His maid finally interrupted him; the annoying woman was always bustling around, trying to make him do this or that, as if he didn’t have more important concerns than soaking his feet.
“Idiot woman!” he shouted.
She didn’t flinch, but walked forward and put a tray of food down beside him.
“Can’t you see that my work here is important?” he demanded. “I haven’t time for food.”
She set out drink for him, then, infuriatingly, patted him on the shoulder. As she left, he noticed Adrotagia and Mrall standing right outside.
“I don’t suppose,” he said to Mrall, “you’d execute that maid if I demanded it?”
“We have decided,” the bodyguard said, “that you are not allowed to make such decisions today.”
“To Damnation with you then. I almost have the answers anyway. We must not assassinate Dalinar Kholin. The time has passed for that. Instead, we must support his coalition. Then we force him to step down, so that I can take his place at the head of the monarchs.”
Adrotagia walked in and inspected his work. “I doubt Dalinar will simply give leadership of the coalition to you.”
Taravangian rapped on a set of pages stuck to the wall. “Look here. It should be clear, even to you. I foresaw this.”
“You’ve made changes,” Mrall said, aghast. “To the Diagram.”
“Only little ones,” Taravangian said. “Look, see the original writing here? I didn’t change that, and it’s clear. Our task now is to make Dalinar withdraw from leadership, take his place.”
“We don’t kill him?” Mrall asked.
Taravangian eyed him, then turned and waved toward the other wall, with even more papers stuck to it. “Killing him now would only raise suspicion.”
“Yes,” Adrotagia said, “I see this interpretation of the headboard—we must push the Blackthorn so hard that he collapses. But we’ll need secrets to use against him.”
“Easy,” Taravangian said, pushing her toward another set of notations on the wall. “We send that Dustbringer’s spren to spy. Dalinar Kholin reeks of secrets. We can break him, and I can take his place—as the coalition will see me as nonthreatening—whereupon we’ll be in a position of power to negotiate with Odium—who will, by laws of spren and gods, be bound by the agreement made.”
“Can’t we … beat Odium instead?” Mrall asked.
Muscle-bound idiot. Taravangian rolled his eyes, but Adrotagia—more sentimental than he was—turned and explained. “The Diagram is clear, Mrall,” she said. “This is the purpose of its creation. We cannot beat the enemy; so instead, we save whatever we can.”
“The only way,” Taravangian agreed. Dalinar would never accept this fact. Only one man would be strong enough to make that sacrifice.
Taravangian felt a glimmer of … something. Memory.
Give me the capacity to save us.
“Take this,” he said to Adrotagia, pulling down a sheet he’d annotated. “This will work.”
She nodded, towing Mrall from the room as Taravangian knelt before the broken, ripped, sliced-up remnants of the Diagram.
Light and truth. Save what he could.
Abandon the rest.
Thankfully, he had been given that capacity.
Venli was determined to live worthy of power.
She presented herself with the others, a small group selected from the remaining listeners, and braced for the oncoming storm.
She didn’t know if Ulim—or his phantom masters, the ancient listener gods—could read her mind. But if they could, they’d find that she was loyal.
This was war, and Venli among its vanguard. She had discovered the first Voidspren. She had discovered stormform. She had redeemed her people. She was blessed.
Today would prove it. Nine of them had been selected from among the two thousand listener survivors, Venli included. Demid stood beside her with a wide grin on his face. He loved to learn new things, and the storm was another adventure. They’d been promised something great.
See, Eshonai? Venli thought. See what we can do, if you don’t hold us back?
“All right, yes, that’s it,” Ulim said, rippling across the ground as vibrant red energy. “Good, good. All in a line. Keep facing west.”
“Should we seek for cover before the storm, Envoy?” Melu asked to the Rhythm of Agony. “Or carry shields?”
Ulim took the form of a small person before them. “Don’t be silly. This is our storm. You have nothing to fear.”
“And it will bring us power,” Venli said. “Power beyond even that of stormform?”
“Great power,” Ulim said. “You’ve been chosen. You’re special. But you must embrace this. Welcome it. You have to want it, or the powers will not be able to take a place in your gemhearts.”
Venli had suffered so much, but this was her reward. She was done with a life spent wasting away under human oppression. She would never again be trapped, impotent. With this new power, she would always, always be able to fight back.
The Everstorm appeared from the west, returning as it had before. A tiny village in the near distance fell into the storm’s shadow, then was illuminated by the striking of bright red lightning.
Venli stepped forward and hummed to Craving, holding her arms out to the sides. The storm wasn’t like the highstorms—no stormwall of blown debris and cremwater. This was far more elegant. It was a billowing cloud of smoke and darkness, lightning breaking out on all sides, coloring it crimson.
She tipped her head back to meet the boiling, churning clouds, and was consumed by the storm.
Angry, violent darkness overshadowed her. Flecks of burning ash streamed past her on all sides, and she felt no rain this time. Just the beat of thunder. The storm’s pulse.
Ash bit into her skin, and something crashed down beside her, rolling on the stones. A tree? Yes, a burning tree. Sand, shredded bark, and pebbles washed across her skin and carapace. She knelt down, eyes squeezed closed, arms protecting her face from the blown debris.
Something larger glanced off her arm, cracking her carapace. She gasped and dropped to the stone ground, curling up.
A pressure enveloped her, pushing at her mind, her soul. Let Me In.
With difficulty, she opened herself up to this force. This was just like adopting a new form, right?
Pain seared her insides, as if someone had set fire to her veins. She screamed, and sand bit her tongue. Tiny coals ripped at her clothing, singeing her skin.
And then, a voice.
WHAT IS THIS?
It was a warm voice. An ancient, paternal voice, kindly and enveloping.
“Please,” Venli said, gasping in breaths of smoky air. “Please.”
YES, the voice said. CHOOSE ANOTHER. THIS ONE IS MINE.
The force that had been pushing against her retreated, and the pain stopped. Something else—something smaller, less domineering—took its place. She accepted this spren gladly, then whimpered in relief, attuned to Agony.
An eternity seemed to pass as she lay huddled before the storm. Finally, the winds weakened. The lightning faded. The thunder moved into the distance.
She blinked the grit from her eyes. Bits of cremstone and broken bark streamed from her as she moved. She coughed, then stood, looking at her ruined clothing and singed skin.