THE END OF
Part Two
In the city of Narak, people closed up windows tightly as night approached and the storm loomed. They stuffed rags under doors, shoved bracing boards into position, pounded large, square blocks of wood into windows.
Eshonai did not join in the preparations, but stood outside Thude’s dwelling, listening to his report—he’d just returned from meeting with the Alethi, arranging a parley to discuss peace. She had wanted to send someone earlier, but the Five had deliberated and complained until Eshonai wanted to throttle the lot of them. At least they’d finally agreed to let her send a messenger.
“Seven days,” Thude said. “The meeting will happen on a neutral plateau.”
“Did you see him?” Eshonai asked, eager. “The Blackthorn?”
Thude shook his head.
“What of the other one?” Eshonai asked. “The Surgebinder?”
“No sign of him either.” Thude looked troubled. He looked eastward. “You’d better go. I can give you more details after the storm is done.”
Eshonai nodded, resting her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Good luck,” Thude said to Resolve.
“To all of us,” she replied as he shut the door, leaving her alone in a dark, seemingly empty city. Eshonai checked the stormshield on her back, then took the sphere with Venli’s captive spren from her pocket and attuned the Rhythm of Resolve.
The time had come. She ran toward the storm.
Resolve was a stately beat with a steady, rising sense of import and power. She left Narak, and reaching the first chasm, she jumped. Only warform had the strength for such leaps; for the workers to reach outer plateaus and grow food, they used rope bridges that were pulled back and stowed before each storm.
She landed in full stride, her footsteps falling to the beat of Resolve. The stormwall appeared in the distance, barely visible in the darkness. Winds rose, pushing against her, as if to hold her back. Above, windspren zipped and danced in the air. They were heralds of what was to come.
Eshonai jumped two more chasms, then slowed, striding up to the top of a low hill. The stormwall now dominated the night sky, advancing at a terrible pace. The enormous sheet of darkness mingled debris with rain, a banner of water, rock, dust, and fallen plants. Eshonai unhooked the large shield on her back.
For the listeners, there was a certain romanticism to going out in the storm. Yes, the storms were terrible—but every listener would have to spend a number of nights out in them, alone. The songs said that someone seeking a new form would be protected. She wasn’t certain if this was fancy or fact, but the songs didn’t prevent most listeners from hiding in a cleft of rock to avoid the stormwall, then coming out once it had passed.
Eshonai preferred a shield. It felt more like facing the Rider straight on. This one, the soul of the storm, was the one the humans called Stormfather—and he was not one of her people’s gods. In fact, the songs named him a traitor—a spren who had chosen to protect humans instead of the listeners.
Still, her people respected him. He would kill any who did not respect him.
She placed the base of the shield against a ridge of rock on the ground, then turned her shoulder against it, lowered her head, and braced herself with one foot back. Her other hand held the stone with the spren in it. She’d have preferred to wear her Plate, but for some reason having it on interfered with the transformation process.
She felt and heard the storm approach. The ground shook, the air roared. Bits of leaves swept across her in a chill gust, like scouts before an oncoming army that charged behind, the howling wind its battle cry.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
It slammed against her.
Despite her posture and her braced muscles, something cracked against the shield and flipped it away. The wind caught it and ripped it from her fingers. She stumbled backward, then threw herself to the ground, shoulder to the wind, head ducked.
Thunder beat against her as the raging wind tried to pull her off the plateau and toss her into the air. She kept her eyes closed, as all was black within the storm save for the flashes of lightning. It did not seem to her she was 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,” Zahel snapped at the boy. Kaladin’s clothing was bloodied, his uniform ripped up on one side. The right sleeve was missing. “What happened?”
“Attempt on the king’s life,” the boy said softly. “Not two hours ago.”
“Huh.”
“Is your offer to learn how to fight a Shardblade still good?”
“No.” Zahel slammed the door. He turned to walk back toward his cot.
The boy pushed the door open, of course. Blasted monks. Saw themselves as property and couldn’t own anything, so they figured they didn’t need locks on the doors.
“Please,” the boy said. “I—”
“Kid,” Zahel said, turning back toward him. “Two people live in this room.”
The boy frowned, looking at the single cot.
“The first,” Zahel said, “is a grouchy swordsman who has a soft spot for kids who are in over their heads. He comes out by day. The other is a very, very grouchy swordsman who finds everything and everyone utterly contemptible. He comes out when some fool wakes him at a horrid hour of the night. I suggest you ask the first man and not the second. All right?”
“All right,” the boy said. “I’ll be back.”
“Good,” Zahel said, settling down on the bed. “And don’t be green from the ground.”
The boy paused by the door. “Don’t be . . . Huh?”
Stupid language, Zahel thought, climbing into his cot. No proper metaphors at all. “Just leave your attitude and come to learn. I hate beating up people younger than me. It makes me feel like a bully.”
The kid grunted, sliding the door shut. Zahel pulled up his blanket—damn monks only got one—and turned over on his cot. He expected a voice to speak in his mind as he drifted off. Of course, there wasn’t one.
Hadn’t been one in years.