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If this went well, maybe he wouldn’t ever have to pick up the spear again. And maybe he’d be fine with that. He smiled at Rlain. “It has been helping,” he said. “I think … I think I might be putting myself back together, for the first time in my life.”
* * *
Venli could see the exact moment when the tower broke. Raboniel stood, her hands on the pillar, glowing fiercely with Voidlight. The pillar, in turn, began glowing with its own light: a vivid white, tinged faintly green-blue. This light that seemed to transcend the type of gemstones in the pillar. The tower was resisting.
An alarm sounded from the corridor; the invasion had been noticed. Raboniel didn’t move, though Venli pulled back against the wall—trying not to step on corpses—as a hundred stormforms pushed out into the corridor.
Shouting humans, clashes of metal, cracks of sound. Any moment now, the Radiants would arrive and shear through the Regals and Deepest Ones like a flash of lightning on a dark night. Still Raboniel worked, calmly humming to a rhythm that Venli did not know.
Then finally it happened: the Voidlight moved from Raboniel into the pillar. It infused a small section of the majestic construction, crawling into an embedded grouping of garnets.
Raboniel stumbled away and Venli managed to dash over and catch her, keeping her from tumbling to the ground. Raboniel sagged, her eyes drooping, and Venli held her tight, attuned to the Rhythm of the Terrors.
Cries continued in the hallway outside.
“Is it done?” Venli asked softly.
Raboniel nodded, then righted herself and spoke to the rest of the singers gathered in the tunnel leading to the caverns. “The tower is not fully corrupted, but I have achieved my initial goal. The tower’s defenses have been activated and inverted to our favor. The Radiants will be unable to fight. Go. Give the signal to the shanay-im. Seize the city.”
However, though you think not as a mortal, you are their kin. The power of Odium’s Shard is more dangerous than the mind behind it. Particularly since any Investiture seems to gain a will of its own when not controlled.
Teft dropped limp, as if he’d suddenly lost motor functions, his head thumping against the table and his arm flopping to the side, pushing his empty mug off it to crash to the floor.
Kaladin felt a striking moment of disorientation. A feeling of oppression on his mind, like a dark force trying to smother him. He gasped, then gritted his teeth. Not now. He would not let his treasonous mind overwhelm him now! His friend was in trouble.
Kaladin pushed through the melancholy and was on Teft in a second, loosening the man’s collar, pressing fingers to his carotid artery. Good pulse, Kaladin thought. No arrhythmia I can sense, and no obvious signs of abrasion on the body. He pulled back an eyelid with his thumb. Dilated eyes. Trembling, shaking, sightless.
“Storms!” Rlain said, scrambling out of the booth and standing up. People from nearby tables leaped up in shock, then began crowding to see what was happening, shockspren like breaking triangles appearing around them.
“Kaladin?” Rlain asked. “What’s wrong with him?”
Kaladin felt it again, the oppressive sense of gloom and darkness. It felt more external than normal, but he’d learned—these last few months—that his battle shock could take many forms. He was getting to where he could confront it. But later. Not now.
“Have the people stand back,” Kaladin said to Rlain, his voice calm. Not because he felt calm, but because of his father’s training. A calm surgeon inspired trust. “Give us some air. He’s breathing and his pulse is good.”
“Is he going to be all right?” Rlain held out his hands to get the people to back away. His voice had fallen into a thick Parshendi accent—which in this case meant a heavy rhythm as if he were singing.
Kaladin held Teft’s hand, watching for signs of epileptic motion. “I think it might be a seizure,” Kaladin said, feeling inside Teft’s mouth. “Some firemoss addicts have them during withdrawal.”
“He hasn’t touched the stuff in months.”
So he says, Kaladin thought. Teft had lied before. He had tells, though, and he usually came clean to Kaladin. He’s not clamping his jaw. No danger to his tongue. Still best to keep him facing sideways, in case of vomit. And he was trembling, the muscles of his arms spasming faintly.
“Might be a kind of aftereffect,” Kaladin said. “Some addicts feel them for years.” Not seizures though. “If it’s not that, then…”
“What?” Rlain asked as the winehouse owner pushed through the crowd to see what was happening.
“Stroke,” Kaladin said, making the decision. He got underneath Teft and rolled his limp form up onto his shoulders, then stood with a grunt. “There isn’t much I can do here, but we have some anticoagulants at the clinic. If it is a stroke, those sometimes help.”
Rlain moved to take one of Teft’s arms. “The Edgedancers maybe? They have that clinic in the market nearby.”
Kaladin felt stupid. Of course. That was a far better option. He nodded.
“I’ll help you carry,” Rlain said.
“I can Lash him,” Kaladin said, reaching for Stormlight. The Light oddly resisted for a moment, then streamed into him from the spheres in his pocket. He came alive with power. It churned in his veins, urging him to use it. To act. To run.
“I’ll make a hole,” Rlain said. He shoved his way through the crowd, opening up a path for Kaladin.
Kaladin commanded the Light into Teft, to Lash him upward in order to make him lighter.
And it didn’t work.
* * *
“Yes, I recognize him,” Red said.
Navani nodded in thanks, encouraging the tall Lightweaver to continue. He wore darkeyed worker’s clothing—brown trousers, a buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and some bright suspenders. Thaylen sailor fashion had been making its mark on Urithiru.
She was holding her interrogation on the fifth floor, not far from where the laboratory had been destroyed. She’d ordered the prisoner placed in an adjoining small room, accompanied by several guards.
Red had been the first to respond among the Radiants she’d sent for. “His name’s Dabbid,” Red explained, peeking into the room with the prisoner. “Doesn’t talk. I don’t think he’s right in the head. Well, pardon, most Windrunners ain’t right in the head. They act like some kind of cult to Stormblessed, Brightness, pardon that, but they do that. This one’s extra odd though. I think he was one of the old ones, from Bridge Four. Gaz could tell you. He’s got a history with them.”
“Do you see a spren?” Navani asked.
Red’s eyes unfocused, and he seemed to be staring into the distance. He had light violet eyes now, though he’d been a darkeyes before joining the Lightweavers. Like others of his order, he could peer into Shadesmar.
“Don’t think so,” he said.
“That’s not a terribly encouraging answer, Radiant.”
“This tower makes things hard,” he said. “In Shadesmar, this place glows like Nomon’s own backside. That interferes. But I’m pretty sure I’d be able to see an honorspren. Same for one of the other Radiant spren.”
She peeked into the interrogation room. This Windrunner—or whatever he was—sat at a small table, legs in chains, watched over by two of Navani’s soldiers. When he glanced at Navani, he had that same wild cast as before. His hands were free, so he raised them toward her. One of the soldiers reached to stop him, but wasn’t fast enough to prevent the captive from tapping his wrists together.
