Oathbringer

I-7. Envoy

Odium’s grand purpose for Venli meant turning her into a showpiece.

“Then, the humans waged a war of extermination against us,” she told the assembled crowd. “My sister tried to negotiate, to explain that we had no blame for the assassination of their king. They would not listen. They saw us only as slaves to be dominated.”

The wagon upon which she stood wasn’t a particularly inspiring dais, but it was better than the pile of boxes she’d used in the last town. At least her new form—envoyform—was tall, the tallest she’d ever worn. It was a form of power, and brought strange abilities, primarily the ability to speak and understand all languages.

That made it perfect for instructing the crowds of Alethi parshmen. “They fought for years to exterminate us,” she said to Command. “They could not suffer slaves who could think, who could resist. They worked to crush us, lest we inspire a revolution!”

The people gathered around the wagon bore thick lines of marbling—of red and either black or white. Venli’s own white and red was far more delicate, with intricate swirls.

She continued, speaking triumphantly to the Rhythm of Command, telling these people—as she’d told many others—her story. At least the version of it that Odium had instructed her to tell.

She told them she’d personally discovered new spren to bond, creating a form that would summon the Everstorm. The story left out that Ulim had done much of the work, giving her the secrets of stormform. Odium obviously wanted to paint the listeners as a heroic group, with Venli their brave leader. The listeners were to be the foundation myth of his growing empire: the last of the old generation, who had fought bravely against the Alethi, then sacrificed themselves to free their enslaved brothers and sisters.

Hauntingly, the narrative said that Venli’s people were now extinct, save herself.

The former slaves listened, rapt by her narrative. She told it well; she should, given how often she’d related it these last weeks. She ended with the call to action, as specifically instructed.

“My people have passed, joining the eternal songs of Roshar,” she said. “The day now belongs to you. We had named ourselves ‘listeners’ because of the songs we heard. These are your heritage, but you are not to merely listen, but sing. Adopt the rhythms of your ancestors and build a nation here! You must work. Not for the slavers who once held your minds, but for the future, for your children! And for us. Those who died that you might exist.”

They cheered to the Rhythm of Excitement. That was good to hear, even if it was an inferior rhythm. Venli heard something better now: new, powerful rhythms that accompanied forms of power.

Yet … hearing those old rhythms awakened something in her. A memory. She put her hand to the pouch at her belt.

How like the Alethi these people act, she thought. She had found humans to be … stern. Angry. Always walking about with their emotions worn openly, prisoners to what they felt. These former slaves were similar. Even their jokes were Alethi, often biting toward those to whom they were closest.

At the conclusion of her speech, an unfamiliar Voidspren ushered the people back to work. She’d learned there were three levels in the hierarchy of Odium’s people. There were these common singers, who wore the ordinary forms Venli’s people had used. Then there were those called Regals, like herself, who were distinguished by forms of power—created by bonding one of several varieties of Voidspren. At the top were the Fused—though she had trouble placing spren like Ulim and others. They obviously outranked the common singers, but what of the Regals?

She saw no humans in this town; those had been rounded up or chased off. She’d overheard some Fused saying that human armies still fought in western Alethkar, but this eastern section was completely singer controlled—remarkable, considering how the humans greatly outnumbered the singers. The Alethi collapse was due in part to the Everstorm, in part to the arrival of the Fused, and in part to the fact that the Alethi had repeatedly conscripted eligible men for their wars.

Venli settled down on the back of the cart, and a femalen singer brought her a cup of water, which she took gladly. Proclaiming yourself as the savior of an entire people was thirsty work.

The singer woman lingered. She wore an Alethi dress, with the left hand covered up. “Is your story really true?”

“Of course it is,” Venli said to Conceit. “You doubt?”

“No, of course not! It’s just … it’s hard to imagine. Parshmen fighting.”

“Call yourselves singers, not parshmen.”

“Yes. Um, of course.” The femalen held her hand to her face, as if embarrassed.

“Speak to the rhythms to express apology,” Venli said. “Use Appreciation to thank someone for correction, or Anxiety to highlight your frustration. Consolation if you are truly contrite.”

“Yes, Brightness.”

Oh, Eshonai. They have so far to go.

The woman scampered away. That lopsided dress looked ridiculous. There was no reason to distinguish between the genders except in mateform. Humming to Ridicule, Venli hopped down, then walked through the town, head high. The singers wore mostly workform or nimbleform, though a few—like the femalen who had brought the water—wore scholarform, with long hairstrands and angular features.

She hummed to Fury. Her people had spent generations struggling to discover new forms, and here these people were given a dozen different options? How could they value that gift without knowing the struggle? They gave Venli deference, bowing like humans, as she approached the town’s mansion. She had to admit there was something very satisfying about that.

“What are you so smug about?” Rine demanded to Destruction when Venli stepped inside. The tall Fused waited by the window, hovering—as always—a few feet off the ground, his cloak hanging down and resting on the floor.

Venli’s sense of authority evaporated. “I can’t help but feel as if I’m among babes, here.”

“If they are babes, you are a toddler.”

A second Fused sat on the floor amid the chairs. That one never spoke. Venli didn’t know the femalen’s name, and found her constant grin and unblinking eyes … upsetting.

Venli joined Rine by the window, looking out at the singers who populated the village. Working the land. Farming. Their lives might not have changed much, but they had their songs back. That meant everything.

“We should bring them human slaves, Ancient One,” Venli said to Subservience. “I fear that there is too much land here. If you really want these villages to supply your armies, they’ll need more workers.”

Rine glanced at her. She’d found that if she spoke to him respectfully—and if she spoke in the ancient tongue—her words were less likely to be dismissed.

“There are those among us who agree with you, child,” Rine said.

“You do not?”

“No. We will need to watch the humans constantly. At any moment, any of them could manifest powers from the enemy. We killed him, and yet he fights on through his Surgebinders.”

Surgebinders. Foolishly, the old songs spoke highly of them. “How can they bind spren, Ancient One?” she asked to Subservience. “Humans don’t … you know…”

“So timid,” he said to Ridicule. “Why is mentioning gemhearts so difficult?”

“They are sacred and personal.” Listener gemhearts were not gaudy or ostentatious, like those of greatshells. Clouded white, almost the color of bone, they were beautiful, intimate things.

“They’re a part of you,” Rine said. “The dead bodies taboo, the refusal to talk of gemhearts—you’re as bad as those out there, walking around with one hand covered.”

What? That was unfair. She attuned Fury.

“It … shocked us when it first happened,” Rine eventually said. “Humans don’t have gemhearts. How could they bond spren? It was unnatural. Yet somehow, their bond was more powerful than ours. I always said the same thing, and believe it even more strongly now: We must exterminate them. Our people will never be safe on this world as long as the humans exist.”

Venli felt her mouth grow dry. Distantly, she heard a rhythm. The Rhythm of the Lost? An inferior one. It was gone in a moment.

Rine hummed to Conceit, then turned and barked a command to the crazy Fused. She scrambled to her feet and loped after him as he floated out the door. He was probably going to confer with the town’s spren. He’d give orders and warnings, which he usually only did right before they left one town for another. Despite having unpacked her things, working under the assumption she’d be here for the night, now Venli suspected they would soon be moving on.

She went to her room on the second floor of the mansion. As usual, the luxury of these buildings astounded her. Soft beds you felt you would sink into. Fine woodworking. Blown-glass vases and crystal sconces on the walls for holding spheres. She’d always hated the Alethi, who had acted like they were benevolent parents encountering wild children to be educated. They had pointedly ignored the culture and advancements of Venli’s people, eyeing only the hunting grounds of the greatshells that they—because of translation errors—decided must be the listeners’ gods.

Venli felt at the beautiful swirls in the glass of a wall sconce. How had they colored some of it white, but not all of it? Whenever she encountered things like this, she had to remind herself forcefully that the Alethi being technologically superior did not make them culturally superior. They’d simply had access to more resources. Now that the singers had access to artform, they would be able to create works like this too.

But still … it was so beautiful. Could they really exterminate the people who had created such beautiful and delicate swirls in the glass? The decorations reminded her of her own pattern of marbling.

The pouch at her waist started vibrating. She wore a listener’s leather skirt below a tight shirt, topped with a looser overshirt. Part of Venli’s place was to show the singers that someone like them—not some distant, fearsome creature from the past—had brought the storms and freed the singers.

Her eyes lingered on the sconce, and then she dumped out her pouch on the room’s stumpweight desk. Spheres bounced free, along with a larger number of uncut gemstones, which her people had used instead.

The little spren rose from where it had been hiding among the light. It looked like a comet when it moved, though sitting still—as it did now—it only glowed like a spark.

“Are you one of them?” she asked softly. “The spren that move in the sky some nights?”

It pulsed, sending off a ring of light that dissipated like glowing smoke. Then it began zipping through the room, looking at things.

“The room isn’t any different from the last one you looked at,” she said to Amusement.

The spren zipped to the wall sconce, where it let off a pulse in awe, then moved to the identical one on the opposite side of the door.

Venli moved to gather her clothing and writings from the drawers in the dresser. “I don’t know why you stay with me. It can’t be comfortable in that bag.”

The spren zipped past her, looking in the drawer that she’d opened.

“It’s a drawer,” she said.

The spren peeked out, then pulsed in a quick blinking succession.

That’s Curiosity, she thought, recognizing the rhythm. She hummed it to herself as she packed her things, then hesitated. Curiosity was an old rhythm. Like … Amusement, which she’d attuned moments ago. She could hear the normal rhythms again.

She looked at the little spren. “Is this your doing?” she demanded to Irritation.

It shrank, but pulsed to Resolve.

“What are you hoping to accomplish? Your kind betrayed us. Go find a human to bother.”

It shrank further. Then pulsed to Resolve again.

Bother. Down below, the door slammed open. Rine was back already.

“In the pouch,” she hissed to Command. “Quickly.”

I-8. Mem

There was art to doing laundry.

Sure, everyone knew the basics, just like every child could hum a tune. But did they know how to relax the fibers of a stubborn seasilk dress by returning it to a warm brine, then restore its natural softness by rinsing it and brushing with the grain? Could they spot the difference between a mineral dye from Azir and a floral dye from the Veden slopes? You used different soaps for each one.

Mem toiled at her canvas—which was, in this case, a pair of vivid red trousers. She scooped some powder soap—hog fat based, mixed with fine abrasive—and rubbed at a stain on the leg. She wetted the trousers again, then with a fine brush she worked in the soap.

Oil stains were challenging enough, but this man had gotten blood on the same spot. She had to get the stain out without fading that fine Mycalin red—they got it from a slug on the shores of the Purelake—or ruining the cloth. Mraize did like his clothing to look sharp.

Mem shook her head. What was this stain? She had to go through four soaps, then try some of her drying powder, before she got it to budge, and then she moved on to the rest of the suit. Hours passed. Clean this spot, rinse that shirt. Hang it up for all to see. She didn’t notice the time until the other Veden washwomen started to leave in clumps, returning to their homes, some of which were empty and cold, their husbands and sons dead in the civil war.

The need for clean clothing outlived disasters. The end of the world could come, but that would only mean more bloodstains to wash. Mem finally stepped back before her drying racks, hands on hips, basking in the accomplishment of a day’s work well done.

Drying her hands, Mem went to check on her new assistant, Pom, who was washing underclothes. The dark-skinned woman was obviously of mixed blood, both Easterner and Westerner. She was finishing an undershirt, and didn’t say anything as Mem stepped up beside her.

Storms, why hasn’t anyone snatched her up? Mem thought as the gorgeous woman rubbed the shirt, then dunked it, then rubbed it again. Women like Pom didn’t usually end up as washgirls, though she did tend to stare daggers at any man who got too close. Maybe that was it.

“Well done,” Mem said. “Hang that to dry and help me gather the rest of this.” They piled clothing in baskets, then made the short hike through the city.

Vedenar still smelled like smoke to Mem. Not the good smoke of bakeries, but rather of the enormous pyres that had burned outside on the plain. Her employer lived near the markets, in a large townhome beside some rubble—a lingering reminder of when siege weapons had rained boulders upon Vedenar.

The two washwomen passed guards at the front and headed up the steps. Mem insisted on not using the servants’ entrance. Mraize was one of the few who humored her.

“Keep close,” she said to Pom, who dallied once they were inside. They hurried down a long, unornamented corridor, then up a staircase.

People said that servants were invisible. Mem had never found that to be true, particularly around people like Mraize. Not only did the house steward notice if someone so much as moved a candlestick, Mraize’s friends were the type who kept careful track of everyone near them. Two of them stood in a doorway Mem passed, a man and woman speaking quietly. Both wore swords, and though they didn’t interrupt their conversation as the washwomen passed, they watched.

Mraize’s quarters were at the top of a staircase. He wasn’t there today—he appeared on occasion to drop off dirty clothing, then gallivanted off someplace to find new types of crem to stain his shirts. Mem and Pom went into his den first—he kept his evening jackets there.

Pom froze in the doorway.

“Stop dallying,” Mem reminded her, covering a smile. After stark, empty hallways and stairwells, this overstuffed den was a little overwhelming. She’d marveled too, her first time here. A mantel covered in curiosities, each in its own glass display. Deep rugs from Marat. Five paintings of the finest skill, each of a different Herald.

“You were right,” Pom said from behind.

“Of course I was right,” Mem said, setting down her basket in front of the corner wardrobe. “Mraize—remember, he doesn’t want to be called ‘master’—is of the finest and most refined taste. He employs only the best of—”

She was interrupted by a ripping sound.

It was a sound that inspired terror. The sound of a seam splitting, or of a delicate chemise tearing as it caught on part of a washtub. It was the sound of disaster incarnate. Mem turned to find her new assistant standing on a chair, attacking one of Mraize’s paintings with a knife.

A piece of Mem’s brain stopped working. A whine escaped from the back of her throat and her vision grew dark.

Pom was … she was destroying one of Mraize’s paintings.

“I’ve been looking for that,” Pom said, stepping back and putting hands on hips, still standing on the chair.

Two guards burst into the room, perhaps drawn by the noise. They looked at Pom and their jaws dropped. In turn, she flipped her knife about in her hand and pointed it threateningly at the men.

Then, horror of horrors, Mraize himself appeared behind the soldiers, wearing an evening jacket and slippers. “What is this ruckus?”

So refined. Yes, his face looked like it had seen the wrong side of a sword a couple of times. But he had exquisite taste in clothing and—of course—in garment-care professionals.

“Ah!” he said, noticing Pom. “Finally! The masterpiece of the Oilsworn was all it took, was it? Excellent!” Mraize shoved out the confused guards, then pulled the door shut. He didn’t even seem to notice Mem. “Ancient One, would you care for something to drink?”

Pom narrowed her eyes at him, then hopped off the chair. She walked quickly to Mraize and used one hand on his chest to push him aside. She pulled open the door.

“I know where Talenelat is,” Mraize said.

Pom froze.

“Yes … let’s have that drink, shall we?” Mraize asked. “My babsk has been eager to speak with you.” He glanced at Mem. “Is that my Azish cavalrylord’s suit?”

“Um … yes…”

“You got the aether out of it?”

“The … what?”

He strode over and pulled the red trousers out of the basket to inspect them. “Mem, you are an absolute genius. Not every hunter carries a spear, and this is proof indeed. Go to Condwish and tell him I approve a three-firemark bonus for you.”

“Th-thank you, Mraize.”

“Go collect your bonus, and leave,” Mraize said. “Note that you will need to find a new washgirl to help you, after today.”

I-9. True Labor Begins

Eshonai would have loved this, Venli thought as she flew hundreds of feet in the air. Rine and the other Fused carried her by means of linked harnesses. It made her feel like a sack of grain being hauled to market, but it gave her quite an amazing view.

Endless hills of stone. Patches of green, often in the shadows of hillsides. Thick forests snarled with undergrowth to present a unified front against the storms.

Eshonai would have been thrilled; she’d have begun drawing maps, talking about the places she could go.

Venli, on the other hand, spent most of these trips feeling sick to her stomach. Normally she didn’t have to suffer for long; towns were close together here in Alethkar. Yet today, her ancestors flew her past many occupied towns without stopping.

Eventually, what first appeared to be another ridge of stones resolved into the walls of a large city, easily twice the size of one of the domes at the Shattered Plains.

Stone buildings and reinforced towers. Marvels and wonders. It had been years since she’d seen Kholinar—only that once, when they’d executed King Gavilar. Now, smoke rose in patches throughout the city, and many of the guard towers had been shattered. The city gates lay broken. Kholinar, it seemed, had been conquered.

Rine and his companions zipped through the air, raising fists toward other Fused. They surveyed the city, then soared out beyond the wall and landed near a bunker outside the city. They waited as Venli undid her harness, then lifted into the air again just high enough that the bottoms of their long cloaks brushed the stones.

“Am I finished with my work, Ancient One?” Venli asked to Subservience. “Is that why you finally brought me here?”

“Done?” Rine said to Ridicule. “Child, you haven’t even begun. Those little villages were practice. Today, your true labor begins.”

I-10. Sheler

“You have three choices,” the Herdazian general said.

He had dark brown skin the color of a weathered stone, and there was a hint of grey in the thin mustache on his upper lip. He stepped up to Sheler, then put his hands to his sides. Remarkably, some men affixed manacles to the general’s own wrists. What on Roshar?

“Pay attention,” the general said. “This is important.”

“To the manacles?” Sheler said in Herdazian. Life on the border had forced him to learn the language. “What is going on here? Do you realize the trouble you’re in for taking me captive?” Sheler started to stand, but one of the Herdazian soldiers forced him down so hard, his knees rapped against the hard stone floor of the tent.

“You have three choices.” The general’s manacles clinked as he twisted his hands in them. “First, you can choose the sword. Now, that might be a clean death. A good beheading rarely hurts. Unfortunately, it won’t be a headsman who gets the chance with you. We’ll give the sword to the women you abused. Each gets a hack, one after another. How long it goes on will depend on them.”

“This is outrageous!” Sheler said. “I’m a lighteyes of the fifth dahn! I’m cousin to the highlord himself, and—”

“Second option,” the general said, “is the hammer. We break your legs and arms, then hang you from the cliff by the ocean. You might last until the storm that way, but it will be miserable.”

Sheler struggled to no avail. Captured by Herdazians. Their general wasn’t even a lighteyes!

The general twisted his hands, then pulled them apart. The manacles clinked to the ground. Nearby, several of his officers grinned, while others groaned. A scribe had tapped off the time, and gave an accounting of the seconds the escape had taken.

The general accepted the applause of several men, then thumped another—a loser in the betting—on his back. Sheler almost seemed forgotten for a moment. Finally, the general turned back to him. “I wouldn’t take the hammer, if I were you. But there’s a third option: the hog.”

“I demand the right of ransom!” Sheler said. “You must contact my highprince and accept payment based on my rank!”

“Ransom is for men caught in battle,” the general said. “Not bastards caught robbing and murdering civilians.”

“My homeland is under invasion!” Sheler shouted. “I was gathering resources so we might mount a resistance!”

“A resistance is not what we caught you mounting.” The general kicked at the manacles by his feet. “Choose one of the three options. I don’t have all day.”

Sheler licked his lips. How had he ended up in this situation? His homeland gone crazy, the parshmen rampaging, his men scattered by flying monsters? Now this? The dirty Herdazians obviously weren’t going to listen to reason. They …

Wait.

“Did you say hog?” Sheler asked.

“It lives down by the shore,” the Herdazian general said. “That’s your third option. We grease you, and you wrestle the hog. It’s fun for the men to watch. They need sport now and then.”

“And if I do this, you won’t kill me?”

“No, but this isn’t as easy as you think. I’ve tried it myself, so I can speak with authority.”

Crazy Herdazians. “I choose the hog.”

“As you wish.” The general picked up the manacles and handed them to his officer.

“Thought you’d fail these ones for sure,” the officer said. “The merchant claimed they’re from the best Thaylen locksmiths.”

“Doesn’t matter how good the lock is, Jerono,” the general said with a grin, “if the cuffs are loose.” What a ridiculous little man—too-wide smile, a flat nose, a missing tooth. Why, Highlord Amaram would have—

Sheler was jerked to his feet by the chains, then pulled through the camp of Herdazian soldiers on the Alethi border. There were more refugees here than actual fighting men! Give Sheler a single company, and he could rout this entire force.

His insufferable captors led him down an incline, past the cliffs and toward the shore. Soldiers and refugees alike gathered above, jeering and calling. Obviously, the Herdazian general was too frightened to actually kill an Alethi officer. So they would humiliate him by making him wrestle a pig. They’d have a good laugh, then send him away smarting.

Idiots. He’d come back with an army.

One man locked Sheler’s chain to a metal loop on the stones. Another approached with a pitcher of oil. They poured it over Sheler’s head; he sputtered as the liquid ran down his face. “What is that stench?”

Above, someone blew a horn.

“I’d say ‘good luck,’ boss,” the Herdazian soldier told Sheler as his companion ran off, “but I’ve got three marks on you not lasting a full minute. Still, who knows. When the general was chained down here, he got out in less.”

The ocean started to churn.

“Of course,” the soldier said, “the general likes this kind of thing. He’s a little weird.”

The soldier dashed back up the bank, leaving Sheler locked in place, doused in pungent oil, and gaping as an enormous claw broke the surface of the ocean.

Perhaps “the hog” was more of a nickname.

I-11. Her Reward

Venli’s little spren—whom she’d named Timbre—peeked around the room, looking in each corner and shadowed place, like she did each time Venli let her out of the pouch.

Days had passed since Venli had first arrived at Kholinar. And, as Rine had warned, this was her true labor. Venli now gave her presentation a dozen times each day, speaking to groups of singers brought out of the city for the purpose. She wasn’t allowed into Kholinar herself. They kept her sequestered in this stormshelter outside, which they called the hermitage.

Venli hummed to Spite as she leaned against the window, annoyed by the incarceration. Even the window had only been installed—cut by a Shardblade and set with thick stormshutters—after her repeated requests. The city outside called to her. Majestic walls, beautiful buildings. It reminded her of Narak … which, actually, her people hadn’t built. In living there, the listeners had profited from the labors of ancient humans, as modern humans had profited from the enslaved singers.

Timbre floated over to her, then hovered by the window, as if to sneak out and look around outside.

“No,” Venli said.

Timbre pulsed to Resolve, then inched forward in the air.

“Stay inside,” Venli said to Command. “They’re watching for spren like you. Descriptions of your kind, and others, have been spread all through the city.”

The little spren backed away, pulsing to Annoyance, before settling in the air beside Venli.

Venli rested her head on her arms. “I feel like a relic,” she whispered. “Already I seem like a cast-off ruin from a nearly forgotten day. Are you the reason I feel like that, suddenly? I only get this way when I let you out.”

Timbre pulsed to Peace. Upon hearing that, something stirred deep within Venli: the Voidspren that occupied her gemheart. That spren couldn’t think, not like Ulim or the higher Voidspren. It was a thing of emotions and animal instincts, but the bond with it granted Venli her form of power.

She started to wonder. So many of the Fused were obviously unhinged; perhaps their inordinately long lives had taken a toll on their psyches. Wouldn’t Odium need new leaders for his people? If she proved herself, could she claim a place among them?

New Fused. New … gods?

Eshonai had always worried about Venli’s thirst for power, and had cautioned her to control her ambitions. Even Demid, at times, had been worried for her. And now … and now they were all dead.

Timbre pulsed to Peace, then to Pleading, then back to Peace.

“I can’t,” Venli said to Mourning. “I can’t.”

Pleading. More insistent. The Rhythm of the Lost, of Remembrance, and then Pleading.

“I’m the wrong one,” Venli said to Annoyance. “I can’t do this, Timbre. I can’t resist him.”

Pleading.

“I made this happen,” she said to Fury. “Don’t you realize that? I’m the one who caused all this. Don’t plead to me!”

The spren shrank, her light diminishing. Yet she still pulsed to Resolve. Idiot spren. Venli put a hand to her head. Why … why was she not more angry about what had happened to Demid, Eshonai, and the others? Could Venli really think about joining the Fused? Those monsters insisted her people were gone, and rebuffed her questions about the thousands of listeners who had survived the Battle of Narak. Were they all … all being turned into Fused? Shouldn’t Venli be thinking about that, not her ambitions?

A form changes the way you think, Venli. Everyone knew that. Eshonai had lectured—incessantly, as had been her way—about not letting the form dictate one’s actions. Control the form, don’t let it control you.

But then, Eshonai had been exemplary. A general and a hero. Eshonai had done her duty.

All Venli had ever wanted was power.

Timbre suddenly pulsed with a flash of light, and zipped away under the bed, terrified.

“Ah,” Venli said to Mourning, looking past the city at the sudden darkening of the sky. The Everstorm. It came about every nine days, and this was the second since her arrival. “So that’s why they didn’t bring an evening batch to listen to me.”

She folded her arms, took a deep breath, and hummed to Resolve until she lost track and shifted unconsciously to the Rhythm of Destruction. She didn’t close the window. He didn’t like that. Instead, she closed her eyes and listened to the thunder. Lightning flashed beyond her eyelids, red and garish. The spren in her leaped to feel it, and she grew excited, the Rhythm of Destruction swelling inside her.

Her people might be gone, but this … this power was worth it. How could she not embrace this?

How long can you keep being two people, Venli? She seemed to hear Eshonai’s voice. How long will you vacillate?

The storm hit, wind blasting through the window, lifting her … and she entered some kind of vision. The building vanished, and she was tossed about in the storm—but she knew that after it passed, she wouldn’t be hurt.

Venli eventually dropped onto a hard surface. She hummed to Destruction and opened her eyes, finding herself standing on a platform hanging high in the sky, far above Roshar, which was a blue and brown globe below. Behind her was a deep, black nothingness marred only by a tiny blip that could have been a single star.

That yellow-white star expanded toward her at an awesome speed, swelling, growing, until it overwhelmed her with an incredible flame. She felt her skin melting, her flesh burning away.

You are not telling the story well enough, Odium’s voice declared, speaking the ancient tongue. You grow restless. The Fused inform me of it. This will change or you will be destroyed.

“Y-yes … Lord.” Speaking burned away her tongue. She could no longer see; the fire had claimed her eyes. Pain. Agony. But she couldn’t bend to it, for the god before her demanded all of her attention. The pain of her body being consumed was nothing compared to him.

You are mine. Remember this.

She was vaporized completely.

And woke on the floor of her hermitage, fingers bleeding from having clawed the stone again. The storm’s rumbling had grown distant—she’d been gone for hours. Had she burned the entire time?

Trembling, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her skin melting, her eyes, her tongue burning away …

The Rhythm of Peace pulled her out of it, and she knew Timbre hovered beside her. Venli rolled over and groaned, eyes still shut, seeking Peace in her own mind.

She couldn’t find it. Odium’s presence was too fresh; the spren inside her thrummed to Craving instead.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered to Derision. “You’ve got the wrong sister.”

The wrong sister had died. The wrong sister lived.

Venli had schemed to return their gods.

This was her reward.