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is time.” ~ Lightsong waited beneath his canopy, a couple of serving men fanning him, a cup of chilled juice in his hand, lavish snacks spread out to his side. Blushweaver brought me into this, he thought. Because she was worried that Hallandren would be taken by surprise. The priests were consulting with their gods. He could see several of them kneeling before their Returned, heads bowed. It was the way that government worked in Hallandren. The priests debated their options then they sought the will of the gods. That would become the Will of the Pantheon. That would become the Will of Hallandren itself. Only the God King could veto a decision of the full Pantheon. And he had chosen not to attend this meeting. So self-congratulatory on spawning a child that he couldn’t even bother with the future of his people? Lightsong thought with annoyance. I had hoped he was better than that. Llarimar approached. Though he had been down below with the other high priests, he had offered no arguments to the court. Llarimar tended to keep his thoughts to himself. The high priest knelt before him. “Please, favor us with your will, Lightsong my god.” Lightsong didn’t respond. He looked up, across the open arena to where Blushweaver’s canopy stood, verdant in the dimming evening light. “Oh, God,” Llarimar said. “Please. Give me the knowledge I seek. Should we go to war with our kinsmen, the Idrians? Are they rebels who need to be quelled?” Priests were already returning from their supplications. Each held aloft a ﬂag indicating the will of their god or goddess. Green for a favorable response. Red for dissatisfaction with the petition. In this case green meant war. So far, five of the returning seven ﬂew green. “Your Grace?” Llarimar asked, looking up. Lightsong stood. They vote, but what good are their votes? he thought, walking out from beneath his canopy. They hold no authority. Only two votes really matter. More green. Flags ﬂapped as priests ran down the walkways. The arena was abuzz with people. They could see the inevitable. To the side, Lightsong could see Llarimar following him. The man must be frustrated. Why didn’t he ever show it? Lightsong approached Blushweaver’s pavilion. Almost all of the priests had gotten their answers, and the vast majority of them carried ﬂags of green. Blushweaver’s high priestess still knelt before her. Blushweaver, of course, waited upon the drama of the moment. Lightsong stopped outside of her canopy. Blushweaver reclined inside, watching him calmly, though he could sense her true anxiety. He knew her too well. “Are you going to make your will known?” she asked. He looked down at the center of the arena. “If I resist,” he said, “this declaration will be for naught. The gods can shout ‘war’ until they are blue, but I control the armies. If I don’t allow them my Lifeless, then Hallandren will not win any wars.” “You would defy the Will of the Pantheon?” “It is my right to do so,” he said. “Just as any of
them have the same right.” “But you have the Lifeless.” “That doesn’t mean I have to do what I’m told.” There was a moment of silence before Blushweaver waved to her priestess. The woman stood, then raised a ﬂag of green and ran down to join the others. This brought forth a roar. The people must know that Blushweaver’s political wranglings had left her in a position of power. Not bad, for a person who had started without command of a single soldier. With her control of that many troops, she’ll be an integral part of the planning, diplomacy, and execution of the war. Blushweaver could emerge from this as one of the most powerful Returned in the history of the kingdom. And so could I. He stared for a long moment. He hadn’t spoken of his dreams the last night to Llarimar. He’d kept them to himself. Those dreams of twisting tunnels and of the rising moon, just barely cresting the horizon. Could it be possible that they actually meant something? He couldn’t decide. About anything. “I need to think about this some more,” Lightsong said, turning to go. “What?” Blushweaver demanded. “What about the vote?” Lightsong shook his head. “Lightsong!” she said as he left. “Lightsong, you can’t leave us hanging like this!” He shrugged, glancing back. “Actually, I can.” He smiled. “I’m frustrating like that.” And with that, he left the arena, heading back to his palace without giving his vote. Annotations for Chapter 50 Fifty-One Annotations for Chapter 51 I’m glad you came back for me, Nightblood said. It was very lonely in that closet. Vasher didn’t reply as he walked across the top of the wall surrounding the Court of Gods. It was late, dark, and quiet, though a few of the palaces still shone with light. One of those belonged to Lightsong the Bold. I don’t like the darkness, Nightblood said. “You mean darkness like now?” Vasher asked. No. In the closet. “You can’t even see.” A person knows when they’re in darkness, Nightblood said. Even when they can’t see. Vasher didn’t know how to respond to that. He paused atop the wall, overlooking Lightsong’s palace. Red and gold. Bold colors indeed. You shouldn’t ignore me, Nightblood said. I don’t like it. Vasher knelt down, studying the palace. He’d never met the one called Lightsong, but he had heard rumors. The most scurrilous of the gods, the most condescending and mocking. And this was the person who held the fate of two kingdoms in his hands. There was an easy way to inﬂuence that fate. We’re going to kill him, aren’t we? Nightblood said, eagerness sharp in his voice. Vasher just stared at the palace. We should kill him, Nightblood continued. Come on. We should do it. We really should do it. “Why do you care?” Vasher whispered. “You don’t know him.” He’s evil, Nightblood said. Vasher snorted. “You don’t even know what that is.” For once, Nightblood was silent. That was the great crux of the problem, the issue that had dominated most of Vasher’s
life. A thousand Breaths. That was what it took to Awaken an object of steel and give it sentience. Even Shashara hadn’t fully understood the process, though she had first devised it. It took a person who had reached the Ninth Heightening to Awaken stone or steel. Even then, this process shouldn’t have worked. It should have created an Awakened object with no more of a mind than the tassels on his cloak. Nightblood should not be alive. And yet he was. Shashara had always been the most talented of them, far more capable than Vasher himself, who had used tricks—like encasing bones in steel or stone—to make his creations. Shashara had been spurred on by the knowledge that she’d been shown up by Yesteel and the development of ichor-alcohol. She had studied, experimented, practiced. And she’d done it. She’d learned to forge the Breath of a thousand people into a piece of steel, Awaken it to sentience, and give it a Command. That single Command took on immense power, providing a foundation for the personality of the object Awakened. With Nightblood, she and Vasher had spent much time in thought, then finally chosen a simple, yet elegant, Command. “Destroy evil.” It had seemed like such a perfect, logical choice. There was only one problem, something neither of them had foreseen. How was an object of steel—an object that was so removed from life that it would find the experience of living strange and alien—supposed to understand what “evil” was? I’m figuring it out, Nightblood said. I’ve had a lot of practice. The sword wasn’t really to blame. It was a terrible, destructive thing— but it had been created to destroy. It still didn’t understand life or what that life meant. It only knew its Command, and it tried so very hard to fulfill it. That man down there, Nightblood said. The god in the palace. He holds the power to start this war. You don’t want this war to start. That’s why he’s evil. “Why does that make him evil?” Because he will do what you don’t want him to. “We don’t know that for certain,” Vasher said. “Plus, who is to say that my judgment is best?” It is, Nightblood said. Let’s go. Let’s kill him. You told me war is bad. He will start a war. He’s evil. Let’s kill him. Let’s kill him. The sword was getting excited; Vasher could feel it—feel the danger in its blade, the twisted power of Breaths that had been pulled from living hosts and shoved into something unnatural. He could picture them breathing out, black and corrupted, twisting in the wind. Drawing him toward Lightsong. Pushing him to kill. “No,” Vasher said. Nightblood sighed. You locked me in a closet, he reminded. You should apologize. “I’m not going to apologize by killing someone.” Just throw me in there, Nightblood said. If he’s evil, he’ll kill himself. This gave Vasher pause. Colors, he thought. The sword seemed to be getting more subtle each year, though Vasher knew he was just imagining things, projecting.
Awakened objects didn’t change or grow, they simply were what they were. It was still a good idea. “Maybe later,” Vasher said, turning away from the building. You are afraid, Nightblood said. “You don’t know what fear is,” Vasher replied. I do. You don’t like killing Returned. You’re afraid of them. The sword was wrong, of course. But, on the outside, Vasher supposed that his hesitation did look like fear. It had been a long time since he’d dealt with the Returned. Too many memories. Too much pain. He made his way to the God King’s palace. The structure was old, far older than the palaces that surrounded it. Once, this place had been a seaside outpost, overlooking the bay. No city. No colors. Just the stark, black tower. It amused Vasher that it had become the home of the God King of the Iridescent Tones. Vasher slid Nightblood into a strap on his back then jumped from the wall toward the palace. Awakened tassels around his legs gave him extra strength, letting him leap some twenty feet. He slammed against the side of the building, smooth onyx blocks rubbing his skin. He twitched his fingers, and the tassels on his sleeves grabbed on to the ledge above him, holding him tight. He Breathed. The belt at his waist—touching his skin, as always—Awakened. Color drained from the kerchief tied to his leg beneath his trousers. “Climb things, then grab things, then pull me up,” he Commanded. Three Commands in one Awakening, a difficult task for some. For him, however, it had become as simple as blinking. The belt untied itself, revealing it to be far longer than it looked when wrapped around him. The twenty-five feet of rope snaked up the side of the building, curling inside of a window. Seconds later, the rope hauled Vasher up and into the air. Awakened objects could, if created well, have much more strength than regular muscles. He’d once seen a small group of ropes not much thicker than his own lift and toss boulders at an enemy fortification. He released his tassel grips, then pulled Nightblood free as the rope deposited him inside the building. He knelt silently, eyes searching the darkness. The room was unoccupied. Carefully, he drew back his Breath, then wrapped the rope around his arm and held it in a loose coil. He stalked forward. Who are we going to kill? Nightblood asked. It’s not always about killing, Vasher said. Vivenna. Is she in here? The sword was trying to interpret his thoughts again. It had trouble with things that weren’t fully formed in Vasher’s head. Most thoughts passed through a man’s mind were ﬂeeting and momentary. Flashes of image, sound, or scent. Connections made, then lost, then recovered again. That sort of thing was difficult for Nightblood to interpret. Vivenna. The source of a lot of his troubles. His work in the city had been easier when he’d been able to assume that she was working willingly with Denth. Then, at least, he’d been able to blame her. Where
is she? Is she here? She doesn’t like me, but I like her. Vasher hesitated in the dark hallway. You do? Yes. She’s nice. And she’s pretty. Nice and pretty—words that Nightblood didn’t really understand. He had simply learned when to use them. Still, the sword did have opinions, and it rarely lied. It must like Vivenna, even if it couldn’t explain why. She reminds me of a Returned, the sword said. Ah, Vasher thought. Of course. That makes sense. He moved on. What? Nightblood said. She’s descended from one, he thought. You can tell by the hair. There’s a bit of Returned in her. Nightblood didn’t respond to that, but Vasher could feel it thinking. He paused at an intersection. He was pretty sure he knew where the God King’s chambers would be. However, a lot of the interior seemed different now. The fortress had been stark, built with odd twists and turns to confuse an invading foe. Those remained—all the stonework was the same—but the open dining halls or garrison rooms had been split into many, smaller rooms, colorfully decorated in the mode of the Hallandren upper class. Where would the God King’s wife be? If she was pregnant, she’d be under the care of servants. One of the larger complex of chambers, he assumed, on a higher level. He made his way to a stairwell. Fortunately, it seemed late enough that there were very few people awake. The sister, Nightblood said. That’s who you’re after. You’re rescuing Vivenna’s sister! Vasher nodded quietly in the darkness, feeling his way up the stairs, counting on his BioChroma to let him know if he approached anyone. Though most of his Breath was stored in his clothing, he had just enough to awaken the rope and to keep him aware. You like Vivenna too! Nightblood said. Nonsense, Vasher thought. Then why? Her sister, he thought. She’s a key to all of this, somehow. I realized it today. As soon as the queen arrived, the real move to start the war surged. Nightblood fell silent. That kind of logical leap was a bit too complex for it. I see, he said, though Vasher smiled at the confusion he sensed in the voice. At the very least, Vasher thought, she’s a very handy hostage for the Hallandren. The God King’s priests—or whoever’s behind this—can threaten the girl’s life, should the war go poorly for them. She makes an excellent tool. One you intend to remove, Nightblood said. Vasher nodded, reaching the top of the stairwell and slinking through one of the corridors. He walked until he sensed someone nearby—a maid servant approaching. Vasher Awakened his rope, stood in the shadows of an alcove, and waited. As she passed, the rope shot from the shadows, wrapped around her waist, and yanked her into the darkness. Vasher had one of his tassel hands wrapped around her mouth before she could scream. She squirmed, but the rope tied her tightly. He felt a little stab of guilt as he loomed over her, her terrified eyes tearing up. He
reached for Nightblood and pulled the sword slightly out of its sheath. The girl immediately looked sick. A good sign. “I need to know where the queen is,” Vasher said, forcing Nightblood up so that his hilt touched her cheek. “You’re going to tell me.” He held her like that for a time, watching her squirm, feeling unhappy with himself. finally, he relaxed the tassels, keeping the sword against her cheek. She began to vomit, and he turned her to the side. “Tell me,” he whispered. “Southern corner,” the girl whispered, trembling, spittle on her cheek. “This ﬂoor.” Vasher nodded, then tied her up with the rope, gagged her, and took his Breath back. He pushed Nightblood back into the sheath then rushed down the hallway. You won’t kill a god who plans to march his armies to war? Nightblood asked. But you’ll nearly choke a young woman to death? It was a complicated statement for the sword. However, it lacked the accusation that a human would have put into the words. To Nightblood it really was just a question. I don’t understand my morality either, Vasher thought. I’d suggest you avoid confusing yourself. He found the place easily. It was guarded by a large group of brutish men who seemed rather out of place in the fine palace hallways. Vasher paused. Something strange is going on here. What do you mean? Nightblood asked. He hadn’t meant to address the sword, but that was the trouble with an object that could read minds. Any thoughts Vasher formed in his head, Nightblood thought were directed at it. After all, in the sword’s opinion, everything really should have been directed toward it. Guards at the door. Soldiers, not servants. So they had already taken her captive. Was she really even pregnant? Were the priests just securing their power? That many men would be impossible to kill without making noise. The best he could hope for was to take them fast. Maybe they were far enough from anyone else that a brief fight wouldn’t be heard. He sat for a few minutes, jaw clenched. Then, finally, he stepped closer and tossed Nightblood in amongst the men. He’d let them fight each other and then be ready to deal with any who weren’t taken into the sword’s inﬂuence. Nightblood clanged to the stones. All of the men’s eyes turned toward it. And, at that moment, something grabbed Vasher by the shoulder and yanked him backward. He cursed, spinning, throwing his hands up to wrestle with whatever had him. An Awakened rope. Men started to fight behind him. Vasher grunted, pulling out the knife in his boot, then slicing the Awakened rope. Someone tackled him as he got free, and he was thrown back against the wall. He grabbed his attacker by the face with one of his arm tassels, then twisted the man back and threw him into the wall. Another figure charged him from behind, but Vasher’s Awakened cloak caught that one, tripping him. “Grab things other than me,” Vasher said quickly, snatching the cloak
of one of the fallen men and Awakening it. That cloak whipped about, taking down another man, whom Vasher then killed with a swipe of his dagger. He kicked another man, throwing him backward, opening a pathway. Vasher lunged, making for Nightblood, but three more figures burst out the rooms around him, cutting him off. They were the same kind of brutish men that were now fighting over the sword. Men were all around. Dozens of them. Vasher kicked out, breaking a leg, but one man pulled Vasher’s cloak off with a lucky twist. Others piled on top of him. And then, another Awakened rope snapped out, tying his legs together. Vasher reached for his vest. “Your Breath to—” he began, trying to draw in some Breath to use for an attack, but three men grabbed his hand and pulled it away. Within seconds, he was wrapped up in the Awakened rope. His cloak still fought against three men who were struggling to cut it up, but Vasher himself was pinned. Someone emerged from the room to his left. “Denth,” Vasher spat, struggling. “My good friend,” Denth said, nodding for one of his lackeys—the one known as Tonk Fah—to move down the hallway toward the queen’s room. Denth knelt beside Vasher. “Very good to see you.” Vasher spat again. “Still as eloquent as ever, I see,” Denth said with a sigh. “You know the best thing about you, Vasher? You’re solid. Predictable. I guess I am too, in a way. Hard to live as long as we have without falling into patterns, eh?” Vasher didn’t reply, though he did try to yell as some men gagged him. He noticed with satisfaction that he’d taken down a good dozen opponents before they’d managed to stop him. Denth eyed the fallen soldiers. “Mercenaries,” he said. “No risk is too great, assuming the pay is right.” He said it with a twinkle in his eye. Then he leaned down, his joviality gone as he met Vasher’s eyes. “And you were always to be my payment, Vasher. I owe you. For Shashara, even still. We’ve been waiting, hidden in the palace here for a good two weeks, knowing that eventually the good Princess Vivenna would send you to save her sister.” Tonk Fah returned with a bundle held in a blanket. Nightblood. Denth eyed it. “Throw that out somewhere far away,” he said, grimacing. “I don’t know, Denth,” Tonk Fah said. “I kind of think we should keep it. It could be very useful...” The beginnings of the lust began to show in his eyes, the desire to draw Nightblood, to use the sword. To destroy evil. Or, really, just to destroy. Denth stood and snatched the bundle away. Then he smacked Tonk Fah on the back of the head. “Ow!” Tonk Fah said. Denth rolled his eyes. “Stop whining; I just saved your life. Go check on the queen and then clean up that mess. I’ll take care of the sword myself.” “You always get so nasty when Vasher’s around,” Tonk Fah grumbled, waddling away.
Denth wrapped up Nightblood securely; Vasher watched, hoping to see the lust appear in Denth’s eyes. Unfortunately, Denth was far too strong-willed to be taken by the sword. He had nearly as much history with it as Vasher did. “Take away all his Awakened clothing,” Denth said to his men, walking away. “Then hang him up in that room over there. He and I are going to have a long talk about what he did to my sister.” Annotations for Chapter 51 Fifty-Two Annotations for Chapter 52 Lightsong sat in one of the rooms of his palace, surrounded by finery, a cup of wine in his hand. Despite the very late hour, servants moved in and out, piling up furniture, paintings, vases, and small sculptures. Anything that could be moved. The riches sat in heaps. Lightsong lounged back on his couch, ignoring empty plates of food and broken cups, which he refused to let his servants take away. A pair of servants entered, carrying a red and gold couch. They propped it up by the far wall, nearly toppling a pile of rugs. Lightsong watched them leave then downed the rest of his wine. He dropped the empty cup to the ﬂoor beside the others, and held out his hand for another full one. A servant provided, as always. He wasn’t drunk. He couldn’t get drunk. “Do you ever feel,” Lightsong said, “like something is going on? Something far greater than you are? Like a painting you can only see the corner of, no matter how you squint and search?” “Every day, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. He sat on a stool beside Lightsong’s couch. As always, he watched events calmly, though Lightsong could sense the man’s disapproval as another group of servants piled several marble figurines in the corner. “How do you deal with it?” Lightsong asked. “I have faith, Your Grace, that someone understands.” “Not me, I hope,” Lightsong noted. “You are part of it. But it is much larger than you.” Lightsong frowned to himself, watching more servants enter. Soon the room would be so piled with his wealth that his servants wouldn’t be able to move in and out. “It’s odd, isn’t it,” Lightsong said, gesturing toward a pile of paintings. “Arranged like this, none of it looks beautiful anymore. When you put it together in piles, it just seems like junk.” Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “The value in something relates to how it is treated, Your Grace. If you see these items as junk, then they are, regardless of what someone else would pay for them.” “There’s a lesson in there somewhere, isn’t there?” Llarimar shrugged. “I am a priest, after all. We have a tendency to preach.” Lightsong snorted, then waved toward the servants. “That’s enough,” he said. “You can go now.” The servants, having grown resigned to being banished, left the room promptly. Soon Lightsong and Llarimar were alone with piles and piles of riches, all stolen from other parts of his palace and brought into this one room. Llarimar surveyed the mounds. “So what is
the point of all this, Your Grace?” “This is what I mean to them,” Lightsong said, gulping down some more wine. “The people. They’ll give up their riches for me. They sacrifice the Breath of their souls to keep me alive. I suspect that many would even die for me.” Llarimar nodded quietly. “And,” Lightsong said, “all I’m expected to do at the moment is choose their fates for them. Do we go to war or do we remain at peace? What do you think?” “I could argue for either side, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “It would be easy to sit here and condemn the war on mere principle. War is a terrible, terrible thing. And yet, it seems that few great accomplishments in history ever occur without the unfortunate fact of military action. Even the Many-war, which caused so much destruction, can be regarded as the foundation of modern Hallandren power in the Inner Sea region.” Lightsong nodded. “But,” Llarimar continued. “To attack our brethren? Despite provocation, I cannot help but think that invading is too extreme. How much death, how much suffering, are we willing to cause simply to prove that we won’t be pushed around?” “And what would you decide?” “Fortunately, I don’t have to.” “And if you were forced to?” Lightsong asked. Llarimar sat for a moment. Then, carefully, he removed the large miter from his head, revealing his thinning black hair plastered to the skull with sweat. He set aside the ceremonial headgear. “I speak to you as a friend, Lightsong, not your priest,” Llarimar said quietly. “The priest cannot inﬂuence his god for fear of disrupting the future.” Lightsong nodded. “And as a friend,” Llarimar said, “I honestly have trouble deciding what I would do. I didn’t argue on the ﬂoor of the court.” “You rarely do,” Lightsong said. “I’m worried,” Llarimar said, wiping his brow with a kerchief, shaking his head. “I don’t think we can ignore the threat to our kingdom. The fact of the matter is, Idris is a rebel faction living within our borders. We’ve ignored them for years, enduring their almost tyrannical control of the northern passes.” “So you’re for attacking?” Llarimar paused, then shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think that even Idris’s rebellion can justify the slaughter it would take to get those passes back.” “Great,” Lightsong said ﬂatly. “So, you think we should go to war, but not attack.” “Actually, yes,” Llarimar said. “We declare war, we make a show of force, and we frighten them into realizing just how precarious their position is. If we then hold peace talks, I’ll bet we could forge more favorable treaties for use of the passes. They formally renounce their claim to our throne; we recognize their independent sovereignty. Wouldn’t we both get what we want?” Lightsong sat thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s a very reasonable solution, but I don’t think those who are calling for war would accept it. It seems that we’re missing something, Scoot. Why now? Why are tensions so high after the wedding, which
should have unified us?” “I don’t know, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. Lightsong smiled, standing. “Well then,” he said, eyeing his high priest. “Let’s find out.” ~ Siri would have been annoyed if she hadn’t been so terrified. She sat alone in the black bedchamber. It felt wrong for Susebron to not be there with her. She’d hoped that maybe he would still be allowed come to her when night fell. But, of course, he didn’t arrive. Whatever the priests were planning, it didn’t require her to actually be pregnant. Not now that they’d played their hand and locked her up. The door creaked, and she sat up on the bed, hope reviving. But it was only the guard checking on her again. One of the crass, soldierlike men who had been guarding her in recent hours. Why did they change to these men? she wondered as the guard closed the door. What happened to the Lifeless and the priests who were watching me before? She lay back down on the bed, staring up at the canopy, still dressed in her fine gown. Her mind kept ﬂashing to her first week in the palace, when she’d been locked inside for her “Wedding Jubilation.” It had been difficult enough then, and she’d known when it would be over. Now she didn’t even have an assurance that she’d live through the next few days. No, she thought. They’ll keep me around long enough for my “baby” to be born. I’m insurance. If something goes wrong, they’ll still need me to show off. That was little comfort. The thought of six months cooped up inside the palace—not allowed to see anyone lest they see that she wasn’t really pregnant—was frightening enough to make her want to scream. But what could she do? Hope in Susebron, she thought. I taught him to read, and I gave him the determination that he needed to break free from his priests. That will have to be enough. ~ “Your Grace,” Llarimar said, his voice hesitant, “are you certain you want to do this?” Lightsong crouched down, peeking through the bushes toward Mercystar’s palace. Most of the windows were dark. That was good. However, she still had a number of guards patrolling the palace. She was afraid of another break-in. And rightly so. In the distance, he saw the moon just barely rising into the night sky. It almost matched the position he had seen in his dream the night before, the same dream where he’d seen the tunnels. Were these things really symbols? Signs from the future? He still resisted. The truth was, he didn’t want to believe he was a god. It implied too many things. But he couldn’t ignore the images, even if they were just spoken from his subconscious. He had to get into those passages beneath the Court of Gods. Had to see if, at last, there was something prophetic about what he had seen. The timing seemed important. The rising moon...just another degree or so. There, he thought, looking down from the sky. A guard
patrol was approaching. “Your Grace?” Llarimar asked, sounding more nervous. The portly high priest knelt on the grass beside Lightsong. “I should have brought a sword,” Lightsong said thoughtfully. “You don’t know how to use one, Your Grace.” “We don’t know that,” Lightsong said. “Your Grace, this is foolishness. Let’s go back to your palace. If we must see what is in those tunnels, we can hire someone from the city to sneak in.” “That would take too long,” Lightsong said. A guard patrol passed their side of the palace. “You ready?” he asked once the patrol had passed. “No.” “Then wait here,” Lightsong said, taking off in a dash toward the palace. After a moment, he heard a hissed “Kalad’s Phantoms!” from Llarimar, followed by bushes rustling as the priest followed. Why, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him curse before, Lightsong thought with amused energy. He didn’t look back; he just kept running toward the open window. As in most Returned palaces, the doorways and windows were open. The tropical climate encouraged such designs. Lightsong reached the side of the building, feeling exhilarated. He climbed up through the window, then reached a hand out to help Llarimar when he arrived. The hefty priest puffed and sweated, but Lightsong managed to pull him up and into the room. They took a few moments, Llarimar resting with his back to the outer wall, gasping for breath. “You really need to exercise more regularly, Scoot,” Lightsong said, creeping toward the doorway and peeking out into the hall beyond. Llarimar didn’t answer. He just sat, puffing, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. “I wonder why the man who attacked the building didn’t come in through the window,” Lightsong said. Then he noticed that the guards standing at the inner doorway had an easy view of this particular room. Ah, he thought. Well, then. Time for the backup plan. Lightsong stood up, walking out into the hallway. Llarimar followed, then jumped when he saw the guards. They had similar expressions of amazement on their faces. “Hello,” Lightsong said to the guards, then turned from them and walked down the hallway. “Wait!” one said. “Stop!” Lightsong turned toward them, frowning. “You dare command a god?” They froze. Then they glanced at each other. One took off running in the opposite direction. “They’re going to alert others!” Llarimar said, rushing up. “We’ll be caught.” “Then we should move quickly!” Lightsong said, taking off in another run. He smiled, hearing Llarimar grudgingly break into a jog behind him. They quickly reached the trapdoor. Lightsong knelt, feeling around for a few moments before finding the hidden clasp. He triumphantly pulled the trapdoor open, then pointed down. Llarimar shook his head in resignation, then climbed down the ladder into darkness. Lightsong grabbed a lamp off the wall and followed. The remaining guard—unable to interfere with a god—simply watched with concern. The bottom wasn’t very far down. Lightsong found a tired Llarimar sitting on some boxes in what was obviously a small storage cellar. “Congratulations, Your
Grace,” Llarimar said. “We’ve found the secret hiding place of their ﬂour.” Lightsong snorted, moving through the chamber, poking at the walls. “Something living,” he said, pointing at one wall. “That direction. I can feel it with my life sense.” Llarimar raised an eyebrow, standing. They pulled back a few boxes, and behind them was a small tunnel entrance cut into the wall. Lightsong smiled, then crawled down through it, pushing the lamp ahead of him. “I’m not sure I’ll fit,” Llarimar said. “If I fit, you will,” Lightsong said, voice mufﬂed by the close confines. He heard another sigh from Llarimar, followed by shufﬂing as the portly man entered the hole. Eventually, Lightsong passed out of another hole into a much larger tunnel, lit by several lanterns hanging from one of the walls. He stood up, feeling self-satisfied as Llarimar squeezed through. “There,” Lightsong said, throwing a lever and letting a grate drop down over the opening. “They’ll have trouble following now!” “And we’ll have trouble escaping,” Llarimar said. “Escape?” Lightsong said, raising his lamp, inspecting the tunnel. “Why would we want to do that?” “Pardon me, Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “But it seems to me that you are getting far too much enjoyment from this experience.” “Well, I’m called Lightsong the Bold,” Lightsong said. “It feels good to finally be living up to the title. Now, hush. I can still feel life nearby.” The tunnel was obviously man-made, and resembled Lightsong’s idea of a mine shaft. Just like the image from his dreams. The tunnels had several branches, and the life he sensed was straight ahead. Lightsong didn’t go that way, but instead turned left, toward a tunnel that sloped steeply downward. He followed it for a few minutes to judge its likely trajectory. “Figured it out yet?” Lightsong asked, turning to Llarimar, who had taken one of the lanterns, as this tunnel didn’t have any light of its own. “The Lifeless barracks,” Llarimar said. “If this tunnel continues this way, it will lead directly to them.” Lightsong nodded. “Why would they need a secret tunnel to the barracks? Any god can go there whenever he wants.” Llarimar shook his head, and they continued down the tunnel. Sure enough, after a short time, they arrived at a trapdoor in the ceiling which—when pushed up—led into one of the dark, Lifeless warehouses. Lightsong shivered, looking out at the endless rows of legs, barely illuminated by his lamp. He pulled his head back down, closed the trapdoor, and they followed the tunnel further. “It goes in a square,” he said quietly. “With doors up into each of the Lifeless barracks I’ll bet,” Llarimar said. He reached out, taking a piece of dirt from the wall and crumbling it between his fingers. “This tunnel is newer than the one we were in up above.” Lightsong nodded. “We should keep moving,” he said. “Those guards in Mercystar’s palace know we’re down here. I don’t know who they’ll tell, but I’d rather finish exploring before we get chased out.” Llarimar shivered visibly at that. They
walked back up the steep tunnel to the main one just below the palace. Lightsong still felt life down a side tunnel, but he chose the other branch to explore. It soon became apparent that this one split and turned numerous times. “Tunnels to some of the other palaces,” he guessed, poking at a wooden beam used to support the shaft. “Old—much older than the tunnel to the barracks.” Llarimar nodded. “All right, then,” Lightsong said. “Time to find out where the main tunnel goes.” Llarimar followed as Lightsong approached the main tunnel. Lightsong closed his eyes, trying to determine how close the life was. It was faint. Almost beyond his ability to sense. If everything else in this catacomb hadn’t been merely rocks and dirt, he wouldn’t even have noticed the life in the first place. He nodded to Llarimar, and they continued down the tunnel as quietly as possible. Did it seem that he was able to move with surprising stealth? Did he have unremembered experience with sneaking about? He was certainly better at it than Llarimar. Of course, a tumbling boulder was probably better at moving quietly than Llarimar, considering his bulky clothing and his puffing exhalations. The tunnel went on straight for a time without branches. Lightsong looked up, trying to estimate what was above them. The God King’s palace? he guessed. He couldn’t be certain; it was difficult to judge direction and distance under the ground. He felt excited. Thrilled. This was something no god was supposed to do. Sneaking at night, moving through secret tunnels, looking for secrets and clues. Odd, he thought. They give us everything they think that we might want; they glut us with sensation and experience. And yet real feelings—fear, anxiety, excitement—are completely lost to us. He smiled. In the distance, he could hear voices. He turned down the lamp and crept forward extra quietly, waving for Llarimar to stay behind. “...have him up above,” a masculine voice was saying. “He came for the princess’s sister, as I said he would.” “You have what you want, then,” said another voice. “Really, you pay far too much attention to that one.” “Do not underestimate Vasher,” the first voice said. “He has accomplished more in his life than a hundred men, and has done more for the good of all people than you will ever be able to appreciate.” Silence. “Aren’t you planning to kill him?” said the second voice. “Yes.” Silence. “You’re a strange one, Denth,” the second voice said. “However, our goal is accomplished.” “You people don’t have your war yet.” “We will.” Lightsong crouched beside a small pile of rubble. He could see light up ahead, but couldn’t distinguish much beyond some moving shadows. His luck seemed remarkably good in arriving to hear this conversation. Was that proof that his dreams were, indeed, fortellings? Or was it just coincidence? It was very late at night, and anyone still up was likely to be engaged in clandestine activities. “I have a job for you,” the second voice said. “We’ve got someone I
need you to interrogate.” “Too bad,” the first voice said, growing distant. “I’ve got an old friend to torture. I just had to pause to dispose of his monstrosity of a sword.” “Denth! Come back here!” “You didn’t hire me, little man,” the first voice said, growing fainter. “If you want to make me do something, go get your boss. Until then, you know where to find me.” Silence. And then, something moved behind Lightsong. He spun, and could just barely make out Llarimar creeping forward. Lightsong waved him back, then joined him. “What?” Llarimar whispered. “Voices, ahead,” Lightsong whispered back, the tunnel dark around them. “Talking about the war.” “Who were they?” Llarimar asked. “I don’t know,” Lightsong whispered. “But I’m going to find out. Wait here while I—” He was interrupted by a loud scream. Lightsong jumped. The sound came from the same place he had heard the voices, and it sounded like... “Let go of me!” Blushweaver yelled. “What do you think you’re doing! I’m a goddess!” Lightsong stood up abruptly. A voice said something back to Blushweaver, but Lightsong was too far down the tunnel to make out the words. “You will let me go!” Blushweaver yelled. “I—” she cut off sharply, crying out in pain. Lightsong’s heart was pounding. He took a step. “Your Grace!” Llarimar said, standing. “We should go for help!” “We are help,” Lightsong said. He took a deep breath. Then—surprising himself—he charged down the tunnel. He quickly approached the light, rounding a corner and coming into a section of tunnel that had been worked with rock. In seconds, he was running on a smooth stone ﬂoor and burst into what appeared to be a dungeon. Blushweaver was tied into a chair. A group of men wearing the robes of the God King’s priests stood around her with several uniformed soldiers. Blushweaver’s lip was bleeding, and she was crying through a gag that had been placed over her mouth. She wore a beautiful nightgown, but it was dirty and disheveled. The men in the room looked up in surprise, obviously shocked to see someone come up behind them. Lightsong took advantage of this shock and threw his shoulder against the soldier nearest to him. He sent the man ﬂying back into the wall, Lightsong’s superior size and weight knocking him aside with ease. Lightsong knelt down and quickly pulled the fallen soldier’s sword from its sheath. “Aha!” Lightsong said, pointing the weapon at the men in front of him. “Who’s first?” The soldiers regarded him dumbly. “I say, you!” Lightsong said, lunging at the next-closest guard. He missed the man by a good three inches, fumbling and off-balance from the lunge. The guard finally realized what was going on and pulled out his own sword. The priests backed against the wall. Blushweaver blinked at her tears, looking shocked. The soldier nearest Lightsong attacked, and Lightsong raised his blade awkwardly, trying to block, doing a horrible job of it. The guard at his feet suddenly threw himself at Lightsong’s legs, toppling him to the ground.
Then one of the standing guards thrust his sword into Lightsong’s thigh. The leg bled blood as red as that of any mortal. Suddenly, Lightsong knew pain. Pain literally greater than any he’d known in his short life. He screamed. He saw, through tears, Llarimar heroically trying to tackle a guard from behind, but the attack was almost as poorly executed as Lightsong’s own. The soldiers stepped away, several guarding the tunnel, another holding his bloodied blade toward Lightsong’s throat. Funny, Lightsong thought, gritting his teeth against the pain. That was not at all how I imagined this going. Annotations for Chapter 52 Fifty-Three Annotations for Chapter 53 Vivenna waited up for Vasher. He did not return. She paced in the small, one-room hideout—the sixth in a series. They never spent more than a few days in each location. Unadorned, it held only their bedrolls, Vasher’s pack, and a single ﬂickering candle. Vasher would have chastised her for wasting the candle. For a man who held a king’s fortune in Breaths, he was surprisingly frugal. She continued pacing. She knew that she should probably just go to sleep. Vasher could take care of himself. It seemed that the only one in the city who couldn’t do that was Vivenna. And yet he’d told her he was only going on a quick scouting mission. Though he was a solitary person himself, he apparently understood her desire to be a part of things, so he usually let her know where he was going and when to expect him back. She’d never waited up for Denth to come back from a night mission, and she’d been working with Vasher for a fraction of the time she’d spent with the mercenaries. Why did she worry so much now? Though she had felt like she was Denth’s friend, she hadn’t really cared about him. He’d been amusing and charming, but distant. Vasher was...well, who he was. There was no guile in him. He wore no false mask. She’d only met one other person like that: her sister, the one who would bear the God King’s child. Lord of Colors! Vivenna thought, still pacing. How did things turn into such a mess? ~ Siri awoke with a start. There was shouting coming from outside her room. She roused herself quickly, moving over to the door and putting her ear to it. She could hear fighting. If she were going to run, perhaps now would be the time. She rattled the door, hoping for some reason that it was unlocked. It wasn’t. She cursed. She’d heard fighting earlier—screaming, and men dying. And now again. Someone trying to rescue me, perhaps? she thought hopefully. But who? The door shook suddenly, and she jumped back as it opened. Treledees, high priest of the God King, stood in the doorway. “Quickly, child,” he said, waving to her. “You must come with me.” Siri looked desperately for a way to run. She backed away from the priest, and he cursed quietly, waving for a couple of soldiers in city guard uniforms to rush
in and grab her. She screamed for help. “Quiet, you fool!” Treledees said. “We’re trying to help you.” His lies rang hollow in her ears, and she struggled as the soldiers pulled her from the room. Outside, bodies were lying on the ground, some in guard uniforms, others in nondescript armor, still others with grey skin. She heard fighting down the hallway, and she screamed toward it as the soldiers roughly pulled her away. ~ Old Chapps, they called him. Those who called him anything, that is. He sat in his little boat, moving slowly across the dark water of the bay. Night fishing. During the day, one had to pay a fee to fish in T’Telir waters. Well, technically, during the night you were supposed to pay too. But the thing about night was, nobody could see you. Old Chapps chuckled to himself, lowering his net over the side of the boat. The waters made their characteristic lap, lap, lap against the side of the boat. Dark. He liked it dark. Lap, lap, lap. Occasionally, he was given better work. Taking bodies from one of the city’s slumlords, weighting them down with rocks tied in a sack to the foot, then tossing them into the bay. There were probably hundreds of them down there, ﬂoating in the current with their feet weighed to the ﬂoor. A party of skeletons, having a dance. Dance, dance, dance. No bodies tonight, though. Too bad. That meant fish. Free fish, he didn’t have to pay tariffs on. And free fish were good fish. No...a voice said to him. A little bit more to your right. The sea talked to him sometimes. Coaxed him this way or that. He happily made his way in the direction indicated. He was out on the waters almost every night. They should know him pretty well by now. Good. Drop the net. He did so. It wasn’t too deep in this part of the bay. He could drag the net behind his boat, pulling the weighted edges along the bottom, catching the smaller fish that came up into the shallows to feed. Not the best fish, but the sky was looking too dangerous to be out far from the shore. A storm brewing? His net struck something. He grumbled, yanking it. Sometimes it got caught on debris or coral. It was heavy. Too heavy. He pulled the net back up over the side, then opened the shield on his lantern, risking a bit of light. Tangled in the net, a sword lay in the bottom of his boat. Silvery, with a black handle. Lap, lap, lap. Ah, very nice, the voice said, much clearer now. I hate the water. So wet and icky down there. Transfixed, Old Chapps reached out, picking up the weapon. It felt heavy in his hand. I don’t suppose you’d want to go destroy some evil, would you? the voice said. I’m not really sure what that means, to be honest. I’ll just trust you to decide. Old Chapps smiled. Oh, all right, the sword said.
You can admire me a little bit longer, if you must. After that, though, we really need to get back to shore. ~ Vasher awoke groggily. He was tied by his wrists to a hook in the ceiling of a stone room. The rope that had been used to tie him, he noticed, was the same one he’d used to tie up the maid. It had been completely drained of color. In fact, everything around him was a uniform grey. He had been stripped save for his short, white underbreeches. He groaned, his arms feeling numb from the awkward angle of being hung by his wrists. He wasn’t gagged, but he had no Breath left—he’d used the last of it in the fight, to Awaken the cloak of the fallen man. He groaned. A lantern burned in the corner. A figure stood next to it. “And so we both return,” Denth said quietly. Vasher didn’t reply. “I still owe you for Arsteel’s death, too,” Denth said quietly. “I want to know how you killed him.” “In a duel,” Vasher said in a croaking voice. “You didn’t beat him in a duel, Vasher,” Denth said, stepping forward. “I know it.” “Then maybe I snuck up and stabbed him from behind,” Vasher said. “It’s what he deserved.” Denth backhanded him across the face, causing him to swing from the hook. “Arsteel was a good man!” “Once,” Vasher said, tasting blood. “Once, we were all good men, Denth. Once.” Denth was quiet. “You think your little quest here will undo what you’ve done?” “Better than becoming a mercenary,” Vasher said. “Working for whomever will pay.” “I am what you made me,” Denth said quietly. “That girl trusted you. Vivenna.” Denth turned, eyes darkened, the lanternlight not quite reaching his face. “She was supposed to.” “She liked you. Then you killed her friend.” “Things got a little out of hand.” “They always do, with you,” Vasher said. Denth raised an eyebrow, his face growing amused in the wan light. “I get out of hand, Vasher? Me? When’s the last time I started a war? Slaughtered tens of thousands? You’re the one who betrayed his closest friend and killed the woman who loved him.” Vasher didn’t respond. What argument could he offer? That Shashara had needed to die? It had been bad enough when she’d revealed the Commands to make Lifeless from a single breath. What if the way of making Awakened steel, like Nightblood, had entered the Manywar? Undead monsters slaughtering people with Awakened swords thirsting for blood? None of that mattered to a man who’d seen his sister murdered by Vasher’s hand. Besides, Vasher knew he had little credibility to stand on. He’d created his own monsters to fight in that war. Not Awakened steel like Nightblood, but deadly enough in their own right. “I was going to let Tonk Fah have you,” Denth said, turning away again. “He likes hurting things. It’s a weakness he has. We all have weaknesses. With my direction, he’s been able to restrict it to animals.” Denth turned to
him, holding up a knife. “I’ve always wondered what he finds so enjoyable about causing pain.” ~ Dawn was approaching. Vivenna threw off her blanket, unable to sleep. She dressed, frustrated, but not sure why. Vasher was probably just fine. He was likely out carousing somewhere. Of course, she thought wryly, carousing. That sounds just like him. He’d never stayed out an entire night before. Something had gone wrong. She slowed as she pulled on her belt, glancing over at Vasher’s pack and the change of clothing he had inside of it. Every single thing I’ve tried since I left Idris has failed miserably, she thought, continuing to dress. I failed as a revolutionary, I failed as a beggar, and I failed as a sister. What am I supposed to do? find him? I don’t even know where to start. She looked away from the pack. Failure. It wasn’t something she’d been accustomed to, back in Idris. Everything she’d done there had turned out well. Maybe that’s what this is all about, she thought, sitting. My hatred of Hallandren. My insistence on saving Siri, on taking her place. When their father had chosen Siri over her, it had been the first time in her life she’d felt that she wasn’t good enough. So she’d come to T’Telir, determined to prove the problem wasn’t with her. It’d been with someone else. Anyone else. As long as Vivenna wasn’t ﬂawed. But Hallandren had repeatedly proved that she was ﬂawed. And now that she’d tried and failed so often, she found it hard to act. By choosing to act, she might fail—and that was so daunting that doing nothing seemed preferable. It was the crowning arrogance in Vivenna’s life. She bowed her head. One last bit of feathered hypocrisy to adorn her royal hair. You want to be competent? she thought. You want to learn to be in control of what goes on around you, rather than just being pushed around? Then you’ll have to learn to deal with failure. It was frightening, but she knew it was true. She stood up and walked over to Vasher’s pack. She pulled out a wrinkled overshirt and a pair of leggings. Both had tassels hanging from the cuffs. Vivenna put them on. Vasher’s spare cloak followed. It smelled like him, and was cut—like his other one—into the vague shape of a man. She understood, at least, one of the reasons his clothing looked so tattered. She pulled out a couple of colorful handkerchiefs. “Protect me,” she Commanded the cloak, imagining it grabbing people who tried to attack her. She placed a hand on the sleeve of the shirt. “Upon call,” she Commanded, “become my fingers and grip that which I must.” She’d only heard Vasher give the Command a couple of times, and she still wasn’t quite sure how to visualize what she wanted the shirt to do. She imagined the tassels closing around her hands as she had seen them do for Vasher. She Awakened the leggings, commanding them to strengthen her legs. The leg tassels
began to twist, and she raised each foot in turn, letting the tassels wrap around the bottoms. Her stance felt firmer, the leggings pulled tight against her skin. Finally, she tied on the sword Vasher had given her. She still didn’t know how to use it, though she could hold it properly. It felt right to bring it. Then she left. ~ Lightsong had rarely seen a goddess cry. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way,” Blushweaver said, heedless of the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had things under control.” The dungeon beneath the God King’s palace was a cramped room. Cages— like the kind that might be used for animals—lined both walls. They were large enough to hold a god. Lightsong couldn’t decide if that was just a coincidence. Blushweaver snifﬂed. “I thought I had the God King’s priesthood on my side. We were working together.” Something’s wrong about this, Lightsong thought, glancing at the group of priests chatting anxiously at the side of the room. Llarimar sat in his own cage—the one next to Lightsong’s—head bowed. Lightsong looked back at Blushweaver. “How long?” he asked. “How long were you working with them?” “From the beginning,” Blushweaver said. “I was supposed to get the Command phrases. We came up with the plan together!” “Why did they turn on you?” She shook her head, glancing down. “They claimed I didn’t do my part. That I was withholding things from them.” “Were you?” She looked away, eyes tearstained. She looked very odd, sitting in her cell. A beautiful woman of deific proportions, wearing a delicate silk gown, sitting on the ground, surrounded by bars. Crying. We have to get out of here, Lightsong thought. He crawled over to the bars separating his cage from Llarimar’s ignoring the pain of his thigh. “Scoot,” he hissed. “Scoot!” Llarimar glanced up. He looked haggard. “What does one use to pick a lock?” Lightsong asked. Llarimar blinked. “What?” “Pick a lock,” Lightsong said, pointing. “Maybe I’ll discover that I know how to do it, if I get my hands into the right position. I still haven’t figured out why my swordsmanship skills were so poor. But surely I can do this. If I can only remember what to use.” Llarimar stared at him. “Maybe I—” Lightsong began. “What is wrong with you?” Llarimar whispered. Lightsong paused. “What is wrong with you!” Llarimar bellowed, standing. “You were a scribe, Lightsong. A Colors-cursed scribe. Not a soldier. Not a detective. Not a thief. You were an accountant for a local moneylender!” What? Lightsong thought. “You were as much an idiot then as you are now!” Llarimar shouted. “Don’t you ever think about what you’re going to do before you just saunter off and do it! Why can’t you just stop, occasionally, and ask yourself if you’re being a complete fool or not? I’ll give you a hint! The answer is usually yes!” Lightsong stumbled back from the bars, shocked. Llarimar. Llarimar was yelling. “And every time,” Llarimar said, turning away, “I get in trouble with you. Nothing has
changed. You become a god, and I still end up in prison!” The heavy priest slumped down, breathing in deep gasps, shaking his head in obvious frustration. Blushweaver was staring at them. And so were the priests. What is it I find odd about them? Lightsong thought, trying to sort out his thoughts and emotions as the group of priests approached. “Lightsong,” one of them said, stooping down beside his cage. “We need your Command phrases.” He snorted. “I’m sorry to say that I’ve forgotten them. You probably know my reputation for being weak-minded. I mean, what kind of fool would come charging in here and get himself captured so easily?” He smiled at them. The priest by his cage sighed, then waved a hand at the others. They unlocked Blushweaver’s cage and pulled her out. She yelled and fought, and Lightsong smiled at the trouble she gave them. Yet there were six priests, and they finally managed to get her out. Then one got out a knife and slit her throat. The shock of the moment hit Lightsong like a physical force. He froze, eyes wide, watching in horror as the red blood spilled out the front of Blushweaver’s throat, staining her beautiful nightgown. Far more disturbing was the look of panicked terror in her eyes. Such beautiful eyes. “No!” Lightsong screamed, slamming against the bars, reaching helplessly toward her. He strained his godly muscles, pressing himself against the steel as he felt his body begin to shake. It was useless. Even a perfect body couldn’t push its way through steel. “You bastards!” he yelled. “You Colors-cursed bastards!” He struggled, pounding the bars with one hand as Blushweaver’s eyes began to dim. And then her BioChroma faded. Like a blazing bonfire dimming down to a single candle. It puffed out. “No...” Lightsong said, sliding down to his knees, numb. The priest regarded him. “So you did care for her,” he said. “I’m sorry that we had to do that.” He knelt down, solemn. “However, Lightsong, we decided that we had to kill her so that you would understand that we’re serious. I do know your reputation, and I know that you usually take things lightheartedly. That is a fine attribute to have in many situations. Right now, you must realize how dangerous things are. We have shown you that we will kill. If you don’t do as we ask, others will die.” “Bastard...” Lightsong whispered. “I need your Command phrases,” the priest said. “This is important. More important than you can understand.” “You can beat them out of me,” Lightsong growled, feeling rage slowly overwhelm his shock. “No,” the priest said, shaking his head. “We’re actually new to all of this. We don’t know how to torture very well, and it would take too much time to force you to talk that way. Those who are skilled at torture aren’t being very cooperative right now. Never pay a mercenary before the job is done.” The priest waved, and the others left Blushweaver’s corpse on the ground. Then they moved to Llarimar’s
cage. “No!” Lightsong screamed. “We are serious, Lightsong,” the man said. “Very, very, serious. We know how much you care for your high priest. You now know that we will kill him if you don’t do as we say.” “Why?” Lightsong said. “What is this even about? The God King you serve could order us to move the armies if he wanted to! We’d listen to him. Why do you care so much about those Command phrases?” The priests forced Llarimar from his cage, then pushed him to his knees. One put a knife to his throat. “Red panther!” Lightsong yelled, weeping. “That’s the Command phrase. Please. Leave him be.” The priest nodded to the others, and they put Llarimar back in his cell. They left Blushweaver’s corpse on the ground, facedown in the blood. “I hope that you haven’t lied to us, Lightsong,” the main priest said. “We’re not playing games. It would be unfortunate if we discovered that you still are.” He shook his head. “We are not cruel men. But we are working for something very important. Do not test us.” With that, he left. Lightsong barely noticed. He was still staring at Blushweaver, trying to convince himself that he was hallucinating, or that she was faking, or that something would change to make him realize that it was all just an elaborate scam. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, no....” Annotations for Chapter 53 Fifty-Four Annotations for Chapter 54 “What’s the word on the street, Tuft?” Vivenna asked, sidling up to a beggar. He snorted, holding out his cup to those few who passed in the early light. Tuft was always one of the first to arrive in the mornings. “Why do I care?” he said. “Come on,” Vivenna said. “You kicked me out of this spot on three different occasions. I figure you owe me something.” “I don’t owe nobody nothing,” he said, squinting at the passers by with his one eye. The other eye was simply an empty hole. He didn’t wear a patch. “Particularly don’t owe you nothing,” he said. “You were a plant all the time. Not a real beggar.” “I...” Vivenna paused. “I wasn’t a plant, Tuft. I just thought I should know what it was like.” “Huh?” “Living among you,” she said. “I figured your life couldn’t be easy. But I couldn’t know—not really know—until I tried it for myself. So I came to the streets. Determined to live here for a time.” “Foolish thing to do.” “No,” she said. “The fools are those who pass, without even thinking about what it must be like to live like you. Maybe if they knew, they’d give you something.” She reached into her pocket, pulling out one of the bright handkerchiefs. She placed one in the cup. “I don’t have any coins, but I know you can sell that.” He grunted, eyeing it. “What do you mean by word on the street?” “Disturbances,” Vivenna said. “Ones that are out of the ordinary. Perhaps involving Awakeners.” “Go to the Third Dock slums,” Tuft said. “Look around the
buildings near the wharf. Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for there.” ~ Light peeked through the window. Morning already? Vasher thought, head down, still hanging by his wrists. He knew what to expect from torture. He was not new to it. He knew how to scream, how to give the torturer what he wanted. He knew how to not expend his strength in resisting too much. He also knew that none of that was likely to do any good. How would he be after a week of torture? Blood dripped down his chest, staining his undershorts. A dozen small pains nagged at his skin, cuts that had been drenched in lemon juice. Denth stood with his back facing Vasher, bloodied knives on the ground around him. Vasher looked up, forcing a smile. “Not as much fun as you thought it would be, is it, Denth?” Denth didn’t turn. There’s still a good man in there, Vasher thought. Even after all these years. He’s just been beaten down. Bloodied. Cut up worse than I have been. “Torturing me won’t bring her back,” Vasher said. Denth turned, eyes dark. “No. It won’t.” He picked up another knife. ~ The priests pushed Siri through the passageways of the palace. They occasionally passed corpses in the dark black hallways, and she could still hear fighting in places. What is going on? Someone was attacking the palace. But who? For a moment, she hoped it was her people—her father’s soldiers, coming to save her. She discarded that immediately. The men opposing the priests were using Lifeless soldiers; that ruled out Idris. It was someone else. A third force. And they wanted to free her from the grip of the priests. Hopefully, her calls for help would not go unheeded. Treledees and his men led her quickly through the palace, passing through the colorful inner rooms in their rush to get to wherever they were going. The white cuffs of Siri’s dress suddenly began to bend with color. She looked up with hope as they entered a last room. The God King stood inside the room, surrounded by a group of priests and soldiers. “Susebron!” she said, straining against her captives. He took a step toward her, but a guard held his arm, pulling him back. They’re touching him, Siri thought. All semblance of respect is gone. No need to pretend now. The God King looked down at his arm, frowning. He tried to tug it free, but another soldier stepped up to help hold him. Susebron glanced at this man, then at Siri, confused. “I don’t understand either,” she said. Treledees entered the room. “Bless the Colors,” he said. “You’ve arrived. Quickly, we must go. This place is not safe.” “Treledees,” Siri said, turning to glare at him. “What is going on?” He ignored her. “I am your queen,” Siri said. “You will answer my question!” He actually stopped, surprising her. He turned with an annoyed look. “A group of Lifeless has attacked the palace, Vessel. They are trying to get to the God King.” “I
figured out that much, priest,” Siri snapped. “Who are they?” “We don’t know,” Treledees said, turning from her. As he did, a distant scream came from outside the room. It was followed by the sound of fighting. Treledees glanced toward the sounds. “We have to move,” he said to one of the other priests. There were, perhaps, a dozen of them in the room, as well as a half-dozen soldiers. “The palace has too many doorways and passages. It would be too easy to surround us.” “The back exit?” the other priest said. “If we can get to it,” Treledees responded. “Where is that squadron of reinforcements I demanded?” “They’re not coming, Your Grace,” a new voice said. Siri turned to see Bluefingers, looking haggard, enter through the far door with a couple of wounded soldiers. “The enemy has taken the east wing and is pushing this way.” Treledees cursed. “We have to get His Majesty to safety!” Bluefingers said. “I’m well aware of that,” Treledees snapped. “If the east wing has fallen,” the other priest said, “we won’t be able to get out that way.” Siri watched, helpless, trying to get Bluefingers’s attention. He met her eyes, then nodded covertly, smiling. “Your Grace,” Bluefingers said. “We can escape through the tunnels.” The sounds of fighting were growing closer. It seemed to Siri that their room was virtually surrounded by combat. “Perhaps,” Treledees said as one of his priests rushed to the door to peek out. The soldiers who had come with Bluefingers were resting by the wall, bleeding. One of them seemed to have stopped breathing. “We should go,” Bluefingers said urgently. Treledees was quiet. Then he walked over to one of the fallen soldiers and picked up the man’s sword. “Very well,” he said. “Gendren, take half of the soldiers and go with Bluefingers. Take His Majesty to safety.” He looked at Bluefingers. “Seek the docks, if you can.” “Yes, Your Grace,” Bluefingers said, looking relieved. The priests released the God King, and he rushed to Siri, taking her in his arms. She held him, tense, trying to sort through her emotions. Bluefingers. Going with him made sense—the look in his eyes indicated that he had a plan to save her and the God King, get them away from the priests. And yet...something felt wrong to her. One of the priests gathered three of the soldiers and then moved to the far side of the room, peeking out. They waved to Siri and the God King. The other priests joined Treledees, taking weapons from the dead guards, their expressions grim. Bluefingers pulled on Siri’s arm. “Come, my queen,” he whispered. “I made you a promise before. Let’s get you out of this mess.” “What about the priests?” she asked. Treledees glanced at her. “Foolish girl. Go! The attackers are moving in this direction. We will let them see us, then we will lead them in another direction. They will assume we know where the God King is.” The priests with him did not look hopeful. If—when—they were caught, they would
be slaughtered. “Come on!” Bluefingers hissed. Susebron looked at her, frightened. She slowly let Bluefingers tug her and the God King to the side, to where the solitary priest and three soldiers had been joined by a group of servants in brown. Something whispered in her mind. Something...Lightsong had told her. Don’t make too many waves until you’re ready to strike, he had said. Sudden and surprising, that’s how you want to do things. You don’t want to appear nonthreatening—people are always suspicious of the innocent. The trick is to appear average. Average. It was good advice. Advice that, likely, others knew. And understood. She glanced at Bluefingers, walking beside her, urging her forward. nervous, as always. The fighting, she thought. Several groups have been contending back and forth, seizing control of my room. One force belongs to the priests. The second force—the one with the Lifeless—belongs to someone else. This mysterious third party. Someone in T’Telir had been pushing the kingdom toward war. But who would have anything at all to gain from such a disaster? Hallandren, which would expend huge resources to quell rebels, fighting a battle that they would win—but likely at great cost? It didn’t make sense. Who would gain the most if Hallandren and Idris went to war? “Wait!” Siri said, stopping. Things were suddenly falling into place. “Vessel?” Bluefingers asked. Susebron laid a hand on her shoulder, looking at her with confusion. Why would the priests sacrifice themselves if they were planning to kill Susebron? Why would they simply let us go, allow us to ﬂee, if the God King’s safety were not their prime concern? She looked into Bluefingers’s eyes, and saw him grow more nervous. His face paled, and she knew. “How does it feel, Bluefingers?” she asked. “You’re from Pahn Kahl, yet everyone always just assumes that your people are Hallandren. The Pahn Kahl people were here first, in this land, but it was taken from you. Now you’re just another province, part of the kingdom of your conquerors. “You want to be free, but your people have no military of their own. And so here you are. Unable to fight. Unable to free yourselves. Considered second-class. And yet, if your oppressors were to get into a war, it might give you an opening. A chance to break away...” He met her eyes, then took off in a dash, ﬂeeing from the room. “What in the name of the colors?” Treledees said. Siri ignored him, looking up into the God King’s face. “You were right all along,” she said. “We should have trusted your priests.” “Vessel?” Treledees said, stalking over. “We can’t go that way,” Siri said. “Bluefingers was leading us into a trap.” The high priest opened his mouth to respond, but she met his eyes sternly and turned her hair the deep red of anger. Bluefingers had betrayed her. The one person she’d thought she could trust to help them. “We go for the front gates, then,” Treledees said, looking over their motley collection of priests and wounded soldiers. “And try
to fight our way out.” ~ It was easy for Vivenna to find the location the beggar had mentioned. The building—a slum tenement—was surrounded by gawkers, despite the morning hour. People whispered, talking about spirits and death and ghosts from the sea. Vivenna stopped at the perimeter, trying to see what had drawn their attention. The docks were to her left, the sea brine pungent. The dock slums, where many of the dockhands lived and drank, were a small section of buildings clustered between warehouses and shipyards. Why would Vasher have come here? He had been planning to visit the Court of Gods. From what she could gather, there had been a murder in the building where the crowd had formed. People whispered of ghosts and of Kalad’s Phantoms, but Vivenna simply shook her head. This wasn’t what she was looking for. She’d have to— Vivenna? The voice was faint, but she could just barely make it out. And recognize it. “Nightblood?” she whispered. Vivenna. Come get me. She shivered. She wanted to turn and run—even thinking about the sword was nauseating. Yet Vasher had taken Nightblood with him. She was in the right place after all. The gawkers spoke of a murder. Was Vasher the person who had been killed? Suddenly concerned, she shoved her way through the crowd, ignoring yells that she should stay back. She climbed up the stairs, passing door after door. In her haste, she almost missed the one with black smoke creeping out under it. She froze. Then, taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was poorly kept, the ﬂoor littered with trash, the furniture rickety and worn. Four dead bodies lay on the ﬂoor. Nightblood was stuck in the chest of the fourth, an old man with a leathery face who lay on his side, dead eyes wide. Vivenna! Nightblood said happily. You found me. I’m so excited. I tried to get them to take me to the Court of Gods, but it didn’t turn out well. He did draw me a little bit. That’s good, right? She fell to her knees, feeling sick. Vivenna? Nightblood asked. I did well, right? VaraTreledees threw me into the ocean, but I got back out. I’m quite satisfied. You should tell me that I did well. She didn’t respond. Oh, Nightblood said. And Vasher is hurt, I think. We should go find him. She looked up. “Where?” she asked, uncertain if the sword would even be able to hear her. The God King’s palace, Nightblood said. He went to get your sister out. I think he likes you, even though he says he doesn’t. He says you’re annoying. Vivenna blinked. “Siri? You went after Siri?” Yes, but VaraTreledees stopped us. “Who is that?” She asked, frowning. You call him Denth. He’s Shashara’s brother. I wonder if she’s here too. I’m not sure why he threw me in the water. I thought he liked me. “Vasher...” she said, climbing back to her feet, feeling woozy from the sword’s inﬂuence. Vasher had been
taken by Denth. She shivered, remembering the anger in Denth’s voice when he’d spoken of Vasher. She gritted her teeth and grabbed a dirty blanket off the crude bed and wrapped it around Nightblood so that she wouldn’t have to touch him. Ah, Nightblood said. You don’t really need to do that. I had the old man clean me off after he got me out of the water. She ignored the sword, managing to lift the bundle with only slight nausea. Then she left, heading for the Court of Gods. ~ Lightsong sat, staring at the stones in front of him. A trickle of Blushweaver’s blood was making its way down a crack in the rock. “Your Grace?” Llarimar asked quietly. He stood up against the bars between their cages. Lightsong didn’t respond. “Your Grace, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” “What good is godhood?” Lightsong whispered. Silence. Lanterns ﬂickered on either side of the small chamber. Nobody had cleaned up Blushweaver’s body, though they had left a couple of priests and Lifeless behind to watch Lightsong. They still needed him, should it turn out that he’d lied about the Command phrases. He hadn’t. “What?” Llarimar finally asked. “What good is it?” Lightsong said. “We aren’t gods. Gods don’t die like that. A little cut. Not even as wide as my palm.” “I’m sorry,” Llarimar said. “She was a good woman, even among gods.” “She wasn’t a god,” Lightsong said. “None of us are. Those dreams are lies, if they led me to this. I’ve always known the truth, but nobody pays attention to what I say. Shouldn’t they listen to the one they worship? Particularly if he’s telling you not to worship him?” “I...” Llarimar seemed at a loss for words. “They should have seen,” Lightsong hissed. “They should have seen the truth about me! An idiot. Not a god, but a scribe. A silly little scribe who was allowed to play god for a few years! A coward.” “You’re no coward,” Llarimar said. “I couldn’t save her,” Lightsong said. “I couldn’t do anything. I just sat there and screamed. Maybe if I’d been more brave, I’d have joined with her and taken control of the armies. But I hesitated. And now she’s dead.” Silence. “You were a scribe,” Llarimar said quietly to the damp air. “And you were one of the best men I’d ever known. You were my brother.” Lightsong looked up. Llarimar stared out through the bars, staring at one of the ﬂickering lanterns hanging from the stark stone wall. “I was a priest, even then. I worked in the palace of Kindwinds the Honest. I saw how he lied to play political games. The longer I stayed in that palace, the more my faith waned.” He fell silent for a moment, then he looked up. “And then you died. Died rescuing my daughter. That’s the girl you see in your visions, Lightsong. The description is perfect. She was your favorite niece. Still would be, I assume. If you hadn’t...” He shook his head. “When we
found you dead, I lost hope. I was going to resign my position. I knelt above your body, weeping. And then, the Colors started to glow. You lifted your head, body changing, getting larger, muscles growing stronger. “I knew it at that moment. I knew that if a man like you were chosen to Return—a man who had died to save another—then the Iridescent Tones were real. The visions were real. And the gods were real. You gave me back my faith, Stennimar.” He met Lightsong’s eyes. “You are a god. To me, at least. It doesn’t matter how easily you can be killed, how much Breath you have, or how you look. It has to do with who you are and what you mean.” Annotations for Chapter 54 Fifty-Five Annotations for Chapter 55 “There is fighting at the front gates, Your Excellency,” the bloodied soldier said. “The insurgents are fighting each other there. We...we might be able to get out.” Siri felt a stab of relief. finally, something going right. Treledees turned toward her. “If we can get into the city, the people will rally around their God King. We should be safe there.” “Where did they get so many Lifeless?” Siri asked. Treledees shook his head. They had paused in a room near the front of the palace, desperate, yet unsure. Breaking through the Pahn Kahl fortification of the Court of Gods was bound to be difficult. She looked up at Susebron. His priests treated him like a child—they gave him respect, but they obviously gave no thought to ask his opinion. For his part, he stood, hand on her shoulder. She saw thoughts and ideas working behind those eyes of his, but there was nothing for him to write on to tell her. “Vessel,” Treledees said, drawing her attention. “You need to know something.” She looked at him. “I hesitate to mention this,” Treledees said, “as you are not a priest. But...if you survive and we do not...” “Speak it,” she commanded. “You cannot bear the God King a child,” he said. “Like all Returned, he is unable to sire children. We have not yet learned how the first Returned managed to have a child all those years ago. In fact...” “You don’t even think he did,” she said. “You think the royal line is a fabrication.” Of course the priests dispute the record of the royal line coming from the first Returned, she thought. They wouldn’t want to give credibility to Idris’s claim to the throne. He ﬂushed. “It’s what people believe that matters. Regardless, we...have a child...” “Yes,” Siri said. “A Returned child you are going to make the next God King.” He looked at her, shocked. “You know?” “You’re planning to kill him, aren’t you?” she hissed. “Take Susebron’s Breath and leave him dead!” “Colors, no!” Treledees said, shocked. “How—how could you think? No, we’d never do such a thing! Vessel, the God King needs only give away the treasure of Breaths he holds, investing them into the next God King, and then he can live
the rest of his life—so long as he should desire—in peace. We change God Kings whenever an infant Returns. It is our sign that the previous God King has done his duty, and should be allowed to live the rest of his life without bearing his terrible burdens.” Siri looked at him skeptically. “That’s foolish, Treledees. If the God King gives away his Breath, he will die.” “No, there is a way,” the priest said. “That is supposed to be impossible.” “Not at all. Think about it. The God King has two sources of Breath. One is his innate, divine Breath—that which makes him Returned. The other is the Breath given to him as the Treasure of Peacegiver, fifty thousand Breaths strong. That he could use as any Awakener could, as long as he is careful about the Commands he uses. He could also survive quite easily as a Returned without it. Any of the other gods could do the same, should they gain Breath beyond the one a week which sustains them. They’d consume them at a rate of one a week, of course, but they could stockpile them and use the extras in the meantime.” “You keep them from realizing that, though,” Siri said. “Not keep specifically,” the priest said, looking away. “It does not arise. Why would the Returned care about Awakening? They have everything they need.” “Except knowledge,” Siri said. “You keep them in ignorance. I’m surprised you didn’t cut out all their tongues to hide your precious secrets.” Treledees looked back at her, expression hardening. “You judge us still. We do what we do because it is what we must, Vessel. The power he holds in that Treasure—fifty thousand Breaths—could destroy kingdoms. It is too great a weapon; we were charged as our sole, divine mission to keep it safe and not let it be used. If Kalad’s army ever returns from where it was exiled, we—” A sound came from a nearby room. Treledees looked, concerned, and Susebron’s grip on Siri’s shoulder tightened. She looked up, concerned. “Treledees,” she said. “I need to know. How? How can Susebron give away his Breath? He can speak no Command!” “I—” Treledees was interrupted by a group of Lifeless bursting through the doorway to their left. Treledees yelled for her to ﬂee, but another group of the creatures came through the other way. Siri cursed, grabbing Susebron’s hand, pulling him toward yet another doorway. She pulled it open. Bluefingers stood on the other side. He looked into her eyes, face grim. Lifeless stood behind him. Siri felt a stab of terror, backing away. Sounds of fighting came from behind her, but she was too focused on the Lifeless stepping around Bluefingers toward her and Susebron. The God King cried out, a tongueless, wordless groan of anger. And then the priests were there. They threw themselves in front of the Lifeless, trying to beat them back, trying desperately to protect their God King. Siri clung to her husband in the ruddy room, watching as the priests were slaughtered by emotionless
warriors with grey faces. Priest after priest jumped in the way, some with weapons, others simply waving their arms in a hopeless attack. She saw Treledees grit his teeth, terror showing in his eyes as he ran forward, trying to attack a Lifeless. He died like the others. His secrets died with him. The Lifeless stepped over the corpses. Susebron pushed Siri behind him, arms shaking as he backed them toward a wall, facing down the bloodied monsters. The Lifeless finally stopped, and Bluefingers walked around them, looking past Susebron toward her. “And now, Vessel, I believe we were going somewhere.” ~ “I’m sorry, miss,” the guard said, holding up a hand. “All access to the Court of Gods is forbidden.” Vivenna ground her teeth. “This is unacceptable,” she said. “I’m to report to the goddess Allmother at once! Can’t you see how many Breaths I hold? I’m not someone you can just turn away!” The guards remained firm. There were a good two dozen of them at the gates, stopping anyone who tried to enter. Vivenna turned away. Whatever Vasher had done inside the night before, he’d apparently caused quite a stir. People clustered around the gateway to the court, demanding answers, asking if something was wrong. Vivenna made her way back through them, leaving the gates behind. Go to the side, Nightblood said. Vasher never asks if he can enter. He just goes in. Vivenna glanced at the side of the plateau. There was a short rocky ledge running around the outside of the wall. With the guards so distracted by the people wanting in... She slipped to the side. It was early in the morning yet, the sun not having crested the eastern mountains. There were guards on the wall above—she could feel them with her life sense—but she was below their angle of view as long as they looked outward. She might be able to sneak by them. She waited until one patrol had passed, then Awakened one of the tapestries. “Lift me,” she said, dropping a drained handkerchief. The tapestry twisted into the air, wrapping around her, the top end still attached to the wall. Like a muscular arm, it lifted her up, twisting and depositing her atop the wall. She glanced around, recovering her breath. To the side, some distance away, a group of guards was pointing at her. You’re not any better at this than Vasher is, Nightblood noted. You people can’t sneak at all! Yesteel would be so disappointed in you. She cursed, Awakened the tapestry again and had it lower her into the court. She recovered her breath, then took off running across the grassy lawn. Few people were about, but that only made her stand out even more. The palace, Nightblood said. Go there. That was where she was going. However, the longer she held the sword, the more she understood that it said whatever came to its steely mind, whether or not its comments were relevant. It was like a child, speaking or asking questions without inhibition. The front of the
palace was very well guarded by a group of men who weren’t wearing uniforms. He’s in there, Nightblood said. I can feel him. Third ﬂoor. Where he and I were before. Vivenna got an image of the room shoved into her head. She frowned. Remarkably useful, she thought, for an evil weapon of destruction. I’m not evil, Nightblood said, voice not defensive, simply informative. As if reminding her of something she’d forgotten. I destroy evil. I think maybe we should destroy those men up ahead. They look evil. You should pull me out. For some reason, she doubted that would be a good idea. Come on, Nightblood said. The soldiers were pointing at her. She glanced behind, and saw others rushing across the lawn. Austre, forgive me, she thought. Then, gritting her teeth, she threw Nightblood—blanket and all—toward the guards in front of the building. They halted. To a man, they looked down at the sword as it rolled free of the blanket, silver sheath glistening on the lawn. Well, I guess this works too, Nightblood noted, voice feeling distant now. One of the soldiers picked up the sword. Vivenna dashed past them, ignored by the soldiers. They started to fight. Can’t go that way, she thought, eyeing the front entrance, not wanting to risk pushing her way through fighting men. So instead she ran to the side of the massive palace. The lower levels were made of the steplike black blocks that gave the palace its pyramidlike quality. Above these, it grew into a more traditional fortress, with steep walls. There were windows, if she could reach them. She twitched her fingers, making the tassels on her sleeves clench and unclench. Then she jumped, her Awakened leggings tossing her up a few extra feet. She reached up and made the tassels grab the edge of the large, black block. The tassels just barely held, gripping the stone like footlong fingers. With difficulty, Vivenna pulled herself up onto the block. Men yelled and screamed below, and she spared them a glance. The guard who had grabbed Nightblood was fighting off the others, a small trail of black smoke swirling around him. As she watched, he backed into the palace itself, the other men following him. So much evil, Nightblood said, like a woman tisking as she cleaned cobwebs from her ceiling. Vivenna turned away, feeling slightly guilty for giving the sword to the men. She jumped up and pulled herself onto the next block, continuing as the soldiers who had seen her from the walls arrived. They wore the colors of the city guard, and while a couple of them got caught up in the Nightblood fight, most of them ignored it. Vivenna continued up. To the right, Nightblood said distantly. That window on the third ﬂoor. Two over. He’s in there... As his voice faded, Vivenna looked up at the window indicated. She still had to climb up a number of blocks, then somehow reach a window that was an entire story up a sheer wall. There did appear to be
some decorative stonework that could serve as handholds, but she grew dizzy even thinking about climbing them. An arrow snapped against the stone beside her, making her jump. Several guards below had bows. Colors! she thought, pulling herself up to the next block. She heard a whoosh behind her, and cringed, feeling as if she should have been struck, but nothing happened. She pulled herself up onto the block, then twisted around. She could just barely see a corner of her cloak holding an arrow. She started, grateful that she had Awakened it. It dropped the arrow, then returned to normal. Handy, that, she thought, climbing up the last block. By the time she got on top of it, her arms were sore. Fortunately, her Awakened fingers were still gripping as well as ever. She took a deep breath, then began to climb straight up the upper wall of the black fortress, using the carvings as handholds. And decided, for her own sanity, that she’d better avoid looking down. ~ Lightsong stared ahead. Too much information. Too much was happening. Blushweaver’s murder, then Llarimar’s revelation, the betrayal of the God King’s priests all in such quick succession. He sat in his cell, arms wrapped around himself, gold and red robes dirtied from crawling through the tunnel, then sitting in his cage. His thigh ached from where it had been struck with the sword, though the wound had not been bad, and it was barely bleeding anymore. He ignored the pain. It was insignificant compared to the pain inside. The priests talked quietly on the far side of the room. Oddly, as he glanced at them, something caught his eye. He let his mind be diverted by the realization—he finally grasped what was bothering him about them. He should have seen it earlier. It had to do with color—not the color of their clothing, but the color of their faces. It was just slightly off. The deviation in one man would have been easy to ignore. But all of them together was a pattern. No regular person could have noticed it. To a man with his Heightenings, it was obvious, once he knew what to look for. These men were not from Hallandren. Anyone can wear a set of robes, he realized. That doesn’t mean that they’re priests. In fact, judging by the faces, he realized the men must be from Pahn Kahl. And then it all made sense to him, that quickly. They’d all been played for fools. ~ “Bluefingers,” Siri demanded. “Talk to me. What are you going to do with us?” The labyrinth of the God King’s palace was complex, and it was sometimes difficult even now for her to find her way around. They’d traveled down a stairwell but now were going up another one. Bluefingers didn’t answer. He walked with his customary nervousness, wringing his hands. The fighting in the hallways seemed to be decreasing. In fact, once they left the stairwell, this newest hallway was dreadfully quiet. Siri walked with Susebron’s nervous arm around her waist. She
didn’t know what he was thinking—they hadn’t been able to pause long enough for him to write anything. He gave her a comforting smile, but she knew that this all must be just as terrifying for him as it was for her. Probably more so. “You can’t do this, Bluefingers,” Siri said, snapping at the little balding man. “It is the only way we’d ever be able to break free,” Bluefingers said, not turning, but finally responding to her. “But you can’t!” Siri said. “The Idrians are innocent!” Bluefingers shook his head. “How many of my people would you sacrifice, if it would mean freedom for yours?” “None!” she said. “I should like to see you say that if our positions were reversed,” he said, still not meeting her eyes. “I’m...sorry for your pain. But your people are not innocent. They’re just like the Hallandren. In the Manywar, you rolled over us, made us your workers and slaves. Only at the end, when the royal family ﬂed, did Idris and Hallandren split.” “Please,” Siri said. Susebron suddenly punched a Lifeless. The God King growled, struggling as he kicked at another. There were dozens of them. He looked at her, waving a hand, motioning for her to ﬂee. She didn’t intend to leave him. Instead, she tried to grab Bluefingers, but a Lifeless was too quick. It took her arm, holding her firm, even when she batted at it. A couple of men wearing the robes of Susebron’s priesthood came out of a stairwell ahead of them, carrying lanterns. Siri, looking closely, immediately recognized them as being from Pahn Kahl. They were too short and their skin color was just slightly off. I’ve been a fool, she thought. Bluefingers had played the game so well. He’d driven a wedge between her and the priests from the start. Most of her fears and worries, she’d gotten from him—and it had been reinforced by the priest’s arrogance. All part of the scribe’s plan to someday use her to gain freedom for his people. “We have Lightsong’s security phrase,” one of the new men said to Bluefingers. “We have checked it, and it works. We changed it to the new one. The rest of the Lifeless are ours.” Siri glanced to the side. The Lifeless had pulled Susebron to the ground. He yelled—though it came out as more a moan. Siri yanked, trying to escape her Lifeless and help him. She began to cry. To the side, Bluefingers nodded to his accomplices, looking fatigued. “Very well. Give the Command. Order the Lifeless to march on Idris.” “It will be done,” the man said, laying a hand on Bluefingers’s shoulder. Bluefingers nodded, looking morose as the others withdrew. “What do you have to be sad about?” she spat. Bluefingers turned toward her. “My friends now are the only ones who know the Command phrases for Hallandren’s Lifeless army. Once those Lifeless leave for Idris—with orders to destroy everything they find there— my friends will kill themselves with poison. There won’t be anyone who can stop the creatures.”
Austre...Siri thought, feeling numb. Lord of Colors... “Take the God King below,” Bluefingers said, waving to several Lifeless. “Hold him until it is time.” They were joined by a Pahn Kahl scribe wearing fake priest’s robes as they towed Susebron toward the stairwell. Siri reached for him. He continued to struggle, reaching back, but the Lifeless were too strong. She listened to his inarticulate yells echoing down the stairwell. “What will you do with him?” Siri asked, tears cold on her cheeks. Bluefingers glanced at her, but once again, would not meet her eyes. “There will be many in the Hallandren government who see the Lifeless attack as a political mistake, and they may seek to stop the war. Unless Hallandren actually commits itself to this fight, our sacrifice will be useless.” “I don’t understand.” “We will take the bodies of Lightsong and Blushweaver—the two gods with the Command phrases—and leave them in the Lifeless barracks, surrounded by dead Idrians we took from the city. Then we will leave the corpse of the God King to be discovered in the palace dungeons. Those who investigate will assume that Idrian assassins attacked and killed him—we’ve hired enough mercenaries from the Idrian slums that it shouldn’t be too difficult to believe. Those of my scribes who survive the night will confirm the story.” Siri blinked out tears. Everyone will assume that Blushweaver and Lightsong sent the armies as retribution for the death of the God King. And with the king dead, the people will be furious. “I wish you hadn’t gotten involved in all of this,” Bluefingers said, motioning for her Lifeless captors to pull her along. “It would have been easier for me if you’d been able to keep yourself from getting pregnant.” “I’m not!” she said. “The people think you are,” he said with a sigh as they walked toward the stairwell. “And that’s enough. We have to break this government and we have to make the Idrians angry enough to want to destroy the Hallandren. I think your people will do better in this war than everyone says, especially if the Lifeless march without leadership. Your people will ambush them, making sure this is not an easy war for either side.” He glanced at her. “But for this war to work right, the Idrians have to want to fight. Otherwise, they’ll ﬂee and vanish into those highlands. No, both sides have to hate each other, pull as many allies into the battle as possible so that everyone is too distracted...” And what better way to make Idris willing to fight, she thought with horror, than to kill me? Both sides will see the death of my supposed child as an act of war. This won’t simply be a fight for domination. It will be a drawn-out war of hatred. The fighting could last for decades. And nobody will ever realize that our real enemy—the one who started it all—is the peaceful, quiet province to the south of Hallandren. Annotations for Chapter 55 Fifty-Six Annotations for Chapter 56 Vivenna hung outside the
window, breathing deeply, sweating heavily. She’d peeked inside. Denth was in there, as was Tonk Fah. Vasher was hanging from a hook on the ceiling. He was bloodied, and he held no Breath, but he seemed to be alive. Can I stop both Denth and Tonk Fah? she thought. Her arms were tired. She had a couple of lengths of rope in her pocket she could Awaken. What if she threw and missed? She had seen Denth fight. He was faster than she’d thought possible. She would have to surprise him. And if she missed, she would die. What am I doing? she thought. Hanging from a wall, about to challenge two professional soldiers? Her recent past gave her the strength to push down her fear. They might kill her, but that would be a quick end. She’d survived betrayals, the death of a dear friend, and a time going mad from the illness, hunger, and terror of living on the streets. She’d been pushed down, forced to admit that she’d betrayed her people. There wasn’t really any more they could do to her. For some reason, those thoughts gave her power. Surprised at her own determination, she quietly recovered the Breath from her cloak and her leggings. She Awakened a pair of rope pieces, telling them to grab when thrown. She said a quiet prayer to Austre, then pulled herself up through the window and into the room. Vasher was groaning. Tonk Fah was dozing in the corner. Denth, holding a bloody knife, looked up immediately as she landed. The look of utter shock on his face was, in itself, almost worth everything she’d been through. She tossed the rope at him, threw the other at Tonk Fah, then dashed into the room. Denth reacted immediately, cutting the rope out of the air with his dagger. The pieces of it twisted and wriggled, but weren’t long enough to grab anything. The one she threw at Tonk Fah, however, hit. He cried out, waking as it wrapped around his face and neck. Vivenna pulled to a halt beside Vasher’s swinging body. Denth had his sword out; he’d pulled it free more quickly than she could track. She gulped, then pulled out her own sword, holding it forward as Vasher had taught her. Denth paused just brieﬂy in surprise. That was enough. She swung—not for Denth, but for the rope holding Vasher to the ceiling. He fell with a grunt, and Denth struck, slamming the point of his dueling blade through her shoulder. She fell, gasping in pain. Denth stepped back. “Well, Princess,” he said, warily holding his blade. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Tonk Fah made a gagging sound as the rope twisted around his neck, choking him. He struggled to pull it free with little success. Once, the pain in her shoulder might have been debilitating. But after the beatings she’d taken on the street, it seemed somewhat familiar to her. She looked up, and met Denth’s eyes. “Was this supposed to be a rescue?” Denth asked. “Because honestly,
I’m not very impressed.” Tonk Fah knocked over his stool in his thrashing. Denth glanced at him, then back at Vivenna. There was a moment of silence, save for Tonk Fah’s weakening struggles. finally, Denth cursed and jumped over to cut at the rope on his friend’s neck. “You all right?” Vasher asked from beside her. She was shocked by how solid his voice sounded, despite his bloodied body. She nodded. “They’re going to send Lifeless marching on your homeland,” he said. “We’ve been wrong about this all along. I don’t know who’s behind it, but I think they’re winning the fight for the palace.” Denth finally got the rope cut free. “You need to run,” Vasher said, wiggling his hands free from their rope bonds. “Get back to your people, tell them not to fight the Lifeless. They need to ﬂee through the northern passes, hide in the highlands. Do not fight or bring other kingdoms into the war.” Vivenna glanced back at Denth, who was smacking Tonk Fah back to consciousness. Then she closed her eyes. “Your Breath to mine,” she said, drawing back the Breath from her hand tassels, adding it to the large amount she still held from before. She reached out, placing her hand on Vasher. “Vivenna...” he said. “My life to yours,” she said. “My Breath become yours.” Her world became a thing of dullness. Beside her, Vasher gasped, then began to convulse at the bestowal of Breath. Denth stood up, spinning. “You do it, Vasher,” Vivenna whispered. “You’ll be far better at it than I will be.” “Stubborn woman,” Vasher said as he overcame the convulsions. He reached out, as if to restore her Breath to her, but noticed Denth. Denth smiled, raising his blade. Vivenna put a hand to her shoulder, stopping the blood ﬂow, and she began to push herself back toward the window—though, without Breath, she wasn’t certain what she intended to do there. Vasher stood up, taking her sword in his hand. He wore only the bloody, knee-length underbreeches, but his stance was firm. He slowly wrapped the rope he’d been hanging from around his waist, forming his characteristic belt. How does he do it? she thought. Where does his strength come from? “I should have hurt you more,” Denth said. “I took my time. Savoring it too much.” Vasher snorted, tying off the belt. Denth seemed to be waiting, anticipating something. “I’ve always found it funny that we bleed, just like ordinary men,” Denth said. “We might be stronger, might live much longer, but we die just the same.” “Not the same,” Vasher said, raising Vivenna’s blade. “Other men die with far more honor than we, Denth.” Denth smiled. Vivenna could see excitement in his eyes. He always claimed that there was no way Vasher could have beat his friend, Arsteel, in a duel, she thought. He wants to fight Vasher. He wants to prove to himself that Vasher isn’t as good as he is. Blades whipped into motion. And after just a quick exchange, Vivenna could see that there
was no contest. Denth was clearly the better. Perhaps it was Vasher’s wounds. Perhaps it was the growing anger she saw in Vasher’s eyes as he fought, marring his ability to be calm and collected during the fight. Maybe he just really wasn’t as good as Denth. However, as Vivenna watched, she realized that Vasher was going to lose. I didn’t do all this so you could just die! she thought, rising to try to help. A hand fell on her shoulder, pushing her back down. “I don’t think so,” Tonk Fah said, looming over her. “Nice trick with the rope, by the way. Very clever. I know a few tricks with ropes myself. Did you know, for instance, that a rope can be used to burn a person’s ﬂesh?” He smiled, then leaned down. “Mercenary humor, you see.” His cloak slid slightly off his shoulder, falling against her cheek. It can’t be, she thought. I escaped from him. I tried to Awaken his cloak, but used a bad Command. Could he have been stupid enough to keep wearing it? She smiled, glancing over her shoulder. Vasher had backed against the far wall, to the window, and he was sweating profusely, bloody drops falling to the ground. Denth forced him back again, and Vasher stepped up on the table by the far wall, seeking high ground. She looked back at Tonk Fah, his cloak still touching her cheek. “Your Breath to mine,” she said. She felt a sudden, welcoming burst of Breath. “Huh?” Tonk Fah said. “Nothing,” she said. “Just...Attack and grab Denth!” Command made, visualization made, the cloak began to quiver. Tonk Fah’s shirt drained of color, and his eyes widened with surprise. The cloak suddenly whipped into the air, yanking Tonk Fah to the side and causing him to stumble away from her. That’s why I’m the princess, and you’re just a mercenary, she thought with satisfaction, rolling over. Tonk Fah cried out. Denth spun at the sound, yelling as the very large, very uncoordinated Pahn Kahl man crashed into him, cloak whipping about. Denth slammed backward, catching Vasher by surprise as they rammed together. Tonk Fah grunted. Denth cursed. And Vasher was shoved backward out the window. Vivenna blinked in surprise. That wasn’t what she’d been intending. Denth cut away the cloak, pushing Tonk Fah back. All was silent in the room for a moment. “Go grab our squad of Lifeless!” Denth said. “Now!” “You think he’ll live?” Tonk Fah asked. “He just fell out the third-story window, plummeting toward certain doom,” Denth said. “Of course he’ll live! Send the squad to the front doors to slow him!” Denth glanced at Vivenna. “You, Princess, are far more trouble than you’re worth.” “So people are fond of telling me,” she said with a sigh, raising her bloodied hand to her shoulder again, too exhausted to be as scared as she probably should be. ~ Vasher fell toward the hard stone blocks below. He watched the window retreat above him. Almost, he thought with frustration. I just about had him! Wind
whistled. He screamed in frustration, pulling free the rope at his waist, Vivenna’s Breath a lively strength within him. “Grab things,” he Commanded, whipping the rope out, drawing color from his bloodstained shorts. They bled to grey, and the rope wrapped around an outcropping of stone on the palace wall. It pulled taut, and he ran sideways along the ebony blocks, slowing his fall. “Your Breath to mine,” he yelled as his momentum slowed. The rope dropped free and he landed on the first block. “Become as my leg and give it strength!” he Commanded, drawing color from the blood on his chest. The rope twisted down, wrapping around his leg and foot as he leaped off. He landed on the next block, one foot down, the coiled rope—and its strange, inhuman muscles—bearing the brunt of the shock. Four hops and he hit the ground. A group of soldiers stood amidst some bodies at the front gates, looking confused. Vasher barreled toward them, colorless translucent blood dropping from his skin as he drew his Breath back from the rope. He scooped a sword from a fallen soldier. The men before the gates turned and readied their weapons. He didn’t have the time, or the patience, for pleasantries. He struck, cutting men down with quick efficiency. He wasn’t as good as Denth, but he had practiced for a very, very long time. Unfortunately, there were a lot of men. Maybe too many to fight. Vasher cursed, spinning between them, dropping another one. He bent down, slapping his hand against the waist of a fallen soldier, touching both shirt and pants, looping his finger around the colored inner undershirt. “Fight for me, as if you were me,” he Commanded, draining the man’s undershirt completely grey. Vasher spun, blocking a sword strike. Another came from the side, and another. He couldn’t block them all. A sword ﬂashed in the air, blocking a weapon that would have hit Vasher. The dead man’s shirt and trousers, having pulled themselves free, stood holding a blade. They struck, as if controlled by an invisible person inside, blocking and attacking with skill. Vasher put his back to the Awakened construct. When he had a chance, he made another one, draining away his remaining Breath. They fought in a trio, Vasher and his two sets of Awakened clothing. The guards cursed, much more wary now. Vasher eyed them, planning an attack. At that moment, a troop of some fifty Lifeless barreled around the corner, charging toward him. Colors! Vasher thought. He growled in rage, striking and taking down another soldier. Colors, Colors, Colors! You shouldn’t swear, a voice said in his head. Shashara told me that was evil. Vasher spun toward the sound. A little line of black smoke was trailing out from beneath the closed front doors of the palace. Aren’t you going to thank me? Nightblood said. I came to save you. One of his sets of clothing fell, the leg cut off by a soldier’s clever strike. Vasher reached back, drawing the Breath back from the second set
of clothing, then stepped with an unclothed toe on the fallen set, recovering the Breath from it as well. The soldiers backed away, wary, more than happy to let the Lifeless take him. And in that moment of peace, Vasher charged for the gates to the palace. He threw his shoulder against them, slamming them open, skidding into the entryway. A large group of men lay dead on the ground. Nightblood sprouted from one man’s chest, as usual, hilt pointing toward the sky. Vasher hesitated only brieﬂy. He could hear Lifeless charging up behind him. He ran forward and grabbed Nightblood’s hilt and pulled the sword free, leaving the sheath behind in the body. The blade sprayed a wave of black liquid as he swung it. The liquid dissolved into smoke before touching walls or ﬂoor, like water in an oven. Smoke twisted, some rising from the blade, some falling in a stream to the ﬂoor, dripping like black blood. Destroy! Nightblood’s voice boomed in his head. The evil must be destroyed! Pain shot up Vasher’s arm, and he felt his Breath being leached away, sucked into the blade, fueling its hunger. Drawing the weapon had a terrible cost. At that moment, he didn’t really care. He spun toward the charging Lifeless and—enraged—attacked. Each creature he struck with the blade immediately ﬂashed and became smoke. A single scratch and the bodies dissolved like paper being consumed by an invisible fire, leaving behind only a large stain of blackness in the air. Vasher spun among them, striking with wrath, killing Lifeless after Lifeless. Black smoke churned around him, and his arm twisted with pain as veinlike tendrils climbed up the hilt and around his forearm—like black blood vessels that latched on to his skin, feeding off his Breath. In a matter of minutes, the Breath Vivenna had given him had been reduced by half. Yet in those moments, he destroyed all fifty Lifeless. The soldiers outside pulled to a halt, watching the display. Vasher stood amidst a churning mass of deep ebony smoke. It slowly rose into the air, the only remnants of the fifty creatures he had destroyed. The soldiers ran away. Vasher screamed, charging toward the side of the room. He slammed Nightblood through a wall. The stone dissolved just as easily as ﬂesh had, evaporating away before him. He burst through the dissipating black smoke, entering the next room. He didn’t bother with a stairwell. He simply jumped onto a table and rammed Nightblood into the ceiling. A circle ten feet wide vanished. Dark, mistlike smoke fell around him like streaks of paint. He Awakened his rope again then tossed it up, using it to pull himself up onto the next ﬂoor. A moment later, he did it again, climbing onto the third ﬂoor. He spun, slashing through walls, bellowing as he ran back toward Denth. The pain in his arm was incredible, and his Breath was draining away at an alarming rate. Once it was gone, Nightblood would kill him. Everything was growing fuzzy. He slashed through a final
wall, finding the room where he had been tortured. It was empty. He cried out, arm shaking. Destroy...evil...Nightblood said in his mind, all lightness gone from the tone, all familiarity. It boomed like a command. An awful, inhuman thing. The longer Vasher held the sword, the faster it drained his Breath. Gasping, he threw the sword aside and fell to his knees. It skidded, tearing a rip in the ﬂoor that puffed away into smoke, but hit a wall with a pling and fell still. Smoke rose from the blade. Vasher knelt, arm twitching. The black veins on his skin slowly evaporated. He was left with just barely enough Breath to reach the first Heightening. Another few seconds, and Nightblood would have sucked the rest away. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. Something fell to the tiled ﬂoor in front of him. A dueling blade. Vasher looked up. “Stand up,” Denth said, eyes hard. “We’re going to finish what we started.” Annotations for Chapter 56 Fifty-Seven Annotations for Chapter 57 Bluefingers led Siri—held by several Lifeless—up to the fourth ﬂoor of the palace. The top ﬂoor. They entered a room lavishly decorated with rich colors, even for Hallandren. Lifeless guards there let them pass, bowing their heads to Bluefingers. All the Lifeless in the city are controlled by Bluefingers and his scribes, she thought. But even before that, the scribes had great power over the bureaucracy and workings of the kingdom. Did the Hallandren realize that they were dooming themselves by relegating the Pahn Kahl people to such lowly—yet important—positions? “My people will not fall for this,” Siri found herself saying as she was pulled to the front of the room. “They won’t fight Hallandren. They’ll retreat through the passes. Take refuge in the highland valleys or one of the outer kingdoms.” The front of the room held a black block of stone, shaped like an altar. Siri frowned. From behind, a group of Lifeless entered the room, carrying the corpses of several priests. She saw Treledees’s body among them. What? Siri thought. Bluefingers turned toward her. “We’ll make certain they’re angry,” he said. “Trust me. When this is through, Princess, Idris will fight until either it or Hallandren is destroyed.” ~ They tossed someone into the cell next to Lightsong. He looked up with weary eyes, uncaring. It was another Returned. Which of the gods had they taken captive now? The God King, he thought. Interesting. He looked down again. What did it matter? He’d failed Blushweaver. He’d failed everyone. The Lifeless armies were probably already marching on Idris. Hallandren and Idris would fight and the Pahn Kahl would have their revenge. It had been three hundred years coming. ~ Vasher stood up with difficulty. He held the dueling sword in a weak hand, looking at Denth, still shaken by his use of Nightblood. The empty black hallway was now open around them. Vasher had destroyed several of the walls. It was amazing the roof hadn’t fallen in. Corpses littered the ﬂoor, the result of the fights when
Denth’s men had taken over the palace. “I’ll let you die easily,” Denth said, raising his blade. “Just tell me the truth. You never beat Arsteel in a duel, did you?” Vasher raised his own blade. The cuts, the pain in his arm, the exhaustion of being awake so long...it was all wearing on him. Adrenaline could only get him so far, and even his body could only take so much. He didn’t reply. “Have it your way,” Denth said, attacking. Vasher backed away, forced to the defensive. Denth had always been better at swordplay. Vasher had been better at research, but what had that earned him? Discoveries that had caused the Manywar, an army of monsters that had killed so many. He fought. He fought well, he knew, considering how tired he was. But it did little good. Denth drove his blade through Vasher’s left shoulder—Denth’s favorite place for a first strike. It allowed his opponent to keep fighting, wounded, and drew out the fight for Denth’s enjoyment. “You never beat Arsteel,” Denth whispered. ~ “You’re going to kill me on an altar,” Siri said, standing in the strange room, held by Lifeless. Around her, other Lifeless placed bodies on the ﬂoor. Priests. “It doesn’t make sense, Bluefingers. You don’t follow their religion. Why do this?” Bluefingers stood to the side, holding a knife. She could see the shame in his eyes. “Bluefingers,” she said, forcing her voice to remain even, her hair to stay black. “Bluefingers, you don’t have to do this.” Bluefingers finally looked at her. “After all I’ve already done, do you think one more death means anything to me?” “After all you’ve done,” she said, “do you really think one more death will matter for your cause?” He glanced at the altar. “Yes,” he said. “You know how the Idrians whisper of the things that go on in the Court of Gods. Your people hate and distrust the Hallandren priests; they speak of murders done on dark altars in the backs of the palaces. Well, we are going to let a group of those Idrian mercenaries see this, once you are dead. We’ll show them that we were too late to save you, that the twisted priests had already killed you on one of their profane altars. We’ll show them the dead priests we killed trying to save you. “The Idrians will riot in the city. They’re strained to snapping anyway—we have you to thank for that. The city will be in chaos, and there will be a slaughter the like of which hasn’t been seen since the Manywar as the Hallandren kill Idrian peasants to maintain order. Those Idrians that live will return to their homeland to tell the tale. They’ll let everyone know that the Hallandren only wanted a princess of the royal blood so that they could sacrifice her to their God King. It is exaggerated and foolish to think that the Hallandren would really do such a thing, but sometimes the wildest tales are the ones best believed, and the Idrians will accept
this one. You know they will.” And she did. She’d heard similar stories since her childhood. Hallandren was remote to her people: frightening, bizarre. Siri struggled, feeling even more worried. Bluefingers glanced back at her. “I truly am sorry.” ~ I am nothing, Lightsong thought. Why couldn’t I save her? Why couldn’t I protect her? He was crying again. Oddly, someone else was too. The man in the cell next to him. The God King. Susebron moaned with frustration, pounding against the bars of his cage. He didn’t speak, though, or denounce his captors. I wonder why that is, Lightsong thought. Men approached the God King’s cell. Pahn Kahl men, with weapons. Their expressions were grim. Lightsong found it hard to care. You are a god. Llarimar’s words still challenged him. The high priest lay in his own cell, to Lightsong’s left, eyes closed against the terrors around them. You are a god. To me at least. Lightsong shook his head. No. I’m nothing! No god. Not even a good man. You are...to me... Water splashed against him. Lightsong shook his head, shocked. Thunder sounded, distant, in his head. Nobody else seemed to notice. It was growing dark. What? He was on a ship. Tossing, pitching, on a dark sea. Lightsong stood on the deck, trying to stay upright on the slick boards. Part of him knew it was simply a hallucination, that he was still back in the prison cell, but it felt real. Very real. The waves churned, black sky ripped by lightning ahead, and the ship’s motion slammed his face against the wall of the ship’s cabin. Light from a pole-mounted lantern ﬂickered uncertainly. It seemed weak compared with the lightning, which was so violent and angry. Lightsong blinked. His face was pressed up against something painted on the wood. A red panther, glistening in the lanternlight and the rain. The name of the ship, he remembered, the Red Panther. He wasn’t Lightsong. Or he was, but he was a much smaller, pudgier version of himself. A man accustomed to being a scribe. To working long hours counting coins. Checking ledgers. Seeking for lost money. That’s what he’d done. People hired him to discover where they’d been cheated or if a contract hadn’t been paid properly. His job was to look through the books, searching out hidden or confusing twists of arithmetic. A detective. Just not the sort he had imagined. Waves crashed against the boat. Llarimar, looking a few years younger, yelled for help from the prow. Deckhands rushed to his aid. It wasn’t Llarimar’s ship, or even Lightsong’s. They had borrowed it for a simple pleasure trip. Sailing was a hobby of Llarimar’s. The storm had come on suddenly. Lightsong lurched back to his feet, barely managing to stay up as he made his way forward, clutching the railing. Waves surged across the deck, and sailors struggled to keep the boat from capsizing. The sails were gone, only tattered shreds remaining. Wood creaked and cracked around him. Dark, black water churned in the ocean just to his
right. Llarimar yelled to Lightsong, asking him to lash down the barrels. Lightsong nodded, grabbing a rope and tying one end to a davit. A wave hit, and he skidded, almost falling over the rail into the water. He froze, gripping the rope, looking into the sea’s mad, terrifying depths. He shook himself free, then tied the rope in a wide slipknot. It came naturally to him. Llarimar had taken him on enough sailing trips now. Llarimar called for help again. And, suddenly, a young woman left the cabin and ran across the deck, grabbing ropes as if to lend assistance. “Tatara!” a woman called from the cabin. There was terror in her voice. Lightsong looked up. He recognized the girl. He reached out, rope looped in his hands. He shouted for her to go back below, but his voice was lost in the thunder. She turned to look at him. The next wave tossed her into the ocean. Llarimar cried out in despair. Lightsong watched, shocked. The deep blackness claimed his niece. Engulfed her. Swallowed her. Such great, horrible chaos. The sea in a storm at night. He felt useless, his heart thumping with fright as he watched the young woman get swept into the churning current. He saw ﬂashes of her golden hair twisting in the water. A weak splash of color passing his side of the ship. It would soon be gone. Men cursed. Llarimar screamed. A woman wept. Lightsong just stared into the bubbling deep, with its alternating froth and blackness. The terrible, terrible blackness. He still held the rope in his hand. Without thinking, he leaped up onto the railing and threw himself into the darkness. Icy water took him, but he reached out, thrashing and churning in the tempest. He barely knew how to swim. Something passed him. He grabbed it. Her foot. He threw the loop around her ankle, somehow managing to get the knot tight despite the water and the waves. As soon as he did, a surge in the undulating water yanked him away. Sucking him down. He reached upward, toward where lightning lit the surface. That light grew distant as he sank. Down. Into the black deep. Claimed by the void. He blinked, waves and thunder fading. He sat on the cool stones of his cell. The void had taken him, but something had sent him back. He’d Returned. Because he’d seen war and destruction. The God King was yelling in fear. Lightsong looked over as the fake priests grabbed Susebron, and Lightsong could see into the God King’s mouth. No tongue, Lightsong thought. Of course. To keep him from using all that BioChroma. It makes sense. He turned to the side. Blushweaver’s body lay red and bloodied. He’d seen that in a vision. In the vague shadows of morning memory, he’d thought that the image had been of her blushing, but now he remembered. He looked to the side. Llarimar, eyes closed as if asleep—that image had been in his dream as well. Lightsong realized the man had them shut as
he wept. The God King in prison. Lightsong had seen that too. But above it all, he remembered standing on the other side of a brilliant, colorful wave of light, looking down at the world from the other side. And seeing everything he loved dissolve into the destruction of war. A war greater than any the world had known, a war more deadly—even—than the Manywar. He remembered the other side. And he remembered a voice, calm and comforting, offering him an opportunity. To Return. By the Colors...Lightsong thought, standing up as the priests forced the God King to his knees. I am a god. Lightsong stepped forward, moving up to the bars of his cage. He saw pain and tears in the God King’s face and somehow understood them. The man did love Siri. Lightsong had seen the same thing in the queen’s eyes. She had somehow come to care for the man who was to oppress her. “You are my king,” Lightsong whispered. “And lord of the gods.” The Pahn Kahl men forced the God King facedown on the stones. One of the priests raised a sword. The God King’s arm jutted out, his hand toward Lightsong. I have seen the void, he thought. And I came back. And then Lightsong reached through the bars and grasped the God King’s hand. A fake priest looked up with alarm. Lightsong met the man’s eyes, then smiled broadly, looking down at the God King. “My life to yours,” Lightsong said. “My Breath become yours.” ~ Denth slashed, wounding Vasher in the leg. Vasher stumbled, going down on one knee. Denth struck again, and Vasher barely managed to keep the sword away. Denth backed off, shaking his head. “You are pathetic, Vasher. There you kneel, about to die. And you still think you’re better than the rest of us. You judge me for becoming a mercenary? What else was I to do? Take over kingdoms? Rule them and start wars, as you did?” Vasher bowed his head. Denth growled and ran forward, lashing out with his sword. Vasher tried to defend himself, but he was just too weak. Denth knocked Vasher’s weapon aside, then kicked him in the stomach, sending Vasher backward against the wall. Vasher slumped down, sword lost. He reached for a knife on the belt of a fallen soldier, but Denth stepped up and put his booted foot on Vasher’s hand. “You think I should just go back to the way I was before?” Denth spat. “The happy, friendly man everyone loved?” “You were a good person,” Vasher whispered. “That man saw and did terrible things,” Denth said. “I’ve tried, Vasher. I’ve tried going back. But the darkness...it’s inside. I can’t escape it. My laughter has an edge to it. I can’t forget.” “I can make you,” Vasher said. “I know the Commands.” Denth froze. “I promise,” Vasher said. “I will take it all from you, if you wish.” Denth stood for a long moment, foot on Vasher’s arm, sword lowered. Then, finally, he shook his head. “No. I don’t deserve
that. Neither of us do. Goodbye, Vasher.” He raised his blade to strike. And Vasher moved his arm up, touching Denth’s leg. “My life to yours, my Breath become yours.” Denth froze, then stumbled. fifty Breaths ﬂed from Vasher’s chest and surged into Denth’s body. They would be unwelcome, but he couldn’t turn them away. fifty Breaths. Not many. But enough. Enough to make Denth shake with pleasure. Enough to make him lose control for just a second, falling to his knees. And, in that second, Vasher stood—ripping the dagger free from the corpse beside him—then slashed it through Denth’s throat. The mercenary fell back, eyes wide, neck bleeding. He shook amidst the pleasure of gaining new Breaths even as his life ﬂowed from him. “Nobody ever expects it,” Vasher whispered, stepping forward. “Breath is worth a fortune. To put it into someone, then kill them, is to lose more wealth than most men will ever know. They never expect it.” Denth shook, bleeding, and lost control. His hair suddenly bled to deep black, then blond, then an angry red. Finally, the hair turned white with terror and stayed there. He stopped moving, life fading away, new Breaths and old both vanishing. “You wanted to know how I killed Arsteel,” Vasher said, spitting blood to the side. “Well, now you do.” ~ Bluefingers picked up a knife. “The least I can do,” he decided, “is to kill you myself, rather than letting the Lifeless do it. I promise it will be quick. We will make it look like a pagan ritual afterward, sparing you the need to die in a painful way.” He turned to her Lifeless captors. “Tie her to the altar.” Siri struggled against the Lifeless holding her by the shoulders, but it was useless. They were terribly strong, and her hands were tied together. “Bluefingers!” she snapped, holding his eyes. “I will not die tied to some rock like a useless maid from one of the stories. You want me dead, then have the decency to let me die standing up.” Bluefingers hesitated, but the authority in her voice actually seemed to make him cringe. He raised a hand, stopping the Lifeless as they pulled her to the altar. “Very well,” he said. “Hold her tightly.” “You realize the wonderful opportunity you waste by killing me,” she said as he approached. “The wife of the God King would make a wonderful hostage. You are a fool to kill me, and...” He ignored her this time, taking the knife, placing it against her chest, picking his spot. She started to feel numb. She was going to die. She was actually going to die. And the war would start. “Please,” she whispered. He looked at her, hesitated, then grew grim and drew back the dagger. The building began to shake. Bluefingers looked to the side in alarm, glancing toward several of his scribes. They shook their heads in confusion. “Earthquake?” one asked. The ﬂoor began to turn white. The color moved like a wave of sunlight crossing the land as the
sun rose above the mountains. The walls, the ceiling, the ﬂoor—all of the black stone faded. The priests stepped away from it, looking frightened, one hopping onto a rug to keep from touching the strange white stones. Bluefingers looked at her, confused. The ground continued to tremble, but he raised his blade anyway, held in fingers that had been stained repeatedly by ink. And, strangely, Siri saw the whites of his eyes bend and release a rainbow of colors. The entire room burst with color, the white stones fuzzing and splitting, like light through a prism. The doors to the room exploded. A twisting mass of colorful cloths shot through it, like the countless tentacles of an enraged sea leviathan. They churned and curled, and Siri recognized tapestries, carpets, and long lengths of silk from the palace decorations. Awakened cloth slapped aside Lifeless, curling around them, tossing them into the air. Priests cried out as they were snatched up, and a long, thin length of violet cloth snapped forward and wrapped around Bluefingers’s arm. The surging mass undulated, churning, and Siri could finally see a figure walking in the middle of it. A man of epic proportions. Black of hair, pale of face, youthful in appearance, but of great age. Bluefingers struggled to ram his knife into Siri’s chest, but the God King raised a hand. “You will stop!” Susebron said in a clear voice. Bluefingers froze, looking toward the God King in amazement. The dagger slipped from his stunned fingers as an Awakened carpet twisted around him, pulling him away from Siri. Siri stood, dumbfounded. Susebron’s cloths lifted him up and over beside her, and a pair of small silken handkerchiefs reached forward, sliding around the ropes binding her hands, untying them with ease. Freed, she grabbed him and let him lift her into his arms, weeping. Annotations for Chapter 57 Fifty-Eight Annotations for Chapter 58 The closet door opened, letting in lanternlight. Vivenna looked up, gagged and bound, at Vasher’s silhouette. He dragged Nightblood behind him, covered—as usual—by his silver sheath. Looking very tired, Vasher knelt and undid her gag. “About time,” she noted. He smiled wanly. “I don’t have any Breath remaining,” he said quietly. “It was very hard to locate you.” “Where did it all go?” she asked as he undid the ropes on her hands. “Nightblood devoured most of it.” I don’t believe him, Nightblood said happily. I...can’t really remember what happened. But we did slay a lot of evil! “You drew him?” Vivenna asked as Vasher untied her feet. Vasher nodded. Vivenna rubbed her hands. “Denth?” “Dead,” Vasher said. “No sign of Tonk Fah or the woman, Jewels. I think they took their money and ﬂed.” “So it’s over.” Vasher nodded, sliding down to seat himself, resting his head against the wall. “And we lost.” She frowned, grimacing at the pain of her wounded shoulder. “What do you mean?” “Denth was being employed by some of the Pahn Kahl scribes in the palace,” Vasher said. “They wanted to start a war between Idris and Hallandren in
the hope that it would weaken both kingdoms and let Pahn Kahl gain independence.” “So? Denth is dead now.” “So are the scribes who had the Command phrases for the Lifeless armies,” Vasher said. “And they already dispatched the troops. The Lifeless left the city over an hour ago, charging for Idris.” Vivenna fell silent. “All of this fighting, everything with Denth, that was secondary,” Vasher said, knocking his head back against the wall. “It distracted us. I couldn’t get to the Lifeless in time. The war has begun. There’s no way to stop it.” ~ Susebron led Siri down into the depths of the palace. Siri walked beside him, carefully cradled in his arm, a hundred twisting lengths of cloth spinning around them. Even with that many things Awakened, he still had enough Breath to make every color they passed glow brightly. Of course, that didn’t work for many of the stones they passed. Though large chunks of the building were still black, at least half of it had been turned white. Not just the grey of normal Awakening. They had been made bone white. And, becoming that white, they now reacted to his incredible BioChroma, splitting back into colors. Like a circle, somehow, she thought. Colorful, then white, then back to color. He led her into a particular chamber, and she saw what he’d told her to expect. Scribes crushed by the carpets that he’d awakened, bars ripped from their mountings, walls broken down. A ribbon shot from Susebron, turning over a body so that she wouldn’t have to see its wound. She wasn’t paying much attention. In the midst of the rubble were a pair of corpses. One was Blushweaver, bloody and red, facedown. The other was Lightsong, his entire body drained of color. As if he were a Lifeless. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to sleep, as if at peace. A man sat next to him—Lightsong’s high priest, holding the god’s head in his lap. The priest looked up. He smiled, though she could see tears in his eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said, looking at Susebron. “Lightsong gave his life to heal me,” the God King said. “He somehow knew that my tongue had been removed.” “The Returned can heal one person,” the priest said, looking down at his god. “It’s their duty to decide who and when. They come back for this purpose, some say. To give life to one person who needs it.” “I never knew him,” Susebron said. “He was a very good person,” Siri said. “I realize that. Though I never spoke to him, somehow he was noble enough to die so that I might live.” The priest smiled down. “The amazing thing is,” he said, “Lightsong did that twice.” He told me that I couldn’t depend on him in the end, Siri thought, smiling slightly, though sorrowful at the same time. I guess he lied about that. How very like him. “Come,” Susebron said. “We must gather what is left of my priests. We have to find a way to
stop our armies from destroying your people.” ~ “There has to be a way, Vasher,” Vivenna said. She knelt next to him. He tried to push down his rage, his anger at himself. He’d come to the city to stop a war. Once again, he’d been too late. “Forty thousand Lifeless,” he said, pounding his fist against the ﬂoor. “I can’t stop that many. Not even with Nightblood and the Breaths of every person in the city. Even if I could somehow keep up with their marching, one would eventually get in a lucky strike and kill me.” “There has to be a way,” Vivenna said. Has to be a way. “I thought the same thing before,” he said, putting his head in his hands. “I wanted to stop it. But by the time I realized what was happening, it had gone too far. It had taken on a life of its own.” “What are you talking about?” “The Manywar,” Vasher whispered. Silence. “Who are you?” He kept his eyes closed. They used to call him Talaxin, Nightblood said. “Talaxin,” Vivenna said, amused. “Nightblood, that’s one of the five Scholars. He...” She trailed off. “...he lived over three hundred years ago,” she finally said. “BioChroma can keep a man alive a long time,” Vasher said, sighing and opening his eyes. She didn’t argue. They used to call him other things, too, Nightblood said. “If you’re really one of them,” Vivenna said, “then you’ll know how to stop the Lifeless.” “Sure,” Vasher said wryly. “With other Lifeless.” “That’s it?” “The easiest. Barring that, we can chase them down and grab them one at a time, then break them and replace their Command phrases. But even if you had the Eighth Heightening to let you break Commands instinctively, changing so many would take weeks.” He shook his head. “We could have an army fight them, but they are our army. The Hallandren forces aren’t large enough to fight the Lifeless on their own, and they wouldn’t be able to get to Idris with any semblance of speed. The Lifeless will beat them by days. Lifeless don’t sleep, don’t eat, and can march tirelessly.” “Ichor-alcohol,” Vivenna said. “They’ll run out.” “It’s not like food, Vivenna. It’s like blood. They need a new supply if they get cut and drained or if it gets corrupted. A few will probably stop working without maintenance, but only a small number.” She fell silent. “Well then, we Awaken an army of our own to fight them.” He smiled wanly. He felt so light-headed. He’d bound his wounds—the bad ones, anyway—but he wouldn’t be doing more fighting anytime soon. Vivenna didn’t look much better, with that bloody stain on her shoulder. “Awaken an army of our own?” he said. “first, where would we get the Breath? I used all of yours. Even if we find my clothing, which still has some in it, we’ll only have a couple hundred. It takes one per Lifeless. We’re severely overmatched.” “The God King,” she said. “Can’t use his Breath,” Vasher said. “The man’s
tongue was removed when he was a child.” “And you can’t get it out of him somehow?” Vasher shrugged. “The Tenth Heightening allows a man to Command mentally, without speaking, but it can take months of training to learn how to do that—even if you have someone to teach you. I think his priests must know how, so they can transfer that wealth of Breath from one king to another, but I doubt they’ve trained him yet. One of their duties is to keep him from using his Breaths in the first place.” “He’s still our best option,” Vivenna said. “Oh? And you’ll use his power how? Make Lifeless? Are you forgetting that we’ll need to find forty thousand bodies?” She sighed, resting back against the wall. Vasher? Nightblood asked in his mind. Didn’t you leave an army behind here last time? He didn’t reply. Vivenna opened her eyes, however. Apparently Nightblood had decided to include her in all of his thoughts now. “What is this?” she asked. “Nothing,” Vasher said. No, no it’s not, Nightblood said. I remember. You talked to that priest, told him to take care of your Breath for you, should you need it again. And you gave him your army. It stopped moving. You called it a gift for the city. Don’t you remember? It was just yesterday. “Yesterday?” Vivenna asked. When the Manywar stopped, Nightblood said. When was that? “He doesn’t understand time,” Vasher said. “Don’t listen to him.” “No,” Vivenna said, studying him. “He knows something.” She thought for a moment, then her eyes opened wide. “Kalad’s army,” she said, pointing at him. “His phantoms. You know where they are!” He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Where?” “Here, in the city.” “We have to use them!” He eyed her. “You’re asking me to give Hallandren a tool, Vivenna. A terrible tool. Something worse than what they have now.” “And if that army of theirs slaughters my people?” Vivenna asked. “Could what you’re talking about give them more power than that?” “Yes.” She fell silent. “Do it anyway,” she said. He glanced at her. “Please, Vasher.” He closed his eyes again, remembering the destruction he had caused. The wars that had started. All because of the things he’d learned to create. “You would give your enemies such power?” “They’re not my enemies,” she said. “Even if I hate them.” He regarded her for a moment, then finally stood. “Let’s find the God King. If he even still lives, then we shall see.” ~ “My lord and lady,” said the priest, bowing with his face down before them. “We heard rumors of a plot to attack the palace. That’s why we locked you away. We wanted to protect you!” Siri looked at the man, then glanced at Susebron. The God King rubbed his chin in thought. They both recognized this man as one of his actual priests, rather than an impostor. They’d only been able to determine that with certainty for a handful of them. They imprisoned the others, sending for the city guard to come in and
start cleaning up the wreckage of the palace. The breeze blew Siri’s hair—red, to show her displeasure—as they stood atop the palace. “There, my lord!” a guard said, pointing. Susebron turned, walking over to the edge of the palace. Most of his entourage of twisting cloths were no longer streaming about him, but they waited on his will in a pile on the rooftop. Siri joined him at the side of the palace, and in the distance, she could make out a smudge and what looked like smoke. “The Lifeless army,” the guard said. “Our scouts have confirmed that it’s marching toward Idris. Almost everyone in the city saw it pass out through the gates.” “That smoke?” Siri asked. “Dust of its passing, my lady,” the guard said. “That’s a lot of soldiers.” She looked up at Susebron. He frowned. “I could stop them.” His voice was stronger than she had expected it to be. Deeper. “My lord?” the guard asked. “With this much Breath,” Susebron said. “I could charge them, use these cloths to tie them up.” “My lord,” the guard said hesitantly. “There are forty thousand of them. They would cut at the cloth, overwhelm you.” Susebron seemed resolute. “I have to try.” “No,” Siri said, laying a hand on his chest. “Your people...” “We’ll send messengers,” she said, “explaining our regret. My people can withdraw, ambush the Lifeless. We can send troops to help.” “We don’t have many,” he said. “And they won’t get there very quickly. Could your people really get away?” No, she thought, heart wrenching. You don’t know that, though, and you’re innocent enough to believe they can escape. Her people might survive as a whole, but many would die. Susebron getting himself killed fighting the creatures wouldn’t be of much use, however. He had amazing power, but fighting so many Lifeless was well beyond the scope of whatever he could do. He saw the look in her face, and surprisingly, he read it well. “You don’t believe that they can get away,” he said. “You’re just trying to protect me.” Surprising how well he understands me already. “My lord!” a voice said from behind. Susebron turned, looking across the top of the palace. They’d come to the top partially to get a look at the Lifeless, but also because both Siri and Susebron were tired of being closed in tight quarters. They wanted to be in the open, where it would be harder to sneak up on them. A guard came out of the stairwell, then walked over, hand on sword. He bowed. “My lord. There’s someone here to see you.” “I don’t want to see anyone,” Susebron said. “Who are they?” Amazing how well he can speak, she thought. Never having had a tongue. What did Lightsong’s Breath do? It healed more than his body. It gave him the capacity to use the regrown tongue. “My lord,” the guard said. “The visitor—she has the Royal Locks!” “What?” Siri asked with surprise. The guard turned, and—shockingly—Vivenna stepped up onto the roof of the palace. Or
Siri thought it was Vivenna. She wore trousers and a tunic, with a sword tied at her waist, and she appeared to have a bloody wound on one shoulder. She saw Siri, and smiled, her hair turning yellow with joy. Vivenna’s hair changing? Siri thought. It can’t be her. But it was. The woman laughed, dashing across the top of the roof. Some guards stopped her, but Siri waved for them to let the woman pass. She ran over, embracing Siri. “Vivenna?” The woman smiled ruefully. “Yes, mostly,” she said. She glanced at Susebron. “I’m sorry,” Vivenna said quietly. “I came to the city to try rescuing you.” “That was very kind of you,” Siri said. “But I don’t need rescuing.” Vivenna frowned more deeply. “And who is this, Siri?” Susebron asked. “My eldest sister.” “Ah,” Susebron said, bowing his head cordially. “Siri has told me much about you, Princess Vivenna. I wish we could have met under better circumstances.” Vivenna stared at the man with shock. “He’s not really as bad as they say,” Siri said, smiling. “Most of the time.” “That is sarcasm,” Susebron said. “She is quite fond of it.” Vivenna turned from the God King. “Our homeland is under attack.” “I know,” Siri said. “We’re working on that. I’m preparing messengers to send to Father.” “I have a better way,” Vivenna said. “But you’ll have to trust me.” “Of course,” Siri said. “I have a friend who needs to speak with the God King,” Vivenna said. “Where he can’t be overheard by guards.” Siri hesitated. Silly, she thought. This is Vivenna. I can trust her. She’d thought she could trust Bluefingers too. Vivenna regarded her with a curious expression. “If this can help save Idris,” Susebron said, “then I will do it. Who is this person?” ~ Moments later, Vivenna stood quietly on the roof of the palace with the God King of Hallandren. Siri stood a short walk away, watching the Lifeless churn dust in the distance. All of them waited while the soldiers searched Vasher for weapons; he stood with arms upraised on the other side of the rooftop, surrounded by suspicious guards. He had wisely left Nightblood below and didn’t have any other weapons on him. He didn’t even have any Breath. “Your sister is an amazing woman,” the God King said. Vivenna glanced at him. This was the man she was to have married. The terrible creature that she was supposed to have given herself to. She’d never expected to end up like this, pleasantly chatting with him. She’d also never expected that she’d like him. It was a quick judgment. She’d gotten over chastising herself for making those, though she had learned to leave them open for revision. She saw kindness in his fondness for Siri. How had a man like this ended up as God King of terrible Hallandren? “Yes,” she said. “She is.” “I love her,” Susebron said. “I would have you know this.” Slowly, Vivenna nodded, glancing over at Siri. She’s changed so much, Vivenna thought. When did she become
so regal, with that commanding bearing and ability to keep her hair black? Her little sister, no longer quite as little, seemed to wear the expensive dress well. It fit her. Odd. On the other end of the rooftop, the guards took Vasher behind a screen to change. They obviously wanted to be certain none of his clothing was Awakened. He left a few moments later, wearing a wrap around his waist, but nothing else. His chest was cut and bruised, and Vivenna thought it shameful that he should be forced to undergo such humiliation. He suffered it, walking across the rooftop with an escort. As he did, Siri walked back, eyes watching him keenly. Vivenna had spoken with her sister brieﬂy, but could already tell that Siri no longer took pride in being unimportant. Changed indeed. Vasher arrived, and Susebron dismissed the guards. Behind him, the jungles extended to the north, toward Idris. Vasher glanced at Vivenna, and she thought he might tell her to go. However, he finally just turned away from her, looking resigned. “Who are you?” Susebron asked. “The one responsible for you getting your tongue cut out,” Vasher said. Susebron raised an eyebrow. Vasher closed his eyes. He didn’t speak, didn’t use his Breath or make a Command. Yet suddenly, he started to glow. Not as a lantern would glow, not as the sun glowed, but with an aura that made colors brighter. Vivenna started as Vasher increased in size. He opened his eyes and adjusted the wrap at his waist, making room for his growth. His chest became more firm, the muscles bulging, and the scruffy beard on his face retreated, leaving him clean-shaven. His hair turned golden. He still bore the cuts on his body, but they seemed inconsequential. He seemed...divine. The God King watched with interest. He was now faced by a fellow god, a man of his own stature. “I don’t care if you believe me or not,” Vasher said, his voice sounding more noble. “But I will have you know that I left something here, long ago. A wealth of power that I promised to one day recover. I gave instructions for its care, and a charge that it should not be used. The priests, apparently, took this to heart.” Susebron, surprisingly, dropped to one knee. “My lord. Where have you been?” “Paying for what I’ve done,” Vasher said. “Or trying to. That is unimportant. Stand.” What is going on? Vivenna thought. Siri looked equally confused, and the sisters shared a look. Susebron stood, though he kept his posture reverent. “You have a group of rogue Lifeless,” Vasher said. “You’ve lost control of them.” “I’m sorry, my lord,” the God King said. Vasher regarded him. Then he glanced at Vivenna. She nodded her head. “I trust him.” “It’s not about trust,” Vasher said, turning back to Susebron. “Either way, I am going to give you something.” “What?” “My army,” Vasher said. Susebron frowned. “But, my lord. Our Lifeless just marched away, to attack Idris.” “No,” Vasher said. “Not that army. I’m going
to give you the one I left behind three hundred years ago. The people call them Kalad’s Phantoms. They are the force by which I made Hallandren stop its war.” “Stop the Manywar, my lord?” Susebron said. “You did that by negotiation.” Vasher snorted. “You don’t know much about war, do you?” The God King paused, then shook his head. “No.” “Well, learn,” Vasher said. “Because I charge you with command of my army. Use it to protect, not attack. Only use it in an emergency.” The God King nodded dumbly. Vasher glanced at him, then sighed. “My sin be hidden.” “What?” Susebron asked. “It’s a Command phrase,” Vasher said. “The one you can use to give new orders to the D’Denir statues I left in your city.” “But my lord!” Susebron said. “Stone cannot be awakened.” “The stone hasn’t been Awakened,” Vasher said. “There are human bones in those statues. They are Lifeless.” Human bones. Vivenna felt a chill. He’d told her that bones were usually a bad choice to awaken because it was hard to keep them in the shape of a man during the Awakening process. But what if those bones were encased in stone? Stone that held its shape, stone that would protect them from harm, make them nearly impossible to hurt or break? Awakened objects could be so much stronger than human muscles. If a Lifeless could be created from bones, made strong enough to move a rock body around it...You’d have soldiers unlike any that had ever existed. Colors! she thought. “There are some thousand original D’Denir in the city,” Vasher said, “and most of them should still function, even still. I created them to last.” “But they have no ichor-alcohol,” Vivenna said. “They don’t even have veins!” Vasher looked at her. It was him. The same look to the face, the same expressions. He hadn’t changed shape to look like someone else. He just looked like a Returned version of himself. What was going on? “We didn’t always have ichor-alcohol,” Vasher said. “It makes the Awakening easier and cheaper, but it isn’t the only way. And, in the minds of many, I believe it has become a crutch.” He glanced at the God King again. “You should be able to imprint them quickly with a new security phrase, then order them out to stop the other army. I think you’ll find those phantoms of mine to be...very effective. Weapons are virtually useless against the stone.” Susebron nodded again. “They are your responsibility now,” Vasher said, turning away. “Do better with them than I did.” Annotations for Chapter 58 Contents Map Annotations for the Map Acknowledgements Annotations for the Acknowledgements Prologue Annotations for the Prologue Warbreaker Chapter One Annotations for Chapter One Chapter Two Annotations for Chapter Two Chapter Three Annotations for Chapter Three Chapter Four Annotations for Chapter Four Chapter Five Annotations for Chapter Five Chapter Six Annotations for Chapter Six Chapter Seven Annotations for Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Annotations for Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Annotations for Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Annotations for Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven Annotations for Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Annotations for Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Annotations for Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Annotations for Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Annotations for Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Annotations for Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Annotations for Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Annotations for Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Annotations for Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Annotations for Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Annotations for Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Annotations for Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Annotations for Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Annotations for Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Annotations for Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Annotations for Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Annotations for Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Annotations for Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Annotations for Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Annotations for Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Annotations for Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Annotations for Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Annotations for Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Annotations for Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Annotations for Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Six Chapter Fifty-Seven Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Seven Chapter Fifty-Eight Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Eight Epilogue Annotations for the Epilogue Ars Arcanum 1. Table of the Heightenings 2. Heightening Powers Annotations Wrap-Up For Emily, who said yes Annotations for the Dedication Epilogue Annotations for the Epilogue The next day, an army of a thousand stone soldiers charged from the gates of the city, running down the highway after the Lifeless who had left the day before. Vivenna stood outside the city, leaning against the wall, watching them go. How often did I stand under the gaze of those D’Denir, she thought. Never knowing they were alive, just waiting to be Commanded again? Everyone said that Peacegiver had left the statues behind as a gift to the people, a symbol to remind them not to go to war. She’d always found it strange. A bunch of statues of soldiers, a gift to remind the people that war was terrible? And yet, they were a gift. The gift that had ended the Manywar. She turned toward Vasher. He, too, leaned against the city wall, Nightblood in one hand. His body had reverted to its mortal form, scraggly hair and all. “What was that first thing you taught me about Awakening?” she asked. “That we don’t know much?” he asked. “That there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Commands that we haven’t discovered yet?” “That’s the one,” she said, turning to watch the
Awakened statues charge into the distance. “I think you were right.” “You think?” She smiled. “Will they really be able to stop the other army?” “Probably,” Vasher said, shrugging. “They’ll be fast enough to catch up—the ﬂesh Lifeless won’t be able to march as quickly as ones with stone feet. I’ve seen those things fight before. They’re really tough to beat.” She nodded. “So my people will be safe.” “Unless that God King decides to use the Lifeless statues to conquer them.” She snorted. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a grump, Vasher?” Finally, Nightblood said. Someone agrees with me! Vasher scowled. “I’m not a grump,” he said. “I’m just bad with words.” She smiled. “Well, that’s it, then,” he said, picking up his pack. “See you around.” With that, he began to walk along the path away from the city. Vivenna walked up next to him. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Going with you,” she said. “You’re a princess,” he said. “Stay with that girl who rules Hallandren or go back to Idris and be proclaimed as the heroine who saved them. Either way will give you a happy life.” “No,” she said. “I don’t think so. Even if my father did take me back, I doubt that I’ll ever be able to live a happy life in either a plush palace or a quiet town.” “You’ll think differently, after a little time on the road. It’s a difficult life.” “I know,” she said. “But...well, everything I’ve been—everything I was trained to do—has been a lie wrapped in hatred. I don’t want to go back to it. I’m not that person. I don’t want to be.” “Who are you, then?” “I don’t know,” she said, nodding toward the horizon. “But I think I’ll find the answer out there.” They walked for another short time. “Your family will worry about you,” Vasher finally said. “They’ll get over it,” she replied. Finally, he just shrugged. “All right. I don’t really care.” She smiled. It’s true, she thought. I don’t want to go back. Princess Vivenna was dead. She’d died on the streets of T’Telir. Vivenna the Awakener had no desire to bring her back. “So,” she asked as they walked along the jungle road, “I can’t figure it out. Which one are you? Kalad, who started the war, or Peacegiver, who ended it?” He didn’t answer immediately. “It’s odd,” he finally said, “what history does to a man. I guess people couldn’t understand why I suddenly changed. Why I stopped fighting, and why I brought the Phantoms back to seize control of my own kingdom. So they decided I must have been two people. A man can get confused about his identity when things like that happen.” She grunted in assent. “You’re still Returned, though.” “Of course I am,” he said. “Where did you get the Breath?” she asked. “The one a week you need to survive?” “I carried them with me, on top of the one that makes me Returned. In a lot of ways, Returned aren’t quite what people
think they are. They don’t automatically have hundreds or thousands of Breath.” “But—” “They’re of the fifth Heightening,” Vasher said, interrupting her. “But they don’t get there by the number of Breaths, but by the quality. Returned have a single, powerful Breath. One that takes them all the way to the fifth Heightening. It’s a divine Breath, you might say. But their body feeds on Breath, like...” “The sword.” Vasher nodded. “Nightblood only needs it when he’s drawn. Returned feed off their Breath once a week. So if you don’t give them one, they essentially eat themselves—devouring their one, single Breath. Killing them. However, if you give them extra Breath, on top of their single divine one, they’ll feed off those each week.” “So the Hallandren gods could be fed more than one,” Vivenna said. “They could have a stock of Breaths, a buffer to keep them alive if one couldn’t be provided.” Vasher nodded. “Wouldn’t make them as dependent on their religion to care for them, though.” “That’s a cynical way of looking at it.” He shrugged. “So you’re going to burn up a Breath every week,” she said. “Reducing our stock?” He nodded. “I used to have thousands of Breath. I ate all of those.” “Thousands? But it would take you years and years to...” She trailed off. He’d been alive for over three hundred years. If he absorbed fifty Breaths a year, that was thousands of Breaths. “You’re an expensive guy to keep around,” she noted. “How do you keep yourself from looking like a Returned? And why don’t you die when you give away your Breaths?” “Those are my secrets,” he said, not looking at her. “Though you should have figured out that Returned can change their forms.” She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got Returned blood in you,” he said. “The royal line. Where do you think that ability to change your hair color comes from?” “Does that mean I can change more than just my hair?” “Maybe,” he said. “Takes time to learn. Go stroll around the Hallandren Court of Gods sometime, though. You’ll find that the gods look exactly as they think they should. The old ones look old, the heroic ones become strong, the ones who think a beautiful goddess should be well endowed become unnaturally voluptuous. It’s all about how they perceive themselves.” And this is how you perceive yourself, Vasher? she thought, curious. As the scraggly man, rough and unkempt? She said nothing of that; she just walked on, her life sense letting her feel the jungle around them. They’d recovered Vasher’s cloak, shirt, and trousers—the ones that Denth had originally taken from him. There had been enough Breath in those to split between the two of them and get them each to the Second Heightening. It wasn’t as much as she was used to, but it was a fair bit better than nothing. “So where are we going, anyway?” “Ever heard of Kuth and Huth?” he asked. “Sure,” she said. “They were your main rivals in the Manywar.” “Somebody’s trying to restore
them,” he said. “A tyrant of some kind. He’s apparently recruited an old friend of mine.” “Another one?” she asked. He shrugged. “There were five of us. Me, Denth, Shashara, Arsteel, and Yesteel. It looks like Yesteel has resurfaced, finally.” “He’s related to Arsteel?” Vivenna guessed. “Brothers.” “Great.” “I know. He’s the one who originally figured out how to make ichor-alcohol. I hear rumors that he’s got a new form of it. More potent.” “Even better.” They walked in silence for a time longer. I’m bored, Nightblood said. Pay attention to me. Why doesn’t anyone ever talk to me? “Because you’re annoying,” Vasher snapped. The sword huffed. “What’s your real name?” Vivenna finally asked. “My real name?” Vasher asked. “Yes,” she said. “Everyone calls you things. Peacegiver. Kalad. Vasher. Talaxin. Is that last one your real name, the name of the scholar?” He shook his head. “No.” “Well, what is it, then?” “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t remember the time before I Returned.” “Oh,” she said. “When I came back, however, I did get a name,” he finally said. “The Cult of Returned—those who eventually founded the Hallandren Iridescent Tones—found me and kept me alive with Breaths. They gave me a name. I didn’t like it much. Didn’t seem to fit me.” “Well?” she asked. “What was it?” “Warbreaker the Peaceful,” he finally admitted. She raised an eyebrow. “What I can’t figure out,” he said, “is whether that was truly prophetic, or if I’m just trying to live up to it.” “Does it matter?” she asked. He walked for a time in silence. “No,” he finally said. “No, I guess it doesn’t. I just wish I knew if there is really something spiritual about the Returns, or if it’s all just cosmic happenstance.” “Probably not for us to know.” “Probably,” he agreed. Silence. “Should have called you Wartlover the Ugly,” she finally said. “Very mature,” he replied. “You really think those sorts of comments are proper for a princess?” She smiled broadly. “I don’t care,” she said. “And I never have to again.” Annotations for the Epilogue This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. WARBREAKER Copyright © 2009 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved. Edited by Moshe Feder Electronic composition by Violet Lucca for Tor.com Map by Shawn Boyles A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor–forge.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC. Library of Congress Cataloging–in–Publication Data Sanderson, Brandon. Warbreaker / Brandon Sanderson.—1st ed. p. cm. “A Tom Doherty Associates book.” ISBN–13: 978–0–7653–2030–8 ISBN–10: 0–7653–2030–4 1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Princesses—Fiction. 3. Gods—Fiction. I. Title. PS3619.A533W37 2009 813'.6—dc22 2009001665 First Electronic Edition: September 2009 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Annotations for the Map The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices.
This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices. Prologue Annotations to the Prologue It’s funny, Vasher thought, how many things begin with my getting thrown into prison. The guards laughed to one another, slamming the cell door shut with a clang. Vasher stood and dusted himself off, rolling his shoulder and wincing. While the bottom half of his cell door was solid wood, the top half was barred, and he could see the three guards open his large duffel and riﬂe through his possessions. One of them noticed him watching. The guard was an oversized beast of a man with a shaved head and a dirty uniform that barely retained the bright yellow and blue coloring of the T’Telir city guard. Bright colors, Vasher thought. I’ll have to get used to those again. In any other nation, the vibrant blues and yellows would have been ridiculous on soldiers. This, however, was Hallandren: land of Returned gods, Lifeless servants, BioChromatic research, and—of course—color. The large guard sauntered up to the cell door, leaving his friends to amuse themselves with Vasher’s belongings. “They say you’re pretty tough,” the man said, sizing up Vasher. Vasher did not respond. “The bartender says you beat down some twenty men in the brawl.” The guard rubbed his chin. “You don’t look that tough to me. Either way, you should have known better than to strike a priest. The others, they’ll spend a night locked up. You, though...you’ll hang. Colorless fool.” Vasher turned away. His cell was functional, if unoriginal. A thin slit at the top of one wall let in light, the stone walls dripped with water and moss, and a pile of dirty straw decomposed in the corner. “You ignoring me?” the guard asked, stepping closer to the door. The colors of his uniform brightened, as if he’d stepped into a stronger light. The change was slight. Vasher didn’t have much Breath remaining, and so his aura didn’t do much to the colors around him. The guard didn’t notice the change in color—just as he hadn’t noticed back in the bar, when he and his buddies had picked Vasher up off the ﬂoor and thrown him in their cart. Of course, the change was so slight to the unaided eye that it would have been nearly impossible to pick out. “Here, now,” said one of the men looking through Vasher’s duffel. “What’s this?” Vasher had always found it interesting that the men who watched dungeons tended to be as bad as, or worse than, the men they guarded. Perhaps that was deliberate. Society didn’t seem to care if such men were outside the cells or in them, so long as they were kept away from more honest men. Assuming that such a thing existed. From Vasher’s bag, a guard pulled free a long object wrapped in white linen. The man
whistled as he unwrapped the cloth, revealing a long, thin-bladed sword in a silver sheath. The hilt was pure black. “Who do you suppose he stole this from?” The lead guard eyed Vasher, likely wondering if Vasher was some kind of nobleman. Though Hallandren had no aristocracy, many neighboring kingdoms had their lords and ladies. Yet what lord would wear a drab brown cloak, ripped in several places? What lord would sport bruises from a bar fight, a half-grown beard, and boots worn from years of walking? The guard turned away, apparently convinced that Vasher was no lord. He was right. And he was wrong. “Let me see that,” the lead guard said, taking the sword. He grunted, obviously surprised by its weight. He turned it about, noting the clasp that tied sheath to hilt, keeping the blade from being drawn. He undid the clasp. The colors in the room deepened. They didn’t grow brighter—not the way the guard’s vest had when he approached Vasher. Instead, they grew stronger. Darker. Reds became maroon. Yellows hardened to gold. Blues approached navy. “Be careful, friend,” Vasher said softly, “that sword can be dangerous.” The guard looked up. All was still. Then the guard snorted and walked away from Vasher’s cell, still carrying the sword. The other two followed, bearing Vasher’s duffel, entering the guard room at the end of the hallway. The door thumped shut. Vasher immediately knelt beside the patch of straw, selecting a handful of sturdy lengths. He pulled threads from his cloak—it was beginning to fray at the bottom—and tied the straw into the shape of a small person, perhaps three inches high, with bushy arms and legs. He plucked a hair from one of his eyebrows, set it against the straw figure’s head, then reached into his boot and pulled out a brilliant red scarf. Then Vasher Breathed. It ﬂowed out of him, puffing into the air, translucent yet radiant, like the color of oil on water in the sun. Vasher felt it leave: BioChromatic Breath, scholars called it. Most people just called it Breath. Each person had one. Or, at least, that was how it usually went. One person, one Breath. Vasher had around fifty Breaths, just enough to reach the first Heightening. Having so few made him feel poor compared with what he’d once held, but many would consider fifty Breaths to be a great treasure. Unfortunately, even Awakening a small figure made from organic material—using a piece of his own body as a focus—drained away some half of his Breaths. The little straw figure jerked, sucking in the Breath. In Vasher’s hand, half of the brilliant red scarf faded to grey. Vasher leaned down—imagining what he wanted the figure to do—and completed the final step of the process as he gave the Command. “Fetch keys,” he said. The straw figure stood and raised its single eyebrow toward Vasher. Vasher pointed toward the guard room. From it, he heard sudden shouts of surprise. Not much time, he thought. The straw person ran along the ﬂoor, then jumped up,
vaulting between the bars. Vasher pulled off his cloak and set it on the ﬂoor. It was the perfect shape of a person—marked with rips that matched the scars on Vasher’s body, its hood cut with holes to match Vasher’s eyes. The closer an object was to human shape and form, the fewer Breaths it took to Awaken. Vasher leaned down, trying not to think of the days when he’d had enough Breaths to Awaken without regard for shape or focus. That had been a different time. Wincing, he pulled a tuft of hair from his head, then sprinkled it across the hood of the cloak. Once again, he Breathed. It took the rest of his Breath. With it gone—the cloak trembling, the scarf losing the rest of its color—Vasher felt...dimmer. Losing one’s Breath was not fatal. Indeed, the extra Breaths Vasher used had once belonged to other people. Vasher didn’t know who they were; he hadn’t gathered these Breaths himself. They had been given to him. But, of course, that was the way it was always supposed to work. One could not take Breath by force. Being void of Breath did change him. Colors didn’t seem as bright. He couldn’t feel the bustling people moving about in the city above, a connection he normally took for granted. It was the awareness all men had for others—that thing which whispered a warning, in the drowsiness of sleep, when someone entered the room. In Vasher, that sense had been magnified fifty times. And now it was gone. Sucked into the cloak and the straw person, giving them power. The cloak jerked. Vasher leaned down. “Protect me,” he Commanded, and the cloak grew still. He stood, throwing it back on. The straw figure returned to his window. It carried a large ring of keys. The figure’s straw feet were stained red. The crimson blood seemed so dull to Vasher now. He took the keys. “Thank you,” he said. He always thanked them. He didn’t know why, particularly considering what he did next. “Your Breath to mine,” he commanded, touching the straw person’s chest. The straw person immediately fell backward off the door—life draining from it—and Vasher got his Breath back. The familiar sense of awareness returned, the knowledge of connectedness, of fitting. He could only take the Breath back because he’d Awakened this creature himself—indeed, Awakenings of this sort were rarely permanent. He used his Breath like a reserve, doling it out, then recovering it. Compared with what he had once held, twenty-five Breaths was a laughably small number. However, compared with nothing, it seemed infinite. He shivered in satisfaction. The yells from the guard room died out. The dungeon fell still. He had to keep moving. Vasher reached through the bars, using the keys to unlock his cell. He pushed the thick door open, rushing out into the hallway, leaving the straw figure discarded on the ground. He didn’t walk to the guard room—and the exit beyond it—but instead turned south, penetrating deeper into the dungeon. This was the most uncertain part of
his plan. finding a tavern that was frequented by priests of the Iridescent Tones had been easy enough. Getting into a bar fight—then striking one of those same priests—had been equally simple. Hallandren took their religious figures very seriously, and Vasher had earned himself not the usual imprisonment in a local jail, but a trip to the God King’s dungeons. Knowing the kind of men who tended to guard such dungeons, he’d had a pretty good idea that they would try to draw Nightblood. That had given him the diversion he’d needed to get the keys. But now came the unpredictable part. Vasher stopped, Awakened cloak rustling. It was easy to locate the cell he wanted, for around it a large patch of stone had been drained of color, leaving both walls and doors a dull grey. It was a place to imprison an Awakener, for no color meant no Awakening. Vasher stepped up to the door, looking through the bars. A man hung by his arms from the ceiling, naked and chained. His color was vibrant to Vasher’s eyes, his skin a pure tan, his bruises brilliant splashes of blue and violet. The man was gagged. Another precaution. In order to Awaken, the man would need three things: Breath, color, and a Command. The harmonics and the hues, some called it. The Iridescent Tones, the relationship between color and sound. A Command had to be spoken clearly and firmly in the Awakener’s native language—any stuttering, any mispronunciation, would invalidate the Awakening. The Breath would be drawn out, but the object would be unable to act. Vasher used the prison keys to unlock the cell door, then stepped inside. This man’s aura made colors grow brighter by sharp measure when they got close to him. Anyone would be able to notice an aura that strong, though it was much easier for someone who had reached the first Heightening. It wasn’t the strongest BioChromatic aura Vasher had ever seen—those belonged to the Returned, known as gods here in Hallandren. Still, the prisoner’s BioChroma was very impressive and much, much stronger than Vasher’s own. The prisoner held a lot of Breaths. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. The man swung in his bonds, studying Vasher, gagged lips bleeding from lack of water. Vasher hesitated only brieﬂy, then reached up and pulled the gag free. “You,” the prisoner whispered, coughing slightly. “Are you here to free me?” “No, Vahr,” Vasher said quietly. “I’m here to kill you.” Vahr snorted. Captivity hadn’t been easy on him. When Vasher had last seen Vahr, he’d been plump. Judging by his emaciated body, he’d been without food for some time now. The cuts, bruises, and burn marks on his ﬂesh were fresh. Both the torture and the haunted look in Vahr’s bag-rimmed eyes bespoke a solemn truth. Breath could only be transferred by willing, intentional Command. That Command could, however, be encouraged. “So,” Vahr croaked, “you judge me, just like everyone else.” “Your failed rebellion is not my concern. I just want your Breath.” “You and the entire Hallandren court.”
“Yes. But you’re not going to give it to one of the Returned. You’re going to give it to me. In exchange for killing you.” “Doesn’t seem like much of a trade.” There was a hardness—a void of emotion—in Vahr that Vasher had not seen the last time they had parted, years before. Odd, Vasher thought, that I should finally, after all of this time, find something in the man that I can identify with. Vasher kept a wary distance from Vahr. Now that the man’s voice was free, he could Command. However, he was touching nothing except for the metal chains, and metal was very difficult to Awaken. It had never been alive, and it was far from the form of a man. Even during the height of his power, Vasher himself had only managed to Awaken metal on a few, select occasions. Of course, some extremely powerful Awakeners could bring objects to life that they weren’t touching, but that were in the sound of their voice. That, however, required the Ninth Heightening. Even Vahr didn’t have that much Breath. In fact, Vasher knew of only one living person who did: the God King himself. That meant Vasher was probably safe. Vahr contained a great wealth of Breath, but had nothing to Awaken. Vasher walked around the chained man, finding it very difficult to offer any sympathy. Vahr had earned his fate. Yet the priests would not let him die while he held so much Breath; if he died, it would be wasted. Gone. Irretrievable. Not even the government of Hallandren—which had such strict laws about the buying and passing of Breath—could let such a treasure slip away. They wanted it badly enough to forestall the execution of even a high-profile criminal like Vahr. In retrospect, they would curse themselves for not leaving him better guarded. But, then, Vasher had been waiting two years for an opportunity like this one. “Well?” Vahr asked. “Give me the Breath, Vahr,” Vasher said, stepping forward. Vahr snorted. “I doubt you have the skill of the God King’s torturers, Vasher—and I’ve withstood them for two weeks now.” “You’d be surprised. But that doesn’t matter. You are going to give me your Breath. You know you have only two choices. Give it to me, or give it to them.” Vahr hung by his wrists, rotating slowly. Silent. “You don’t have much time to consider,” Vasher said. “Any moment now, someone is going to discover the dead guards outside. The alarm will be raised. I’ll leave you, you will be tortured again, and you will eventually break. Then all the power you’ve gathered will go to the very people you vowed to destroy.” Vahr stared at the ﬂoor. Vasher let him hang for a few moments, and could see that the reality of the situation was clear to him. finally, Vahr looked up at Vasher. “That...thing you bear. It’s here, in the city?” Vasher nodded. “The screams I heard earlier? It caused them?” Vasher nodded again. “How long will you be in T’Telir?” “For a time. A
year, perhaps.” “Will you use it against them?” “My goals are my own to know, Vahr. Will you take my deal or not? Quick death in exchange for those Breaths. I promise you this. Your enemies will not have them.” Vahr grew quiet. “It’s yours,” he finally whispered. Vasher reached over, resting his hand on Vahr’s forehead—careful not to let any part of his clothing touch the man’s skin, lest Vahr draw forth color for Awakening. Vahr didn’t move. He looked numb. Then, just as Vasher began to worry that the prisoner had changed his mind, Vahr Breathed. The color drained from him. The beautiful Iridescence, the aura that had made him look majestic despite his wounds and chains. It ﬂowed from his mouth, hanging in the air, shimmering like mist. Vasher drew it in, closing his eyes. “My life to yours,” Vahr Commanded, a hint of despair in his voice. “My Breath become yours.” The Breath ﬂooded into Vasher, and everything became vibrant. His brown cloak now seemed deep and rich in color. The blood on the ﬂoor was intensely red, as if aﬂame. Even Vahr’s skin seemed a masterpiece of color, the surface marked by deep black hairs, blue bruises, and sharp red cuts. It had been years since Vasher had felt such...life. He gasped, falling to his knees as it overwhelmed him, and he had to drop a hand to the stone ﬂoor to keep himself from toppling over. How did I live without this? He knew that his senses hadn’t actually improved, yet he felt so much more alert. More aware of the beauty of sensation. When he touched the stone ﬂoor, he marveled at its roughness. And the sound of wind passing through the thin dungeon window up above. Had it always been that melodic? How could he not have noticed? “Keep your part of the bargain,” Vahr said. Vasher noted the tones in his voice, the beauty of each one, how close they were to harmonics. Vasher had gained perfect pitch. A gift for anyone who reached the Second Heightening. It would be good to have that again. Vasher could, of course, have up to the fifth Heightening at any time, if he wished. That would require certain sacrifices he wasn’t willing to make. And so he forced himself to do it the old-fashioned way, by gathering Breaths from people like Vahr. Vasher stood, then pulled out the colorless scarf he had used earlier. He tossed it over Vahr’s shoulder, then Breathed. He didn’t bother making the scarf have human shape, didn’t need to use a bit of his hair or skin for a focus—though he did have to draw the color from his shirt. Vasher met Vahr’s resigned eyes. “Strangle things,” Vasher commanded, fingers touching the quivering scarf. It twisted immediately, pulling away a large—yet now inconsequential—amount of Breath. The scarf quickly wrapped around Vahr’s neck, tightening, choking him. Vahr didn’t struggle or gasp, he simply watched Vasher with hatred until his eyes bulged and he died. Hatred. Vasher had known enough of that in
his time. He quietly reached up and recovered his Breath from the scarf, then left Vahr dangling in his cell. Vasher passed quietly through the prison, marveling at the color of the woods and the stones. After a few moments of walking, he noticed a new color in the hallway. Red. He stepped around the pool of blood—which was seeping down the inclined dungeon ﬂoor—and moved into the guard room. The three guards lay dead. One of them sat in a chair. Nightblood, still mostly sheathed, had been rammed through the man’s chest. About an inch of a dark black blade was visible beneath the silver sheath. Vasher carefully slid the weapon fully back into its sheath. He did up the clasp. I did very well today, a voice said in his mind. Vasher didn’t respond to the sword. I killed them all, Nightblood continued. Aren’t you proud of me? Vasher picked up the weapon, accustomed to its unusual weight, and carried it in one hand. He recovered his duffel and slung it over his shoulder. I knew you’d be impressed, Nightblood said, sounding satisfied. Annotations to the Prologue The Annotated Warbreaker: an Enhanced Electronic Book Brandon Sanderson A Tom Doherty Associates Book New York Brandon Sanderson grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska. He lives in Utah with his wife and children and teaches creative writing at Brigham Young University. He is the author of such bestsellers as the Mistborn trilogy and its sequels, The Alloy of Law, Shadows of Self, and The Bands of Mourning; the Stormlight Archive novels The Way of Kings, Words of Radiance, and Oathbringer; and young adult novels, including the Reckoners series beginning with Steelheart, the Skyward series, The Rithmatist, and the Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians series. In 2013, he won a Hugo Award for Best Novella for The Emperor’s Soul, set in the world of his acclaimed first novel, Elantris. Additionally, he was chosen to complete Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time® sequence. For behind-the-scenes information on all of Brandon Sanderson’s books, visit brandonsanderson.com, or sign up for email updates here. Facebook: facebook.com/BrandSanderson Twitter: @BrandSanderson Instagram: BrandSanderson YouTube: youtube.com/BrandSanderson BOOKS BY BRANDON SANDERSON® THE STORMLIGHT ARCHIVE® The Way of Kings Words of Radiance Oathbringer Rhythm of War THE MISTBORN® SAGA THE ORIGINAL TRILOGY Mistborn The Well of Ascension The Hero of Ages THE WAX AND WAYNE SERIES The Alloy of Law Shadows of Self The Bands of Mourning Elantris Warbreaker Arcanum Unbounded: The Cosmere® Collection Legion: The Many Lives of Stephen Leeds ALCATRAZ VS. THE EVIL LIBRARIANS Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians The Scrivener’s Bones The Knights of Crystallia The Shattered Lens The Dark Talent THE RECKONERS® Steelheart Firefight Calamity SKYWARD Skyward Starsight The Rithmatist The preceding list is an imperfect gathering of traditional Vorin symbolism associated with the Ten Essences. Bound together, these form the Double Eye of the Almighty, an eye with two pupils representing the creation of plants and creatures. This is also the basis for the hourglass shape that was often associated with the Knights Radiant. Ancient scholars also placed the ten orders
of Knights Radiant on this list, alongside the Heralds themselves, who each had a classical association with one of the numbers and Essences. I’m not certain yet how the ten levels of Voidbinding or its cousin the Old Magic fit into this paradigm, if indeed they can. My research suggests that, indeed, there should be another series of abilities that is even more esoteric than the Voidbindings. Perhaps the Old Magic fits into those, though I am beginning to suspect that it is something entirely different. Note that I currently believe the concept of the “Body Focus” to be more a matter of philosophical interpretation than an actual attribute of this Investiture and its manifestations. As a complement to the Essences, the classical elements celebrated on Roshar, are found the Ten Surges. These, thought to be the fundamental forces by which the world operates, are more accurately a representation of the ten basic abilities offered to the Heralds, and then the Knights Radiant, by their bonds. Adhesion: The Surge of Pressure and Vacuum Gravitation: The Surge of Gravity Division: The Surge of Destruction and Decay Abrasion: The Surge of Friction Progression: The Surge of Growth and Healing, or Regrowth Illumination: The Surge of Light, Sound, and Various Waveforms Transformation: The Surge of Soulcasting Transportation: The Surge of Motion and Realmatic Transition Cohesion: The Surge of Strong Axial Interconnection Tension: The Surge of Soft Axial Interconnection Five groupings of fabrial have been discovered so far. The methods of their creation are carefully guarded by the artifabrian community, but they appear to be the work of dedicated scientists, as opposed to the more mystical Surgebindings once performed by the Knights Radiant. I am more and more convinced that the creation of these devices requires forced enslavement of transformative cognitive entities, known as “spren” to the local communities. Augmenters: These fabrials are crafted to enhance something. They can create heat, pain, or even a calm wind, for instance. They are powered—like all fabrials—by Stormlight. They seem to work best with forces, emotions, or sensations. The so-called half-shards of Jah Keved are created with this type of fabrial attached to a sheet of metal, enhancing its durability. I have seen fabrials of this type crafted using many different kinds of gemstone; I am guessing that any one of the ten Polestones will work. Diminishers: These fabrials do the opposite of what augmenters do, and generally seem to fall under the same restrictions as their cousins. Those artifabrians who have taken me into confidence seem to believe that even greater fabrials are possible than what have been created so far, particularly in regard to augmenters and diminishers. Conjoiners: By infusing a ruby and using methodology that has not been revealed to me (though I have my suspicions), you can create a conjoined pair of gemstones. The process requires splitting the original ruby. The two halves will then create parallel reactions across a distance. Spanreeds are one of the most common forms of this type of fabrial. Conservation of force is maintained; for instance, if one is attached
to a heavy stone, you will need the same strength to lift the conjoined fabrial that you would need to lift the stone itself. There appears to be some sort of process used during the creation of the fabrial that influences how far apart the two halves can go and still produce an effect. Reversers: Using an amethyst instead of a ruby also creates conjoined halves of a gemstone, but these two work in creating opposite reactions. Raise one, and the other will be pressed downward, for instance. These fabrials have only just been discovered, and already the possibilities for exploitation are being conjectured. There appear to be some unexpected limitations to this form of fabrial, though I have not been able to discover what they are. There is only one type of fabrial in this set, informally known as the Alerter. An Alerter can warn one of a nearby object, feeling, sensation, or phenomenon. These fabrials use a heliodor stone as their focus. I do not know whether this is the only type of gemstone that will work, or if there is another reason heliodor is used. In the case of this kind of fabrial, the amount of Stormlight you can infuse into it affects its range. Hence the size of gemstone used is very important. Reports of the Assassin in White’s odd abilities have led me to some sources of information that, I believe, are generally unknown. The Windrunners were an order of the Knights Radiant, and they made use of two primary types of Surgebinding. The effects of these Surgebindings were known—colloquially among the members of the order—as the Three Lashings. This type of Lashing was one of the most commonly used Lashings among the order, though it was not the easiest to use. (That distinction belongs to the Full Lashing below.) A Basic Lashing involved revoking a being’s or object’s spiritual gravitational bond to the planet below, instead temporarily linking that being or object to a different object or direction. Effectively, this creates a change in gravitational pull, twisting the energies of the planet itself. A Basic Lashing allowed a Windrunner to run up walls, to send objects or people flying off into the air, or to create similar effects. Advanced uses of this type of Lashing would allow a Windrunner to make himself or herself lighter by binding part of his or her mass upward. (Mathematically, binding a quarter of one’s mass upward would halve a person’s effective weight. Binding half of one’s mass upward would create weightlessness.) Multiple Basic Lashings could also pull an object or a person’s body downward at double, triple, or other multiples of its weight. A Full Lashing might seem very similar to a Basic Lashing, but they worked on very different principles. While one had to do with gravitation, the other had to do with the force (or Surge, as the Radiants called them) of Adhesion—binding objects together as if they were one. I believe this Surge may have had something to do with atmospheric pressure. To create a Full Lashing,
a Windrunner would infuse an object with Stormlight, then press another object to it. The two objects would become bound together with an extremely powerful bond, nearly impossible to break. In fact, most materials would themselves break before the bond holding them together would. I believe this may actually be a specialized version of the Basic Lashing. This type of Lashing required the least amount of Stormlight of any of the three Lashings. The Windrunner would infuse something, give a mental command, and create a pull to the object that yanked other objects toward it. At its heart, this Lashing created a bubble around the object that imitated its spiritual link to the ground beneath it. As such, it was much harder for the Lashing to affect objects touching the ground, where their link to the planet was strongest. Objects falling or in flight were the easiest to influence. Other objects could be affected, but the Stormlight and skill required were much more substantial. A second form of Surgebinding involves the manipulation of light and sound in illusory tactics common throughout the cosmere. Unlike the variations present on Sel, however, this method has a powerful Spiritual element, requiring not just a full mental picture of the intended creation, but some level of Connection to it as well. The illusion is based not simply upon what the Lightweaver imagines, but upon what they desire to create. In many ways, this is the most similar ability to the original Yolish variant, which excites me. I wish to delve more into this ability, with the hope to gain a full understanding of how it relates to cognitive and spiritual attributes. Essential to the economy of Roshar is the art of Soulcasting, in which one form of matter is directly transformed into another by changing its spiritual nature. This is performed on Roshar via the use of devices known as Soulcasters, and these devices (the majority of which appear to be focused on turning stone into grain or flesh) are used to provide mobile supply for armies or to augment local urban food stores. This has allowed kingdoms on Roshar—where fresh water is rarely an issue, because of highstorm rains—to field armies in ways that would be unthinkable elsewhere. What intrigues me most about Soulcasting, however, are the things we can infer about the world and Investiture from it. For example, certain gemstones are requisite in producing certain results—if you wish to produce grain, your Soulcaster must both be attuned to that transformation and have an emerald (not a different gemstone) attached. This creates an economy based on the relative values of what the gemstones can create, not upon their rarity. Indeed, as the chemical structures are identical for several of these gemstone varieties, aside from trace impurities, the color is the most important part—not their actual axial makeup. I’m certain you will find this relevance of hue quite intriguing, particularly in its relationship to other forms of Investiture. This relationship must have been essential in the local creation of the table I’ve included above, which
lacks some scientific merit, but is intrinsically tied to the folklore surrounding Soulcasting. An emerald can be used to create food—and thus is traditionally associated with a similar Essence. Indeed, on Roshar there are considered to be ten elements; not the traditional four or sixteen, depending upon local tradition. Curiously, these gemstones seem tied to the original abilities of the Soulcasters who were an order of Knights Radiant—but they don’t seem essential to the actual operation of the Investiture when performed by a living Radiant. I do not know the connection here, though it implies something valuable. Soulcasters, the devices, were created to imitate the abilities of the Surge of Soulcasting (or Transformation). This is yet another mechanical imitation of something once available only to a select few within the bounds of an Invested Art. The Honorblades on Roshar, indeed, may be the very first example of this—from thousands of years ago. I believe this has relevance to the discoveries being made on Scadrial, and the commoditization of Allomancy and Feruchemy. As I’ve had further occasion to study the use of Investiture on Roshar, and the curious manifestation of it known as Surgebinding, I’ve found occasion to ruminate further on the nature of Intent and Connection. The power known as Stoneshaping, as practiced by the orders of Stonewards and Willshapers, is an excellent example of this. This ability manipulates the Surge of Cohesion, and is in many ways a cousin to the axial manipulation known as microkinesis—as both grant the ability to manipulate the forces that bind individual axi together. Fortunately, in my explorations, it appears that Stoneshaping is far less … explosive of a power, bounded by the rules that Honor placed upon it to protect from the mistakes that happened on Yolen. Nevertheless, a practiced Stoneward or Willshaper can mold stone as if it were clay, weakening the bonds between axi. (Indeed, this can be done to other materials as well, I’m led to believe, but stone is the easiest and most common application.) This is not simply a chemical process. Normally, one might expect heat to be involved to excite the axi, but this is not the case. Indeed, it is the Intent of the user that is relevant here. The stone senses the desire of the Stoneward, and the practitioner is able to shape it through desire as much as through physical force. I don’t believe I properly understood the way Investiture responds to the conscious Intent of the user until I read of the interactions of spren and sapient beings on Roshar. There is so much to learn here and so much to explore. I have sent my best agent to embed among the Stonewards. His research has been most illuminating. It suggests there are three ways we can look at the nature of Intent as it relates to Stoneshaping. Willingness: Stone seems to be uniformly willing to obey the commands of a Surgebinder attuned to Cohesion. This is curious, as stone is often among the most difficult of materials to work with in Soulcasting—even more difficult
than living beings, depending on those beings’ emotional, mental, and spiritual states. Why is stone so eager to change for a Stoneward or Willshaper? What about it makes it so likely to respond to their desires, to incorporate them, and to enjoy the result? Like a willing audience at a comedy, the stone lets the Surgebinder guide it. Connection: The stone can sense the Intent of the Surgebinder, and even their past. I have reliable reports of stone reaching back through generations of Connection to display events, feelings, emotions, and ideas from long ago. It will shape the faces of Stonewards long dead. It will create pictures of events long forgotten. What I initially dismissed as an inferior form of microkinesis is, indeed, much more focused and—in some ways—more remarkable. There is a divining property to Stoneshaping I had not thought to find. Command: The Stoneshaper must often make a Command, mental or verbal, to truly control the stone. This is much like many other arcana around the cosmere, and is in itself not that novel. However, I find electrifying the news out of the mountains of Ur, that their current queen seems to have been able to Command the creation of an anti-Investiture. Long theorized, this will be my first true evidence it is possible—and can only be created through Intent. I think that perhaps Foil, deep within his ocean, would find this information supports my theories over his. And he’d do well to listen to me on this matter if he ever wishes to achieve control over the aethers, as he has insisted is his goal. First, you must get a spren to approach. The type of gemstone is relevant; some spren are naturally more intrigued by certain gemstones. In addition, it is essential to calm the spren with something it knows and loves. A good fire for a flamespren, for example, is a must. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 Lirin was impressed at how calm he felt as he checked the child’s gums for scurvy. Years of training as a surgeon served him well today. Breathing exercises—intended to keep his hands steady—worked as well during espionage as they did during surgery. “Here,” he said to the child’s mother, digging a small carved carapace chit from his pocket. “Show this to the woman at the dining pavilion. She’ll get some juice for your son. Make certain he drinks it all, each morning.” “Very thank you,” the woman said in a thick Herdazian accent. She gathered her son close, then looked to Lirin with haunted eyes. “If … if child … found…” “I will make certain you’re notified if we hear of your other children,” Lirin promised. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She nodded, wiped her cheeks, and carried the child to the watchpost outside of town. Here, a group of armed parshmen lifted her hood and compared her face to drawings sent by the Fused. Hesina, Lirin’s wife, stood nearby to read the descriptions as required. Behind them, the
morning fog obscured Hearthstone. It seemed to be a group of dark, shadowy lumps. Like tumors. Lirin could barely make out tarps stretched between buildings, offering meager shelter for the many refugees pouring out of Herdaz. Entire streets were closed off, and phantom sounds—plates clinking, people talking—rose through the fog. Those shanties would never last a storm, of course, but they could be quickly torn down and stowed. There simply wasn’t enough housing otherwise. People could pack into stormshelters for a few hours, but couldn’t live like that. He turned and glanced at the line of those waiting for admittance today. It vanished into the fog, attended by swirling insectile hungerspren and exhaustionspren like jets of dust. Storms. How many more people could the town hold? The villages closer to the border must be filled to capacity, if so many were making their way this far inward. It had been over a year since the coming of the Everstorm and the fall of Alethkar. A year during which the country of Herdaz—Alethkar’s smaller neighbor to the northwest—had somehow kept fighting. Two months ago, the enemy had finally decided to crush the kingdom for good. Refugee numbers had increased soon after. As usual, the soldiers fought while the common people—their fields trampled—starved and were forced out of their homes. Hearthstone did what it could. Aric and the other men—once guards at Roshone’s manor, now forbidden weapons—organized the line and kept anyone from sneaking into town before Lirin saw them. He had persuaded Brightness Abiajan that it was essential he inspect each individual. She worried about plague; he just wanted to intercept those who might need treatment. Her soldiers moved down the line, alert. Parshmen carrying swords. Learning to read, insisting they be called “singers.” A year after their awakening, Lirin still found the notions odd. But really, what was it to him? In some ways, little had changed. The same old conflicts consumed the parshmen as easily as they had the Alethi brightlords. People who got a taste of power wanted more, then sought it with the sword. Ordinary people bled, and Lirin was left to stitch them up. He returned to his work. Lirin had at least a hundred more refugees to see today. Hiding somewhere among them was a man who had authored much of this suffering. He was the reason Lirin was so nervous today. The next person in line was not him, however, but was instead a ragged Alethi man who had lost an arm in battle. Lirin inspected the refugee’s wound, but it was a few months old at this point, and there was nothing Lirin could do about the extensive scarring. Lirin moved his finger back and forth before the man’s face, watching his eyes track it. Shock, Lirin thought. “Have you suffered recent wounds you’re not telling me about?” “No wounds,” the man whispered. “But brigands … they took my wife, good surgeon. Took her … left me tied to a tree. Just walked off laughing…” Bother. Mental shock wasn’t something Lirin could cut out with
a scalpel. “Once you enter the town,” he said, “look for tent fourteen. Tell the women there I sent you.” The man nodded dully, his stare hollow. Had he registered the words? Memorizing the man’s features—greying hair with a cowlick in the back, three large moles on the upper left cheek, and of course the missing arm—Lirin made a note to check that tent for him tonight. Assistants there watched refugees who might turn suicidal. It was, with so many to care for, the best Lirin could manage. “On with you,” Lirin said, gently pushing the man toward the town. “Tent fourteen. Don’t forget. I’m sorry for your loss.” The man walked off. “You say it so easily, surgeon,” a voice said from behind. Lirin spun, then immediately bowed in respect. Abiajan, the new citylady, was a parshwoman with stark white skin and fine red marbling on her cheeks. “Brightness,” Lirin said. “What was that?” “You told that man you were sorry for his loss,” Abiajan said. “You say it so readily to each of them—but you seem to have the compassion of a stone. Do you feel nothing for these people?” “I feel, Brightness,” Lirin said, “but I must be careful not to be overwhelmed by their pain. It’s one of the first rules of becoming a surgeon.” “Curious.” The parshwoman raised her safehand, which was shrouded in the sleeve of a havah. “Do you remember setting my arm when I was a child?” “I do.” Abiajan had returned—with a new name and a new commission from the Fused—after fleeing with the others following the Everstorm. She had brought many parshmen with her, all from this region, but of those from Hearthstone only Abiajan had returned. She remained closed-lipped about what she had experienced in the intervening months. “Such a curious memory,” she said. “That life feels like a dream now. I remember pain. Confusion. A stern figure bringing me more pain—though I now recognize you were seeking to heal me. So much trouble to go through for a slave child.” “I have never cared who I heal, Brightness. Slave or king.” “I’m sure the fact that Wistiow had paid good money for me had nothing to do with it.” She narrowed her eyes at Lirin, and when she next spoke there was a cadence to her words, as if she were speaking the words to a song. “Did you feel for me, the poor confused slave child whose mind had been stolen from her? Did you weep for us, surgeon, and the life we led?” “A surgeon must not weep,” Lirin said softly. “A surgeon cannot afford to weep.” “Like a stone,” she said again, then shook her head. “Have you seen any plaguespren on these refugees? If those spren get into the city, it could kill everyone.” “Disease isn’t caused by spren,” Lirin said. “It is spread by contaminated water, improper sanitation, or sometimes by the breath of those who bear it.” “Superstition,” she said. “The wisdom of the Heralds,” Lirin replied. “We should be careful.” Fragments of old
manuscripts—translations of translations of translations—mentioned quick-spreading diseases that had killed tens of thousands. Such things hadn’t been recorded in any modern texts he’d been read, but he had heard rumors of something strange to the west—a new plague, they were calling it. Details were sparse. Abiajan moved on without further comment. Her attendants—a group of elevated parshmen and parshwomen—joined her. Though their clothing was of Alethi cut and fashion, the colors were lighter, more muted. The Fused had explained that singers in the past eschewed bright colors, preferring to highlight their skin patterns instead. Lirin sensed a search for identity in the way Abiajan and the other parshmen acted. Their accents, their dress, their mannerisms—they were all distinctly Alethi. But they grew transfixed whenever the Fused spoke of their ancestors, and they sought ways to emulate those long-dead parshmen. Lirin turned to the next group of refugees—a complete family for once. Though he should have been happy, he couldn’t help wondering how difficult it was going to be to feed five children and parents who were all flagging from poor nutrition. As he sent them on, a familiar figure moved along the line toward him, shooing away hungerspren. Laral wore a simple servant’s dress now, with a gloved hand instead of a sleeve, and she carried a water bucket to the waiting refugees. Laral didn’t walk like a servant though. There was a certain … determination about the young woman that no forced subservience could smother. The end of the world seemed roughly as bothersome to her as a poor harvest once had. She paused by Lirin and offered him a drink—taken from her waterskin and poured into a fresh cup as he insisted, rather than ladled straight from the bucket. “He’s three down,” Laral whispered as Lirin sipped. Lirin grunted. “Shorter than I expected him to be,” Laral noted. “He’s supposed to be a great general, leader of the Herdazian resistance. He looks more like a traveling merchant.” “Genius comes in all shapes, Laral,” Lirin said, waving for her to refill his cup to give an excuse for them to keep talking. “Still…” she said, then fell silent as Durnash passed by, a tall parshman with marbled black and red skin, a sword on his back. Once he was well on his way, she continued softly, “I’m honestly surprised at you, Lirin. Not once have you suggested we turn in this hidden general.” “He’d be executed,” Lirin said. “You think of him as a criminal though, don’t you?” “He bears a terrible responsibility; he perpetuated a war against an overwhelming enemy force. He threw away the lives of his men in a hopeless battle.” “Some would call that heroism.” “Heroism is a myth you tell idealistic young people—specifically when you want them to go bleed for you. It got one of my sons killed and another taken from me. You can keep your heroism and return to me the lives of those wasted on foolish conflicts.” At least it seemed to almost be over. Now that the resistance in Herdaz had
finally collapsed, hopefully the refugee flood would slow. Laral watched him with pale green eyes. She was a keen one. How he wished life had gone in another direction, that old Wistiow had held on a few more years. Lirin might call this woman daughter, and might have both Tien and Kaladin beside him now, working as surgeons. “I won’t turn in the Herdazian general,” Lirin said. “Stop looking at me like that. I hate war, but I won’t condemn your hero.” “And your son will come fetch him soon?” “We’ve sent Kal word. That should be enough. Make sure your husband is ready with his distraction.” She nodded and moved on to offer water to the parshman guards at the town entrance. Lirin got through the next few refugees quickly, then reached a group of cloaked figures. He calmed himself with the quick breathing exercise his master had taught him in the surgery room all those years ago. Although his insides were a storm, Lirin’s hands didn’t shake as he waved forward the cloaked figures. “I will need to do an examination,” Lirin said softly, “so it doesn’t seem unusual when I pull you out of the line.” “Begin with me,” said the shortest of the men. The other four shifted their positions, placing themselves carefully around him. “Don’t look so much like you’re guarding him, you sodden fools,” Lirin hissed. “Here, sit down on the ground. Maybe you’ll seem less like a gang of thugs that way.” They did as requested, and Lirin pulled over his stool beside the apparent leader. He bore a thin, silvered mustache on his upper lip, and was perhaps in his fifties. His sun-leathered skin was darker than most Herdazians’; he could almost have passed for Azish. His eyes were a deep dark brown. “You’re him?” Lirin whispered as he put his ear to the man’s chest to check his heartbeat. “I am,” the man said. Dieno enne Calah. Dieno “the Mink” in Old Herdazian. Hesina had explained that enne was an honorific that implied greatness. One might have expected the Mink—as Laral apparently had—to be a brutal warrior forged on the same anvil as men like Dalinar Kholin or Meridas Amaram. Lirin, however, knew that killers came in all kinds of packages. The Mink might be short and missing a tooth, but there was a power to his lean build, and Lirin spotted not a few scars in his examination. Those around the wrists, in fact … those were the scars manacles made on the skin of slaves. “Thank you,” Dieno whispered, “for offering us refuge.” “It wasn’t my choice,” Lirin said. “Still, you ensure that the resistance will escape to live on. Heralds bless you, surgeon.” Lirin dug out a bandage, then began wrapping a wound on the man’s arm that hadn’t been seen to properly. “The Heralds bless us with a quick end to this conflict.” “Yes, with the invaders sent running all the way back to Damnation from which they were spawned.” Lirin continued his work. “You … disagree, surgeon?” “Your
resistance has failed, General,” Lirin said, pulling the bandage tight. “Your kingdom has fallen like my own. Further conflict will only leave more men dead.” “Surely you don’t intend to obey these monsters.” “I obey the person who holds the sword to my neck, General,” Lirin said. “Same as I always have.” He finished his work, then gave the general’s four companions cursory examinations. No women. How would the general read messages sent to him? Lirin made a show of discovering a wound on one man’s leg, and—with a little coaching—the man limped on it properly, then let out a painful howl. A poke of a needle made painspren claw up from the ground, shaped like little orange hands. “That will need surgery,” Lirin said loudly. “Or you might lose the leg. No, no complaints. We’re going to see to that right away.” He had Aric fetch a litter. Positioning the other four soldiers—the general included—as bearers for that litter gave Lirin an excuse to pull them all out of line. Now they just needed the distraction. It came in the form of Toralin Roshone: Laral’s husband, former citylord. He stumbled out of the fog-shrouded town, wobbling and walking unsteadily. Lirin waved to the Mink and his soldiers, slowly leading them toward the inspection post. “You aren’t armed, are you?” he hissed under his breath. “We left obvious weapons behind,” the Mink replied, “but it will be my face—and not our arms—that betrays us.” “We’ve prepared for that.” Pray to the Almighty it works. As Lirin drew near, he could better make out Roshone. The former citylord’s cheeks hung in deflated jowls, still reflecting the weight he’d lost following his son’s death seven years ago. Roshone had been ordered to shave his beard, perhaps because he’d been fond of it, and he no longer wore his proud warrior’s takama. That had been replaced by the kneepads and short trousers of a crem scraper. He carried a stool under one arm and muttered in a slurred voice, his wooden peg of a foot scraping stone as he walked. Lirin honestly couldn’t tell if Roshone had gotten drunk for the display, or if he was faking. The man drew attention either way. The parshmen manning the inspection post nudged one another, and one hummed to an upbeat rhythm—something they often did when amused. Roshone picked a building nearby and set down his stool, then—to the delight of the watching parshmen—tried stepping up on it, but missed and stumbled, teetering on his peg, nearly falling. They loved watching him. Every one of these newly born singers had been owned by one wealthy lighteyes or another. Watching a former citylord reduced to a stumbling drunk who spent his days doing the most menial of jobs? To them it was more captivating than any storyteller’s performance. Lirin stepped up to the guard post. “This one needs immediate surgery,” he said, gesturing to the man in the litter. “If I don’t get to him now, he might lose a limb. My wife will have the rest of the
refugees sit and wait for my return.” Of the three parshmen assigned as inspectors, only Dor bothered to check the “wounded” man’s face against the drawings. The Mink was top of the list of dangerous refugees, but Dor didn’t spare a glance for the litter bearers. Lirin had noticed the oddity a few days earlier: when he used refugees from the line as labor, the inspectors often fixated solely on the person in the litter. He’d hoped that with Roshone to provide entertainment, the parshmen would be even more lax. Still, Lirin felt himself sweating as Dor hesitated on one of the pictures. Lirin’s letter—returned with the scout who had arrived begging for asylum—had warned the Mink to bring only low-level guards who wouldn’t be on the lists. Could it— The other two parshmen laughed at Roshone, who was trying—despite his drunkenness—to reach the roof of the building and scrape away the crem buildup there. Dor turned and joined them, absently waving Lirin forward. Lirin shared a brief glance with his wife, who waited nearby. It was a good thing none of the parshmen were facing her, because she was pale as a Shin woman. Lirin probably didn’t look much better, but he held in his sigh of relief as he led the Mink and his soldiers forward. He could sequester them in the surgery room, away from the public eye until— “Everyone stop what you’re doing!” a female voice shouted from behind. “Prepare to give deference!” Lirin felt an immediate urge to bolt. He almost did, but the soldiers simply kept walking at a regular pace. Yes. Pretend that you hadn’t heard. “You, surgeon!” the voice shouted at him. It was Abiajan. Reluctantly Lirin halted, excuses running through his mind. Would she believe he hadn’t recognized the Mink? Lirin was already in rough winds with the citylady after insisting on treating Jeber’s wounds after the fool had gotten himself strung up and whipped. Lirin turned around, trying hard to calm his nerves. Abiajan hurried up, and although singers didn’t blush, she was clearly flustered. When she spoke, her words had adopted a staccato cadence. “Attend me. We have a visitor.” It took Lirin a moment to process the words. She wasn’t demanding an explanation. This was about … something else? “What’s wrong, Brightness?” he asked. Nearby, the Mink and his soldiers stopped, but Lirin could see their arms shifting beneath their cloaks. They’d said they’d left behind “obvious” weapons. Almighty help him, if this turned bloody … “Nothing’s wrong,” Abiajan said, speaking quickly. “We’ve been blessed. Attend me.” She looked to Dor and the inspectors. “Pass the word. Nobody is to enter or leave the town until I give word otherwise.” “Brightness,” Lirin said, gesturing toward the man in the litter. “This man’s wound may not appear dire, but I’m certain that if I don’t tend to it immediately, he—” “It will wait.” She pointed to the Mink and his men. “You five, wait. Everyone just wait. All right. Wait and … and you, surgeon, come with me.” She strode away,
expecting Lirin to follow. He met the Mink’s eyes and nodded for him to wait, then hurried after the citylady. What could have put her so out of sorts? She’d been practicing a regal air, but had now abandoned it completely. Lirin crossed the field outside of town, walking alongside the line of refugees, and soon found his answer. A hulking figure easily seven feet tall emerged from the fog, accompanied by a small squad of parshmen with weapons. The dreadful creature had a beard and long hair the color of dried blood, and it seemed to meld with his simple wrap of clothing—as if he wore his hair itself for a covering. He had a pure black skin coloring, with lines of marbled red under his eyes. Most importantly, he had a jagged carapace unlike any Lirin had seen, with a strange pair of carapace fins—or horns—rising above his ears. The creature’s eyes glowed a soft red. One of the Fused. Here in Hearthstone. It had been months since Lirin had seen one—and that had been only in passing as a small group had stopped on the way to the battlefront in Herdaz. That group had soared through the air in breezy robes, bearing long spears. They had evoked an ethereal beauty, but the carapace on this creature looked far more wicked—like something one might expect to have come from Damnation. The Fused spoke in a rhythmic language to a smaller figure at his side, a warform parshwoman. Singer, Lirin told himself. Not parshwoman. Use the right term even in your head, so you don’t slip when speaking. The warform stepped forward to translate for the Fused. From what Lirin had heard, even those Fused who spoke Alethi often used interpreters, as if speaking human tongues were beneath them. “You,” the interpreter said to Lirin, “are the surgeon? You’ve been inspecting the people today?” “Yes,” Lirin said. The Fused replied, and again the interpreter translated. “We are searching for a spy. He might be hidden among these refugees.” Lirin felt his mouth go dry. The thing standing above him was a nightmare that should have remained a legend, a demon whispered of around the midnight fire. When Lirin tried to speak, the words wouldn’t come out, and he had to cough to clear his throat. At a barked order from the Fused, the soldiers with him spread out to the waiting line. The refugees backed away, and several tried to run, but the parshmen—though small beside the Fused—were warforms, with powerful strength and terrible speed. They caught runners while others began searching through the line, throwing back hoods and inspecting faces. Don’t look behind you at the Mink, Lirin. Don’t seem nervous. “We…” Lirin said. “We inspect each person, comparing them to the drawings given us. I promise you. We’ve been watchful! No need to terrorize these poor refugees.” The interpreter didn’t translate Lirin’s words for the Fused, but the creature spoke immediately in its own language. “The one we seek is not on those lists,” the interpreter said. “He is
a young man, a spy of the most dangerous kind. He would be fit and strong compared to these refugees, though he might have feigned weakness.” “That … that could describe any number of people,” Lirin said. Could he be in luck? Could this be a coincidence? It might not be about the Mink at all. Lirin felt a moment of hope, like sunlight peeking through stormclouds. “You would remember this man,” the interpreter continued. “Tall for a human, with wavy black hair worn to the shoulders. Clean shaven, he has a slave’s brand on his forehead. Including the glyph shash.” Slave’s brand. Shash. Dangerous. Oh no … Nearby, one of the Fused’s soldiers threw back the hood of another cloaked refugee—revealing a face that should have been intimately familiar to Lirin. Yet the harsh man Kaladin had become looked like a crude drawing of the sensitive youth Lirin remembered. Kaladin immediately burst alight with power. Death had come to visit Hearthstone today, despite Lirin’s every effort. A tin cage will cause the fabrial to diminish nearby attributes. A painrial, for example, can numb pain. Note that advanced designs of cages can use both steel and iron as well, changing the fabrial’s polarity depending on which metals are pushed to touch the gemstone. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 Kaladin was feeling quite a bit better as they neared the Shattered Plains. A few hours’ flying through open sky and sunlight always left him feeling refreshed. Right now, the man who had crumpled before Moash in that burning building seemed an entirely different person. Syl flew up beside him as a ribbon of light. Kaladin’s Windrunners were Lashing Dalinar and the others; all Kaladin had to do was fly at the head of them all and look confident. I’ve spoken to Yunfah again, Syl said in his mind. He’s here on the Plains. I think he wants to talk to you. “Tell him to come up and see me, then,” Kaladin said. His voice was lost to the rushing wind, but Syl would catch it anyway. She flitted off, followed by a few windspren. From this distance, Kaladin could almost make out the pattern to the Shattered Plains. So he gave a hand signal and reduced to a single Lashing. A short time later, two blue-white ribbons of light came zipping up toward him. He could somehow tell Syl from the other one. There was a specific shade to her, as familiar to him as his own face. The other light resolved into the shape of a tiny old man reclining on a small cloud as he flew beside Kaladin. The spren, Yunfah, had been bonded to Vratim, a Windrunner who had died a few months ago. At first, when they’d begun losing Radiants in battle, Kaladin had worried it would cause him to lose the spren as well. Syl, after all, had gone comatose many centuries ago when she’d lost her first Radiant. Others, however, handled it differently. The majority, though
grieved, seemed to want another bond soon—as it helped them move past the pain of loss. Kaladin didn’t pretend to understand spren psychology, but Yunfah had seemed to deal with the death of his Radiant well. Treating it as a battlefield loss of an ally, rather than the destruction of part of his own soul. Indeed, Yunfah appeared willing to bond another. So far, he hadn’t—and for reasons Kaladin couldn’t understand. And as far as Kaladin knew, he was the sole free honorspren among them. He says, Syl told Kaladin in his mind, that he’s still considering picking a new knight. He’s narrowed it down to five possibilities. “Is Rlain one of them?” Yunfah stood up on his cloud, his long beard whipping in the wind—though he had no real substance. Kaladin could read anger in his posture before Syl gave him the reply. She was acting as intermediary since the sound of the rushing wind was fairly loud, even at a single Lashing. No, Syl said. He is angry at your repeated suggestion he bond one of the enemies. “He won’t find a potential Windrunner more capable or earnest.” He’s acting mad, Syl said. But I do think he’ll agree if you push him. He respects you, and honorspren like hierarchy. The ones who have joined us did so against the will of the general body of their peers; they’ll be looking for someone to be in charge. All right then. “As your highmarshal and superior officer,” Kaladin said, “I forbid you to bond anyone else unless you try to work with Rlain first.” The elderly spren shook his fist at Kaladin. “You have two choices, Yunfah,” Kaladin said, not waiting for Syl. “Obey me, or throw away all the work you’ve done to adapt to this realm. You need a bond or your mind will fade. I’m tired of waiting on your indecisiveness.” The spren glared at him. “Will you follow orders?” The spren spoke. He asks how long you’ll give him, Syl explained. “Ten days,” Kaladin said. “And that is generous.” Yunfah said something, then sped away, becoming a ribbon of light. Syl pulled up alongside Kaladin’s head. He said “fine” before leaving, she said. I have little doubt he’ll at least consider Rlain now. Yunfah doesn’t want to go back to Shadesmar; he likes this realm too much. Kaladin nodded, and felt uplifted by the result. If this worked out, Rlain would be thrilled. Followed by the others, Kaladin swooped down toward Narak, their outpost at the center of the Shattered Plains. Navani’s engineers were turning the entire plateau from ruins into a fortified base. A wall to the east—easily six feet wide at its foot—was being built, low and squat, against the storms. A thinner wall wrapped the rest of the plateau, and lightning rods helped protect from the Everstorm. Kaladin alighted on top of the wall and surveyed the fort. The engineers had scraped away most of the old Parshendi buildings, preserving only the most ancient of the ruins for study. Supply dumps, barracks, and storm
cisterns rose around them now. With the wall going right up to the chasm, and with collapsible bridges outside, this isolated plateau was quickly becoming impregnable from ordinary ground assault. “Imagine if the Parshendi had known modern fortification techniques,” Kaladin said to Syl as she blew past in the shape of tumbling leaves. “A few strategic forts set up like this across the Plains, and we’d never have broken them out.” “As I recall,” she replied, “we didn’t so much break them out as purposely fall into their trap and hope it wouldn’t hurt too much.” Nearby, the other Windrunners lowered Dalinar, some of the Edgedancers, and Navani’s wooden travel vehicle. That had been a good idea, although it was a little harder to keep the larger object in the air. The thing had four fins on it, like an arrow. They’d started with two wings—which Navani had thought would make the vehicle fly better, but which had made it pull upward uncontrollably once a Windrunner Lashed it. He hopped down from his perch. Syl whirled in a long arc around the old pillar at this edge of the plateau. Tall, with steps along the outside, it had become a perfect scout nest. Rlain said it had been used in Parshendi ceremonies, but he hadn’t known its original purpose. Much of these ruins—the remnants of a once-grand city that had stood during the shadowdays—baffled them. Perhaps the two Heralds could explain the pillar. Had they walked here? Unfortunately—considering that one of them was full-on delusional and the other dabbled in it now and then—he wasn’t certain they’d be useful in this. He wanted to get to Urithiru as quickly as possible. Before people had a chance to start talking to him again, trying—with forced laughs—to cheer him up. He walked over to Dalinar, who was taking a report from the battalionlord who commanded Narak. Oddly, Navani hadn’t emerged from her vehicle yet. Perhaps she was lost in her research. “Permission to take the first group back, sir,” Kaladin said. “I want to go clean up.” “A moment, Highmarshal,” Dalinar said to Kaladin, scanning the written report. The battalionlord, a gruff fellow with an Oldblood tattoo, looked away pointedly. Though Dalinar had never said he’d moved to written reports specifically to make his officers confront the idea of a man reading, Kaladin could see the showmanship in the way he held up the sheet and nodded to himself as he read. “What happened to Brightness Ialai is regrettable,” Dalinar said. “See that her decision to take her own life is published. I authorize a full occupation of the warcamps. See it done.” “Yes, Your Majesty,” the battalionlord said. Dalinar was a king now, officially recognized by the coalition of monarchs as ruler of Urithiru—a station separate from Jasnah’s queenship over Alethkar. In acknowledgment of this, Dalinar had officially renounced any idea of being a “highking” over any other monarch. Dalinar handed the sheet to the battalionlord, then nodded to Kaladin. They walked off from the others, then a little further, to a section
of the base between two Soulcast grain shelters. The king didn’t speak at first, but Kaladin knew this trick. It was an old disciplinary tactic—you left silence hanging in the air. That made your man begin explaining himself first. Well, Kaladin didn’t bite. Dalinar studied him, taking note of his burned and bloodied uniform. Finally, he spoke. “I have multiple reports of you and your soldiers letting enemy Fused go once you’ve wounded them.” Kaladin relaxed immediately. That was what Dalinar wanted to talk about? “I think we’re starting to reach a kind of understanding with them, sir,” Kaladin said. “The Heavenly Ones fight with honor. I let one of them go today. In turn, their leader—Leshwi—released one of my men instead of killing him.” “This isn’t a game, son,” Dalinar said. “This isn’t about who gets first blood. We’re literally fighting for the existence of our people.” “I know,” Kaladin said quickly. “But this can serve us. You’ve noticed already how they’ll hold back and attack us one-on-one, so long as we play by their rules. Considering how many more Heavenly Ones there are than Windrunners, I think we want to encourage this kind of encounter. Killing them is barely an inconvenience, as they’ll be reborn. But each of ours they kill requires training an entirely new Windrunner. Getting back wounded for wounded favors us.” “You never did want to fight the parshmen,” Dalinar said. “Even when you first joined my army, you didn’t want to be sent against the Parshendi.” “I didn’t like the idea of killing people who showed us honor, sir.” “Does it strike you as odd to find it among them?” Dalinar asked. “The Almighty—Honor himself—was our god. The one their god killed.” “I used to think it odd. But sir, wasn’t Honor their god before he was ours?” That was one of the revelations that had shaken the foundation of the Radiants—both ancient and new. Though many of the orders had accepted the truth as an oddity and moved on, many Windrunners had not. Nor had Dalinar; Kaladin could see the way he winced whenever the idea was discussed. This world had belonged to the singers with Honor as their god. Until humans had arrived, bringing Odium. “All of this highlights a bigger problem,” Dalinar said. “This war is increasingly being fought in the skies. Navani’s flying transport will only escalate the situation. We need more honorspren and Windrunners.” Kaladin looked to where Syl hung in the air beside him. Dalinar fixed his gaze on her a moment later, so she must have decided to reveal herself to him. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “My relatives can be … difficult.” “They have to see that we’re fighting for the survival of Roshar as much as for the survival of the Alethi,” Dalinar said. “We can’t do that without their help.” “To my cousins, you are dangerous,” Syl said. “As dangerous as the singers. The betrayal of the Knights Radiant killed so many of them.…” “The other spren have begun coming around,” Kaladin said. “They see it.”
“Honorspren are more … rigid,” she said. “Most of them at least.” She shrugged and looked to the side, as if ashamed. Human gestures from her were so common these days that Kaladin barely paused to notice them. “We need to do something,” Dalinar said. “It’s been eight months without a new honorspren coming to us.” He eyed Kaladin. “But that’s a problem I suppose I’ll continue to contemplate. For now, I’m worried about the way the Heavenly Ones and the Windrunners are interacting. It smacks of neither of you giving this your all—and I can’t have soldiers on the battlefield that I worry won’t be able to fight when the pressure mounts.” Kaladin felt cold as he met Dalinar’s eyes. So. This conversation was about Kaladin after all. What had happened to him. Again. “Kaladin,” Dalinar said. “You’re one of the best soldiers I’ve ever had the privilege of leading. You fight with passion and dedication. You single-handedly built up what has become the most important wing of my military—and did all this while living through the worst nightmare I could imagine. You are an inspiration to everyone who meets you.” “Thank you, sir.” Dalinar nodded, then put his hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “It’s time that I relieved you of duty, son. I’m sorry.” A jolt went through Kaladin. Like the shock of being stabbed—or the feeling of suddenly coming awake in an unfamiliar place, frightened by a sudden noise. A visceral clenching of the stomach. A sudden racing of the heart. Every piece of you alert, looking for the fight. “No,” he whispered. “Sir, I know how it seems.” “How does it seem?” Dalinar asked. “Diagnose yourself, Kaladin. Tell me what you see.” Kaladin closed his eyes. No. Dalinar gripped his shoulder tighter. “I’m no surgeon, but I can tell you what I see. A soldier who has been on the front lines for far, far too long. A man who has survived so many horrors, he now finds himself staring at nothing, his mind going numb so he doesn’t have to remember. I see a soldier who can’t sleep, who snaps at those who love him. He’s a soldier who pretends he can still function. But he can’t. He knows it.” Kaladin knocked Dalinar’s hand away, snapping open his eyes. “You can’t do this. I built the Windrunners. They’re my team. You can’t take that from me.” “I will because I have to,” Dalinar said. “Kaladin, if you were anyone else, I’d have pulled you from active duty months ago. But you’re you, and I kept telling myself we needed every Windrunner.” “That’s true!” “We need every functional Windrunner. I’m sorry. There was a point where if I’d removed you from command, it would have destroyed the momentum of the entire team. We’re safely past that now. You will still be with us … but you won’t be going on any more missions.” A growling sound escaped Kaladin’s throat, one a piece of him refused to believe he was making. He sucked in Stormlight. He would not be beaten
down again. He would not let some lighteyed blowhard take everything from him again. “I can’t believe this!” Kaladin said, angerspren pooling underneath him. “You were supposed to be different. You—” “Why?” Dalinar asked, standing calmly. “Why what?” Kaladin snapped. “Why am I different?” “Because you don’t throw us away!” Kaladin shouted. “Because you … Because…” Because you care about your men. Kaladin deflated. He suddenly felt small. A child standing before a stern parent. He wavered, putting his back to the nearest building. Syl hung beside him, looking concerned, confused. She didn’t speak up to contradict Dalinar. Why didn’t she stick up for Kaladin? He glanced to the side. He’d brought most of what had been Bridge Four with him; the Windrunners he’d left to protect the airship had once been Bridge Thirteen and their squires. So he saw a lot of friendly faces standing in the distant Narak courtyard. Rock and Teft. Renarin. Sigzil, Lyn, Lopen. Leyten and Peet, Skar and Drehy. Laran, newly forged as a full Radiant. None had yet spoken the Fourth Ideal. He liked to think that it was as hard for them as it was for him, and none had yet cracked it. But … but could they be restraining themselves because of him? Out of some misguided respect? He turned back to Dalinar. “What if I’m not there?” he pled. One final complaint. “What if something happens when they’re out fighting? What if one of them dies because I couldn’t protect them?” “Kaladin,” Dalinar said softly, “what if something happens because you are with them? What if one of them dies because they expect your help, but you freeze again?” Kaladin breathed in sharply. He turned aside and squeezed his eyes shut, feeling tears leak out. What if … Storms, Dalinar was right. He was right. “I…” he whispered. What were the Words? You couldn’t say the Words, he thought. You needed to. A year ago, when Dalinar could have died. You needed to speak the Words. You crumpled instead. Kaladin would never say them, would he? He was finished at the Third Ideal. Other spren had said … said that many Radiants never spoke the later oaths. Kaladin took a deep breath and forced his eyes open. “What … what do I do now?” “You aren’t being demoted,” Dalinar said firmly. “I want you training, teaching, and helping us fight this war. Don’t be ashamed, son. You fought well. You survived things no man should have to. That sort of experience leaves scars, same as any wound. It’s all right to admit to them.” Kaladin brushed his fingers at his forehead and the scars he still bore. Unhealed, despite all of his powers, years after he’d been branded. Dalinar cleared his throat, seeming uncomfortable. Perhaps, upon remembering Kaladin’s wound, he thought the mention of scars to be in poor taste. It wasn’t. The metaphor was particularly sound. “Can … can I keep my oaths without fighting?” Kaladin asked. “I need to protect.” “There are many ways to protect,” Dalinar said. “Not all Radiants
went into battle in the old days. I myself have found many ways to serve this war without swinging a Blade on the front lines.” Kaladin looked to Syl, who nodded. Yes, he could keep his oaths this way. “You won’t be the first celebrated soldier who has moved to a support position after seeing one too many friends die,” Dalinar said to Kaladin. “God Beyond willing, we’ll persuade the honorspren to work with us—and then we’ll need to train flocks of new Windrunners. You’ll be of great use overseeing Radiant training either way.” “I just won’t be anywhere I can cause harm,” Kaladin whispered. “Because I’m broken.” Dalinar took him by the shoulder once more, then raised his other hand, holding up a finger, as if to force Kaladin to focus on it. “This,” Dalinar said, “is what war does to all of us. It chews us up and spits us out mangled. There’s no dishonor in taking a step away to recover. No more than there’s dishonor in giving yourself time to heal from a stab wound.” “So I’ll come back to the battle?” Kaladin asked. “I’ll take a leave, then return?” “If we feel it’s right for you to do so. Yes, that’s possible.” Possible, Kaladin thought. But not likely. Dalinar had probably seen more men succumb to battle fatigue than Kaladin had—but in all his years of fighting, Kaladin had never seen someone recover. It didn’t seem the kind of thing you got over. If only he’d been stronger. Why hadn’t he said the Words? “We’ll find a way to make this a smooth, natural transition,” Dalinar promised him. “We can introduce it to the others in whatever way you’d like. That said, we’re also not going to delay. This isn’t a request, Kaladin. It’s an order. From now on, you stay out of battle.” “Yes, sir,” Kaladin said. Dalinar squeezed his shoulder. “You’re not valuable to me because of how many enemies you can kill. It’s because you’re man enough to understand, and to say words like those.” He nodded, letting go. “This is not a disciplinary action, Kaladin. I’ll have new orders for you tomorrow. You can trust that I will put you to work. We will explain to everyone else that it’s a promotion.” Kaladin forced out a smile, and that seemed to relieve Dalinar. Had to keep on a good face. Had to look strong. Don’t let him know. “Sir,” Kaladin said. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to take a post training other Radiants. Being with the Windrunners, sending them off to die without me … well, sir, it would rip me apart. I don’t think I could see them fly, and not join them.” “I hadn’t considered that.” Dalinar frowned. “If you’d rather request another duty, I will allow it. Perhaps in logistics or battle planning? Or maybe as an ambassador to Thaylenah or Azir. Your reputation would put you in high esteem there. At any rate, I won’t have someone like you sitting around growing crem. You’re too valuable.” Sure. Of
course. Take from me the one thing that matters, then tell me I’m valuable. We both know I’m nothing. Kaladin fought against those thoughts, and forced out another smile. “I’ll think about it, sir. I might need time to decide what I want, though.” “Very well,” Dalinar said. “You have ten days. Before then, I want you to report to me your decision.” Kaladin nodded. He put on another smile, which had the intended effect of convincing Dalinar not to worry. The man walked over to the other Windrunners. Kaladin looked away, feeling his stomach twist. His friends laughed and joked with one another, in high spirits. So far as they knew, the Windrunners hadn’t lost any members today. They didn’t know the truth—that they’d taken a single profound casualty. His name had been Kaladin Stormblessed. I felt it happen to Jezrien. You think you captured him, but our god is Splintered, our Oathpact severed. He faded over the weeks, and is gone now. Beyond your touch at long last. I should welcome the same. I do not. I fear you. Formless awoke early on the day of Adolin’s final judgment. It was time. She slipped from the bed and began dressing. Unfortunately, she’d moved a little too quickly, as Adolin stirred and yawned. “Veil’s clothing,” he noted. Formless didn’t respond, still dressing. “Thank you,” Adolin said, “for Shallan’s support last night. I needed her.” “There are some things only she can do,” Formless said. Would that be a problem, now that Shallan no longer existed? “What’s wrong, Veil?” Adolin said, sitting up in bed. “You seem different.” Formless pulled on her coat. “Nothing’s different. I’m the same old Veil.” Don’t you use my name, Veil thought deep inside. Don’t you dare lie to him like that. Formless stopped. She’d thought Veil locked away. “No,” Adolin said. “Something is different. Become Shallan for a moment. I could use her optimism today.” “Shallan is too weak,” Formless said. “Is she?” “You know how troubled her emotions are. She suffers every day from a traitorous mind.” She put on her hat. “I knew a one-armed swordsman once,” Adolin said, yawning. “He had trouble in duels because he couldn’t hold a shield, or two-hand a sword.” “Obviously,” Formless said, turning and rummaging in her trunk. “But I tell you,” Adolin said, “no one could arm-wrestle like Dorolin. No one.” “What is your point?” “Who do you think is stronger?” Adolin asked. “The man who has walked easily his entire life, or the man with no legs? The man who must pull himself by his arms?” She didn’t reply, fiddling with the communication cube, then tucking Mraize’s knife into her pocket along with her gemstone of Stormlight. “We don’t always see strength the right way,” Adolin said. “Like, who is the better swimmer? The sailor who drowns—giving in at long last to the current after hours of fighting—or the scribe who has never stepped into the water?” “Do you have a point with these questions?” Formless snapped, slamming her trunk closed. “Because I don’t see one.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Adolin grimaced. “I’m not explaining it well. I just … I don’t think Shallan is as weak as you say. Weakness doesn’t make someone weak, you see. It’s the opposite.” “That is foolishness,” she said. “Return to sleep. Your trial is in a couple hours, and you shouldn’t be fatigued for it.” Formless stalked out into the living room. There she hid by the side of the door and waited to see if Adolin followed. Pattern perked up from where he’d been sitting at the desk, and Formless quieted him with a glare. Adolin didn’t come out. She heard him sigh loudly, but he remained in bed. Good. She had to act quickly. Formless needed to give him this last gift, the gift of winning here in Lasting Integrity. She owed the memory of Shallan that much. I know what you’re doing, Veil whispered. I’ve finally figured it out. Formless froze. She checked on Radiant—tucked into the prison of her mind, trying to break free but unable to speak. So why could Veil? Well, she could ignore a voice or two. Formless sat at the desk and sketched the layout of the judge’s home. They’d paced it off yesterday, and peeked in windows. With her talent for spatial awareness, this floor plan should be accurate. You aren’t a new persona, Veil thought. If you were, you couldn’t draw like that. You can lie to yourself, but not me. Formless froze again. Was this what she wanted? What she really wanted? She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. There were so many questions. Why was Veil able to talk? Who had killed Ialai? How would she extricate herself from Adolin, from the Radiants? Was that the life she desired? Formless steeled herself, quieting the questions. She placed a hand on her forehead, breathing deeply. Pattern stepped over, so Formless closed the sketchbook and slid it into her satchel. “… Veil?” Pattern asked. “What are you doing?” “It has to happen today,” Formless said. She checked the clock. “Soon. Before the judge leaves his quarters.” She gripped the gemstone she’d hidden in her pocket. “Veil,” Pattern said. “This is not a good idea.” He is right, Veil thought. He is right, Shallan. I am Formless, she thought back. No you’re not, Shallan. “I wouldn’t be so quick to tell me what is right and wrong, Pattern,” Formless said to him. “We still haven’t dealt with your betrayal and your lies. Perhaps you aren’t the best judge of morality, and should leave that to me.” His pattern slowed and his shoulders slumped, and he stepped backward as if he wanted to vanish into the shadows. Formless drew out a little Stormlight, savoring the sensation of it inside her veins. Then she performed a Lightweaving. It worked. Formless was a composite of the three—a single person with Shallan’s drawing and Lightweaving abilities, Radiant’s determination and ability to get things done, and Veil’s ability to push aside the pain. Veil’s ability to see the truth. The best of all three of them. Lies, Shallan,
Veil thought. Storms. I should have seen this. I should have known.… She glanced at herself in the mirror, and found the Lightweaving to be perfect. She looked exactly like Lusintia, the honorspren woman. She even gave off the same faint glow. This was going to be so easy. Formless packed her drawing tools in case she needed to quickly sketch a new face. A Lightweaving disguised her satchel as a cloth bag like the ones the honorspren used. Bells from below announced that it was about an hour until the trial. She crossed the room, passing Pattern, who had withdrawn to the corner. He stood in the shadows, his pattern moving lethargically. “What’s happening?” he said. “Something is very wrong with you, Shallan. I have handled this so poorly. I talked to Wit yesterday, and he—” “You’re still doing that?” Formless said. “You’re still disobeying me?” Pattern pulled away further. “I’ve had enough of you,” Formless hissed. “Stay here and cover for me with Adolin. We’ll talk about this at length after the trial.” She took a deep breath and peeked out to make sure no one was watching—they might wonder why Lusintia had been in Shallan’s house—then slipped out and began crossing the southern plane. The fortress was quiet. Spren didn’t sleep, but they did have less active periods. They would congregate at “night” in the homes of friends, leaving the walkways of the fortress relatively unwatched. A few leaves fluttered through the open air between the four sides. Formless tried not to look at the other three planes, three cities making an impossible box around her. She wasn’t good at— “Veil,” a voice said behind her. “I need to explain. I must tell you the truth. Mmm…” She groaned and turned. Pattern was following her like a barely weaned axehound pup. “You’ll give away my disguise!” she snapped at him. He stopped, his pattern slowing. “You must know what Wit said,” Pattern replied. “He is so wise. He seems to like you and hate everyone else. Ha ha. He made fun of me. It was very funny. I am like a chicken. Ha ha.” Formless closed her eyes and sighed. “He said to tell you that we trust you,” Pattern said. “And love you. He said I should tell you that you deserve trust and love. And you do. I’m sorry I’ve been lying. For a very long time. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you could handle it.” “Shallan couldn’t,” she said. “Go to the room and wait. I’ll deal with you later.” She strode away, and fortunately he didn’t follow. It was time to become the woman she’d been building toward ever since she left her home to steal from Jasnah. Formless could finally join the Ghostbloods. She didn’t care about Shallan’s past. Let it sleep. She could be like Veil, who didn’t have to worry about such things. You’re pretending to be like me, Veil thought. But Wit is right. You deserve to be loved, Shallan. You do. The High Judge’s quarters were all the way
at the top of the plane, near the battlements. It was difficult to ignore the strange geometry up here, past the parks and the trees, because the sky was so close. She wanted to spend time drawing it, but of course she wasn’t like that anymore. She needed to find all this disorienting and strange. Like Veil. It helped to focus on the target: a small building near the corner of the wall. She passed several honorspren, but not many. She waved to those who waved to her, but mostly strode forward with a sense of purpose. Once Formless arrived, she loitered near the house, glancing around until she could be reasonably certain no one was looking. That was difficult, with multiple planes to watch. At least the plan was simple. Step up to the door. Soulcast the doorknob into smoke to get past the lock. Sneak in and make her way to the back room, which was the High Judge’s study. Knife him before he could react, then take his place for the trial. This was her last step. This was the end. I … Radiant said, her voice distant. I killed Ialai. Formless froze in place. I saw … Radiant whispered, that you were about to do it. That you had poison secreted in your satchel. So I stepped in. To protect you. So you … didn’t have to do it. To prevent … what is happening to you now … Shallan … She squeezed her eyes shut. No. No, she wouldn’t back down. She had to do this. To end it. To end the wavering. She opened her eyes, strode up to the door, and grabbed the knob with her freehand. It vanished beneath her touch. Soulcasting really was easier on this side. The knob barely cared that she asked it to change. She pushed open the door. The room inside was packed. Pieces of furniture stacked atop one another. Rolled tapestries. Knickknacks and mementos, like a small glass chicken on the windowsill and a pile of dusty letters on a table. Formless shut the door with a quiet motion. The windows provided enough light to see by, and she could see the glow of candlelight beneath the room’s other door, the one that led into the High Judge’s study. Kelek was here. She revealed Mraize’s knife, then stepped forward. As she did so, she felt a coldness—like a sharp breeze. Stormlight left her in a rush. Formless paused, then glanced over her shoulder. Veil stood behind her. “I know why you’re doing this, Shallan,” Veil said. “There’s no fourth persona. Not yet. You’ve given yourself another name, so you can tuck away the pain. You take that step though, and it will be real.” “This is who I want to be,” Formless said. “Let me go.” “You’re running again,” Veil said. “You think you don’t deserve Adolin, or your place as a Radiant. You’re terrified that if your friends knew what you truly were, they’d turn away from you. Leave you. So you’re going to leave them first.
“That’s why you kept spending time with the Ghostbloods. That’s why you’re here. You see this as an out from your life. You figure if you become the despicable person the darkness whispers that you have been, then it will all be decided. No going back. Decision’s made.” Formless … Formless … Was just Shallan. And Shallan wanted to do this. She wanted to show them what she truly was. So it would be over. “I can’t be Shallan,” she whispered. “Shallan is weak.” Shallan put her hands to her eyes and trembled. Veil felt her emotions in a sudden wave of pain, frustration, shame, and confusion. It made her shake as well. “Who is a better swimmer?” Veil whispered. “It’s the sailor who has swum his entire life, even if he encounters rough seas that challenge him. Who is the stronger man? It is the man who must pull himself by his arms. And that swordsman with one arm … He was probably the best in raw skill. He couldn’t win because of his disadvantages, but he wasn’t weaker than the others.” Shallan stilled. “Adolin is right,” Veil said. “He’s always been right about you. Tell me. Who is the strongest of mind? The woman whose emotions are always on her side? Or the woman whose own thoughts betray her? You have fought this fight every day of your life, Shallan. And you are not weak.” “Aren’t I?” Shallan demanded, spinning. “I killed my own father! I strangled him with my own hands!” The words cut deep, like a spike through the heart. Veil winced visibly. But that cut to the heart somehow let warmth bleed out, flowing through her. “You have borne that truth for a year and a half, Shallan,” Veil said, stepping forward. “You kept going. You were strong enough. You made the oath.” “And Mother?” Shallan snapped. “Do you remember the feel of the Blade forming in our hands for the first time, Veil? I do. Do you remember the horror I felt at the strike, which I never meant to make?” Her mother, with stark red hair—a length of metal in her chest as her beautiful green eyes turned to coal. Burning out of her face. Shallan’s voice, screaming at what she’d done. Screaming, begging to take it back. Wishing she were dead. Wishing … Wishing … Another spike to the heart. More warmth bleeding out, blood flowing with thunderous heartbeats. Veil always felt so cold, but today she felt warm. Warm with pain. Warm with life. “You can bear it,” Veil whispered. She stepped forward, eye-to-eye with Shallan. “You can remember it. Our weakness doesn’t make us weak. Our weakness makes us strong. For we had to carry it all these years.” “No,” Shallan said, her voice growing soft. “No. I can’t…” “You can,” Veil whispered. “I’ve protected you all these years, but it’s time for me to leave. It’s time for me to be done.” “I can’t,” Shallan said. “I’m too weak!” “I don’t think you are. Take the memories.” Veil reached out her
hand. “Take them back, Shallan.” Shallan wavered. Formless had vanished like a puff of smoke, revealing all her lies. And there was Veil’s hand. Inviting. Offering to prove that Shallan was strong. Shallan took her hand. Memories flooded her. Playing in the gardens as a child, meeting a Cryptic. A beautiful, spiraling spren that dimpled the stone. Wonderful times, spent hidden among the foliage in their special place. The Cryptic encouraged her to become strong enough to help her family, to stand against the terrible darkness spreading through it. Such a blessed time, full of hope, and joy, and truths spoken easily with the solemnity and wonder of a child. That companion had been a true friend to an isolated child, a girl who suffered parents who constantly fought over her future. Her spren. A spren who could talk. A spren she could confide in. A companion. And that companion had not been Pattern. It had been a different Cryptic. One who … One who … Shallan fell to her knees, arms wrapped around herself, trembling. “Oh storms … Oh, God of Oaths…” She felt a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, Shallan,” Veil whispered. “It’s all right.” “I know what you are,” Shallan whispered. “You’re the blankness upon my memories. The part of me that looks away. The part of my mind that protects me from my past.” “Of course I am,” Veil said. “I’m your veil, Shallan.” She squeezed Shallan’s shoulder, then turned toward the closed door. Had Kelek heard them talking … or … had they even spoken out loud? Shallan surged to her feet. No. It hurt too much. Didn’t it make more sense to become what Mraize wanted? Adolin would hate her for what she did. Dalinar would hate her. Shallan represented the very thing they all said they would never do. The thing they blamed for all of their problems. The thing that had doomed humankind. She … she was worthless. She reached for the doorknob. You can bear it, Radiant whispered. No. She could become Formless and join the Ghostbloods wholeheartedly. Become the woman she’d created for herself, the strong spy who lived a double life without it bothering her. She could be confident and collected and painless and perfect. Strength before weakness, Radiant said. Not a woman who had … who had … Be strong. Shallan turned, breathing out, and Stormlight exploded from her like her life’s own blood. It painted the room before her, coloring it, changing it to a lush garden. Covered in bright green vines and shalebark of pink and red. Within it, a hidden place where a girl cried. The girl wept, then screamed, then said the terrible words. “I don’t want you! I hate you! I’m done! You never existed. You are nothing. And I am finished!” Shallan didn’t turn away. She wouldn’t. She felt the ripping sensation again. The terrible pain, and the awful horror. She hadn’t known what she was doing, not truly. But she had done it. “I killed her,” Shallan whispered. “I killed my
spren. My wonderful, beautiful, kindly spren. I broke my oaths, and I killed her.” Veil stood with her hands clasped before her. “It’s going to hurt,” Veil warned. “I’m sorry for the pain, Shallan. I did what I could—but I did it for too long.” “I know,” Shallan said. “But I have no strength that you do not, Shallan,” Veil said. “You are me. We are me.” Veil became Stormlight, glowing brightly. The color faded from her, becoming pure white. Her memories integrated into Shallan’s. Her skills became Shallan’s. And Shallan recognized everything she had done. She remembered preparing the needle hidden in her satchel to kill Ialai. She saw her past, and her growing worry in all its self-destructive horror. Saw herself growing into the lie that she could never belong with Adolin and the Radiants, so she began searching for another escape. But that escape wasn’t strength. This was strength. She closed her eyes, bearing the burden of those memories. Not only of what she’d done recently, but what she’d done in the garden that day. Terrible memories. Her memories. As there was nothing left for Veil to protect Shallan from feeling, she began to fade. But as she faded, one last question surfaced: Did I do well? “Yes,” Shallan whispered. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” And then, like any other illusion that was no longer needed, Veil puffed away. Shallan took a deep breath, her pain settling in. Storms … Pattern was here. Not her new Pattern, the first one. The deadeye. Shallan needed to find her. Later. For now, she had a job to do. As she gathered herself, the door to the study clicked open, and light spilled around a figure. An Alethi man with wispy hair and weary eyes. Shallan knew that expression well. “I see,” Kelek said. “So you are the one sent to kill me?” “I was sent for that purpose,” she said, holding up the knife. She set it on a nearby table. “Sent by someone who didn’t realize I’d be strong enough to say no. You’re safe from me, Kelek.” He walked over and picked up the knife in timid fingers. “So this is like the one they used on Jezrien?” “I don’t know,” Shallan said honestly. “A group called the Ghostbloods wanted me to use that on you.” “Old Thaidakar has always wanted my secrets,” Kelek said. “I thought it would be the man, your husband, who came for me. I wonder if he knows I’ve had trouble fighting these days. It’s so hard to decide. To do anything really…” “Is that why you’ve been so hard on Adolin?” Shallan asked. “At the trial?” Kelek shook his head. “You two stumbled into a little war of ideologies. The older honorspren—they’re so frightened of what happened to their predecessors. But the young ones want to go fight.” “I can tell you about the people who sent me,” Shallan said. “We can share information. But first I have a request. You’re about to convict my husband in this sham of a trial.
I’d like you to reconsider.” Kelek wiped his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket. “So many questions,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her request. “Who else knows I’m here? I feel like I’m close to finding a way offworld. Maybe … Maybe I should wait.…” “I have information that could help you,” Shallan said. “But I want to trade. There isn’t much time for us to—” She was interrupted as the door slammed open, revealing several honorspren—including Lusintia, the one Shallan had impersonated. She gestured aggressively at Shallan, who stepped back, reaching into her pocket for her gemstone. It was dun. Somehow, in what she’d done with Veil, she’d used it all up. “Attempting to influence the course of the trial?” Lusintia demanded. “Colluding with the judge?” “She was … doing nothing of the sort,” Kelek said, stepping up beside Shallan. “She was bringing me news from the Physical Realm. And I’d have you not barge into my quarters, thank you very much.” Lusintia stopped, but then looked over her shoulder toward a bearded male honorspren. Shallan recognized him as Sekeir, the one who had acted as prosecutor against Adolin on the first day of the trial. An important spren, perhaps the most important in the fortress. And one of the oldest ones. “I think, Honored One,” Sekeir said softly, “that you might be having another bout of your weakness. We shall have to sequester you, I’m afraid. For your own good…” Nevertheless, I’m writing answers for you here, because something glimmers deep within me. A fragment of a memory of what I once was. I was there when Ba-Ado-Mishram was captured. I know the truth of the Radiants, the Recreance, and the Nahel spren. Adolin made no effort to arrive early to the last day of the trial. Indeed, each footstep felt leaden as he trudged toward the forum. He could see from a distance that the place was crowded—with even more spren gathered at the top of the steps than yesterday. Nearly every honorspren in the fortress had come to watch him be judged. Though he didn’t relish facing them, he also couldn’t give up this opportunity. It was his last chance to speak for himself, for his people. He had to believe that some of them were listening. And if he lost? If he was condemned to imprisonment? Would he let Shallan rescue him, as she’d offered? If I did, he thought, I would prove what the leaders of the honorspren have been saying all along: Men aren’t worthy of trust. What if the only way to win here was to accept their judgment? To spend years in a cell? After all, what else are you good for, Adolin? The world needed Radiants, not princes—particularly not ones who had refused the throne. Perhaps the best thing he could do for humanity was become a living testimony of their honor. That thought troubled him as he reached the crowd. They parted for him, nudging one another, falling silent as he descended. Storms, I wasn’t built for problems
like this, Adolin thought. He hadn’t slept well—and he worried about the way Shallan had been acting lately. She wasn’t sitting in her spot, and neither was Pattern. Was she going to skip this most important day of the trial? He was about halfway down the steps when he noticed another oddity: Kelek wasn’t there. Sekeir—the aged honorspren with the long beard—had taken his place. He waved for Adolin to continue. Adolin reached the floor of the forum and walked over to the judge’s seat. “Where is Kelek?” “The Holy One is indisposed,” Sekeir said. “Your wife went to him in secret and tried to influence the course of the trial.” Adolin felt a spike of joy. So that was what she’d been up to. “Do not smile,” Sekeir said. “We discovered a weapon of curious design, perhaps used to intimidate the Holy One. Your wife is being held, and the Holy One is … suffering from his long time as a Herald. “We have relieved him as High Judge, and I will sit in his place. You will find the documentation on your seat, to be read to you if you wish. The trial will continue under my direction. I am a far lesser being, but I will not be as … lax as he was.” Great, Adolin thought. Wonderful. He tried to find a way to use this to his advantage. Could he stall? Make some kind of plea? He looked at the audience and saw trouble, division. Perhaps he was a fool, but it seemed like some of them wanted to listen. Wanted to believe him. Those felt fewer than yesterday; so many others watched him with outright hostility. So how could Adolin reach them? Sekeir started the trial by calling for silence, something Kelek had never bothered to do. Apparently the hush that fell over the crowd wasn’t enough, for Sekeir had three different spren ejected for whispering to one another. That done, the overstuffed spren stood up and read off a prepared speech. And storms, did it go on. Windy passages about how Adolin had brought this upon himself, about how it was good that humans finally had a chance to pay for their sins. “Do we need this?” Adolin interrupted as Sekeir paused for effect. “We all know what you’re going to do. Be on with it.” The new High Judge waved to the side. A spren stepped up beside Adolin, a white cloth in her hands. A gag. She pulled it tight between her hands, as if itching for a chance. “You may speak during the questioning of the witness,” Sekeir said. “The defendant is not allowed to interrupt the judge.” Fine. Adolin settled into parade rest. He didn’t have an enlisted man’s experience with standing at attention, but Zahel had forced him to learn this stance anyway. He could hold it. Let them see him bear their lashes without complaint. His determination in that regard lasted until Sekeir, at long last, finished his speech and called for the final witness to be revealed. It
was Maya. Amuna led her by the hand, forcing back the watching honorspren. Though Adolin had gone to see Maya each morning—and they’d let him do his exercises with her—bars had separated them. They hadn’t otherwise allowed him to interact with her, claiming deadeyes did best when it was quiet. If so, why were they dragging her into the middle of a crowd? Adolin stepped forward, but the honorspren at his side snapped the gag in warning. He forced himself back into parade rest and clenched his jaw. Maya didn’t seem any worse for the attention. She walked with that customary sightless stare, completely oblivious to the whispering crowd. Sekeir didn’t hush them this time. The bearded honorspren smiled as he regarded the stir Amuna and Maya made. They placed Maya on her podium, and she turned and seemed to notice Adolin, for she cocked her head. Then, as if only now aware of it, she regarded the crowded audience. She shrank down, hunching her shoulders, and glanced around with quick, jerky motions. He tried to catch her gaze and reassure her with a smile, but she was too distracted. Damnation. Adolin hadn’t hated the honorspren, despite their tricks, but this started him seething. How dare they use Maya as part of their spectacle? Not all of them, he reminded himself, reading the mood of the crowd. Some sat quietly, others whispered. And more than a few near the top wore stormy expressions. No, they didn’t care for this move either. “You may speak now, prisoner,” Sekeir said to Adolin. “Do you recognize this deadeye?” “Why are you questioning me?” Adolin said. “She is supposed to give witness, and I’m supposed to question her. Yet you’ve chosen a witness who cannot answer your questions.” “I will guide this discussion,” Sekeir said. “As is my right as judge in the case of a witness too young or otherwise incapable of a traditional examination.” Adolin sought out Blended, a single black figure in a sea of glowing white ones. She nodded. This was legal. There were so many laws she hadn’t had time to explain—but it wasn’t her fault. He suspected he couldn’t have understood every detail of the law even with years of preparation. “Now,” Sekeir said, “do you know this spren?” “You know I do,” Adolin snapped. “That is Mayalaran. She is my friend.” “Your ‘friend,’ you say?” Sekeir asked. “And what does this friendship entail? Do you perhaps have dinner together? Participate in friendly chats around the campfire?” “We exercise together.” “Exercise?” Sekeir said, standing from his seat behind the judge’s table. “You made a weapon of her. She is not your friend, but a convenient tool. A weapon by which you slay other men. Your kind never asks permission of Shardblades; you take them as prizes won in battle, then apply them as you wish. She is not your friend, Adolin Kholin. She is your slave.” “Yes,” Adolin admitted. He looked to Maya, then turned away. “Yes, storm you. We didn’t know they were spren at first, but even now
that we do … we use them. We need to.” “Because you need to kill,” Sekeir said, walking up to Adolin. “Humans are monsters, with a lust for death that can never be sated. You thrive upon the terrible emotions of the Unmade. You don’t fight Odium. You are Odium.” “Your point is made,” Adolin said more softly. “Let Maya go. Pass your judgment.” Sekeir stepped up to him, meeting his eyes. “Look at her,” Adolin said, gesturing. “She’s terrified.” Indeed, Maya had shrunk down further and was twisting about, as if to try to watch all the members of the audience at once. She turned so violently, in fact, that Amuna and another honorspren stepped up to take her arms, perhaps to prevent her from fleeing. “You want this to be easy, do you?” Sekeir asked Adolin, speaking in a softer voice. “You don’t deserve easy. I had this fortress working in an orderly, organized manner before you arrived. You have no idea the frustration you have caused me, human.” The honorspren stepped away from Adolin and faced the crowd, thrusting his hand toward Maya. “Behold this spren!” Sekeir commanded. “See what was done to her by humans. This Kholin asks us to offer ourselves for bonds again. He asks us to trust again. It is vital, then, that we examine carefully the results of our last time trusting men!” Maya began to thrash, a low growl rising in her throat. She did not like being constrained. “This is a trial by witness!” Adolin shouted at Sekeir. “You are interfering, and go too far.” Blended nodded, and other honorspren in the crowd had stood up at the objection. They agreed. Whatever the law was, Sekeir was stretching it here. “This witness,” Sekeir said, pointing at Maya again, “lost her voice because of what your people did. I must speak for her.” “She doesn’t want you to speak for her!” Adolin shouted. “She doesn’t want to be here!” Maya continued to push against her captors, increasingly violent. Some of the crowd responded with jeers toward Adolin. Others muttered and gestured toward Maya. “Does it make you uncomfortable?” Sekeir demanded of Adolin. “Convenient, now, for you to care about what she wants. Well, I can read her emotions. That thrashing? It is the pain of someone who remembers what was done to her. She condemns you, Adolin Kholin.” Maya’s cries grew louder. Frantic, guttural, they weren’t proper shouts. They were the pained anguish of someone who had forgotten how to speak, but still needed to give voice to her agony. “This poor creature,” Sekeir shouted over the increasing din, “condemns you with each groan. She is our final witness, for hers is the pain we must never forget. Listen to her demand your punishment, Adolin Kholin! She was innocent, and your kind murdered her. Listen to her cry for blood!” Maya’s shouts grew louder and more raw. Some honorspren in the crowd pulled back, and others covered their ears, wincing. Adolin had heard that scream before, the time he’d tried to summon her
as a Blade while in Shadesmar. “She’s in pain!” Adolin shouted, lunging forward. The spren watching him, however, had been waiting for this. They grabbed him and held him tight. “Let her go, you bastard! Your point is made!” “My point cannot be made strongly enough,” Sekeir shouted. “It must be repeated over and over. You will not be the only traitor who comes with a smile, begging to exploit us. My people must stay firm, must remember this moment, for their own good. They need to see what humans did!” Maya’s voice grew louder, gasping breaths punctuated by ragged howls. And in that moment, Adolin … felt her pain somehow. A deep agony. And … anger? Anger at the honorspren. “They trusted you,” Sekeir said, “and you murdered them!” She clawed at the hands, trying to free herself, her teeth flashing as she twisted her scratched-out eyes one way, then the other. Yes, Adolin could feel that agony as if it were his own. He didn’t know how, but he could. “Listen to her!” Sekeir said. “Accept her condemnation!” “LET HER GO!” Adolin shouted. He struggled, then went limp. “Storms. Just let her go.” “I refuse judgment!” Sekeir said. “I don’t need to give it. In the end, her testimony is the only one needed. Her condemnation is all we ever needed. Listen to her shouts; remember them as you rot, Adolin Kholin. Remember what your kind did to her. Her screams are your judgment!” Maya’s howls came to a crescendo of anguish, then she fell silent, gasping for breath. Weak. Too weak. Take it, Adolin thought to her. Take some of my strength. She looked right at him, and despite her scratched-out eyes, she saw him. Adolin felt something, a warmth deep within him. Maya drew in air, filling her lungs. Her expression livid as she gathered all of her strength, she prepared to shout again. Adolin braced himself for the screech. Her mouth opened. And she spoke. “We! CHOSE!” The two words rang through the forum, silencing the agitated honorspren. Sekeir, standing with his back to her, hesitated. He turned to see who had interrupted his dramatic speech. Panting, hunched forward in the grip of her captors, Maya managed to repeat her words. “We … We chose.…” Sekeir stumbled away. The hands holding Adolin went slack as the honorspren stared in shock. Adolin pulled free and crossed the stage. He shoved aside the startled Amuna and supported Maya, putting her arm across his shoulder to hold her up as he would a wounded soldier. She clung to him, stumbling as she struggled to remain upright. Even as she did, however, she whispered it again. “We chose,” she said, her voice ragged as if she had been shouting for hours. “Adolin, we chose.” “Blood of my fathers…” Adolin whispered. “What is this?” Sekeir said. “What have you done to her? The sight of you has caused her to rave in madness and—” He cut off as Maya pointed at him and released a terrifying screech, her jaw lowering farther than
it should. Sekeir put his hand to his chest, eyes wide as her screech transformed into words. “You. Cannot. Have. My. SACRIFICE!” she shouted. “Mine. My sacrifice. Not yours.” She pointed at the crowd. “Not theirs.” She pointed at Adolin. “Not his. Mine. MY SACRIFICE.” “You knew what was going to happen when the Radiants broke their oaths,” Adolin said. “They didn’t murder you. You decided together.” She nodded vigorously. “All this time,” Adolin said, his voice louder—for the audience. “Everyone assumed you were victims. We didn’t accept that you were partners with the Radiants.” “We chose,” she hissed. Then, belting it loud as an anthem, “WE CHOSE.” Adolin helped her step over to the first row of benches, and the honorspren sitting there scrambled out of the way. She sat, trembling, but her grip on his arm was fierce. He didn’t pull away; she seemed to need the reassurance. He looked around at the crowd. Then toward Sekeir and the other eldest honorspren seated near the judge’s bench. Adolin didn’t speak, but he dared them to continue condemning him. He dared them to ignore the testimony of the witness they’d chosen, the one they’d pretended to give the power of judgment. He let them mull it over. He let them think. Then they began to trail away. Haunted, perhaps confused, the honorspren began to leave. The elders gathered around Sekeir, who remained standing, dumbfounded, staring at Maya. They pulled him away, speaking in hushed, concerned tones. They didn’t touch Adolin. They stayed far from him, from Maya. Until eventually a single person remained in the stands. A female spren in a black suit, her skin faintly tinged with an oily rainbow. Blended stood up, then picked her way down the steps. “I should like to take credit,” she said, “for your victory in what everyone assumed was an unwinnable trial. But it was not my tutelage, or your boldness, that won this day.” Maya finally let go of Adolin’s arm. She seemed stronger than before, though her eyes were still scratched out. He could feel her curiosity, her … awareness. She looked up at him and nodded. He nodded back. “Thank you.” “Stren…” she whispered. “Stren. Be…” “Strength before weakness.” She nodded again, then turned her scratched-out gaze toward the ground, exhausted. “I don’t intend to forget that you testified against me,” Adolin said to Blended. “You played both sides of this game.” “It was the best way for me to win,” she said, inspecting Maya. “But you should know that I suggested to the honorspren elders that they use your deadeye as a witness. They were unaware of the legal provision that allowed them to speak for her.” “Then her pain is your fault?” Adolin demanded. “I did not suggest they treat her with such callousness,” Blended said. “Their act is their own, as is their shame. But admittedly, I knew how they might act. I wanted to know if a truth exists—the one you said to me.” Adolin frowned, trying to remember. “That she spoke,” Blended reminded him. “To
you. That friendship exists between you. I sought proof, and found that her name—recorded in old documents of spren treaties—is as you said. A curious fact to find. Indeed.” Blended strolled around Adolin and studied Maya’s face. “Still scratched out…” she said. “Though a bond between you is.” “I’m … no Radiant,” Adolin said. “No. That is certain.” Maya met Blended’s gaze. “But something is happening. I must leave this place at last and return to the inkspren. If the words this deadeye spoke are…” “If what she said is true,” Adolin said, “then you have no further excuse for refusing humankind the bonds they need.” “Don’t we?” Blended asked. “For centuries, my kind told ourselves an easy lie, yes. That humans had been selfish. That humans had murdered. But easy answers often are, so we can be excused. “This truth, though, means a greater problem is. Thousands of spren chose death instead of letting the Radiants continue. Does this not worry you more? They truly believed that—as humans claimed at the time—Surgebinding would destroy the world. That the solution was to end the orders of Radiants. Suddenly, at the cost of many lives.” “Did you know the full cost, Maya?” Adolin asked, the question suddenly occurring to him. “Did you and your Radiants know that you would become deadeyes?” Adolin felt Maya searching deep, pushing through her exhaustion, seeking … memories that were difficult for her to access. Eventually, she shook her head and whispered, “Pain. Yes. Death? No. Maybe.” Adolin sat beside her, letting her lean against him. “Why, Maya? Why were you willing to do it?” “To save … save…” She sagged and shook her head. “To save us from something worse,” Adolin said, then looked to Blended. “What does it mean?” “It means we’ve had all of this terribly wrong for much time, Highprince Adolin,” she said. “And my own stupidity is. I have always thought myself smart.” She shook her head as she stood before them, arms folded. “What an effective test. Very effective.” “This?” Adolin said, waving to the empty forum. “This was a complete and utter farce.” “I meant a different test,” Blended said. “The true trial—the one you’ve been engaging in for the last few years: the test for this spren’s loyalty. She was the only judge who ever mattered, and today was her chance to offer judgment.” Blended leaned forward. “You passed.” With that she turned to go and strode up the steps—her stark onyx coloring making her seem a shadow with no accompanying body. “Easy answers no longer are,” she said. “But if deadeyes can begin to return … this is grand news. Important news. I will convey this to my people. “I do not know if making new Radiants is a good idea—but I must admit that your ancestors were not traitors. Something did frighten them enormously, to cause humans and spren to destroy their bonds. And if the spren did not know they would die … then pieces of this puzzle are still missing. The questions are more complicated, and
more dangerous, than we ever knew.” With that, Blended left. Adolin let Maya rest for a few minutes. When he finally stood up, she joined him. She followed him as she normally did, expressionless and mild, but he could feel that she was not as insensate as she’d been. She was conserving energy. She wasn’t healed, but she was better. And when he had needed her, she had been willing to struggle through death itself to speak for him. No, he thought. She spoke for herself. Don’t make the same mistake again. He needed to find Shallan and head to the Oathgate so they could share what he’d learned. Maybe the honorspren would swallow their pride and help. Maybe they would, as Blended said, find other reasons to fear. Either way, he suspected the Radiant relationship would never be the same again. Venli scrambled through a nightmare of her own making. Beneath a blackened sky, humans and listeners fought with steel and lightning. She heard screams more often than commands, and beneath it all, a new song. A song of summoning, joined by thousands of voices. The Everstorm was coming, building to a crescendo as the listeners called it. She’d imagined this day as an organized effort by the listeners—led by her. Instead there was chaos, war, and death. She did not join in the singing. She splashed through deep puddles, seeking to escape. The Weeping rains streamed down, soft but persistent. She passed listeners she recognized, all standing in a line, their eyes glowing red as they sang. “Faridai,” she said to one of them. “We have to get away. The humans are sweeping in this direction.” He glanced at her, but continued singing. The whole line seemed completely oblivious to the rain, and mostly oblivious to her words. She attuned Panic. They were overwhelmed by the new form, consumed by it. She felt that same impulse, but was able to resist. Perhaps because of her long association with Ulim? She wasn’t certain. Venli hurried away, looking over her shoulder. She couldn’t make out much of what was happening on the battlefield. It stretched across multiple plateaus, veiled in mist and rain, shadowed by pitch-black clouds. Occasional bursts of red lightning showed that many of the new stormforms were fighting. Hopefully they could control their powers better than Venli could. When she had released the energy of stormform—expecting grand attacks that smote her foes—the lightning had gone in wild directions, unpredictable. She didn’t think she had hurt a single human, and now she felt limp, the glorious energy expended—and slow to renew. She hid by a large lump of rock that might have been a building long ago. Behind her, humans attacked the line of listeners she’d left; she heard screams, felt a crack as lightning was released. Their song did not start again, but she heard humans cursing and talking in their crude tongue, voices echoing over the sound of the rain. More dead. The storm was building, yes—nearly upon them. But how many listeners would be slaughtered before it
arrived? Surely the other battlefronts are doing better, she thought, squeezing her eyes closed and listening to the Rhythm of Panic. Surely the listeners are winning. What of Ulim’s promises? What of Venli’s throne? She breathed in cold air, water streaming along the sides of her face, leaving her skin numb and her carapace chilled. She pressed against the rocks, trembling. It was all wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be safe. The sound of boots scraping stone made her open her eyes in time to see a spear coming at her. She lunged to the side, but the weapon struck across the ridges on her cheek and nose, cutting only a thin slice in her skin—mostly deflecting off the carapace mask stormform had given her face. She fell to the ground in a puddle and tried to pull away, one hand out and pleading. The human loomed over her, a terrible figure with his features completely lost in the shadow of his helm. He raised his spear. “No, no,” Venli said to Subservience in his language. “Please, no. I’m scholar. No weapon. Please, no.” He brandished his spear, but as she cringed—turning aside her face—no blow came. The man stepped away, then jogged off, joining some of his fellows who were forming up against an approaching group with glowing red eyes. Venli felt at the scrape the spear had caused, amazed at how little it had wounded her. Then she felt at her skin, her clothing. He’d … he’d just left her alone. As she’d asked. She stared after the man, attuning Derision. The fool didn’t know how important a listener he’d spared. He should have killed her. Derision seemed to fade though, as she considered. Was … was that the proper rhythm, the proper feeling, she should feel upon being saved? What had happened to her these last few years? What had she let happen to her? For a moment she heard the Rhythm of Appreciation instead. Part of her, it seemed, didn’t want to bask in the glory of the new form. Part of her longed for the comforts of the familiar. When she’d been weak. And this is strength? she thought as she picked herself up off the ground, listening to the thunder. The new storm was approaching. It would save them, exterminating the humans and elevating the listeners who survived. She simply had to make certain she was one of them. She scurried away to search out a stronger group of listeners to protect her. She entered an open section of plateau, slick with water, near one of the chasms. Bands of humans and listeners roamed along the edge of the chasm here, trying to get an upper hand against one another. If anything, the fighting in this area was more horrifying. She forcibly attuned Conceit and moved along the perimeter. Conceit. A good rhythm, a counterpart to Determination or Confidence—only grander. Conceit was a proud, strong rhythm with a surging fanfare of quick, complex, and bold beats. That was how she
needed to feel. This was her battlefield. She’d crafted this, she’d brought it all together. There was nothing to fear here. This was her victory celebration. She passed one of the humans’ dead horses, a Ryshadium by the size. It had been killed by lightning, so at least some of her people were capable of controlling their new abilities. Ahead—illuminated by scattered light through a patch of clouds—she saw two brilliant figures fighting along the edge of the chasm. Shardbearers. Venli didn’t know the human, but the listener was Eshonai. She was the last of their Shardbearers. The Plate was distinctive, even if the new form had … changed her. It was hard to associate the terrible warlord Eshonai had become with the thoughtful femalen who had tried so hard to find a way out of the war. Venli stopped beside a broken spire of rock and hunkered down, watching through the rain as the two clashed. Eshonai—particularly the enhanced Eshonai—could handle a duel on her own. Venli would just be in the way. She was able to tell herself this, and believe it, right up until Eshonai was shoved off the rim of the chasm. One moment she was holding her own against the human. The next she was gone. Plunged into the abyss. Venli watched her go with a feeling of disconnect. In Shardplate, Eshonai could survive that fall. Probably. Venli was the one in danger, with the human Shardbearer nearby. The new rhythms thrummed through her, whispering of power. Heightening her emotions. She was herself, not overly influenced by the form. In control. Not a slave. Yet she felt … nothing. For a form that seemed so vibrant with emotions, that was wrong. Could the old Venli have watched her sister take a potentially deadly fall without so much as a sorrowful rhythm? Strange. Why no concern? What was happening to her? Venli withdrew. She … she’d go find Eshonai later. Help get her out of the chasm. They could attune Amusement together as they thought of Venli—a simple scholar—doing anything to help in a fight between two Shardbearers. The battlefield decayed further as Venli sought refuge. Screams. Lightning blasts. She saw in it something more terrible than just a clash over the future of their peoples. She saw something that enjoyed the killing. A force that seemed to be growing with the new storm, a force that loved passion, anger—any emotion, but especially those that came when people struggled. Emotion was never stronger than when someone died. This force sought it, craved it. Venli felt its presence like a building miasma, more oppressive than the rainclouds or the storm. She crept among some large rock formations. Lumps that had been buildings, now blanketed by thick crem. She wasn’t certain where she was in relation to the center of Narak. Fortunately, she found a narrow fissure between the ancient buildings. She squeezed in, wet and overwhelmed by the building sensation. Something was coming, something incredible. Something terrible. The new storm was here. Venli allowed herself to attune the rhythm
of her true emotions—the wild, frenetic beat of the Rhythm of Panic. A more virulent version of the Rhythm of the Terrors. Everything went black, the last few hints of sunlight consumed by the weight of this new storm. Then, red lightning. It electrified the sky, and Venli crouched. No. She was still too exposed. She knew with a sudden, inexplicable confidence that if the storm saw her, it would destroy her. Between bolts of lightning, she pushed out of the cavity of rock and felt her way along the side of the stone building. The winds began to howl. Something else … something else was coming. A highstorm too? Panic almost overwhelmed her. Then—to her incredible relief—her fingers felt something. A hole cut into one of the crem-covered buildings. This was fresh, the cuts unnaturally smooth; a Shardbearer had been here. She eagerly sought refuge inside, trying to banish the Rhythm of Panic, replace it with something else. Outside, the winds began to clash. She pressed against the rear wall of the small empty chamber, lit by the increasingly violent flashes of light outside. First red. Then white. Then the two tangled like fighting greatshells, crushing the land around them as they grappled. Debris began to whip past the opening, lit by the rapid flashes, and the rhythms in her head went crazy. Breaking apart, movements of one melding with another. The ground trembled and groaned, and Venli sought to hide deeper in the building, away from the violence. As she passed a doorway, however, the floor undulated and she was cast to the ground. With a sound so loud her whole body vibrated, an entire section of the stone building was ripped free—including the room she’d just left. She was pelted by rain, exposed to the howling winds through the broken wall. This was the end. The end of the world. Tiny, terrified, she pressed herself between two solid-seeming chunks of rock and closed her eyes, unable to hear the rhythms over the sound of the tempest. She knew what rhythm she’d hear if she could, though. For there, pressed between stones, Venli was forced to admit what she really was. The truth that had always been there, covered over, encrusted with crem. Exposed only when the winds cut her to her soul. She was no genius forging a new path for her people. Everything she’d “discovered” had been given or hinted at by Ulim. She was no queen deserving of rule. She cared nothing for her people. Just for her own self. She wasn’t powerful. The winds and the storms reminded her that no matter what she did—no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she pretended—she would always be small. She had pretended she was those things, and would likely pretend them again as soon as she could lie to herself. As soon as she was safe. But here—with everything else flayed away and her soul stripped bare—Venli was forced to admit what she truly was. What she’d always been. A coward. I tell you; I

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