintain the peace, not working against my allies or our kingdoms in any way.”

“Agreed,” Odium said. “But if I win, I keep everything I’ve won—including your homeland. I still remain bound to this system, and will still cease hostilities as you said above. But I will have your soul. To serve me, immortal. Will you do this? Because I agree to these terms.”

“And I,” Dalinar whispered. “I agree to these terms.”

“It is done.”

And I will march proudly at the head of a human legion.

—Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days

Disconnecting from the powers of the Sibling left Navani feeling small. Was this really what life had been like before? Before she’d blended her essence with the Sibling’s—and gained awareness of the intricate motions of the thousands of fabrials that made up the Sibling’s physical form?

She now felt so normal. Almost. She retained a hint of awareness in the back of her mind. A sense for the veins of crystal that permeated the tower; if she rested her hand against a wall she could sense its workings.

Heat. Pressure. Light. Life.

I swore I would never do this again, the Sibling said in her mind. I swore I was done with humans.

“Then it’s good that spren, like humans, can change their minds,” Navani said. She was a little surprised to find her body as she remembered it. With a cut in her havah, bloodstained where the knife had taken her.

Our bond is unusual, the Sibling said. I still do not know what I think of what we’ve done.

“If we meant our words, and keep them, does it matter?”

What of fabrials? the Sibling asked. You did not promise to stop capturing spren.

“We will find a compromise,” Navani said, picking her way out of the room with the crystal pillar. “We will work together to find an acceptable path forward.”

Will it be like your compromise with Raboniel, where you tricked her?

“That was the best compromise she and I could come to, and we both knew it,” Navani said. “You and I can do better.”

I wish to believe you, the Sibling said. But as of yet, I do not. I am sorry.

“Merely another problem to solve,” Navani said, “through application of logic and hope, in equal measure.”

She approached Raboniel’s fallen body in the hallway, then knelt over it. “Thank you.”

The eyes opened.

Navani gasped. “Raboniel?”

“You … lived. Good.” One of her hands twitched; it seemed that Moash had cut her with his Blade low enough that it hadn’t burned out her eyes, though one arm and both legs were obviously dead.

Navani raised her hand to her lips.

“Do … not … weep,” Raboniel whispered. “I … would have killed … you … to accomplish … my goal.”

“Instead, you saved me.”

Raboniel breathed in a shallow breath, but said nothing.

“We’ll