A part of her thought she should be concerned about that. But when she tried to think along those lines, her mind grew fuzzy. And she ended up circling back to whatever she’d been thinking about before.

“Eshonai guesses that the humans are bluffing about how many cities they have,” she said. “But if they have dozens like they told us, then our numbers would be roughly equal. If we can get all the families to listen to us.”

Roughly equal? Ulim said, then started laughing. An outrageous sound, uproarious. It made her gemheart vibrate. You and them? Even? Oh, you blessed little idiot.

Venli felt herself attune Agony. She hated the way he made her feel sometimes. He’d whisper about how great she was, but then they’d get deep into a conversation and he’d speak more freely. More derogatorily.

“Well,” she said, “maybe we don’t have to fight them. Maybe we can find another way.”

Kid, you’re not gonna have a choice on that one, Ulim said. They will make sure of it. You know what they’ve done to all the other singers in the world? They’re slaves.

“Yes,” Venli said. “Proof that my ancestors were wise in leaving.”

Yeah, please don’t say that around any of my friends, Ulim said. You’ll make me look bad. Your ancestors were traitors. And no matter what you do, the humans will make you fight. Trust me. It’s what they always do.

Your primitive little paradise here is doomed. Best you can do is train some soldiers, practice using the terrain to your advantage, and prepare to get some actual forms. You don’t get to choose to be free, Venli. Just which master to follow.

Venli pushed off from the wall and began walking through the city. Something was wrong about Ulim. About her. About the way she thought now …

You have no idea the power that awaits you, Venli, Ulim said to the Rhythm of Craving. In the old days, forms of power were reserved for the most special. The most valuable. They were strong, capable of amazing feats.

“Then how did we ever lose?” she asked.

Bah, it was a fluke. We couldn’t break the last Herald, and the humans found some way to pin the whole Oathpact on him. So we got stuck on Braize. Eventually the Unmade decided to start a war without us. That turned out to be exceedingly stupid. In the past, Odium granted forms of power, but Ba-Ado-Mishram thought she could do it. Ended up handing out forms of power as easily as Fused give each other titles, Connected herself to the entire singer species. Became a little god. Too little.

“I … don’t understand.”

I’ll bet you don’t. Basically, everyone relied way too much on an oversized spren. Trouble is, spren can get stuck in gemstones, and the humans figured this out. End result: Ba-Ado-Mishram got a really cramped prison, and everyone’s souls got seriously messed up.

It will take something big to restore the minds of the singers around the world. So we’re going to prime the pump, so to speak, with your people. Get them into stormform and pull the big storm over from Shadesmar. Odium thinks it will work, and considering he’s anything but a little god, we are going to do what he says. It’s better than the alternative, which generally involves a lot of pain and the occasional flavorful dismemberment.

Venli nodded to some listeners passing by. Members of another family; she could tell by the colors of the bands on their braids and the type of gemstone bits in the men’s beards. Venli deliberately hummed one of the weak old rhythms for them to hear, but these newcomers didn’t give her a second glance despite her importance.

Patience, Ulim said. Once the Return arrives, you will be proclaimed as the one who initiated it—and you will be given everything you deserve as the most important of all listeners.

“You say my ancestors were traitors,” Venli whispered. “But you need us. If they hadn’t split off, you wouldn’t have us to use in your plot. You should bless what they did.”

They got lucky. Doesn’t mean they weren’t traitors.

“Perhaps they knew what Ba-Ado-Mishram was going to do, and so they attuned Wisdom, not Betrayal, in their actions.”

She knew the name, of course. As a keeper of songs, she knew the names of all nine Unmade—who were among the gods her people swore to never follow again. But the more she talked with Ulim, the less regard she gave the songs. The old listeners had memorized the wrong things. How could they retain the names of the Unmade, but forget something as simple as how to adopt workform?

Anyway, who cares what your ancestors did? Ulim said. We need to prepare your people for forms of power, then get them to summon Odium’s storm. Everything will take care of itself after that.

“That might be harder than you think, spren,” Venli said to Derision. She quieted her voice as another group of listeners passed. The city was so packed these days, you could barely find any peace to think.

Forms of power, Venli. The ability to reshape the world. Strength beyond anything you’ve ever dreamed of having.

She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her robe as she reached the heart of the city. She hadn’t realized she was coming this way, to her family’s home. She stepped inside, and found her mother picking apart a rug she had woven. Jaxlim glanced up at Venli, jumping.

“It’s only me,” Venli said to Peace.

“I got it wrong again,” Jaxlim said, huddling over her rug. “Wrong every time…”

Venli tried to attune Indifference, one of the new rhythms, but she couldn’t find it. Not here, not with her mother. She instead settled down on the floor, cross-legged, like she’d sat as a child when learning the songs.

“Mother?” Venli asked to Praise. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Why can’t I do anything right anymore?”

“Mother, can you tell me the first song?” Venli whispered.

Jaxlim kept picking at the rug.

“You know it,” Venli said. “Days we sing. Days we once knew? Days of—”

“Days of pain,” Jaxlim said, to the Rhythm of Memories. “Days of loss. Days of glory.”

Venli nodded as Jaxlim continued. This song was more of a chant, the original recitation of her people leaving the war. Leaving their gods. Striking out on their own.

This is painful to hear, Ulim noted. Your people had no idea what they were doing.

Venli ignored him, listening, feeling the Rhythm of Memories. Feeling … like herself. This had all been about finding a way to help her mother, hadn’t it? At the start?

No, she admitted. That’s what you told yourself. But you want more. You’ve always wanted more.

She knew forms changed the way a person thought. But was she in a new form now? Ulim had been dodgy in explaining it. Evidently she had a normal spren in her gemheart to give her workform—but Ulim was there too, crowding in. And he could speak to her, even hear what she was thinking.

You single-handedly delivered warform to your people, Ulim whispered. Once you give them additional forms, they will revere you. Worship you.

She wanted that respect. She wanted it so badly. But she forced herself to listen to what her ancestors had done, four hundred of them striking out alone, wearing dullform.

The fools were inbred, then, Ulim said. No wonder …

“These people created us,” she whispered. Her mother continued singing, and didn’t seem to have heard the interruption. “They were not fools. They were heroes. Their primary teaching, preserved in everything we do, is to never let our gods rule us again. To never take up forms of power. To never serve Odium.”