Adolin looked around, counting them. Nobody else was here on the landing. Those two enormous spren in the sky, and the three smaller ones on the platform. Adolin, Shallan, Kaladin, and Azure.
It seemed the Oathgate had only taken those who had been inside the control building. But where had it taken them?
Azure looked up at the sky. “Damnation,” she said softly. “I hate this place.”
THE END OF
Part Three
Interludes
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.”