Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,585

Mourning. Determination. Then Peace.

She had lost the first battle.

But she had won the second.

And so, to the Rhythm of Victory, she closed her eyes. And found herself drifting in a place full of light.

What is this? Eshonai thought.

YOU WERE HIGHLY INVESTED WHEN YOU DIED, a voice said. It rumbled with the sound of a thousand storms, echoing through her. SO YOU PERSIST. FOR A SHORT TIME.

Invested? Eshonai thought.

YOU WERE RADIANT WHEN YOU DIED. YOU COULDN’T SAY THE WORDS, UNDER THE WATER, BUT I ACCEPTED THEM ANYWAY. HOW DO YOU THINK YOU SURVIVED THAT LONG WITHOUT BREATHING?

She floated. So … this is my soul?

SOME WOULD CALL IT THAT, said the Rider of Storms. SOME WOULD SAY IT IS A SPREN FORMED BY THE POWER YOU LEFT, IMPRINTED WITH YOUR MEMORIES. EITHER WAY, THIS IS THE END. YOU WILL PASS INTO ETERNITY SOON, AND EVEN I CANNOT SEE WHAT IS BEYOND.

How long? Eshonai asked.

MINUTES. NOT HOURS.

She had no eyes to close, but she relaxed in the light. Floating. She could hear the rhythms. All of them at once, with accompanying songs.

What did it mean, then? she asked as she waited. Life.

MEANING IS A THING OF MORTALS, the Rider said. IT IS NOT A THING OF STORMS.

That’s sad.

IS IT? he asked. I SHOULD THINK IT ENCOURAGING. MORTALS SEARCH FOR MEANING, SO IT IS PROPER THEY SHOULD CREATE IT. YOU GET TO DECIDE WHAT IT MEANT, ESHONAI. WHAT YOU MEANT.

If I decide, then I failed, she thought. I gave my people to the enemy. I died alone, defeated. I betrayed the gift of my ancestors. I am a shame to all previous listeners.

I WOULD THINK THE OPPOSITE, the Rider said. IN THE END, YOU MADE THE SAME CHOICE AS YOUR ANCESTORS. YOU GAVE AWAY POWER FOR FREEDOM. YOU KNOW THOSE ANCIENT LISTENERS AS FEW EVER HAVE, OR EVER WILL.

That gave her peace as she felt her essence begin to stretch. As if it were moving toward something distant.

Thank you, she said to the Rider.

I DID NOTHING. I WATCHED YOU FALL AND DID NOT STOP IT.

The rain cannot stop the bloodshed, she said, fading. But it washes the world afterward anyway. Thank you.

I COULD HAVE DONE MORE, the Rider replied. PERHAPS I SHOULD HAVE.

It … is enough.…

NO, he said. I CAN GIVE YOU ONE FINAL GIFT.

Eshonai stopped stretching, and instead found herself pulled toward something powerful. She had no eyes, but she suddenly had an awareness—the storm. She had become the storm. She felt every rumble of thunder as her heartbeat.

WATCH, the Rider said. YOU WANTED TO KNOW WHAT WAS BEYOND THE NEXT HILL. SEE THEM ALL.

She soared with him, enveloping the land, flying above it. Her rain bathed each and every hill, and the Rider let her see the world with the eyes of a god. Everywhere the wind blew, she was. Everything the rain touched, she felt. Everything the lightning revealed, she knew.

She flew for what felt like an eternity, sustained by the Rider’s own essence. She saw humans in infinite variety. She saw the captive parshmen—but saw the hope for their freedom. She saw creatures, plants, chasms, mountains, snows … she passed it all. Everything.

The entire world. She saw it. Every little piece was a part of the rhythms. The world was the rhythms. And Eshonai, during that transcendent ride, understood how it fit together.

It was wonderful.

When the Rider finished his passage—exhausted and limping as he passed into the ocean beyond Shinovar—she felt him let go. She faded, but this time she felt her soul vibrating. She understood the rhythms as no one ever could without having seen the world as she had.

FAREWELL, ESHONAI, the Rider of Storms said. FAREWELL, RADIANT.

Bursting with songs, Eshonai let herself pass into the eternities, excited to discover what lay on the other side.

Wit strolled the hallways of Elhokar’s old palace on the Shattered Plains, searching for an audience. He flipped a coin in the air, then caught it before snapping his hand forward and spreading his fingers to show that the coin had vanished. But of course it was secretly in his other hand, palmed, hidden from sight.

“Storytelling,” he said to the hallway, “is essentially about cheating.”

He tucked the coin into his belt with a quick gesture, keeping up the flourishes of his other hand as a distraction. In a moment he could present both hands empty before him. He added to the theatrics by pushing back his sleeves.

“The challenge,” he said, “is to make everyone believe you’ve lived a thousand lives. Make them feel the