being protected. Her shoulder against the wind, huddling down behind a hillock, it seemed that the wind was doing its best to destroy her. Rocks crunched against the dark plateau nearby, shaking the ground. All she could hear was the roar of wind in her ears, punctuated occasionally by thunder. A terrible song without rhythm.
She kept Resolve attuned inside of her. She could feel that, at least, even if she couldn’t hear.
Rain that fell like arrowheads beat into her body, bouncing off her skullplate and her armor. She set her jaw against the deep, bone-chilling cold and stayed in place. She had done this many times before, either when transforming or when on the occasional surprise raid against the Alethi. She could survive. She would survive.
She focused on the rhythm in her head, clinging to some rocks as the wind tried to push her back off the plateau. Demid, Venli’s once-mate, had started a movement where people who wanted to transform waited inside buildings until the storm had been going for a while. They only stepped out once the initial burst of fury was past. That was risky, as you never knew when the point of transformation would come.
Eshonai had never tried it. The storms were violent, they were dangerous, but they were also things of discovery. Within them, the familiar became something grand, majestic, and terrible. She did not look forward to entering them, but when she had to, she always found the experience thrilling.
She lifted her head, eyes closed, and put her face to the winds—feeling them blast her, shake her. She felt the rain on her skin. The Rider of Storms was a traitor, yes—but you could not have a traitor who had not originally been a friend. These storms belonged to her people. The listeners were of the storms.
The rhythms changed in her mind. In a moment, they all aligned and became the same. No matter which one she attuned, she heard the same rhythm—single, steady beats. Like that of a heart. The moment had arrived.
The storm vanished. Wind, rain, sound . . . gone. Eshonai stood up, dripping wet, her muscles cold, her skin numb. She shook her head, spraying water, and looked up into the sky.
The face was there. Infinite, expansive. The humans spoke of their Stormfather, yet they never knew him as a listener did. As wide as the sky itself, with eyes full of countless stars. The gemstone in Eshonai’s hand burst alight.
Power, energy. She imagined it coursing through her, energizing her, enlivening her. Eshonai threw the gemstone against the ground, smashing it and releasing the spren. She worked hard to get the proper feel down, as Venli had trained her.
IS THIS REALLY WHAT YOU WANT? The voice reverberated through her like crashing thunder.
The Rider had spoken to her! That happened in songs, but not . . . never . . . She attuned Appreciation, but of course it was the same rhythm now. Beat. Beat. Beat.
The spren escaped from its prison and spun around her, giving off a strange red light. Splinters of lightning sprang from it. Angerspren?
This was wrong.
I SUPPOSE THIS MUST BE, the Stormfather said. IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN.
“No,” Eshonai said, stepping back from that spren. In a moment of panic, she cast from her mind the preparations that Venli had given her. “No!”
The spren became a streak of red light and hit her in the chest. Tendrils of red spread outward.
I CANNOT STOP THIS, the Stormfather said. I WOULD SHELTER YOU, LITTLE ONE, IF I WERE GIVEN THAT POWER. I AM SORRY.
Eshonai gasped, the rhythms fleeing her mind, and fell to her knees. She felt it wash through her, the transformation.
I AM SORRY.
The rains came again, and her body began to change.
Someone was near.
Zahel awoke, snapping his eyes open, knowing instantly that someone was approaching his room.
Blast! It was the middle of the night. If this was another lighteyed brat he’d turned away, come to beg . . . He grumbled to himself, climbing off his cot. I am far, far too old for this.
He pulled open his door, revealing the courtyard of the practice grounds at night. The air was wet. Oh, right. One of those storms had come, Invested to the hilt and looking for a place to stick it all. Cursed things.
A young man, hand poised to knock, jumped back in surprise from the opening door. Kaladin. The bridgeman-turned-bodyguard. The one with that spren Zahel could sense always spinning about.
“You look like death itself,”