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Navani tried to return to her experiments. After an hour, she conceded that the spark wasn’t there. For all her talk of control and organization, she now found herself subject to the whims of emotion. She couldn’t work because she didn’t “feel” it. She would have called that nonsense—though of course not to their face—if one of her scholars had told her something similar.
She stood abruptly, her chair clattering to the ground. She’d picked up a habit of pacing from Dalinar, and found herself prowling back and forth in the small chamber. Eventually Raboniel appeared in the doorway, accompanied by two nimbleform singers.
The Fused waved, and the femalens hurried into the room. They carried odd equipment, including two thin metal plates perhaps a foot and a half square and a fraction of an inch thick, with some odd ridges and crenellations cut into them. The nimbleforms attached them to Navani’s desk with clamps, so the metal plates spread flat, one on each side—like additions to the desk’s workspace.
“This is an ancient form of music among my kind,” Raboniel said. “A way to revel in the rhythms. As a gift, I have decided to share the songs with you.”
She gestured and hummed to the two young singers, who jumped to obey, each pulling out a long bow—like one might use on a stringed instrument. They drew these along the sides of the metal plates, and the metal began to vibrate with deep tones, though they had a rougher texture to them. Full and resonant.
Those are Honor’s and Odium’s tones, Navani thought. Only these were the shifted versions that worked in harmony with one another.
Raboniel stepped up beside Navani. In accompaniment to the two tones, she played a loud rhythm with two sticks on a small drum. The sequence of beats grew loud and stately, then soft and fast, alternating. It wasn’t exactly the Rhythm of War, but it was as close as music could likely get. It vibrated through Navani, loud and triumphant.
They continued at it for an extended time, before Raboniel called a stop and the two young singers—sweating from the work of vigorously making the tones—quickly gathered the plates, unclamping them from the sides of the desk.
“Did you like it?” Raboniel asked her.
“I did,” Navani said. “The tones were a terrible cacophony when combined, but somehow beautiful at the same time.”
“Like the two of us?” Raboniel asked.
“Like the two of us.”
“By this music,” Raboniel said, “I give you the title Voice of Lights, Navani Kholin. As is my right.”
Raboniel hummed curtly, then bowed to Navani. With no other words, she waved for the singers to take their equipment and go. Raboniel retreated with them.
Feeling overwhelmed, Navani walked up to the open notebook on her desk. Inside, Raboniel had written about their experiments in the women’s script—and her handwriting was growing quite practiced.
Navani understood the honor in what she’d just been given. At the same time, she found it difficult to feel proud. What did a title, or the respect of one of the Fused, mean if the tower was still being corrupted, her people still dominated?
This is why I worked so hard these last few days, Navani admitted to herself, sitting at the desk. To prove myself to her. But … what good was that if it didn’t lead to peace?
The Rhythm of War vibrated through her, proof that there could be harmony. At the same time, the nearly clashing tones told another story. Harmony could be reached, but it was exceedingly difficult.
What kind of emulsifier could you use with people, to make them mix? She closed the notebook, then made her way to the back of the room and rested her hand on the Sibling’s crystal vein.
“I have tried to find a way to merge spren who were split by fabrial creation,” she whispered. “I thought it might please you.”
No response came.
“Please,” Navani said, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against the wall. “Please forgive me. We need you.”
I … The voice came into her mind, making Navani look up. She couldn’t see the spark of the Sibling’s light in the vein, however. Either it wasn’t there, or … or it had grown too dim to see in the light of the room.
“Sibling?” she asked.
I am cold, the voice said, small, almost imperceptible. They are killing … killing me.
“Raboniel said she is … unmaking you.”
If that is true I … I will … I will die.
“Spren can’t die,” Navani said.
Gods can die … Fused can … can die … Spren can … die. If I am made into someone else, that is death. It is dark. The singer you promised me though … I can see him sometimes. I like watching him. He is with the Radiants. He would have made … a good … a good bond.…
“Then bond him!” Navani said.
Can’t. Can’t see. Can’t act through the barrier.
“What if I brought you Stormlight?” Navani said. “Infused you the same way they’ve been infusing you with Voidlight? Would that slow the process?”
Cold. They listen. I’m afraid, Navani.
“Sibling?”
I don’t … want … to die.…
And then silence. Navani was left with that haunting word, die, echoing in her mind. At the moment, the Sibling’s fear seemed far more powerful than the Rhythm of War.
Navani had to do something. Something more than sitting around daydreaming. She stalked back to her desk to write down ideas—any ideas, no matter how silly—about what she could do to help. But as she sat, she noticed something. Her previous experiment rested there, mostly forgotten. A gemstone amid sand. When the singers had set up their plates, they hadn’t disturbed Navani’s work.
The music of the plates had caused the entire desktop to vibrate. And that had made the sand vibrate—and it had therefore made patterns on her desktop. One pattern on the right, a different on the left, and a third where the two mixed.
Stormlight and Voidlight weren’t merely types of illumination. They weren’t merely strange kinds of fluid. They were sounds. Vibrations.
And in vibration, she’d find their opposites.
Regardless, I write now. Because I know they are coming for me. They got Jezrien. They’ll inevitably claim me, even here in the honorspren stronghold.
Adolin stepped onto his podium at the honorspren forum. The circular disc had been pulled out to the center of the arena. Today, he would have the stage all to himself.
He’d arrived early, so he wouldn’t have to push his way through the crowd. He wanted to appear in control, awaiting their scorn rather than taking the long walk down the steps with everyone watching. One felt like the action of a man who had orchestrated his situation. The other felt like a prisoner being led to execution.
Shallan and Pattern seated themselves as others began to arrive. The forum could hold a couple hundred spren, and as the honorspren—all glowing faintly white-blue—settled, he noted that far more of them wore uniforms today. The ones who had seemed sympathetic to Notum’s proclamation were conspicuously absent from the seats. Adolin found that frustrating, though he did notice some spren from yesterday crowding around the top, where they could stand and watch.
The honorspren seemed determined to seed the seated positions with those who were predisposed against him. No reason to sweat, Adolin thought, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. It’s just your one chance to speak for yourself. Your one chance to turn all this around.
