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With that, Eshonai could agree. And she supposed she could understand someone wanting to do something different with their life. None of them would exist if their parents hadn’t decided to become mates.
The idea still made her want to attune Anxiety. She disliked how much that form changed the way people thought. She wanted to be herself, with her own desires and passions, not let some form override her. Of course, there was an argument that she was even now influenced by workform.…
She attuned Determination and put that out of her mind. Venli. Where was she? Eshonai knew she shouldn’t fear for her sister. Listeners went into the storms all the time, and while it was never strictly safe, she didn’t need to hum to Anxiety like the humans did when they talked of storms. Storms were a natural part of life, a gift from Roshar to the listeners.
Though a little piece of Eshonai … a part she hated to acknowledge … noted how much easier life would be without Venli around, complaining all the time. Without her jealousy. Everything Eshonai did—every conversation, or plan, or outing—was made harder when Venli decided to be involved. Complications would materialize out of calm air.
It was weakness in Eshonai that she should feel this way. She was supposed to love her sister. And she didn’t really want harm to come to Venli, but it was difficult not to remember how peaceful it had been to explore on her own, without any of Venli’s drama.…
A figure appeared out of the storm, slick with rain, backlit by lightning. Eshonai felt guilty again, and attuned Joy by force upon seeing it was Venli. She stepped out into the storm and helped her sister the rest of the way.
Venli remained in workform. A wet, shivering femalen in workform.
“Didn’t work, eh?” Thude asked her.
Venli looked at him, as mute as a human, her mouth opening a little. Then, unnervingly, she grinned. A frantic, uncharacteristic grin.
“No, Thude,” Venli said. “It didn’t work. I will have to try many, many more times to find warform.”
He hummed to Reconciliation, eyeing Eshonai. She’d been right—it hadn’t been about mateform after all.
“I should like to sit by the fire,” Venli said, “and warm myself.”
“Venli?” Eshonai said. “Your words … where are their rhythms?”
Venli paused. Then she—as if it were a struggle—began humming to Amusement. It took her a few tries.
“Don’t be silly,” Venli said. “You just weren’t listening.” She strode toward the fire, walking with a swagger that seemed even more confident than normal. The high-headed stroll of a femalen who thought that the storms began and ended upon her whims.
I find this experience so odd. I work with a scholar from the ancient days, before modern scientific theory was developed. I keep forgetting all the thousands of years of tradition you completely missed.
—From Rhythm of War, page 6 undertext
Kaladin landed on the balcony with a muted thump. Syl was a glowing ribbon of light farther into the building. He couldn’t see the scouts who had packed up and left with the spanreeds, but he trusted Syl was watching them.
He followed into the darkness, putting his Stormlight into a sphere so he didn’t glow. He had failed to spy on the Oathgates, but if he could somehow steal one of those Voidlight spanreeds, he could still help Navani.
He crept as quickly as he dared in the darkness, one hand on the wall. He soon neared a hallway with lanterns along the wall; as this was the third floor of the tower, much of it was occupied and lit. The lanterns revealed two femalen singers ahead, wearing havahs and chatting quietly. Syl carefully darted into side tunnels and nooks behind them.
Kaladin trailed far behind, relying on Syl to point out turns, as the two singers were often out of his direct line of sight. This section of the tower was a large laundry facility, where darkeyes could come to use public water and soap. He passed several large rooms without doors where the floor was shaped into a sequence of basins.
It was nearly empty now. The tower’s pumps hadn’t been changed to work on Voidlight, it seemed. He did have to avoid several water-carrying teams—humans pulling carts, with singer guards—moving through the tunnels. Syl soon came zipping back, so he ducked into a darkened alcove near an empty room full of baskets for laundry. The place smelled of soap.
“Guard post ahead,” she whispered. “They went through it. What do you want to do?”
“Any Fused nearby?” Kaladin asked.
“Not that I saw. Only ordinary singers.”
“Theoretically, regular guards shouldn’t be able to see you unless you let them. Follow those singers with the spanreeds. Hopefully their rooms are nearby. If they split up, pick the one with the blue havah—the embroidery indicates she’s the more important. Once you know where her room is, come back, then we can sneak in another way and steal the spanreed.”
“Right. If they get too far away from you though, I’ll lose myself.…”
“Return if you start to feel that,” he said. “We can try another night.”
Syl soared off without another word, leaving Kaladin hiding inside the room with the baskets. Unfortunately, he soon heard voices—and peeked to see a pair of singers with baskets walking down the hallway. Even an occupying force of ancient evil soldiers needed to do laundry, it seemed. Kaladin closed the door, shutting himself in darkness, then—realizing there was a chance they were coming to dump their baskets in this very room—he grabbed a broom and lashed it across the door.
Since he’d infused the broom on either end, no Stormlight should show through the door. A moment later it rattled as they tried to push it inward. Annoyed voices outside complained in Azish as they tried the door again. He gripped his knife, darkness weighing upon him. The horror of the nightmares, and a fatigue that went far deeper than the earlier strain to his muscles. A tiredness that had been with him so long, he’d accepted it as normal.
When the door rattled again, he was certain it was a dark force come to claim him. He heard the sounds of bowstrings, and of Gaz yelling for the bridgemen to run. Screams of men dying, and … And …
He blinked. The door had fallen still. When … when had that happened? He gave it a few minutes, wiping the sweat from his forehead, then un-Lashed the broom and cracked the door. Two abandoned baskets sat nearby, no singers in sight. He let out a long breath, then pried his fingers off his scalpel and tucked it away.
Eventually Syl returned. “They weren’t going to their rooms,” she said, animatedly dancing around in patterns as a ribbon of light. “They dropped off their spanreed in a room ahead where there are dozens of spanreeds, watched over by a couple of senior femalens.”
Kaladin nodded, breathing deeply, fighting back the tiredness.
“You … all right?” Syl asked.
“I’m fine,” Kaladin said. “That’s a spanreed hub you found. Makes sense they’d set one up in the tower.” Maintaining hundreds of spanreeds could grow unwieldy, so many highlords and highladies would set up hubs. Disparate locations—like guard posts around the tower—could send reports to a central room, where the hub attendants sifted for important information and sent it to those in power.
