text
stringlengths 1.73k
3.83k
|
|---|
write it. You must release the captive Unmade. She will not fade as I will. If you leave her as she is, she will remain imprisoned for eternity. Rlain found her crying. Venli could count on her fingers the number of times she could remember crying. Not merely attuning Mourning, but actually crying. Today she couldn’t help herself. She knelt in the sectioned-off part of the infirmary room, overlooking the large map of the Shattered Plains that Rlain had stolen. She was alone. Lirin and Hesina were in the main room, seeing to the patients. A note on the map hinted at what Raboniel had said: a group of nomads in the hills. Her people. They had survived. She turned to Rlain, who—shocked—was humming to Awe at finding her like this. “We’re not the last,” Venli whispered. “They are alive, Rlain. Thousands of them.” “Who?” He knelt. “What are you talking about?” Venli wiped her eyes—she wouldn’t have her tears destroying this glorious map. Venli handed him the note Raboniel had given her, but of course he couldn’t read. So she read it out loud for him. “You mean…” he said, attuning Awe. “Thousands of them?” “It was Thude,” Venli said. “He refused stormform. So did most of Eshonai’s closest friends. I … I wasn’t thinking back then.… I would have had them killed, but Eshonai separated them off and let them escape. Part of her fought, so she gave them a chance, and … And then…” Storms, she was a mess. She wiped her eyes again. “You would have had them killed?” Rlain asked. “Venli, I don’t understand. What is it you’re not telling me?” “Everything,” she whispered to Pleading. “A thousand lies, Rlain.” “Venli,” he said, taking her hand. “Kaladin is awake. Teft is too. We have a plan. The start of one, at least. I came to explain it to Lirin and Hesina. We’re going to try to wake the Radiants, but we need to get those stormforms out of the room. If you know something that might help, now would be a good time to talk.” “Help?” Venli whispered. “Nothing I do helps. It only hurts.” Rlain hummed to Confusion. At a gentle prompting from Timbre, Venli started talking. She began with the strange human woman who had given her the sphere, and went all the way up to when Thude and the others left. She didn’t hide her part in it. She didn’t coat it with the Rhythm of Consolation. She gave it to him raw. The whole terrible story. As she spoke, he pulled farther and farther away from her. His expression changed, his eyes widening, his rhythms moving from shocked to angry. As she might have expected. As she wanted. When she finished, they sat in silence. “You are a monster,” he finally said. “You did this. You are responsible.” She hummed to Consolation. “I suppose the enemy would have found another way,” he said, “without your help. Regardless, Venli. You … I mean…” “I need to find them,” she said, rolling up the map.
|
“There are daily transfers to Kholinar. Raboniel has released me from my duties here, and given me a writ allowing me to requisition whatever I need. I should be able to procure a spot in the next transfer, and from there go with some Heavenly Ones on a scouting mission out to the Shattered Plains.” “And in so doing, you’d lead the enemy directly to our people,” Rlain said. “Venli, Raboniel obviously wants you to do this. She knows you’re going to run to them. You’re playing into whatever plot she has.” She’d considered that. She wasn’t exactly in the most rational state of mind, however. “I have to do something, Rlain,” she whispered. “I need to see them with my own eyes, even if I have to walk there.” “I agree, we should do that as soon as it’s reasonable,” Rlain said. He glanced toward the curtains, then spoke more quietly. “But now isn’t the time. We have to save the Radiants.” “Do you really want me there when you do, Rlain? Do you want me around?” He fell silent, then hummed to Betrayal. “Smart,” she said. “I don’t want you around right now, Venli,” he said. “But storm me, we need you. And I think you’re trustworthy. You told me this, after all. And who knows how much of what you did was influenced by your forms or those Voidspren? “For now, let’s work on saving the Radiants. If you’re truly sorry for what you did, then this is the best way to prove it. After that, we can seek out our people without leading the Fused to them.” She looked away, then hummed to Betrayal herself. “No. This isn’t my fight, Rlain. It never was. I have to go see if this map is true. I have to.” “Fine,” he snapped. He stood to leave, then paused. “You know, all those months running bridges—then training with Kal and the others—I wondered. I wondered deep down if I was a traitor. I now realize I didn’t have the first notes of understanding what it meant to be a traitor.” He ducked out between the curtains. Venli quietly tucked the map of the Shattered Plains into its case, then put it under her arm. It was time for her to go. She found both Dul and Mazish caring for the fallen Radiants. Venli pulled them aside, and whispered, “The time has come. Are we ready to leave?” “Finally,” Dul said to Excitement. “We’ve siphoned away rations, canteens of water, blankets, and some extra clothing from what we were given to care for the Radiants. Harel has it all ready in packs, hidden among the other supplies in the storage room we were given.” “The people are ready,” Mazish said. “Eager. We think we can survive in the cold up here for months.” “We’ll need those supplies,” Venli said, “but we might not have to survive in the mountains. Look.” She showed them the writ of authority Raboniel had given her. “With this, we can get through the Oathgates, no questions asked.”
|
“Maybe,” Dul said to Appreciation. “So we go to Kholinar, but then what? We’re back where we began.” “We take the supplies, and we use this writ to leave the city,” Venli explained. “We hike out to the east and disappear into the wilderness to the east of Alethkar, like my ancestors did so many generations ago.” Then we make our way to the Shattered Plains, she thought. But … that would take too long. Could Venli find a way to scout ahead, using the aid of the Heavenly Ones? Perhaps get dropped off nearer the Unclaimed Hills, without revealing what she was truly seeking? It seemed a lot to demand of this one writ. Plus, Raboniel knew about the listeners who had survived. Surely she’d eventually tell the other Fused. For the moment, Venli didn’t care. “Gather the others,” she whispered. “The humans are going to attempt to rescue the Radiants here soon. The chaos should cover our escape. I want us to leave in the next day or two.” The other two attuned Resolve; they trusted her. More than she trusted herself. Venli doubted she would find redemption among the listeners who had escaped the Fused. In fact, she expected accusation, condemnation. But … Venli had to try to reach them. For when they’d escaped, they’d taken her mother with them. Jaxlim might be dead—and if not, her mind would still be lost to age. But she was also the last person—the only person—who might still love Venli, despite it all. As one who has suffered for so many centuries … as one whom it broke … please find Mishram and release her. Not just for her own good. For the good of all spren. For I believe that in confining her, we have caused a greater wound to Roshar than any ever realized. Navani entered a feverish kind of study—a frantic near madness—as the work consumed her. Before, she had organized. Now she merely fed the beast. She barely slept. The answer was here. The answer meant something. She couldn’t explain why, but she needed this secret. Food became a distraction. Time stopped mattering. She put her clocks away so they wouldn’t remind her of human constructs like minutes and hours. She was searching for something deeper. More important. These actions horrified a part of her. She was still herself, the type of woman who put her socks in the drawer so they all faced the same direction. She loved patterns, she loved order. But in this quest for meaning, she found she could appreciate something else entirely. The raw, disorganized chaos of a brain making connections paired with the single-minded order of a quest for one all-consuming answer. Could she find the opposite to Voidlight? Stormlight and Voidlight had their own kind of polarity. They were attracted to tones like iron shavings to a magnet. Therefore, she needed a tone that would push light away. She needed an opposite sound. She wanted fluid tones, so she had a slide whistle delivered, along with a brass horn with a
|
movable tube. However, she liked the sound of the plates best. They were difficult to increment, but she could order new ones cut and crafted quickly. Her study morphed from music theory—where some philosophers said that the true opposite of sound was silence—to mathematics. Mathematics taught that there were numbers associated with tones—frequencies, wavelengths. Music, at its most fundamental level, was math. She played the tone that represented the sound of Voidlight again and again, embedding it into her mind. She dreamed it when she slept. She played it first thing when she arose, watching the patterns of sand it made on a metal plate. Dancing grains, bouncing up and down, settling into peaks and troughs. The opposite of most numbers was a negative number. Could a tone be negative? Could there be a negative wavelength? Many such ideas couldn’t exist in the real world, like negative numbers were an artificial construct. But those peaks and troughs … could she make a tone that produced the opposite pattern? Peaks where there were troughs, troughs where there were peaks? During her feverish study into sound theory, she discovered the answer to this. A wave could be negated, its opposite created and presented in a way that nullified the original. Canceling it out. They called it destructive interference. Strangely, the theories said that a sound and its opposite sounded exactly the same. This stumped her. She played the plates she’d created, indulging in their resonant tones. She put Voidlight spheres into her arm sheath and listened until she could hum that tone. She was delighted when—after hours of concerted practice—she could draw Voidlight out with a touch, like the Fused could do. Humans could sing the correct tones. Humans could hear the music of Roshar. Her ancestors might have been aliens to this world, but she was its child. That didn’t solve the question though. If a tone and its destructive interference sounded the same, how could she sing one and not the other? She played the tone on a plate, humming along. She next played a tuning fork, listened to the tones of the gemstones, then came back to the plate. It was wrong. Barely off. Even though the tones matched. She asked for, and was given, a file. She tried to measure the notes the plate made, but eventually had to rely on her own ear. She worked on the plate, filing off small sections of the metal and then pulling the bow across it, getting the plate closer and closer. She could hear the tone she wanted, she thought. Or was it madness? This desire to create an anti-sound? It took hours. Maybe days. When it finally happened, she knelt bleary-eyed on the stone floor at some unholy hour. Holding a bow, testing her newest version of the plate. When she played this particular tone—bow on steel—something happened. Voidlight was shoved out of the sphere attached to the plate. It was pushed away from the source of the sound. She tested it again, then a third time to be sure. Though
|
she should have wanted to shout for joy, she simply sat there staring. She ran her hand through her hair, which she hadn’t put up today. Then she laughed. It worked. * * * The next day—washed and feeling slightly less insane—Navani incremented. She tested how loud the tone needed to be to produce the desired effect. She measured the tone on different sizes of gemstones and on a stream of Voidlight leaving a sphere to flow toward a tuning fork. She did all of this in a way that—best she could—hid what she was doing from her watching guard. Hunched over her workspace, she was relatively certain the Regal there wouldn’t be able to tell she’d made a breakthrough. The one last night hadn’t watched keenly; he’d been dozing through much of it. Confident that her tone worked, she began training herself to hum the tone the plate made. It did sound the same, but somehow it wasn’t the same. As when measuring spren—which reacted to your thoughts about them—this tone needed Intent to be created. You had to know what you were trying to do. Incredibly, it mattered that she wanted to hum the opposite tone to Odium’s song. It sounded crazy, but it worked. It was repeatable and quantifiable. Inside the madness of these last few days, science still worked. She had found Voidlight’s opposite tone. But how could she create Light that expressed this tone? For answers, she looked to nature. A magnet could be made to change its polarity with some captive lightning, and another magnet could realign the pole. But Raboniel had mentioned they could magnetize an ordinary piece of metal that way too. So were they really changing the polarity of the magnet? Or were they blanking the existing polarity—then rewriting it with something new? The idea intrigued her, and she made a few key requests of her jailers—some objects that would have to be fetched from one of the labs near the top of the tower. Soon after, Raboniel came to check on her. Navani braced herself. She’d been planning for this. “Navani?” the Fused asked. “This latest request is quite odd. I don’t know what to make of it.” “It’s just some esoteric lab equipment,” Navani said from the desk. “Nothing of any real note, though it would be fun to use in some experiments. No bother if you can’t find it.” “I authorized the request,” Raboniel said. “If it is there, you shall have it.” That was a rhythm to express curiosity. She made a note in her book; she was trying to list them all. “What are you working on?” Raboniel asked. “The guard tells me of a terrible sound you have been making, something discordant.” Damnation. The new tone didn’t sound the same to a Regal. Could she explain it away? “I’m testing how atonal sounds influence Voidlight, if at all.” Raboniel lingered, looking over Navani’s shoulder. Then she glanced at the floor, where a bucket of icy water, with snow from outside, held a submerged gemstone. It was an
|
attempt to see if temperature could blank the tone of Voidlight. “What are you not telling me?” Raboniel said to a musing rhythm. “I find your behavior … intriguing.” She glanced to the side as her daughter trailed into the room. The younger Fused was drooling today. Raboniel had a servant periodically put a cloth against the side of her daughter’s mouth. It wasn’t that her face was paralyzed; more that she didn’t seem to notice or care that she was drooling. “You write about something called ‘axi’ in our notebook,” Navani said, trying to distract Raboniel. “What are these?” “An axon is the smallest division of matter,” Raboniel said. “Odium can see them. Theoretically, with a microscope powerful enough, we could see little balls of matter making up everything.” Navani had read many theories about such a smallest division of matter. It spoke to her state of mind that she barely considered it a curiosity to have such theories confirmed by a divine source. “Do these axi have a polarity?” Navani asked, as she monitored the temperature of her experiment. “They must,” Raboniel said. “We theorize that axial interconnection is what holds things together. Certain Surges influence this. The forces between axi are fundamental to the way the cosmere works.” Navani grunted, writing another notation from the thermometer. “What are you doing?” Raboniel asked. “Seeing if a colder temperature changes the vibrations in a gemstone,” Navani admitted. “Would you hold this one and tell me if the rhythm changes—or grows louder—as it warms up?” “I can do that,” Raboniel said, settling down on the floor beside the desk. Behind, her daughter mimicked her. The attendant—a singer in workform—knelt to dab at the daughter’s lips. Navani took the gemstone out with a pair of tongs and gave it to Raboniel. Though Navani could faintly hear the tones of gemstones if she pressed a lot of them to her skin, her skill wasn’t fine-tuned enough to detect small changes in volume. She needed a singer to finish this experiment. But how to keep Raboniel from figuring out what she’d discovered? Raboniel took the sphere and waited, her eyes closed. Finally she shook her head. “I can sense no change in the tone. Why does it matter?” “I’m trying to determine if anything alters the tone,” Navani said. “Creating Warlight requires a slight alteration of Odium’s and Honor’s tones, in order to put them into harmony. If I can find other things that alter Voidlight’s tone, I might be able to create other hybrids.” It was a plausible enough explanation. It should explain her requests for plates and other devices, even the ice. “A novel line of reasoning,” Raboniel said to her curiosity rhythm. “I had not thought you would take notice,” Navani said. “I assumed you were busy with your … work.” Unmaking the Sibling. “I still need to bring down the final node,” Raboniel said. “Last time I touched the Sibling, I thought I could sense it. Somewhere nearby … but it is very, very small. Smaller than the others…” She rose
|
from the floor. “Let me know if you require further equipment.” “Thank you,” Navani said from her desk. Raboniel lingered as Navani recorded her notes about the ice water experiment. Navani managed to appear unconcerned right until she heard the plates being shifted. She turned to see Raboniel pulling out the new one, the one she’d hidden beneath several others. Damnation. How had she picked out that one? Perhaps it showed the most use. Raboniel looked to Navani, who forced herself to turn away as if it were nothing. Then Raboniel played it. Navani breathed out quietly, closing her eyes. She’d racked her mind for ways to hide what she was doing, taking every precaution she could … but she should have known. She was at such a severe disadvantage, watched at all times, with Raboniel always nearby. Navani opened her eyes and found Raboniel staring wide-eyed at the plate. She placed a sphere of Voidlight and played again, watching the Light eject from the sphere. Raboniel spoke to a reverential rhythm. “A tone that forces out Voidlight?” Navani kept her face impassive. Well, that answered one question. She’d wondered if the person playing the note needed the proper Intent to eject the Voidlight, but it seemed that creating the plate to align to her hummed tones was enough. “Navani,” Raboniel said, lowering the bow, “this is remarkable. And dangerous. I felt the Voidlight in my gemheart respond. It wasn’t ejected, but my very soul cringed at the sound. I’m shocked. And … and befuddled. How did you create this?” “Math,” Navani admitted. “And inspiration.” “This could lead to…” Raboniel hummed to herself, then glanced at the bucket of ice water. “You’re trying to find a way to dampen the vibrations of the Voidlight so you can rewrite it with a different tone. A different polarity. That’s why you asked about axi.” She hummed to an excited rhythm. And Damnation if a part of Navani wasn’t caught up in that sound. In the thrill of discovery. Of being so close. Careful, Navani, she reminded herself. She had to do her best to keep this knowledge from the enemy. There was a way, a plan she’d been making should Raboniel intrude as she had. A possible path to maintaining the secrets of anti-Voidlight. For now, she needed to seem amenable. “Yes,” Navani said. “I think what you wanted all along is possible, Raboniel. I have reason to believe there is an opposite Light to Voidlight.” “Have you written this down?” “No, I’ve merely been toying with random ideas.” “A lie you must tell,” Raboniel said. “I do not begrudge you it, Navani. But know that I will rip this room apart to find your notes, if I must.” Navani remained quiet, meeting Raboniel’s gaze. “Still you do not believe me,” Raboniel said. “That we are so much stronger when working together.” “How could I trust your word, Raboniel?” Navani said. “You’ve already broken promises to me, and each time I’ve asked to negotiate for the benefit of my people or the Sibling, you’ve
|
refused.” “Yes, but haven’t I led you to a weapon?” she asked. “Haven’t I given you the secrets you needed to make it this far? Within reach of something that could kill a god? All because we worked together. Let’s take this last step as one.” Navani debated. She knew that Raboniel wasn’t lying; the Fused would rip this room apart to find Navani’s notes. Beyond that, she’d likely take away Navani’s ability to requisition supplies—halting her progress. And she was so close. With a sigh, Navani crossed the room and took her notebook—the one they’d named Rhythm of War—from a hidden spot under one of the shelves. Perhaps Navani should have kept all of her discoveries in her head, but she’d been unable to resist writing them down. She’d needed to see her ideas on the page, to use notes, to get as far as she had. Raboniel settled in to read, to learn what Navani had discovered about this new tone—humming a rhythm of curiosity to herself. A short time later, a servant arrived at the door carrying a large wooden box. “At last.” Navani stepped over, taking the box from the servant. Inside was a glass tube a little less than a foot in diameter, though it was several feet long, with thick metal caps on the ends. “And that is?” Raboniel asked. “A Thaylen vacuum tube,” Navani said. “From the Royal Institute of Barometric Studies. We had this device near the top floor of the tower, where we were doing weather experiments.” She set the device down and took the notebook back from Raboniel, making a few notations to start her next experiment. The metal caps could be unscrewed to reveal chambers that, with the seals in place, wouldn’t disturb the vacuum in the central glass chamber. She opened one end, then affixed an empty diamond into it. Next she used her jeweler’s hammer to crack a gem full of Voidlight—which made it start to leak. She quickly affixed it into the berth on the other side of the vacuum tube. She redid the ends, then used a fabrial pump to remove the air from the side chambers. Finally, she undid the clasps that sealed the side berths, opening them to the central vacuum. If she’d done everything correctly, little to no air would enter the central glass chamber—and she now had a gemstone on either end. Raboniel loomed over Navani as she observed the Voidlight floating out into the vacuum. It didn’t act as air would have—it wasn’t pulled out, for example. Whatever Voidlight was, it didn’t seem to be made up of axi. It was an energy, a power. “What are we doing?” Raboniel asked softly. “I believe this is the only way to completely separate Voidlight from the songs of Roshar,” Navani explained. “There can be no sound in a vacuum, as there is no air to transfer the waves. So as this gemstone ejects Voidlight, I’m hoping the Light will not be able to ‘hear’ Odium’s rhythm—for the first time in its existence.” “You
|
think it doesn’t emit the rhythm itself,” Raboniel said, “but echoes it. Picks it up.” “Like spren pick up mannerisms from humans,” Navani said. “Or how a piece of metal can be magnetized by touching a magnet over a long period of time.” “Ingenious,” Raboniel whispered. “We’ll see,” Navani said. She grabbed her bow, then pressed the plate against the side of the vacuum chamber and began playing her anti-Voidlight tone. Raboniel winced at the sound. “The Light won’t be able to hear,” she said. “It’s in a vacuum, as you said.” “Yes, but it’s moving across, and will soon touch the empty diamond at the other side,” Navani said. “I want this to be the first thing it hears when it touches matter.” They had to wait a good while as the Voidlight drifted in the vacuum, but Navani kept playing. In a way, this was the culmination of her days of fervor. The climax to the symphony of madness she’d been composing. Voidlight eventually touched the empty diamond and was pulled inside. She waited until a good measure of it had been drawn in, then had Raboniel undo the clasp separating the diamond’s enclosure from the vacuum. Navani opened this to a little pop of sound, then plucked out the diamond. It glowed faintly violet-black. She stared at it, looking closer, until … Yes. A faint warping of the air around it. She felt a thrill as she handed it to Raboniel—who screamed. Navani caught the diamond as Raboniel dropped it. The Fused pulled her hand to her breast, humming violently. “I take it the sound wasn’t pleasant,” Navani said. “It was like the tone that plate makes,” Raboniel said, “but a thousand times worse. This is a wrongness. A vibration that should not exist.” “It sounds exactly the same as the tone of Odium to me,” Navani said. She set the gemstone on her desk beside the dagger Raboniel had given her. The one that could channel and move Light. Navani sat in the chair beside it. Raboniel joined her, moving a stool from beside the wall. Together, both of them stared at the little gemstone that seemed so wrong. “Navani,” Raboniel said. “This … This changes the world.” “I know,” Navani said. She rubbed her forehead, sighing. “You look exhausted,” Raboniel noted. “I’ve barely slept for days,” Navani admitted. “Honestly, this is all so overwhelming. I need a break, Raboniel. To walk, to think, to gather my wits and get my blood moving again.” “Go ahead,” Raboniel said. “I’ll wait.” She waved for the guard to go with Navani, though the Fused herself continued staring at the gemstone. In fact, Raboniel was so fixated on the diamond that she didn’t notice Navani take Rhythm of War as she stepped out with the guard into the hallway. She braced herself. Expecting … An explosion. It shook the corridor, striking with such physical force that Navani’s guard jumped in shock. They both spun around to see smoke spewing from the room they’d left. The guard rushed back—grabbing Navani by the
|
arm and hauling her along. They found chaos. The desk had exploded, and Raboniel lay on the floor. The Fused’s face was a mask of pain, and her front had been shredded—her havah ripped apart, the carapace scored and broken, the skin at her joints stuck with pieces of glass. Or diamond? She hadn’t taken much shrapnel to the head, fortunately for her, though orange blood seeped from a thousand little wounds on her arms and chest. At any rate, Raboniel was still alive, and Navani’s scheme had failed. Navani had assumed that, in her absence, Raboniel would take the next step—to try mixing Voidlight with the new Light. Raboniel kept saying she expected the Lights to puff away when mixed, vanishing. She didn’t expect the explosion. Navani had hoped that if she died, it would delay Raboniel’s corruption of the tower long enough for Navani to properly weaponize this new Light. That was not to be. The explosion had been smaller than the one that had destroyed the room with the scholars, and Raboniel was far tougher than a human. A treasonous part of Navani was glad the Fused had not died. Raboniel sat up, then surveyed the room. Several of the bookshelves had collapsed, spilling their contents. Raboniel’s daughter was still sitting where she’d been, as if she hadn’t even noticed what had happened, despite the fact that she bore cuts on her face. Her attendant appeared to be dead, lying slumped on the ground, facedown. Navani felt a spike of legitimate sorrow for that. “What did you do?” Navani said. “Lady of Wishes, what happened?” Raboniel blinked as she stood. “I … put the diamond we created into the hilt of the dagger, then used the tip to draw Voidlight from another gemstone, to mix them. It seemed the best way to see if the two Lights would cancel one another out. I thought … I thought the reaction would be calm, like hot and cold water mixing.…” “Hot and cold water don’t immediately annihilate one another when they meet,” Navani said. “Besides, heat under pressure—like Light in a gemstone—is another matter.” “Yes,” Raboniel said, blinking several times, seeming dazed. “If you use the lightning of a stormform to ignite something under pressure, it always explodes. Perhaps if Voidlight and anti-Voidlight meet in open air, you’d get no more than a pop. But these were inside a gemstone. I have acted with supreme stupidity.” Other Fused—Deepest Ones—melded in through the walls to see what had happened. Raboniel waved them all off as her cuts healed under the power of her internal Voidlight. The Deepest Ones took the servant, who fortunately stirred as they carried him. The desk was broken, the wall marked by a black scar. Navani smelled smoke—bits of desk still burned. So the explosion had involved heat, not pressure alone. Raboniel shooed away the guard and the other Fused, then picked through the rubble of the desk. “No remnants of the dagger,” Raboniel said. “Another embarrassment I must suffer, losing such a valuable weapon. I have others,
|
but I’ll need to eventually move you out of this room and have it scrubbed for every scrap of raysium. We might be able to melt it down and reforge the dagger.” Navani nodded. “For now,” Raboniel said, “I would like you to make me another gemstone filled with that anti-Voidlight.” “Now?” Navani asked. “If you please.” “Don’t you want to change?” Navani asked. “Have someone pick the shards of glass out of your skin…” “No,” Raboniel said. “I wish to see this process again. If you please, Navani.” It was said to a rhythm that indicated it would happen, regardless of what Navani “pleased.” So she prepared the vacuum chamber—it had been behind Raboniel, sheltered from the brunt of the blast, fortunately. As Navani worked, Raboniel sent someone for another Herald-killing dagger. Why did she need that? Surely they weren’t going to mix the Lights after what had happened. Feeling an ominous cloud hanging over her, Navani repeated her experiment, this time filling the gemstone a little less—just in case—before removing it and holding it up. Raboniel took it, and though she didn’t drop it this time, she did flinch. “So strange,” she said. She fitted it into her second dagger. Then she undid a screw and slipped out the piece of metal running through the center. She flipped it around—it had points on both ends, and a hole for the screw—before replacing it. “To make the anti-Voidlight flow out of the gemstone along the blade?” Navani asked. “Instead of drawing in what it touches?” “Indeed,” Raboniel said. “You may wish to take cover.” Then she turned, walked across the room, and stabbed her daughter in the chest. Navani was too stunned to move. She stood there amid the rubble, gaping as Raboniel loomed over the other Fused, pushing the weapon in deeper. The younger Fused began to spasm, and Raboniel held her, ruthless as she pressed the weapon into her daughter’s flesh. There was no explosion. The Voidlight inside the Fused wasn’t under pressure as it was in a gemstone, perhaps. There was a stench of burning flesh, and the skin blistered around the wound. The younger Fused trembled and screamed, clutching at her mother’s arm with a clawed hand. Then her eyes turned milky, like white marble. She went limp, and Navani thought she saw something escape her lips. Smoke? As if her entire insides had been burned away. Raboniel pulled the dagger out, then tossed it away like a piece of rubbish. She cradled her daughter’s body, pressing her forehead against that of the corpse, holding it close and rocking back and forth. Navani walked over, listening to Raboniel’s sorrowful rhythm. Though Raboniel’s topknot of hair spilled around her face, Navani saw tears slipping down her red-and-black cheeks. Navani wasn’t certain she’d ever seen a singer cry before. This was not ruthlessness at all. This was something else. “You killed her,” Navani whispered. Raboniel continued to rock the corpse, holding it tighter, shaking as she hummed. “Elithanathile,” Navani said, whispering the tenth name of the Almighty. “You killed
|
her forever, didn’t you?” “No more rebirth,” Raboniel whispered. “No more Returns. Free at last, my baby. Free.” Navani pulled her hand up to her chest. That pain … she knew that pain. It was how she’d felt hearing of Elhokar’s death at the hands of the bridgeman traitor. Raboniel had done this killing though. Performed it herself! But … had the actual death happened long ago? Centuries ago? What had it been like, living with a child whose body constantly returned to life long after her mind had left her? “This is why,” Navani said, kneeling beside the two. “Your god hinted that anti-Voidlight was possible, and you suspected what it would do. You captured the tower, you imprisoned and pushed me, and possibly delayed the corruption of the Sibling. Because you hoped to find this anti-Voidlight. Not because you wanted a weapon against Odium. Because you wanted to show a mercy to your daughter.” “We could never create enough of this anti-Light to threaten Odium,” Raboniel whispered. “That was another lie, Navani. I’m sorry. But you took my dream and you fulfilled it. After I had given up on it, you persisted. One might think the immortal being would be the one to continue pursuing an idea to its end, but it was you.” Navani knelt with her hands in her lap, feeling like she’d witnessed something too intimate. So she gave Raboniel time to grieve. Fused grieved. The immortal destroyers, the mythical enemies of all life, grieved. Raboniel’s grief looked identical to that of a human mother who had lost her child. Eventually, Raboniel rested the body on the ground, then covered up the wound with a cloth from her pocket. She wiped her eyes and stood, calling for the guard to bring her some servants. “What now?” Navani asked her. “Now I make sure this death was truly permanent,” Raboniel said, “by communicating with the souls on Braize. If Essu has indeed died a final death, then we’ll know you and I have achieved our goal. And…” She trailed off, then hummed a rhythm. “What?” Navani asked. “Our notebook.” Raboniel looked toward where it sat on the floor. Navani had placed it there while creating the second anti-Voidlight gemstone. Raboniel hummed a different rhythm as servants entered, and she gave terse orders. She sent some to burn her daughter’s corpse and send honors and the ashes to the family that had donated the body to her daughter. She had others gather the vacuum tube and metal plates from Navani’s experiments. Navani stepped forward to stop them, but Raboniel prevented her with a calm—but firm—hand. The Fused took the notebook from Navani’s fingers. “I will have a copy made for you,” she promised Navani. “For now, I need this one to reconstruct your work.” “You saw how I did this, Raboniel.” “Yes, but I need to create a new plate, a new tone. For Stormlight.” Navani tried to pull free, but Raboniel’s hold was firm. She hummed a dangerous rhythm, making Navani meet her eyes. Eyes that had been
|
weeping were now firm and unyielding. “So much for your words about working together,” Navani said. “And you dared imply I was wrong to keep trying to hide things from you.” “I will end the war,” Raboniel said. “That is the promise I will keep, for today we have discovered the means. Finally. A way to make certain that the Radiants can no longer fight. They function as Fused do, you see. If we kill the human, another Radiant will be born. The fight becomes eternal, both sides immortal. Today we end that. I have preserved the Radiants in the tower for a reason. Anti-Stormlight will need subjects for testing.” “You can’t be implying…” Navani said. “You don’t mean…” “Today is a momentous day,” Raboniel said, letting go and walking after the servants carrying Navani’s equipment. “Today is the day we discovered a way to destroy Radiant spren. I will let you know the results of the test.” THE END OF Part Four Hesina made a small notation in her notebook, kneeling above a map she’d rolled out on the floor. The cache Rlain had brought included five maps of Alethkar focused on different princedoms. Sadeas’s was included, with notes about singer troop placements in certain cities and whatever else the scouts had seen while doing reconnaissance of the area. It had taken her until now to realize she could check on Tomat. The city had several long paragraphs of attached observations, written by Kara the Windrunner. The singers had the city wall under repair, which was incredible on its own. That had been broken since … what, her grandfather’s days? The infamous Gap would be gone if she ever visited again. She couldn’t find specifics about the people who had lived in the city, but that wasn’t surprising. The Windrunners hadn’t been able to get too close, after all. At least there were no reports of burnt-out houses, as in some other cities. It seemed the city had given in without too much of a fight, which boded well for local survival rates. She wrote each detail in her notebook, then glanced up as Lirin slipped into their sectioned-off surgery chamber. He let the draped sheets fall closed, fabric rustling. He’d been studying the large model of Urithiru that was at the back of the infirmary room. “You found Tomat?” he asked, adjusting his spectacles and leaning down beside her. “Huh. Anything useful?” “Not much,” she said. “Similar notes to other cities.” “Well, we’d probably know if your father died,” Lirin said, straightening to gather some bandages from the counter. “And how is that?” “He’d be haunting me, obviously,” Lirin said. “Living as a shade in the storms, calling for my blood. As I haven’t heard a thing, I must assume the old monster is alive.” Hesina rolled up the map and gave her husband a flat glare, which he accepted with a smile and a twinkle to his eye. “It’s been twenty-five years,” Hesina said. “He might have softened toward you by now.” “Stone doesn’t soften with time, dear,” Lirin
|
replied. “It merely grows brittle. I think we’d sooner see a chull fly than see your father grow soft.” He must have noticed that the topic legitimately worried her, because he turned away from the gibes. “I’d bet that he’s fine, Hesina. Some men are too ornery to be bothered by something as mundane as an invasion.” “He wouldn’t give up his business easily, Lirin. He’s stubborn as a lighteyes—he’d order his guards to fight, even when everyone else had surrendered.” Lirin returned to his work, and after a short delay, said, “I’m sure he’s fine.” “You are thinking that if he lifted a sword,” Hesina said, “he deserved whatever he got.” And her father would use a sword. Under a special writ of forbearance from the citylord, who—even three decades ago—had been accustomed to doing whatever her father bullied him into doing. She’d met only one man who dared defy him. “I’m thinking,” Lirin said, “that my wife needs a supportive husband, not a self-righteous one.” “And our son?” she asked. “Which version of you does he deserve?” Lirin stiffened, bandages held in front of him. She turned away, trying to contain her emotions. She hadn’t planned to snap at him, but … well, she supposed she hadn’t forgiven him for driving Kaladin away. Lirin quietly stepped over, then settled down on the floor beside her, putting aside the bandages. Then he held up his hands. “What do you want of me, Hesina? Do you want me to abandon my convictions?” “I want you,” she said, “to appreciate your incredible son.” “He was supposed to be better than this. He was supposed to be better than … than I am.” “Lirin,” she said softly. “You can’t keep blaming yourself for Tien’s death.” “Would he be dead if I hadn’t spent all those years defying Roshone? If I hadn’t picked a fight?” “We can’t change the past. But if you continue like this, you’ll lose another son.” He looked up, then shifted his eyes away immediately at Hesina’s cold glare. “I wouldn’t have let him die,” Lirin said. “If they hadn’t decided to go get that Edgedancer, I’d have gone to Kaladin like they asked.” “I know that. But would you have insisted on bringing him here?” “Maybe. He could have needed extended care, Hesina. Isn’t it better to bring him here, where I can watch him? Better than letting him go on fighting an impossible battle, getting himself and others killed in this foolish war.” “And would you have done that to another soldier?” she pressed. “Say it wasn’t your son who was wounded. Would you have brought that boy here and risked him being imprisoned, maybe executed? You’ve healed soldiers before, sending them back out to fight. That’s always been your conviction. Treat anyone, no strings attached, no matter the circumstances.” “Maybe I need to rethink that policy,” he said. “Besides, Kaladin has told me many times that he’s not my son any longer.” “Great. I’m glad we could chat so I could persuade you to be more stubborn. I
|
see that your thoughts and feelings are evolving on this topic—and because you’re you, they’re going the absolute wrong direction.” Lirin sighed. He stood and grabbed the stack of bandages, then turned to leave their little draped-off chamber. Storm it, she wasn’t done with him yet. Hesina rose, surprised at the depth of her frustration. “Don’t you leave,” she snapped, causing him to stop by the drapes. “Hesina,” he said, sounding tired. “What do you want from me?” She stalked over to him, pointing. “I left everything for you, Lirin. Do you know why?” “Because you believed in me?” “Because I loved you. And I still love you.” “Love can’t change the realities of our situation.” “No, but it can change people.” She seized his hand, less a comforting gesture and more a demand that he remain there with her, so they could face this together. “I know how stressed you feel. I feel it too—feel like I’m going to get crushed by it. But I’m not going to let you continue to pretend Kaladin isn’t your son.” “The son I raised would never have committed murder in my surgery room.” “Your son is a soldier, Lirin. A soldier who inherited his father’s determination, skill, and compassion. You tell me honestly. Who would you rather have out there fighting? Some crazed killer who enjoys it, or the boy you trained to care?” He hesitated, then opened his mouth. “Before you say you don’t want anyone fighting,” Hesina interrupted, “know that I’ll recognize that as a lie. We both know you’ve admitted that people need to fight sometimes. You simply don’t want it to be your son, despite the fact that he’s probably the best person we could have chosen.” “You obviously know the responses you want from me,” Lirin said. “So why should I bother speaking?” Hesina groaned, tipping her head back. “You can be so storming frustrating.” In return, he squeezed her hand gently. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softer. “I’ll try to listen better, Hesina. I promise.” “Don’t just listen better,” she said, pulling him out of the draped-off section and waving toward the larger room. “See better. Look. What do you see?” The place was busy with humans who wanted to care for the Radiants. Hesina had instituted a rotation so that everyone got a chance. Beneath the gaze of two watching stormform Regals, people of all ethnicities—and wearing all kinds of clothing—moved among the comatose Radiants. Administering water, changing sheets, brushing hair. Hesina and Lirin used a more carefully cultivated group—mostly ardents—to handle delicate matters like bathing the patients, but today’s caregivers were common inhabitants of the tower. Darkeyes made up the majority of these, but each and every one wore a shash glyph like Kaladin’s painted on their forehead. “What do you see?” Hesina whispered again to Lirin. “Honestly?” he asked. “Yes.” “I see fools,” he said, “refusing to accept the truth. Resisting, when they’ll just get crushed.” She heard the words he left off: Like I was. She towed him by his arm to one
|
side of the room, where a man with only one arm sat on a stool, painting the glyph on a young girl’s head. She ran off to her duty as Lirin and Hesina arrived. The man stood respectfully. Bearded, wearing a buttoned shirt and trousers, he had three moles on his cheek. He nodded to Hesina and Lirin. Almost a bow. As far as he could go without provoking a reaction from the watching Fused, who didn’t like such signs of respect shown to other humans. “I know you,” Lirin said, narrowing his eyes at the man. “You’re one of the refugees who came to Hearthstone.” “I’m Noril, sir,” the man said. “You sent me to the ardents, on suicide watch. Thank you for trying to help.” “Well,” Lirin said, “you seem to be doing better.” “Depends on the day, sir,” Noril said. “But I’d say I’m better than I was when you met me.” Lirin glanced at Hesina, who squeezed his hand and gestured her chin toward Noril’s forehead and the glyph. “Why do you wear that glyph?” Lirin asked. “To honor Stormblessed, who still fights.” Noril nodded, as if to himself. “I’ll be ready when he calls for me, sir.” “Don’t you see the irony in that?” Lirin asked. “It was fighting in your homeland that made you flee, and therefore get into all the trouble you’ve faced. Fighting lost you everything. If people would stop with this nonsense, I would have to see far fewer men with battle shock like yours.” Noril settled down on his stool and used his hand to stir his cup of black paint, which he placed between his knees. “Suppose you’re right, sir. Can’t argue with a surgeon about the nonsense we do. But sir, do you know why I get up each day?” Lirin shook his head. “It’s hard sometimes,” Noril said, stirring. “Coming awake means leaving the nothingness, you know? Remembering the pain. But then I think, ‘Well, he gets up.’” “You mean Kaladin?” Lirin asked. “Yes, sir,” Noril said. “He’s got the emptiness, bad as I do. I can see it in him. We all can. But he gets up anyway. We’re trapped in here, and we all want to do something to help. We can’t, but somehow he can. “And you know, I’ve listened to ardents talk. I’ve been poked and prodded. I’ve been stuck in the dark. None of that worked as well as knowing this one thing, sir. He still gets up. He still fights. So I figure … I figure I can too.” Hesina squeezed Lirin’s hand again, pulling him away as she thanked Noril with a smile. “You want me to acknowledge,” Lirin whispered, “that what Kaladin’s doing is helping that man, while my surgeon’s treatments could have done nothing.” “You said you’d listen,” she said. “You asked what I want of you? I want you to talk to them, Lirin. The people in this room. Don’t challenge them. Don’t argue with them. Simply ask them why they wear that glyph. And see them, Lirin. Please.”
|
She left him standing there and returned to her maps. Trusting in him, and the man she knew he was. Adin was going to be a Windrunner someday. He had it all figured out. Yes, he was just a potter’s son, and spent his days learning how to turn crem into plates. But the highmarshal himself had once been a darkeyed boy from an unknown village. The spren didn’t just pick kings and queens. They watched everyone, looking for warriors. So, as he followed his father through the halls of Urithiru, Adin found opportunities to glare at the invaders. Many might have said that at thirteen, he was too young to become a Radiant. But he knew for a fact there was a girl who had been chosen when she was younger than him. He had seen her leaving food out for old Gavam, the widow who sometimes forgot to collect her rations. You had to be brave, even when you thought nobody was watching. That was what the spren wanted. They didn’t care how old you were, if your eyes were dark, or if the bowls you made were lopsided. They wanted you to be brave. Glaring at singers wasn’t much. He knew he could—and would have to—do more. When the time was right. And he couldn’t let the enemy catch him being unruly. So for now, he stepped to the side of the corridor with his father and let the large group of warforms pass. He dutifully stood there, his father’s hand on his shoulder, their heads bowed. But as soon as the warforms had passed, Adin looked up. And he glared after them, angry as he could be. He wasn’t the only one. He caught Shar, the seamstress’s daughter, glaring too. Well, her uncle was a Windrunner, so maybe she figured she had a better chance than most—but surely the spren were more discerning than that. Shar was so bossy, you’d think she was lighteyed. Doesn’t matter, Adin reminded himself. The spren don’t care if you’re bossy. They just want you to be brave. Well, he could handle a little competition from Shar. And when he got his spren first, maybe he could give her a few tips. Adin’s father caught him glaring, unfortunately, and squeezed his shoulder. “Eyes down,” he hissed. Adin obeyed reluctantly, as another group of soldiers marched past—all heading for the atrium. Had there been some kind of disturbance? Adin had better not have missed another appearance by Stormblessed. He couldn’t believe he’d spent the last fight napping. He hoped the spren would look at people’s parents when choosing their Radiants. Because Adin’s father was extremely brave. Oh, he didn’t glare at passing soldiers, but he didn’t need to. Adin’s father spent many afternoons tending the fallen Radiants. Directly beneath the gaze of the Fused. And every night he went out in secret, doing something. Once the soldiers passed, everyone else continued on their way. Adin’s ankle hurt a little, but it mostly felt better from when he’d hurt it. So he didn’t even limp
|
anymore. He didn’t want a spren to see him acting weak. What was going on? He went up on his toes, trying to look over the crowd, but his father didn’t let him linger. Together they entered the market, then turned toward Master Liganor’s shop. It felt strange to keep following their normal routine. How could they continue making pottery at a time like this? How could Master Liganor open the shop for business like nothing was happening? Well, that was part of their bravery. Adin had figured it out. They entered the back of the shop and set up in the workroom. Adin got busy, knowing that they had to act normal—so the enemy wouldn’t figure out something was up. You had to get them to feel secure, comfortable. Today, Adin did that by heaving out his bucket of crem, pouring off the water on top, and mixing it until it was a paste. Then he mashed it for his father until it was just the right consistency—a little more squishy than dough. He worked the lump aggressively, showing those spren—who were undoubtedly watching him by now—that he had good strong arms. Windrunners needed strong arms, because they didn’t use their legs much, on account of them flying around everywhere. As he worked the crem—his arms starting to burn, the earthy scent of wet rock filling the air—he heard the front door shut. Master Liganor had arrived. The old man was nice, for a lighteyes. Once upon a time, he’d done all the glaze work on the pottery himself, but now it was all completed by Gub, the other journeyman besides Adin’s father. Adin mashed the crem to the proper consistency, then handed a chunk to his father, who had been cleaning and setting the wheel. Adin’s father hefted it, pushed one finger in, then nodded approvingly. “Make another batch,” he said, putting the chunk onto his wheel. “We’ll practice your plates.” “I won’t need to be able to make plates once I can fly,” Adin said. “And what if it takes you until your twenties to become a Windrunner?” his father asked. “You’ll need to do something with your time until then. Might as well make plates.” “Spren don’t care about plates.” “They must,” his father said, spinning up the wheel by pumping his foot on the pedal. “Their Radiants have to eat, after all.” He started shaping the crem. “Never underestimate the value of a job well done, Adin. You want a spren to notice you? Take pride in every job you do. Men who make sloppy plates will be sloppy fighting Fused.” Adin narrowed his eyes. How did his father know that? Was it merely another piece of wisdom drawn from his never-ending well of fatherly quips, or … was it from personal experience? Regardless, Adin dragged out another bucket of crem. They were running low. Where would they get more, now that traders weren’t coming in from the Plains? He was halfway through mixing the new batch when Master Liganor entered, wringing his hands. Short, bald, and
|
tubby, he looked like a vase—the kind that had been made with too short a neck to really be useful. But he was nice. “Something’s happening, Alalan,” the master said. “Something in the atrium. I don’t like it. I think I’ll close the shop today. Just in case.” Adin’s father nodded calmly, still shaping his current pot. When he was on a pot, nothing could shake him. He kept sculpting, wetting his fingers absently. “What do you think?” Master Liganor asked. “A good idea,” Adin’s father replied. “Put out the glyph for lunch, and maybe we can reopen later.” “Good, good,” the master said, bustling out of the workshop into the attached showroom. “I think … I think I’ll head to my room for a while. You’ll keep working? We’re low on water pots. As always.” Master Liganor closed and latched the wooden windows at the front of the small shop, then locked the door. Then he went upstairs to his rooms. As soon as he was gone, Adin’s father stood up, leaving a pot half-finished on the wheel. “Watch the shop, son,” he said, washing his hands, then walked toward the back door. Short, with curly hair and a quiet way about him, he was not the type someone would pick out of a crowd as a hero. Yet Adin knew exactly where he was going. Adin stood up, hands coated in crem. “You’re going to go see what’s happening, aren’t you? In the atrium?” His father hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. “Stay here and watch the shop.” “You’re going to paint your head with the glyph,” Adin said, “and go watch over the Radiants. Just in case. I want to go with you.” “Your ankle—” “Is fine now,” Adin said. “If something does go wrong, you’ll need me to run home and tell Mother. Plus, if there’s trouble, there could be looting here in the market. I’ll be safer with you.” Adin’s father debated, then sighed and waved him forward. Adin felt his heart thundering in his chest as he hurried to obey. He could feel it, an energy in the air. It would happen today. Today, he’d pick up a spear and earn his spren. Taravangian had given up on being smart. It seemed that the longer he lived, the less his intelligence varied each day. And when it did vary, it seemed to move steadily downward. Toward stupidity. Toward sentimentality. His “smart” days lately would have been average just months ago. He needed to act anyway. He could not afford to wait upon intelligence. The world could not afford to wait upon the whims of his situation. Unfortunately, Taravangian had no idea how to proceed. He’d failed to recruit Szeth; Taravangian was too stupid to manipulate that man now. He’d started a dozen letters to Dalinar, and ripped them all up. The right words. Dalinar would only respond to the right words. Plus, whatever Taravangian wrote seemed too much a risk to Kharbranth. He couldn’t sacrifice his home. He couldn’t. Worse, each day he found time slipping
|
away faster and faster. He’d wake from a nap in his chair and the entire day had passed. Usually it was the pain that woke him. He wasn’t simply old. He wasn’t simply feeble. This was worse. Today, Taravangian forced himself to move to keep from drifting off again. He hobbled through his prison of a house. Trying so hard to think. There had to be a solution! Go to Dalinar, a part of him urged. Don’t write him. Talk to him. Was Taravangian actually waiting on the right words, or was there another reason he delayed? A willing disregard for the truth. The slightly smarter version of him didn’t want to give this up to the Blackthorn. He shuffled toward the small bathroom on the main floor, leafing through his notebook, looking over hundreds of crossed-out notes and ideas. The answer was here. He felt it. It was so frustrating, knowing how smart he could be, yet living below that capacity so much of the time. Other people didn’t understand intelligence and stupidity. They assumed people who were stupid were somehow less human—less capable of making decisions or plans. That wasn’t it at all. He could plan, he merely needed time. He could remember things, given a chance to drill them into his brain. Part of being smart, in his experience, was about speed more than capacity. That and the ability to memorize. When he’d created problems to test his daily intelligence, they had taken these dynamics into account, measuring how quickly he could do problems and how well he could remember the equations and principles needed to do so. He had none of that ability now, but he needed none of it. The answer was here, in the notebook. He settled down on the stool in his bathroom—too tired to move the seat elsewhere—as he flipped through the pages. Taravangian had a huge advantage over almost everyone else. Others, stupid or smart, tended to overestimate their abilities. Not Taravangian. He knew exactly how it felt to be both smart and stupid. He could use that. He had to. He needed to use every advantage he had. He had to create a plan as daring as the Diagram—and do so without the gifts Cultivation had given him. The plan of a man, not a god. He racked his brain for anything in the Diagram relating to Nightblood, the sword. But there was nothing. They hadn’t anticipated the sword. Still, he had been given a report by agents he’d sent to research it by interviewing one of its former bearers. Taravangian pulled tidbits from that report from the recesses of his mind, then wrote them on a fresh page of his notebook. The sword feeds on the essence that makes up all things, he wrote, scribbling by the light of a single ruby sphere. It will draw out Stormlight eagerly, feasting. But if there is no Stormlight, it will feed on one’s own soul. The agent had noted that Nightblood worked like a larkin, the beasts that could feed on Investiture. What
|
else did he know? What other clues could he give himself? Odium has greatly expanded intelligence, he wrote. He can be in many places at once and can command the elements. But he feels the same way a man does. He can be tricked. And he seems to have a central … self, a core person. Szeth had refused to listen to Taravangian. However, the man had come when Taravangian seeded the proper incentive out into the world. So maybe he didn’t need to make Szeth do anything other than arrive in the same place as Odium. The Shin assassin was reckless and unstable. Surely Szeth would strike out against Odium if he saw the god manifesting. But how? How can I possibly make the timing work? Taravangian sighed, his head thumping with pain. He looked across at the small hand mirror he’d set up on the counter. The ruby sphere he was using for light reflected in the mirror. But his face did not reflect. Instead he saw a shadowy figure, female, with long flowing black hair. The entire figure was a shadow, the eyes like white holes into nothingness. Taravangian blinked very slowly, then began to tremble with fear. Storms. Storms. He attempted to gather his wits and control his emotions. He probably would have run to hide if he had the strength. In this case, his weakening body served him, as it forced him to sit there until he could control himself. “H … hello, Sja-anat,” he finally managed to say. “I had not realized any of the Un … Unmade were here.” What is wrong with you? a voice said in his mind, warped and distorted, like a dozen voices overlapping. What has happened to you? “This is how I am sometimes. It is … the Nightwatcher’s fault.” No, the other one. The god. She touched three that I know. The child. The general. And you. The Old Magic … the Nightwatcher … I begin to wonder if it was all a cover, these many centuries. A way for her to secretly bring in people she wanted to touch. She has been playing a far more subtle game than Odium realized. Why did you go to her? What did you ask? “For the capacity to stop what was coming,” he said. He was too frightened to lie. Even the smart him hadn’t wanted to face one of these things. She sows many seeds, Sja-anat said. Can you do it? Can you stop what is coming? “I don’t know,” Taravangian whispered. “Can it be stopped? Can … he be stopped?” I am uncertain. The power behind him is strong, but his mind is exposed. The mind and the power seek different goals. This leaves him … not weak, but vulnerable. “I have wondered,” Taravangian said, glancing down at his notebook, “if he is merely playing with me. I assume he looks over my shoulder at everything I write.” No. He is not everywhere. His power is, but he is not. There are limits, and his Voidspren eyes fear coming
|
too close to a Bondsmith. Something itched at Taravangian through the fear and confusion. Sja-anat … she spoke like she wanted Odium to fall. Wasn’t there something in the Diagram about this? He tried to remember. Storms. Was she tricking him into confessing? Should he stay quiet and not say anything? No. He had to try. “I need a way to lure Odium to me,” Taravangian said. “At the right time.” I will arrange for you to be given gemstones with two of my children inside, she said. Odium searches for them. He watches me, certain I will make a mistake and reveal my true intentions. We are Connected, so my children appearing will draw his attention. Good luck, human, when he does come. You are not protected from him as many on this world are. You have made deals that exempt you from such safety. She faded from the mirror, and Taravangian hunched over, trembling as he continued to write. I look forward to ruling the humans. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days To Dalinar, the scent of smoke was inexorably tied to that of blood. He would have trouble counting how many times he’d performed this same long hike across a fresh battlefield. It had become a habit to perform a kind of autopsy of the fighting as he surveyed its aftermath. One could read the movements of troops by the way the dead had fallen. Swaths of singers there indicated a line had broken and chaos had ruled. Human corpses bunched up against the wide river showed the enemy had used the waters—sluggish, since it had been a few days since the last storm—to push an entire company onto poor footing. Bodies stuck with arrows in the front indicated the first beats of the battle—and arrows in the back indicated the last ones, as soldiers broke and fled. He passed many corpses stuck with arrows bearing white “goosefeathers,” a kind of fletching the Horneaters had delivered in batches to aid the war effort. Blood flowed across the field, seeking little rifts in the stone, places where rainwater had left its mark. The blood here was more orange than red, but the two mixed to make an unwholesome shade, the off-red of a rotting methi fruit. The smoke hung heavy in the air. On a battlefield this far afield, you burned the dead right here—sending only the officers home, already made into statues by the Soulcasters. Singer and human bodies smelled the same when they burned, a scent that would always bother him because of a specific battlefield. A specific city. A burned-out scar that was the mark of his greatest failure, and his greatest shame. Charnel groups moved through the dead today, solemnly cutting patches from uniforms, as each was supposed to have the man’s name inked on the back by the quartermaster scribe. Sometimes that didn’t happen. Or sometimes the writing was ruined in the fighting. Those families would go without closure for the rest of their lives. Knowing, but wondering anyway. Hoping.
|
Walking among the dead, he couldn’t help but hear Taravangian’s terrible—yet hauntingly logical—voice. There was a way to see the war ended. All Dalinar had to do was stop fighting. He wasn’t ready yet, but the time might come. Every general knew there was a time to turn your sword point down and deliver it to your enemy with head bowed. Surrender was a valid tactic when your goal was the preservation of your people—at some point, continuing to fight worked contrary to that goal. He could trust that the Fused were not intent on extinction. Odium, however … he could not trust. Something told Dalinar the ancient god of humankind, long abandoned, would not view this battlefield with the same regret Dalinar did. He finished his grim survey, Szeth at his side as always. Several Azish generals, each newly decorated for their valor in this battle, also accompanied him. Along with two Emuli leaders, who were archers. Remarkably, the highest calling among the Emuli army was seen as archery. Dalinar knew his way around a bow, though he’d never considered it a particularly regal weapon, but here it was revered. Dalinar walked a careful line for the local generals. He did not want them to see how much he reviled the deaths. A commander could not afford to revile the work in which he engaged. It did not make them bad men to be proud of their victory, or to enjoy tactics and strategy. Dalinar’s forces would not get far employing pacifists as field generals. But storms … ever since he’d conquered the Thrill and sent it to be sunk deep in the ocean, he’d found himself loathing these smells, these sights. That was becoming his deepest secret: the Blackthorn had finally become what men had been accusing him of for years. A soldier who had lost the will to kill. He looped around, leaving the dead behind, instead passing victorious companies feasting in the very shadow of their butchery. He congratulated them, acted like the figurehead he’d made of himself. Of all those he saw, only the Mink seemed to notice the truth. That there was a reason Dalinar had worked so hard to find his replacement. The short Herdazian man fell in behind Dalinar. “The war in Emul is done as of this battle,” the Mink said. “The rest is cleanup. Unless the enemy infuses his troops here with serious resources—which would be incredibly wasteful at this point—we’ll own Emul within the month.” “The enemy threw it away,” Dalinar said. “That’s a stronger term than I’d use,” the Mink said. “They fought. They wanted to hold. At the same time, they knew they couldn’t move resources away from Jah Keved right now. That would risk destabilizing there, and perhaps lead us to claim it in the coming months. “It is well the enemy wants to occupy and rule, not just destroy. They could have thrown enough at us here to end us on this front—but that would have left the rest of their war efforts in ruin. As it
|
is, they knew exactly how many troops to put in Emul to lure us in with a large enough force—but they also knew to cut their losses if the battle turned against them.” “You’ve been extremely helpful,” Dalinar said. “Just remember your promise. Alethkar next, then Herdaz.” “Urithiru before both,” Dalinar said. “But you have my word. No operations against the Iriali, no attempt to seize Jah Keved, until your people are free.” He likely didn’t need the promise—the Mink was a wily man, and had easily recognized that if Dalinar were ever to recover Alethkar, it would be the best thing that could happen for an eventual recovery of the Mink’s homeland. Once Jah Keved had gone to the enemy, Herdaz’s tactical importance had soared. The Mink departed to go enjoy the post-battle celebration with his personal unit of Herdazian freedom fighters. Dalinar ended up in the small battlefield command tent beside a goblet full of rubies. Couldn’t they have been a different color? Storms. It had been a long time since a battle had affected him like this. It’s like I’m drifting in the ocean, he thought. We won today, but Navani is still trapped. If he couldn’t retake Urithiru, everything collapsed. Losing it was a huge setback in his true goal: pushing Odium to be frightened enough to make a deal. So he sprang to his feet with relief when Sigzil the Windrunner entered, along with two of his team and Stargyle the Lightweaver—a handsome man with a soldier’s build and a ready smile. The name was a little much; Dalinar doubted he’d had that one since birth, but he had a reputation for friendliness, and the lighteyed women of the court certainly seemed to think highly of him. Like the other Lightweavers, the man refused to wear a uniform. Something about not feeling right wearing it again. Indeed, he bowed to Dalinar instead of saluting. “Tell me good news, Radiant Sigzil,” Dalinar said. “Please.” “Stargyle?” Sigzil asked. “Sure thing,” Stargyle said, breathing in Stormlight from a pouch at his belt. He began to paint with his fingers in the air. Each of them did it differently—Shallan had explained that they each needed some kind of focus to make their Surgebinding work. Hers was drawings. Stargyle appeared to have a different method, something more akin to painting. The Lightweaving created a view from above, surveying a shoreline landscape. An army camped along the shore, though it didn’t have much discipline. Large groups of men around campfires, no real uniforms. A variety of weapons. Ishar’s troops seemed to have good numbers, however, and they were well-equipped. Their success on the battlefields in this region made Dalinar careful not to underestimate them. They might not have proper uniforms, but these were battle-hardened veterans. “Here, Brightlord,” Stargyle said—and the image began moving, as if in real life. “I can keep it all in my head, so long as I focus on the colors.” “The colors?” Dalinar said. “I was a pigmenter’s son growing up, Brightlord. I’ve always seen the world by its
|
colors. Squint your eyes a little, and everything is really just color and shapes.” Dalinar inspected the moving illusion. It depicted the entire camp of people, and most interestingly a large pavilion at the center. It was colored in ringed patterns, like the bracelets he’d seen Tukari wear. He thought they had religious significance, though he didn’t know much about the region. The Tukari were renowned for their mercenaries, their perfumes, and he believed their jewelry. The illusion rippled as Dalinar walked closer. A single person stood in front of the pavilion. He wasn’t wearing the same clothing as the soldiers, and wasn’t holding a weapon. “We get down closer in a second, sir,” Sigzil said. “You should notice the person out front.” “I see him,” Dalinar said, leaning forward. Indeed, the image soon drew closer to the pavilion, and the figure became more distinct. An older man. Didn’t seem Tukari, or Alethi. Yes … he was probably Shin, which was what Wit had said Ishar would appear to be. An older Shin man with a white beard and pale skin. Tukar was named after Tuk, their word for the Herald Talenelat—but it wasn’t Taln who ruled them. Not now. It was a different Herald. Ishar wore simple robes, deep blue. He spread his hands out to the sides, frost crystallizing on the stone around him, forming lines. A glyph. The symbol for mystery, a question. It seemed directed at Dalinar specifically. This was absolutely the right man. Dalinar didn’t need to consult the drawings that Wit had provided. He heard a hiss from beside him, and glanced with surprise to see that Szeth had left his post by the entrance to the tent. He’d joined Dalinar, standing very close to the illusion. “One of my…” Szeth stopped himself, likely remembering that he wore the image of an Alethi man. “Blood of my fathers,” he said instead, “that man is Shin?” “Rather,” Dalinar said, “he is from the people who long ago settled Shinovar and became the Shin. The Heralds existed before our nationalities were formed.” Szeth seemed transfixed, as if he’d never considered that one of the Heralds might be Shin. Dalinar understood; he’d seen many depictions of all ten Heralds, and they were usually all painted as Alethi. You had to search the masterworks of earlier ages to find depictions of the Heralds representing all the peoples of Roshar. The illusion moved on from Ishar as the Windrunners finished their sweep of the area, bringing Stargyle higher, safely out of bowshot. The Lightweaving disintegrated. “That’s all we saw, Brightlord,” Stargyle said. “I could show it again, if you want.” “No need,” Dalinar said. “We’ve found him … and he’s waiting for me.” “Waiting for you, sir?” Sigzil asked, glancing toward Lyn and Leyten. “Yes,” Dalinar said. “Do another scouting mission, and report back on what you find. I want to consult with Jasnah first—but we’re going to go meet that man, Radiant Sigzil, and find out what he knows.” I had my title and my rhythms stripped from me for
|
daring insist they should not be killed, but should instead be reconditioned. Repurposed. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Jasnah leaned back in her chair, lit by spherelight. The spanreed report had just arrived; today’s conflict with the enemy armies had ended. The coalition forces had won. Emul was, essentially, now theirs. She still ached from her part in earlier battles, though she’d sat this one out—Dalinar had been there, and they didn’t want to put both of them on the same battlefield at once. Regardless, this particular offensive being finished checked one thing off her list, but there was so much to do, still, with Urithiru in enemy hands. Her house here in their command camp was far nicer than the one Dalinar had picked for himself. She’d chosen it not for the luxury, or for the space, but because it had a second floor. Locked away in a central room on the second level—sharing no walls with the outside, alone save for Wit’s company—she could finally let herself relax. If a Shardbearer broke in, or if a Skybreaker came through one of the upper windows, her fabrial traps would go off—sounding the alarm and giving her time to fight or escape into Shadesmar before she could be killed. She had a boat waiting on the other side, as close to analogous to this location as Shadesmar would allow. She kept stores of Stormlight in the pockets of her dressing gown, which she now wore. She would never again be caught unaware. She would never again be left struggling in Shadesmar without proper resources, forced to spend weeks hunting a perpendicularity. It was only with these preparations that Jasnah felt safe enough to let herself become frustrated. In her lifetime studying history, Jasnah had been guided by two principles. First, that she must cut through the biases of the historians in order to understand the past. Second, that only in understanding the past could she properly prepare for the future. She’d dedicated so much to this study. But a life’s work could be shaken when history got up and started talking to you. She leafed through papers more valuable than the purest emerald, filled with her interviews with the Heralds Ash and Taln. Living history. People who had seen the events she’d read about. In essence, years of her life had been wasted. What good were her theories now? They were halfway-reliable re-creations of what might have happened, pieced together from fragments of different manuscripts. Well, now she could simply ask. The Challenge of Stormhold? Oh, Ash had been there. King Iyalid had been drunk. The treaty of four nights? A delaying tactic intended to position the enemy for a betrayal. All those debates, and Jochi was right while Jasnah was wrong. Settled as easily as that. Of course, there were things the Heralds didn’t know, things they wouldn’t say, or—in Taln’s case—things they couldn’t say. Jasnah flipped through the pages, trying to piece together anything from her more recent interviews that would help with the
|
situation at Urithiru. Even the Heralds knew little of this Sibling, the secretive tower spren. She needed to present this to the other Veristitalians, see what they could tease from it all. Yet the words of the Heralds cast doubt on her second guiding principle—that the past was the best gauge of the future. There was another way. The enemy could see what would happen in the future. That terrified her. In relying on the past, Jasnah saw the future through occluded glass from within a chasm, if at all. Odium had a prime spot atop the watchtower. She sighed, and Wit unfolded himself from the chair snug in the corner on the other side of the room. He stretched, then wandered over and knelt beside her before taking her unclothed safehand and kissing the tip of the index finger. At that, Jasnah felt a little thrill of mystery. She’d come to realize, early in her youth, that she didn’t approach relationships the same way everyone else seemed to. Her partners in the past had always complained that she was too cold, so academic. That had frustrated her. How was she to learn what others felt if she couldn’t ask them? She didn’t have that problem with Wit. He presented an entire world of other problems, but he never was bothered by her questions. Even if he often dodged them. “My dear,” he said, “you pay me no heed. Be careful not to give undue attention only to the ravings of the mad. I warn you, without proper affection, your Wit will wilt.” She removed her hand from his grip and studied him. Keen eyes. A nose that was perhaps a bit too sharp. Most women, she suspected, would find him physically attractive. And indeed she appreciated his statuesque quality, with such interesting proportions and such an intense face. The nose humanized him, in her opinion, made him feel more real. Curiously, he wasn’t Alethi, but he had transformed himself to look like one. She’d been able to tease that much from him. He was something more ancient. He’d laughed when she’d asked, and said the Alethi hadn’t existed when he’d been born, so he couldn’t have been credited the honor of being one of her gifted people. She found the way he spoke fascinating. After all this time—and all her worries—here was one who was her intellectual equal. Perhaps her superior. She didn’t trust him, of course. But that was part of what intrigued her. “How do we beat him, Wit?” she asked softly. “If he can truly see the future, then what possible chance do we have?” “I once knew a man,” Wit said, “who was the finest gambler in all his realm. Where he lived, you make your cards walk themselves around the table by breathing life into them. He was the best. Intelligent, skilled with the Breath of life, a shrewd gambler—he knew exactly how to bet and when. Everyone was waiting for the day when he lost. And eventually he did.” “That’s different, Wit,” Jasnah said. “He
|
couldn’t literally see the future.” “Ah, but you see, I was rigging the games. So I did know the future—as much as Odium does, anyway. I shouldn’t have been able to lose. Yet I did.” “How?” “Someone else rigged the game so that no matter what move I made, I could not win. The game was a tie, something I hadn’t anticipated. I’d focused my cheating on making certain I didn’t lose, but I’d bet on myself winning. And I bet it all, you see—if I’d have been more clever, I’d have let less be lost.” “So,” she said, “how do we set it up so Odium doesn’t win, even if he can’t lose?” Wit unfolded a paper from his pocket, still kneeling beside her. He seemed to genuinely like her, and she found his companionship invigorating. Full of questions, delights, and surprises. She could provide the intimacy he desired, though she knew he found her lack of excitement on that axis odd, perhaps unsatisfying. That was not a new experience for her; she’d always found it curious how others put their physical urges ahead of the more powerful emotions of bonding, relating, and engaging. The chance to scheme, to connect with a being like Wit—that was exciting. She was curious how the relationship would develop, and that invigorated her. After so many failures, this was something new and interesting. She cupped his face with her hand. She wished she could, deep down, truly trust him. He was something she, and this world, had never before known. That was electrifying. It was also so extremely dangerous. Wit smiled at her, then smoothed out the paper on her writing desk. It was scribed in his own hand, of course. He came from a land where men had been encouraged to write, the same as women. He shot her a glance, then his smile became a grin. Yes, he did seem genuinely fond of their relationship, as much as she was. Indeed, he said it had taken him by surprise as it had her. “A contract,” she said, turning from him and reading the paper. “For Dalinar’s contest with Odium.” Wit had undoubtedly sculpted each word with precision. “If Dalinar wins, Odium retreats to Damnation for a thousand years. If Odium wins, he must remain in the system, but gets Roshar to do with as he pleases. The monarchs will submit to his rule—as will the Radiants who follow Dalinar.” “Perfect,” Wit said. “Wouldn’t you say?” Jasnah sat back. “Perfect for you. If this is agreed to, you win no matter what. Odium remains contained in the Rosharan system either way.” Wit spread his hands before himself. “I’ve learned a few things since that challenge with the cards so many years ago. But Jasnah, this is for the best. If Dalinar wins, well, your people get what they want. But if Dalinar loses, Odium is contained. We’re limiting our losses—making certain that at the boundaries of this planet, hell and hate must halt.” “It puts everything on this one contest of champions,” Jasnah said.
|
“I hate that tradition even when played for lower stakes.” “Says the woman who used me in a ploy to manipulate that very tradition not two weeks ago.” “Lower stakes,” Jasnah repeated, “involving a meaningless loss such as your death.” “Jasnah!” “Wit, you’re immortal,” she said. “You told me yourself.” “And you believed me?” he asked, aghast. She paused and studied him. He grinned, then kissed her hand again. He seemed to think that sort of thing would eventually spark passion in her. When in truth, physical stimulation was so inferior to mental stimulation. “I told you I haven’t died when killed—yet,” he said. “Doesn’t mean someone won’t find a way someday, and I’d rather not give them an opportunity. Besides, even for me, being killed can confound.” “Don’t distract me,” she said. “Can we really risk the fate of the world on a simple duel?” “Ah, but it’s not a duel, Jasnah. That’s the thing. It’s not about the contest, but what leads up to the contest. I know Rayse. He is arrogant and enjoys being worshipped. He never does anything without delighting in how he can show off. “He’s also careful. Subtle. So to win, we need to make him certain he can’t utterly lose. This contract does that. If his fail state is that he has to wait a thousand years to try again, well, that won’t bother him. He has been here for thousands of years already. So he’ll see another thousand as an acceptable loss. But to you and the budding Radiants, a thousand years is a long time. Long as a soulless star slumbers.” “A soulless star.” “Yes.” “Slumbers.” “As they do.” She stared at him flatly. “Long as a rat rends rust?” he asked. “Long as seasons see stories?” “Oh, that’s delightful, Jasnah. Pretend I was the one who could somehow stress said symphonion sounds.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “It means beautiful,” he said. “No it doesn’t.” She again studied the contract. “Sometimes I feel you aren’t taking this as seriously as you should, Wit.” “It’s a personal failing,” he said. “The more serious something becomes, the more I find myself inappropriately involved. Indeedy.” Jasnah sighed. “I’ll stop,” he said with a grin. “I promise. But look, Jasnah, Rayse—Odium—is someone we can defeat. If he has one great failing it’s that he thinks he’s smarter than he is. He tried exceptionally hard to make Dalinar into his champion. Why? Because he doesn’t merely want to win, he wants to win in a way that says something. To everyone watching. “He was so certain he could turn the Blackthorn that he bet almost everything on that singular gamble. Now he must be scared. While he pretends he has a dozen other plans, he’s scrambling to locate a champion who can legitimately win. Because he knows—same as I’m telling you—that the contest won’t only be about who can stab the hardest with their spear.” “What will it be about then?” “Same thing it’s always about, Jasnah,” Wit said. “The hearts of men and women. Do
|
you trust the hearts of those who fight on your side?” She paused, and hoped he didn’t read too much into it. Staring at the contract, she couldn’t help but feel outmatched by all of this. She, who had been preparing for nearly two decades for these exact events, felt uncertain. Did she trust her own heart, when confronted with ancient troubles that had surely defeated better women than her? “A wise answer,” Wit whispered. “I didn’t give one.” “A wise answer.” He squeezed her hand. “If you give Odium this contract—and get me the assurance that he cannot break free of this planetary system no matter what happens—then you won’t have to trust the hearts of mortals, Jasnah. Because you’ll have me. And everything I can give you.” “You’ve told me he would destroy you if he found you.” “We’ll add a line to the contract,” Wit said, “naming me as a contractual liaison for Honor—whom Dalinar represents. This will protect me from Odium’s direct attacks for the life of the contract. He will have to abide by those terms, as they are part of the promise Rayse made by taking up the Shard of Odium. To fail that promise would give others an opening against him, and said failures have killed gods before. Odium knows it. So do this, and I can help you openly. As myself.” “And who is that, Wit?” she asked. “Who are you really?” “Someone,” he said, “who wisely turned down the power the others all took—and in so doing, gained freedoms they can never again have. I, Jasnah, am someone who is not bound.” She met his eyes—the eyes of something that wasn’t a man. A thing that was eternal as a spren. Or, if he was to be believed, something even older. “I feel,” she said, “like I should be terrified by that statement.” “That’s why I’m so fond of you,” he said. “You are poised, you are smart, and you are always ready with a ploy; but when each of those things fails you, Jasnah, you are—above all else—paranoid.” An iron cage will create an attractor—a fabrial that draws specific elements to itself. A properly created smoke fabrial, for example, can gather the smoke of a fire and hold it close. New discoveries lead us to believe it is possible to create a repeller fabrial, but we don’t yet know the metal to use to achieve this feat. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 “Quickly, up the stairs!” Venli shouted the words to the Rhythm of Command. “The lady returns!” The servants scrambled up the tower steps. They didn’t need Venli to order them about, but it was expected of her, and she’d gotten very good at playing the role. She didn’t whip them as some might—most of the shanay-im disliked such physical punishments, fortunately—but she did grab Vod out of line and straighten his shirt and sash. He hummed to Appreciation in thanks as she shoved him after the rest. Last in
|
line, Venli grabbed her scepter and hurried up the steps. The others ahead of her wore workform or nimbleform, so she towered over them in envoyform. There were a variety of different levels a person could have in the singer culture. Normal people—simply called singers, or common singers—had ordinary forms such as workform or warform. Then there were forms of power, like Venli’s envoyform. This was a level higher in authority and strength, and required taking a Voidspren into your gemheart. That influenced your mind, changed how you perceived the world. These singers were called Regals. Further up the hierarchy were the Fused. Ancient souls put into a modern body, which extinguished the soul of the host completely. And above them? Mysterious creatures like the thunderclasts and the Unmade. Souls more like spren than people. Venli still didn’t know much about them. Serving one of the Fused was difficult enough. She hurried up the steps, which wound dizzily around the spire. This wasn’t a proper fortification; it was no more than a column of stone with wooden steps—basically a staircase into the sky. The design reminded her of the tall stone pillar in Narak. At the top of the spire, she entered a room that gave her vertigo. Open on two sides, the room looked out over the grand city of Kholinar—and there were no railings to prevent a careless worker from toppling a hundred feet to the city streets below. Though the footing was sound, it felt unstable, like a tower of blocks with a too-large capstone, awaiting the inevitable child’s foot. The storms should have destroyed these tower rooms on first blow. But the Fused had overseen their construction, and so far only one in the line of twenty had been felled by a highstorm and needed to be rebuilt. That one had caused heavy damage to the homes below, of course—but there was little use seeking logic in the ways of the Fused. Venli stepped to the front of the group of servants, sweating from the protracted climb. Her form of power was slender and tall, with long orange-red hairstrands and delicate carapace along the cheeks and in ridges on the backs of the hands. Not armor; more like ornamentation. It wasn’t a fighting form, more intended to inspire awe—and give her powers to translate text and languages. Though she was a Regal, she held a secret deep within her gemheart, a friend who protected her from the Voidspren’s influence. Her Radiant spren—Timbre—buzzed softly, comforting her. Venli scanned the horizon and finally picked out figures approaching as dots in the sky. Though Venli had rushed the others, none would complain. You didn’t question a Regal—and besides, they’d rather be shouted at by Venli than suffer punishment from a Fused. Leshwi was fair, but that did not mean her anger was tame. Soon the shanay-im—Those Ones of the Heavens—came streaking into the city. Only the most important of them merited tower rooms like this one, and so the majority swooped down toward more conventional housing in the city proper. Leshwi,
|
however, was among Odium’s elite. She wasn’t the most powerful, but was lofty compared even to most Fused. Part of Leshwi’s favor had to do with her prowess in battle, but Venli suspected an equal measure came because she’d maintained her sanity over the centuries. The same could not be said for many, though the Heavenly Ones had fared better than other kinds of Fused. The nine varieties were called “brands” in their own language, a word evoking the heat of a branding iron, though Venli had seen no such mark on their skin. Leshwi slowed as she approached, her traveling garb—bright white and red this time—rippling in the wind. It trailed a good thirty feet below and behind her, and she wore her hair loose. She reached her hands to the sides as she landed, and servants immediately came forward to unhook clasps and remove the longer parts of the train. Others brought water and fruit, bowing as they held the bowls toward her. Leshwi waited for her garments to be unhooked before taking refreshment. She glanced at Venli, but made no sound, so Venli remained where she was—standing tall, holding her scepter. She had long since overcome her initial fears that she’d be found out for the fraud she was. Once the long train was removed, other servants helped Leshwi out of the robes. A few servants averted their eyes from the sight of her flowing undergarments—but Leshwi didn’t care about mortal feelings of propriety. She didn’t so much as hum a note of Embarrassment, though in this incarnation, the body that had been offered to her was malen. Indeed, after drinking and being wrapped in her robes of luxury, she sat down to be seen by the barber, who shaved her face after the manner of humans. She hated whiskers, even if the ones she grew when inhabiting a malen body were soft and faint. The Fused exerted some measure of will upon their forms—skin patterns persisted, for example, and some grew carapace in individual patterns. Knowing that, you could easily distinguish the same Fused across multiple incarnations. Of course, Venli had the advantage of her ability to look into Shadesmar—which immediately told her if someone was Fused, Regal, or ordinary singer. She tried very hard not to use that ability except in the most secret of locations. It would be a disaster of incredible proportions if anyone figured out that Venli—Last Listener, envoyform Regal, Voice of Lady Leshwi—was a Knight Radiant. Sound thrummed through her. Timbre could read her thoughts—and Venli could read the little spren’s words and intents through the pulsing of her rhythms. In this case, Timbre wanted Venli to acknowledge she was not a Knight Radiant. Not yet, as she’d only said the First Ideal. She had work to do if she wanted to progress. She acknowledged this quietly; she grew uncomfortable if Timbre pulsed when a Fused was near. There was no telling what might give her away. Considering that, she pointedly did not look at Dul and Mazish among the servants. At least
|
not until they brought the new recruit forward—a young femalen in workform, bright lines of red marbling her otherwise black skin. Venli hummed to Indifference, pretending to inspect the newcomer—whose name was Shumin—though they’d met several times in secret. Finally, Venli stepped up to Leshwi, who was still being shaved. Venli waited to be acknowledged—a sign given her when Leshwi hummed to Satisfaction. “This one,” Venli said, waving to Shumin, “has been determined worthy of service. Your stormsetter needs a new assistant.” The stormsetter made certain Leshwi’s possessions in the High Chamber were packed before each storm, then reset afterward. Leshwi hummed. Though it was a short beat done to Craving, it meant so much more to Venli. The longer she’d held envoyform, the more remarkable its abilities had become. She could not only speak all languages, she instinctively understood what her mistress said to her through simple humming. In fact, the experience was eerily familiar to the way she understood Timbre—yet she was certain that ability wasn’t related to her form. Regardless, as Leshwi’s Voice, Venli’s duty was to express the lady’s desires to others. “The lady wishes to know,” Venli said to Derision, “if this newcomer can embrace the height of the chamber.” She pointed, and Shumin stepped nervously to the edge of the room, beside the drop-off. The chamber was large enough that, standing among the lady’s furniture at the center, one might be able to ignore how high they were. Venli strode over and joined Shumin. Here at the edge, there was no pretending or denying. With your toes to the rim, feeling the wind press you from behind as if to shove you off into the sky above the sunlit streets … Venli was not particularly afraid of heights, but part of her wanted to run to the center of the room and hug the floor. People were not meant to be this high. This was the domain of stormclouds and thunder, not singers. Shumin quaked, drawing some fearspren, but she stood firm. She stared outward, however, and did not look down. “Passion,” Venli said softly, to Determination—one of the old rhythms. The pure rhythms of Roshar. “Remember that with the Fused, your Passion will do you credit. To hold this post, you must match fear with determination.” It was the great contradiction of serving the Fused. They did not want simpering children who were too quick to obey, but they also expected exactness in service. They wanted only the strongest of wills among their followers—but wished to control and dominate them. Shumin hummed to the Rhythm of Winds, then looked down at the city. Venli made her stand an uncomfortable minute, then hummed and turned, walking back. Shumin followed with hasty steps, sweating visibly. “She seems timid,” Leshwi said to Venli, speaking in their ancient language. “We are all timid when we begin,” Venli replied. “She will serve well. How can one sing with Passion if never given a chance to learn the proper songs?” Leshwi took the towel from her barber and wiped her face,
|
then selected a fruit from the bowl offered nearby. She inspected it for flaws. “You are compassionate to them, despite your attempts to appear stiff and stern. I can see the truth in you, Venli, Last Listener.” If that were so, Venli thought, I would undoubtedly be dead by now. “I favor compassion,” Leshwi said, “so long as it does not override worthier Passions.” She began eating her fruit, giving instruction in a quick hum. “You are accepted,” Venli said to Shumin. “Serve with devotion, and you will be taught to speak the words of the gods and sing the rhythms of lost peoples.” Shumin hummed her pleasure, backing away to join the others. Venli caught the eye of Dul, the stormsetter, and he nodded before fetching the next item of business. “If I may,” Venli said, turning to Leshwi. “Did you kill him on this excursion?” There was no need to explain “him.” Leshwi was fascinated by the Windrunners, and in particular their leader—the young man who had forged a group of Radiants without the guidance of god or Herald. Leshwi finished her fruit before giving a reply. “He was there,” Leshwi said. “And so was his spren, though she did not appear to me. We fought. No conclusion. Though I fear I might not have a chance to face him again.” Venli hummed to Craving, to indicate her curiosity. “He killed Lezian, the Pursuer.” “I do not know that name,” Venli said. With that title, the creature must be one of the Fused. As beings thousands of years old, each one had a lore and history long enough to fill books. It angered them that no one knew them individually this time around. Indeed, Leshwi spoke to Derision when she replied, “You will. He is newly reawakened, but always worms his way into the stories and minds of mortals. He takes great pride in it.” And the rest of you don’t? Venli kept the comment in. Leshwi appreciated Passion—but wry comments were entirely different. “Is there other business for me?” Leshwi asked. “One other matter,” Venli said, gesturing as Dul arrived with a very frightened woman in tow. A human woman, thin and somewhat scrawny, with long curling eyebrows. She was dressed in the humble clothing of a worker. “You asked me to find a tailor who could experiment with new designs. This one was of that profession once.” “A human,” Leshwi said. “Curious.” “You wished for the best,” Venli said. “Our people are learning to excel in many areas, but mastering some professions requires much longer than the year we’ve had. If you wish for an expert tailor, you will need a human.” Leshwi stood, then rose into the air, her robes of luxury—gold and stark black—trailing beneath her. She hummed a message to Venli. “The great lady wishes to know your name,” Venli said. “Yokska, great one,” said the cowering woman. “You were a tailor?” Venli said, Voicing for Leshwi. “Yes, once I dressed princes and lighteyes. I know … I know the most current of fashions.” “Your
|
fashions and clothing will not suit a Fused,” Venli Voiced. “The designs will be unfamiliar to you.” “I … I live to serve…” Yokska said. Venli glanced at Leshwi and knew immediately from the lady’s hummed tone that this servant would be rejected. Was it the woman’s mannerisms? Too cowering? Perhaps she didn’t look presentable enough—though Venli had decided against dressing Yokska well, as that could offend the Fused. “A human will not do,” Leshwi said. “To elevate this one would be to say our people are not good enough. In any case, tell her to stand up and meet my eyes. So many of these are cremlings.” “Can they be blamed? Other Fused beat humans who meet their eyes.” Leshwi hummed to Fury, and Venli met the tone with her own. At this, Leshwi smiled. “It is a problem among my kind,” Leshwi admitted. “The nine brands do not present uniform expectations of the humans. But still, this one cannot be my tailor. Already there are comments and questions about the raising of a human to the title of He Who Quiets. I would not heap up fuel for those seeking to prove we are soft. Save your hidden compassion for your own, Voice. But perhaps allow this one to teach a singer wearing artform, so they may learn her skill.” Venli bowed her head, humming to Subservience. She would have been pleased regardless of the outcome—this was mostly a test to see what her lady thought of the humans. Leshwi spoke so often of the Windrunners, Venli was curious whether she would sympathize with a human of lower station. “My tasks are done,” Leshwi said. “I will meditate. Empty the High Chamber and see that the new servant is properly trained.” She rose through a hole in the roof, seeking the clouds. Venli thumped her scepter against the wooden floor, and the other servants began to disperse down the steps. Several helped the human woman. Venli made Shumin wait. Once everyone was safely on their way, she led the newcomer down the long winding steps to her own room: the guardhouse that one needed to pass through to reach the steps. Venli’s position was, quite literally, the gate one needed to pass in order to approach Leshwi. Dul waited beside the hatch that closed off access to the steps above. Shumin made as if to speak, but Venli quieted her, waiting until Dul closed the hatch and the window shades. Mazish returned from checking outside, then closed the door behind her. Dul and Mazish were married. Not once-mates, as the listeners would have called it, but married. They had insisted after having their minds restored; they’d been mates while enslaved by the humans, and had adopted Alethi ways. Venli had a great deal of work to do. She needed to counteract the indoctrination of the Fused and help the singers cast off the traditions of those who had enslaved them. But a cremling did not shed its shell until it had grown too large for it; she hoped her guidance
|
would eventually encourage them to shed—of their own choice—the burdens of both Fused and human society. “You may speak now,” Venli said to Shumin. Venli changed her rhythm to that of Confidence—one of the old rhythms. The true rhythms, uncorrupted by the touch of Odium. “Stormfather!” Shumin said, turning to Dul and Mazish. “That was difficult. You didn’t tell me she was going to practically dangle me off the edge!” “We warned you it would be hard,” Dul said to Reprimand. “Well, I think I did pretty well otherwise,” Shumin said, looking to Venli. “Right? Brightness, what did you think?” The change in the femalen’s attitude made Venli sick. She was so … human. From her curses to her way of gesturing when she spoke. But then, those who were most loyal to the Fused were unlikely to join Venli. She would work with what she had. “I worry you were overly timid,” Venli said. “The Fused do not want weakness, and neither do I. Our organization is formed from those who are strong enough to resist, and eventually break free of, all chains.” “I’m ready,” Shumin said. “When do we attack the Fused? Each storm I worry I’ll be next, and that one of the waiting Fused souls will boot my mind out and take over.” It didn’t work that way. Venli had witnessed the transformation; she’d nearly been taken herself. Accepting the soul of a Fused into your body had an element of agency to it. Agency, however, was difficult to define. If you took a Regal form, Odium got inside your mind. New forms with their new rhythms altered your mannerisms, your way of seeing the world. Even common singers were carefully indoctrinated, constantly told that sacrificing themselves was a great privilege. This, in the end, was what made Venli decide she needed to try to rebuild her people. The Fused and the humans … there was an equivalency to them. Both sought to take away the minds of common folk. Both were interested solely in the convenience of a useful body, without the accompanying “burden” of a personality, desires, and dreams. Venli was determined not to do the same. She would accept those who came to her. If she wanted them to change, she would show them a better way. It was Timbre’s suggestion. Volition. Agency. Cardinal tenets of whatever it was she was becoming. Strange sentiments for one who had once—with a grin on her face—brought death and enslavement to her people. But so be it. She nodded to her friends, who backed away to watch the doors. Venli gestured for Shumin to sit down with her at the small table by the wall, away from the windows. Before she spoke, Venli checked for spies. She drew a bit of Voidlight from a sphere in her pocket. She could use either of the two types of Light: the strange Voidlight Odium provided, or the old Stormlight of Honor. From what Timbre said, this was new—whatever Venli was doing, it hadn’t been done before. Eshonai would have been
|
excited by that idea, so Venli tried to take strength from memories of her sister. Using that Light, she peeked into Shadesmar: the Cognitive Realm. Timbre pulsed to Concern. They’d tested Venli’s other power—the ability to mold stone—only once, and it had drawn secretspren. A kind of specialized spren that flew through the city, watching for signs of Knights Radiant using their powers. She had escaped those secretspren without revealing herself, but it had been close. As long as the secretspren were near, Venli could not practice the full extent of her abilities. Fortunately, this power—the one that let her peek into Shadesmar—did not draw the same attention. With it, she saw a world overlapping the physical one. The second world was made up of an ocean of beads, a strange sun set too far back in a black sky, and hovering lights. One for every soul. The souls of Fused were dark flames that pulsed like a beating heart. With care, she’d also learned to judge which spren a common singer had bonded to provide their form. Some Voidspren could hide from the eyes of all except those they wanted to see them—but none could hide from Venli, who could see their traces in Shadesmar. She made certain none were nearby, and that Shumin was not one of the mavset-im, Fused who could imitate the shapes of others. Even other Fused seemed wary of the mavset-im, Those Ones of Masks. Shumin’s soul was as Venli expected: a common singer soul bonded to a small gravitationspren to take workform. Venli stopped using her powers. She knew she could travel to that strange world if she wished—but Timbre warned that the place was dangerous for mortals, and it was difficult to return once fully there. Today, looking was enough. “You must know what we are,” Venli said to Shumin. “And what we are not. We do not seek to overthrow the Fused.” “But—” “We are not a rebellion,” Venli said. “We are a group of objectors who do not like the choices we’ve been offered. Fused oppression or human tyranny? The god of hatred or the supposedly honorable god who abandoned us to slavery? We accept neither. We are the listeners. We will cast off everything—including our very forms if we must—to find freedom. “Once we have enough members, we will leave the city and travel someplace where no one will bother us. We will remain neutral in the conflicts between humans and Fused. Our only goal is to find a place where we can thrive on our own. Our society. Our government. Our rules.” “But…” Shumin said. “They’re not simply going to let us walk away, right? What safe place is there away from everyone else?” They were good questions. Venli hummed to Annoyance—at herself, not at Shumin. When her ancestors had first broken away in an ultimate act of bravery and sacrifice, it had been at the end of the wars between humans and singers. The listeners were able to escape in the confusion, a loose thread no one thought to
|
tie up. This was different. She knew it was. She leaned forward. “We have two current plans. The first is to find sympathetic Fused and convince them we deserve this privilege. They respect Passion and courage.” “Yeah, sure, but…” Shumin shrugged in a human way. So casual. “There’s a big difference between respecting Passion and letting someone curse you out. The Fused seem pretty intolerant of people truly disagreeing with them.” “You’re making a mistake,” Venli said to Reprimand. “You assume the Fused are all of a single mind.” “They’re the immortal servants of a terrible god.” “And they’re still people. Each with different hearts, thoughts, and goals. I retain hope that some of them will see what we’re planning as worthy.” It was a frail hope, Venli admitted to herself. Timbre pulsed within her, agreeing. Leshwi though … the high lady seemed to respect her enemies. She could be brutal, she could be unforgiving, but she could also be thoughtful. Leshwi said the conquest of Roshar was being undertaken on behalf of the common singer people. Perhaps using similar language, Venli could present her plan for a new listener homeland. Unfortunately, she feared that the Fused had fought their wars so long that—despite paying lip service to giving the world back to the singers—they no longer saw freedom as the goal. To many of them, the war was for vengeance: the destruction of their enemies, finally proving which side was right. So if Leshwi—who was among both the most sane and the most empathetic of Fused—could not be persuaded, then that left only one option. To run and hide. Venli’s ancestors had shown that courage. She was uncertain, when being honest with herself, whether she had the same moral strength. Shumin idly played with her hair rather than humming to an emotion as a listener would have. Was that hair-twisting a sign she was bored, perhaps the human way of humming to Skepticism? “If we must run,” Venli said, “we are not without resources.” “Forgive me if I’m hesitant, Brightness,” Shumin said. “They summoned rock monsters that were taller than the storming city wall. They have Regals and Fused. I think our sole hope is to get the entire city to turn against them.” “We have a Regal as well,” Venli said, gesturing to herself. “There is a Voidspren in my gemheart, Shumin, but I have learned to contain and imprison it. It gives me powers, such as the ability to look into Shadesmar and see if any spren are nearby spying on us.” “Regal powers…” Shumin said, glancing to the others in the room. “And … I could have them too? Without surrendering my will to Odium?” “Possibly,” Venli said. “Once I have perfected the process so others can use it.” Timbre pulsed inside her, disapproving. The little spren wanted Venli to tell the full truth—that she was Radiant. However, the time wasn’t right. Venli wanted to be certain she could offer others what she had before exposing what she was. She needed to be certain other spren like Timbre
|
were willing, and she needed to prepare her friends for the path. “Long ago,” Venli explained to Shumin, “the singers were allies of the spren. Then humans came, and the wars started. The events of those days are lost to all but the Fused—in the end, however, we know the spren chose humans. “Eventually, the humans betrayed them. Killed them. Some spren have chosen to give humans a second chance, but others … Well, I have been contacted by a spren who represents an entire people in Shadesmar. They realize that perhaps we deserve a second chance more than humans do.” “What does that mean?” Shumin asked. “That we will not be completely without allies, once we make our move,” Venli said. “Our ultimate goal is to find a place where we can escape other people’s rules and their laws. A place where we can be what we wish and cast off the roles forced upon us.” “I’m in,” Shumin said. “That sounds like a storming delight, Brightness. Maybe … maybe if we have forms of power that aren’t granted by Odium, the enemy will leave us alone.” Either that or Odium would see that his minions scoured Venli and her faction from the planet. Timbre pulsed, saying no great work could be accomplished without risk. Venli hated when she said things like that. It reminded her exactly how dangerous her current actions were. She drew in a little Light to check Shadesmar again. She saw nothing spying on her, so— A dark, pulsing flame was moving down from above. Leshwi. Venli leaped to her feet, her chair slamming to the ground. Dul and Mazish noticed her urgency and stood upright, searching around, trying to decide what to do. “Open the shades!” Venli said. “Quickly! So she doesn’t see anything odd!” They slammed the windows open right as the hatch rattled. Lady Leshwi—brilliant in her outfit of gold and black—entered, skimming above the steps. She almost never came down here. What was going on? Timbre trembled inside Venli. They’d been discovered. It had to mean they’d— “Gather yourself, Last Listener,” Leshwi said to the Rhythm of Agony. “Something is happening. Something dangerous. I fear the war is about to take a distinctly different turn.” Humans are weapons. We singers revere Passion, do we not? How can we throw away such an excellent channeling of it? —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Kaladin woke with a start, ready to fight. He struggled, his heart racing as he found his hands bound. Why? What was happening? He grunted, thrashing in the darkness, and … He started to remember. He’d tied his hands together on purpose, to prevent him from punching someone who woke him, like he’d done to Dabbid yesterday. He gasped, fighting the terror as he huddled against the wall. Kaladin told himself the visions were only nightmares, but he still wanted to claw at his own skull. Burrow into it, pull out all the terrible thoughts, the overwhelming darkness. Storms. He was … he was … He
|
was so tired. Eventually he managed to calm himself enough to free his hands. He searched around the black chamber, but saw nothing. They hadn’t left out any lights. Teft, however, was snoring softly. Everything was all right. Kaladin was … was all right.… He fumbled around his mat, looking for the canteen he’d placed there when going to sleep. What had awakened him? He remembered a … a song. A distant song. He found the canteen, but then saw a light on the wall. Faint, almost invisible even in the darkness. Hesitant, he wiped the sweat from his brow, then reached out and touched the garnet. A voice, so very quiet, spoke in his mind. … help … please … Storms. The tower spren sounded frail. “What is wrong? They found the last node?” Yes … at … the model … The model? Kaladin frowned, then remembered the large model of the tower in the infirmary room. In there? Near the Radiants? Storms. That was where his parents were. There is something else … so … much … worse.… “What?” Kaladin demanded. “What could be worse?” They will … soon kill … all the Radiants.… “The Radiants?” Kaladin said. “The captive ones?” … Please … send … me Rlain.… The voice faded along with the light. Kaladin took a deep breath, trembling. Could he do this again? He took out a sphere, then woke Teft. The other bridgeman came awake, grabbing Kaladin by the arm reflexively. His grip was weak. Despite what he said, the time in a coma had left him enervated. I have to fight, Kaladin thought. I’m the only one who can. “What is it?” Teft said. “Something’s happening,” Kaladin said. “The tower’s spren woke me, saying the final node has been located. The Sibling told me the Radiants are in danger, and asked me to send Rlain. I think they meant to send Rlain to Navani, like we’d been planning. Our hand seems to have been forced. We need to try to rescue the Radiants.” Teft nodded, groaning as he sat up. “You don’t seem surprised,” Kaladin said. “I’m not,” Teft said, heaving himself to his feet. “This was coming, lad, no matter what we did. I’m sorry. Doesn’t seem we have time to do it your father’s way.” “Watchers at the rim,” Kaladin said softly. “We’ll need to move quickly. You get Lift ready to sneak in to the Radiants, so she can begin waking them up. I’ll make a fuss outside to lure out the guards and distract the Pursuer. If the guards don’t come out though, you’ll have to neutralize them.” “All right then. Good enough.” Teft pointed to the side, to where something lay folded on the ground. Bridge Four uniforms. Kaladin had asked Dabbid to get them changes of clothing. That was what he’d found? As they began to dress, Dabbid returned, frantic. He came up and grabbed Kaladin’s arm. “The tower spren talked to you too?” Kaladin asked. Dabbid nodded. “They sounded so weak.” “Do you know where Rlain is?” Kaladin
|
asked. “I’m going to meet him,” Dabbid said. “Fourth floor. Something’s happened with Venli that has him really shaken. He didn’t want to talk in the infirmary.” “Tell him the plan is a go,” Kaladin said. “Someone needs to inform the queen. Do you think you two can get to her?” “Rlain thinks he can,” Dabbid said. “I will go with him. People ignore me.” “Go then,” Kaladin said. “Tell her what we’re doing, and that we’re going to have to get the Radiants out. Then you two take up hiding in this room, and don’t make any storms. We’ll escape with the Radiants, get Dalinar, and return for you.” Dabbid wrung his hands, but nodded. “Bridge Four,” he whispered. “Bridge Four,” Kaladin said. “I don’t want to leave you two alone, Dabbid, but we need to move now—and I want the queen to be contacted. Plus … the Sibling said something. About sending Rlain to them.” “They said it to me too,” Dabbid said. He gave the salute, which Kaladin returned, then moved off at a run. “If something goes wrong,” Kaladin said to Teft, continuing to dress in his uniform, “get out that window.” They’d practiced Kaladin’s trick of infusing objects and his boots to climb down walls. In an emergency, someone might have to jump out the window and hope to regain their powers before they hit the ground—but that was an absolute last resort. The current plan was for the Windrunners to climb down the outside, each with another Radiant strapped to their backs. It was far from a perfect plan, but it was better than letting the Fused murder the Radiants while they were in comas. “Even if you only get yourself out,” Kaladin said, “do it, rather than staying and making a hopeless stand. Take your spren and get to Dalinar.” “And you?” Teft said. “You’ll follow, right?” Kaladin hesitated. “If I run, you run,” Teft said. “Look, what happened the last two times a node was discovered?” “The Pursuer was waiting for me,” Kaladin admitted. “He will be again,” Teft said. “This is a trap, plain and simple. What the enemy doesn’t know is that we don’t care about the node. We’re trying to free the Radiants. So distract him a little, yes, but then run and let them have their storming fabrial.” “I could try that.” “Give me an oath, lad. We can’t do anything more in this tower. We need to reach Dalinar. I’m going to head that way with as many Radiants as I can rescue. You’ve got my back, right?” “Always,” Kaladin said, nodding. “I swear it. Get as many of the Radiants out as you can, and then run. Once you do, I’ll follow.” I love their art. The way they depict us is divine, all red shades and black lines. We appear demonic and fearsome; they project all fear and terror upon us. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Dalinar stepped into the Prime’s warcamp home, and immediately felt as if he’d entered the
|
wrong building. Surely this was a storage room where they were keeping extra furniture gathered from the surrounding abandoned towns. But no, Dalinar was merely accustomed to austerity. It was an Alethi wartime virtue for a commander to eschew comfort. Dalinar had perhaps taken this idea too far on occasion—but he’d become comfortable with simple furniture, bare walls. Even his rooms in Urithiru had grown too cluttered for his taste. Young Yanagawn came from a different tradition. This entry room was so full of rich furniture—painted bronze on every surface that wasn’t of some plush material—that it created a maze Dalinar had to wind through to reach the other side. Adding to the difficulty, the room was also packed with a battalion’s worth of servants. Twice Dalinar encountered someone in bright Azish patterns who had to physically climb onto a couch to let him pass. Where had they found all of this? And those tapestries draping every visible space on the walls. Had they carried them all this way? He knew the Azish were more accustomed to long supply chains—they didn’t have access to the number of food-making Soulcasters that the Alethi did—but this was excessive, wasn’t it? Though, he noted, turning back across the room as he reached the other side, this would certainly slow an assassin or a force who tried to break in here and attack the Prime. In the next room he found an even greater oddity. The Prime—Yanagawn the First, Emperor of Makabak—sat in a throne at the head of a long table. Nobody else ate at the table, but it was stuffed with lit candelabras and plates of food. Yanagawn was finishing his breakfast, mostly pre-cut fruit. He wore a mantle of heavy cloth and an ornate headdress. He ate primly, spearing each bite of fruit with a long skewer, then raising it to his lips. He barely seemed to move, with one hand held crossed before his chest as he manipulated the skewer with the other. A large rank of people stood to either side of him. They mostly seemed to be camp followers. Washwomen. Wheelwrights. Reshi chull keepers. Seamstresses. Dalinar picked out only a few uniforms. Jasnah had already arrived for the meeting. She stood among the groups of people, and a servant ushered Dalinar in that direction as well, so he joined the bizarre display. Standing and watching the emperor eat his fruit one delicate bite at a time. Dalinar liked the Azish—and they’d proven to be good allies with a shockingly effective military. But storms above and Damnation beyond, were they strange. Although curiously, he found their excess to be less nauseating than when an Alethi highprince indulged. In Alethkar this would be an expression of arrogance and a lack of self-restraint. Here, there was a certain … cohesion to the display. Alethi servants of the highest order wore simple black and white, but the Azish ones were dressed almost as richly as the emperor. The overflowing table didn’t seem to be for Yanagawn. He was merely another ornament. This was about
|
the position of Prime, and the empire itself, more than an elevation of the individual man. From what Dalinar had heard, they’d had trouble appointing this most recent Prime. The reason for that was, of course, standing directly behind Dalinar: Szeth, the Assassin in White, had killed the last two Primes. At the same time, Dalinar couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be Prime. They had to deal with all this pomp, always on display. Maybe that was why their “scholarly republic” worked in a way Jasnah liked so much. They had accidentally made the position of emperor so awful, no sane person would want it—so they’d needed to find other ways to rule the country. Dalinar had learned enough social grace to remain quiet until the display was complete. Each of the onlookers was then given a bronze plate full of food, which they accepted after bowing to the emperor. As they left one by one, other servants quickly made space at the table for Jasnah and Dalinar, though the clock he wore in his arm bracer told him he was still a few minutes early for the meeting. Damnation’s own device, that was. Had him hopping about like the Prime. Though admittedly, Dalinar was realizing how much less of his time was wasted now that everyone knew precisely when to meet together. Without ever saying a word, Navani was bringing order to his life. Be safe. Please. My life’s light, my gemheart. He sent Szeth out, as neither of the other two monarchs had guards in the room. As they settled—the last of the observers leaving—Noura bowed to the Prime, then took a seat at the table deliberately positioned to be lower than the three of them. Some in the empire considered it a scandal that Dalinar, Jasnah, and Fen were always seated at the same height as the Prime, but Yanagawn had insisted. “Dalinar, Jasnah,” the youth said, relaxing as he removed his headdress and set it onto the table. Noura gave him a glance at that, but Dalinar smiled. She obviously thought the Prime should maintain decorum, but Dalinar liked seeing the youth grow more comfortable with his position and his fellow monarchs. “I’m sorry we didn’t have plates of food for you as well,” Yanagawn continued in Azish. “I should have known you’d both arrive early.” “It would have made a fine memento, Majesty,” Jasnah said, laying out some papers on the table. “But we were not of the chosen today, so it wouldn’t feel right to be so favored.” The boy looked to Noura. “I told you she understood.” “Your wisdom grows, Imperial Majesty,” the older woman said. She was an Azish vizier—a high-level civil servant. Her own outfit had less gold on it than the Prime’s, but it was nevertheless fantastically colored, with a cap and contrasting coat of a multitude of patterns and hues. Her long hair was greying and wound into a braid that emerged from her cap on one side. “All right, Jasnah,” Yanagawn said, leaning forward to inspect Jasnah’s papers—though as far
|
as Dalinar knew, he couldn’t read Alethi. “Tell it to me straight.” Dalinar braced himself. “We have practically no chance of recovering Urithiru,” Jasnah said in Azish, her voice barely accented. “Our scouts confirm that fabrials don’t work near it. That means if we were to re-create a smaller version of my mother’s flying machine to deliver troops, it would drop the moment it drew too close. “They’ve also blocked off the caverns. My uncle delivered a small force to the bottom, and that action seems to have informed the enemy that we know their ruse is up. They are no longer sending fake messages via spanreed, and we’ve seen singer troops on the balconies. “With a Shardblade—which we discovered can be delivered into the protected area so long as it is not bound—our troops can cut through the blockage at the bottom. But while doing that the force would be exposed to archers on higher ground. And if we made it through that rubble, fighting all the way up through a contested tunnel system would be a nightmare. “A march by soldiers along the tops of the mountains is impossible for a multitude of reasons. But if we did reach the tower, we’d lose. Our battlefields are a careful balance of Radiant against Fused, Shardbearer against Regal, soldier against soldier. At Urithiru, we’d have no Radiants—and the entire strategy would topple.” “We’d have Kaladin,” Dalinar said. “His powers still work. The Stormfather thinks it’s because he’s far enough along in his oaths.” “With all due respect to him,” Jasnah said, “Kaladin is just one man—and one you relieved of duty before we left.” She was correct, of course. Common sense dictated that one man was nothing against an army of Fused. Yet Dalinar wondered. Once, in the warcamps, he’d argued with Kaladin’s soldiers who had set up a vigil for the young Windrunner—then presumed dead. Dalinar had been proven wrong that time. Now, he found himself possessing some of the same faith as those soldiers. Beaten down, broken, surrounded by enemies, Kaladin continued to fight. He knew how to take the next step. They couldn’t leave him to take it alone. “Our best chance,” Dalinar said to the others, “is to deliver me and a force through Shadesmar to the tower. I might be able to open a perpendicularity there, and we could surprise the enemy with an attack.” “You might be able to open one there, Uncle,” Jasnah said. “What does the Stormfather think?” “He isn’t certain I am far enough along in my oaths or my skills to manage it yet,” Dalinar admitted. Jasnah tapped her notes. “An assault through Shadesmar would require a large number of ships—something we don’t have on that side, and which I see no way of obtaining.” “We need to find a way to support Kaladin, Navani, and whatever resistance they are building,” Dalinar said. “We might not need a large force of ships. A small group of trained soldiers might be able to sneak in, then disable the fabrial the enemy is using
|
to stop Radiants.” “Undoubtedly,” Jasnah said, “that is the method the enemy used to get into the tower. They will be guarding against this same tactic.” “So what?” Yanagawn said, chewing on some nuts he had hidden in a pocket of his oversized robes. “Jasnah, you argue against every point Dalinar makes. Are you saying we should give up Urithiru to the enemy?” “Our entire war effort falls apart without it,” Noura said. “It was the means by which we connected our disparate forces!” “Not necessarily,” Jasnah said, showing some small maps to the Prime. “As long as we have a stronger navy—and proper air support—we can control the southern half of Roshar. It will necessitate weeks or months of travel—but we can coordinate our battlefields as long as we have spanreeds.” “Still,” Yanagawn said, glancing at Noura. The older woman nodded in agreement. “This is a major blow,” Dalinar said. “Jasnah, we can’t simply abandon Urithiru. You yourself spent years trying to locate it.” “I’m not suggesting we do, Uncle,” she said, her voice cold. “I’m merely presenting facts. For now, I think we need to act as if we will not soon retake the tower—which might mean moving against Ishar’s forces in Tukar, so we can secure those positions. At any rate, we should be planning how to support our forces in southern Alethkar against the Vedens.” They were all valid points, the core of a cohesive and well-reasoned battle strategy. She was trying hard, and mostly succeeding, at learning to be a capable tactical commander. He couldn’t blame her for feeling she had something to prove there; her entire life had been a series of people demanding she prove herself to them. However, her quickness to abandon Urithiru smelled too similar to what Taravangian had done in abandoning Roshar. Give up quickly, once you think you’re beaten. “Jasnah,” he said, “we need to try harder to liberate Urithiru.” “I’m not saying we shouldn’t, only that such an action is going to be very difficult and costly. I’m trying to outline those costs so we’re aware of them.” “The way you talk lacks hope.” “‘Hope,’” she said, spreading her papers out on the table. “Have I ever told you how much I dislike that word? Think of what it means, what it implies. You have hope when you’re outnumbered. You have hope when you lack options. Hope is always irrational, Uncle.” “Fortunately, we are not entirely rational beings.” “Nor should we want to be,” she agreed. “At the same time, how often has ‘hope’ been the reason someone refuses to move on and accept a realistic attitude? How often has ‘hope’ caused more pain or delayed healing? How often has ‘hope’ prevented someone from standing up and doing what needs to be done, because they cling to a wish for everything to be different?” “I would say,” Yanagawn said, leaning forward, “that hope defines us, Jasnah. Without it, we are not human.” “Perhaps you are correct,” Jasnah said, a phrase she often used when she wasn’t convinced—but also didn’t want
|
to continue an argument. “Very well then, let us discuss Urithiru.” “Your powers will work,” Dalinar said, “at least partially. You have said the Fourth Ideal.” “Yes,” she said. “I have—though the Stormfather is uncertain whether the fourth oath will truly allow a Radiant to withstand the suppression. Am I correct?” “You are,” Dalinar said. “But if the enemy is resupplying via the Oathgates, there is only one way we can realistically do anything about this situation. We must destroy their suppression fabrial. And so my suggestion of a small team makes the most sense.” “And you are to lead it?” Jasnah said. “Yes,” Dalinar said. “You are still far from mastering your powers. What if you can’t open a perpendicularity at Urithiru?” “I’ve been experimenting, practicing,” Dalinar said. “But yes, I’ve a long way to go. So I’ve been considering another solution.” He selected one of Jasnah’s maps, then turned it for the others to see. “We came here to Emul to use a hammer-and-anvil tactic, shoving our enemy against an army here. The army of Ishar, the being the Azish call Tashi.” “Yes, and?” Jasnah asked. “I have scouts surveying his position,” Dalinar said, “and have visual confirmation—shown to me via Lightweaving—that the man himself is there. Wit’s drawings confirm it. I have spoken with the Stormfather, and the two of us think this is our best solution. Ishar is a master with the Bondsmithing art. If I can recruit him, he could be the secret to saving Urithiru.” “Pardon,” Noura said. “But haven’t we determined that the Heralds are all … insane?” It was hard for her to say; their religion viewed the Heralds as deities. The Makabaki people worshipped them, and not the Almighty. “Yes,” Dalinar said, “but Ash indicates Ishar might have escaped with less damage than others. She trusts him.” “We’ve had letters from Ishar, Uncle,” Jasnah said. “That are not encouraging.” “I want to try speaking with him anyway,” Dalinar said. “We’ve been mostly ignoring his armies, other than to use them as our anvil. But if I were to approach with a flag of peace and parley, Ishar—” “Wait,” Yanagawn said. “You’re going to go personally?” “Yes,” Dalinar said. “I need to see Ishar, ask him questions.” “Send your Radiants,” Noura said. “Take this being captive. Bring him here. Then talk to him.” “I would rather go myself,” Dalinar said. “But…” Yanagawn said, sounding utterly baffled. “You’re a king. This is even worse than when Jasnah went out in Plate and fought the enemy!” “It’s an old family tradition, Majesty,” Jasnah said. “We are prone to putting ourselves into the thick of things. I blame long-standing Alethi conditioning that says the best general is the one who leads the charge.” “I suppose,” Yanagawn said, “that a history of having excessive numbers of Shards might create a feeling of invincibility. But Dalinar, why do you raise this point now? To get our advice?” “More to warn you,” he said. “I’ve deliberately put the Mink in command of our military so I can step away to
|
see to more … spiritual matters. Jasnah and Wit are preparing a contract for me to present to Odium, once we have pushed him to come speak to me again. “Until we can make that work, I need to do something to help. I need to bring Ishar to our side—then see if he can teach me how to restore the Oathpact and help me rescue Urithiru.” “Well,” Yanagawn said, looking to Noura. “Being allies with the Alethi is … interesting. Go with Yaezir’s own speed then, I suppose.” Yaezir is dead, Dalinar thought, though he didn’t say it. Jasnah took the reins of the conversation next, explaining the contract she was preparing for Odium. She and Dalinar had already talked to Queen Fen earlier, via spanreed. Dalinar offered some explanations, but mostly let Jasnah do the persuading. She had an uphill battle, as getting the monarchs to agree to this contest would take some doing. Jasnah could manage it; he was confident in her. His job, he was increasingly certain, involved his Bondsmithing, the Oathpact, and the Heralds. Eventually the meeting came to an end. They agreed to meet again to talk over more points in the contract, but for now Yanagawn had to attend some religious ceremonies for his people. Dalinar needed to prepare for his trip to Tukar; he intended to go as soon as was reasonable. As they rose to leave, Yanagawn replaced his headdress. “Dalinar,” the youth said, “do we know anything of Lift? We left her at the tower.” “Kaladin said the other Radiants were unconscious,” Dalinar said. “That probably includes her.” “Maybe,” Yanagawn said. “She often does what she isn’t supposed to. If you hear word, send to me, please?” Dalinar nodded, joining Jasnah and withdrawing from Yanagawn’s palace. The exterior might look as ordinary as every other building in the village, but a palace it was. He collected Szeth, who was holding something for him. Dalinar took the large book—intimidating in size, though he knew it to be shorter than it appeared. The paper inside was covered with his own bulky letter-lines, larger and thicker than was proper, drawn deliberately with his fat fingers. He held the book toward Jasnah. He’d allowed early drafts and portions of it to be shared—and they’d gotten out all over the coalition by now. However, he hadn’t considered the book finished until he’d made some last changes earlier this week. “Oathbringer?” she said, taking it eagerly. “It’s complete?” “No, but my part is done,” Dalinar said. “This is the original, though the scribes have made copies following my last round of alterations. I wanted you to have the one I wrote.” “You should feel proud, Uncle. You make history with this volume.” “I fear you’ll find it to be mostly religious drivel.” “Ideas are not useless simply because they involve religious thinking,” Jasnah said. “Nearly all of the ancient scholars I revere were religious, and I appreciate how their faith shaped them, even if I do not appreciate the faith itself.” “The things you said about hope in
|
the meeting,” Dalinar said. “They bothered me, Jasnah. But perhaps in a good way. Who in the world would dispute an idea as fundamental as hope? Yet because we all accept it as vital, we don’t think about it. What it really means. You do.” “I try,” she said, glancing back toward the Prime’s palace. “Tell me. Am I pushing too hard to establish myself as a military leader? I feel it’s an important precedent, as your book here is, but … I hit the target a little too squarely, didn’t I?” Dalinar smiled, then put his hand on hers, which held up the book. “We are revealing a new world, Jasnah, and the way before us is dark until we bring it light. We will be forgiven if we stumble on unseen ground now and then.” He squeezed her hand. “I would like you to do something for me. All of the great philosophical texts I’ve read have an undertext.” “Yes, about that…” He wasn’t the only man who had been shaken to discover that for centuries, the women in their lives had been leaving commentaries for one another. Something dictated by a man would often have his wife’s or scribe’s thoughts underneath, never shared aloud. An entire world, hidden from those who thought they were ruling it. “I would like you to write the undertext for Oathbringer,” Dalinar said. “Openly. To be read and discovered by any who would like to read it.” “Uncle?” Jasnah said. “I’m not certain the tradition should continue. It was questionable to begin with.” “I find the insights offered in the undertexts to be essential,” Dalinar said. “They change how I read. History is written by the victors, as many are fond of saying—but at least we have contrary insights by those who watched. I would like to know what you think of what I’ve said.” “I will not hold back, Uncle,” Jasnah said. “If much of this is religious, I will be compelled to be honest. I will point out your confirmation biases, your fallacies. Perhaps it would be better if you gave the undertext task to my mother.” “I considered that,” he said. “But I promised to unite instead of divide. I don’t do that by giving my book only to those who agree with me. “If we’re revealing a new world, Jasnah, should we not do it together? Arguments and all? I feel like … like we are never going to agree on the details, you and I. This book though—it could show that we agree on the more important matters. After all, if an avowed atheist and a man starting his own religion can unite, then who can object that their personal differences are too large to surmount?” “That’s what you’re doing, then?” she asked. “Creating a religion?” “Revising the old one, at the very least,” Dalinar said. “When the full text of this is released … I suspect it will create a larger schism among Vorinism.” “Me being involved won’t help that.” “I want your thoughts nonetheless. If you are
|
willing to give them.” She pulled the book close. “I consider it among the greatest honors I have ever been offered, Uncle. Be warned, however, I am not known for my brevity. This could take me years. I will be thorough, I will offer counterpoints, and I may undermine your entire argument. But I will be respectful.” “Whatever you need, Jasnah.” He smiled. “I hope that in your additions, we will create something greater than I could have alone.” She smiled back. “Don’t say it that way. You make it sound like the odds are against it being possible, where I should say that is the most reasonable outcome. Thank you, Uncle. For your trust.” To humans, our very visages become symbols. You find echoes of it even in the art from centuries before this Return. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days There was a long line at the Oathgates today, but that was nothing new. Raboniel was certain the human kingdoms knew of the occupation by now, and so had authorized the Oathgates to be opened more frequently, allowing singer troops and servants occupying the tower to rotate out. Venli’s group of fifteen friends huddled behind her, holding their supplies—hopefully appearing to be merely another batch of workers given a chance to return to Kholinar for a break. Venli pulled her coat tight against the wind. Listeners didn’t get as cold as humans seemed to, but she could still feel the bite of the wind—particularly since this form had carapace only as ornamentation, not true armor. She wasn’t completely certain what to do after reaching Kholinar. Raboniel’s writ would certainly get her people out of the city, and even out of Alethkar. But Venli couldn’t wait the weeks or months it would take for them to walk to the Shattered Plains. She had to find out if her mother was still alive. How far would the power of the writ go? Raboniel was feared, respected. Could Venli get her entire team of fifteen flown to that scout post via Heavenly One? Her mind spun with lies about a secret mission from Raboniel at the Shattered Plains. Indeed, it wasn’t too far from the truth. Raboniel had all but commanded her to go investigate the listener remnants. And what then? Venli thought. Raboniel knows about them. She knows I’m going. She’s manipulating me. For what end? It didn’t matter. Venli had to go. It was time. Timbre pulsed softly as she stood in the line, map case over her shoulder, trying to ignore the wind. “Are you disappointed in me?” Venli whispered to Conceit. “For leaving Rlain and the humans?” Timbre pulsed. Yes, she was. The little spren was never afraid to be straight with Venli. “What do you expect me to do?” she whispered, turning her head away from Dul so he wouldn’t hear her talking. “Help with their insane plan? He’ll get all those Radiants killed. Besides, you think I’d be any help to them?” Timbre pulsed. Venli was doing well. Learning. She could help.
|
If I weren’t a coward, Venli thought. “What if we got you a different host? A singer who cares, like Rlain.” Timbre pulsed. “What do you mean?” Venli demanded. “You can’t want me. I’m an accident. A mistake.” Another pulse. “Mistakes can’t be wonderful, Timbre. That’s what defines them as mistakes.” She pulsed, more confident. How could she be more confident with each complaint? Stupid spren. And why wasn’t this line moving? The transfers should be quick; they needed to exchange people and supplies before the highstorm arrived. Venli told her people to wait, then stepped out of line. She marched to the front, where a couple of singers—formerly Azish, by their clothing—were arguing. “What is it?” Venli demanded to Craving. The two took in her Regal form, then the femalen answered. “We have to wait to perform the exchange, Chosen,” she said, using an old formal singer term. “The human who works the Oathgates for us has run off.” “No one else has a living Blade, which is needed to operate the fabrial now,” the other explained. “If you could find the one they call Vyre, and ask when he will return…” Venli glanced toward the sky. She could feel the wind picking up. “The highstorm is nearly here. We should move everyone inside.” The two argued at first, but Venli spoke more firmly. Soon they started herding the frustrated singers toward the tower. Venli walked along the plateau, Timbre pulsing excitedly. She saw this as an opportunity. “Why do you believe in me?” Venli whispered. “I’ve given you no reason. I’ve ruined everything I’ve touched. I’m a selfish, impotent, sorry excuse for a listener.” Timbre pulsed. Venli had saved her. Venli had saved Lift. “Yes, but I had to be coaxed into both,” Venli said. “I’m not a hero. I’m an accident.” Timbre was firm. Some people charged toward the goal, running for all they had. Others stumbled. But it wasn’t the speed that mattered. It was the direction they were going. Venli lingered at the entrance to Urithiru. She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. The previous highstorm had reached all the way past the sixth tier. This one would likely envelop nearly the entire tower, a rare occurrence, their scholars thought. She felt as if she could sense the power of it, the fury bearing down on them. “What if,” she whispered to Timbre, “I offered to use this writ to smuggle Stormblessed or his family out of Urithiru?” Timbre pulsed uncertainly. Would the writ’s authority extend that far? Venli thought perhaps it would. She wouldn’t be able to get any of the unconscious Radiants out; they were too closely watched, and someone would send to Raboniel for confirmation. But a few “random” humans? That might work. She found Dul and the others inside the front doors. Venli gathered them around, away from prying ears, and quickly handed her writ to Mazish. “Take this,” Venli said. “If I don’t return, you should be able to use it to get away.” “Without you?” Mazish said. “Venli…” “I’ll almost certainly return,”
|
Venli said. “But just in case, take the map too. You’ll need it to find your way to the other listeners in secret.” “Where are you going?” Dul asked. Venli hummed to the Lost. “I think we should offer to bring the surgeon and his family—including their son, the Windrunner—out with us. Help them escape the tower, take them to their own people at the Shattered Plains.” She watched them, expecting fear, perhaps condemnation. This would jeopardize their safety. Instead, as a group, they hummed to Consideration. “Having a Windrunner on our side could be useful,” Mazish said. “He could certainly help us get to the Shattered Plains quicker.” “Yes!” said Shumin, the new recruit—still a little too eager for Venli’s taste. “This is a great idea!” “Would he help us though?” Dul asked. “He treated Rlain well,” Mazish said. “Even when he thought Rlain was only another parshman. I don’t like what the humans did, but if we put this one in our debt, my gut says he won’t betray us.” Venli scanned the other faces. Singers with a variety of skin patterns, now humming a variety of rhythms. None of them hummed to Betrayal, and they gave her encouraging nods. “Very well,” Venli said, “wait for me until the storm has passed. If I’ve not returned by then, take the next Oathgate transfer to Kholinar. I’ll find you there.” They hummed at her words, so Venli started toward the atrium, hoping she’d be quick enough to stop Rlain from trying his desperate plan. She didn’t know for certain if he’d take her offer. But this was the direction she should be moving. * * * Navani knelt on the floor of her office. It still smelled of smoke from the explosion the day before. Despite Raboniel saying she wanted to scrape the chamber for broken pieces of the dagger, no one arrived to do that. They hadn’t taken her to her rooms above. They hadn’t brought her meals. They’d simply left her alone. To contemplate her utter failure. She felt numb. After her previous failure—when she’d exposed the node to her enemies—she’d picked herself up and moved on. This time she felt stuck. Worn. Like an old banner left too long exposed to the elements. Ripped by storms. Bleached by the sun. Now hanging in tatters, waiting to slip off the pole. We can kill Radiant spren. In the end, all Raboniel’s talk of working together had been a lie. Of course it had. Navani had known it would be. She’d planned for it, and tried to hide what she knew. But had she really expected that to work? She’d repeatedly confirmed to herself that she couldn’t outthink the Fused. They were ancient, capable beyond mortal understanding, beings outside of time and … And … And she kept staring at the place where Raboniel’s daughter had died. Where Raboniel had wept, holding the corpse of her child. Such a human moment. Navani curled up on her pallet, though sleep had eluded her all night. She had spent the hours listening
|
to the Fused in the hallway playing notes on metal plates and demanding new ones—until one final sound had echoed against the stone hallways. A chilling, awful sound that was wrong in all the right ways. Raboniel had found the tone. The tone that could kill spren. Should Navani feel pride? Even in that time of near madness, her research had been so meticulous and well annotated that Raboniel was able to follow it. What had taken Navani days, the Fused replicated in hours, breaking open a mystery that had stood for thousands of years. Evidence that Navani was a true scholar after all? No, she thought, staring at the ceiling. No, don’t you dare take that distinction for yourself. If she’d been a scholar, she’d have understood the implications of her work. She was a child playing dress-up again. A farmer could stumble across a new plant in the wilderness. Did that make him a botanist? She eventually forced herself up to do the only thing she was certain she couldn’t ruin. She found ink and paper in the wreckage of the room, then knelt and began to paint prayers. It was partially for the comfort of familiarity. But storm her, she still believed. Perhaps that was as foolish as thinking herself a scholar. Who did she think was listening? Was she only praying because she was afraid? Yes, she thought, continuing to paint. I’m afraid. And I have to hope that someone, somewhere, is listening. That someone has a plan. That it all matters somehow. Jasnah took comfort in the idea that there was no plan, that everything was random. She said that a chaotic universe meant the only actions of actual importance were the ones they decided were important. That gave people autonomy. Navani loved her daughter, but couldn’t see it the same way. Organization and order existed in the very way the world worked. From the patterns on leaves to the system of compounds and chemical reactions. It all whispered to her. Someone had known anti-Voidlight was possible. Someone had known Navani would create it first. Someone had seen all this, planned for it, and put her here. She had to believe that. She had to believe, therefore, that there was a way out. Please, she prayed, painting the glyph for divine direction. Please. I’m trying so hard to do what is right. Please guide me. What do I do? A voice sounded outside the room, and in her sleep-deprived state, she first mistook it for a voice speaking to her in answer. And then … then she heard what it was saying. “The best way to distract the Bondsmith is to kill his wife,” the voice said. Rough, cold. “I am therefore here to perform the act that you have so far refused to do.” Navani stood and walked to the door. Her femalen guard was someone new, but she didn’t forbid Navani from peering down the hall toward Raboniel’s workstation beside the Sibling’s shield. A man in a black uniform stood before Raboniel. Neat, close-cropped black
|
hair, a narrow hawkish face with a prominent nose and sunken cheeks. Moash. The murderer. “I continue to have use for the queen,” Raboniel said. “My orders are from Odium himself,” Moash said. If a Fused’s voice was overly ornamented with rhythms and meaning, his voice was the opposite. Dead. A voice like slate. “He ordered you to come to me, Vyre,” Raboniel said. “And I requested for you to be sent. So today, I need you to deal with my problems first. There is a worm in the tower. Eating his way through walls. He is increasingly an issue.” “I warned you about Stormblessed,” Moash said. “I warned all of you. And you did not listen.” “You will kill him,” Raboniel said. “No enemy can kill Kaladin Stormblessed,” Moash said. “You promised that—” “No enemy can kill Stormblessed,” Moash said. “He is a force like the storms, and you cannot kill the storms, Fused.” Raboniel handed Moash something. A small dagger. “You speak foolishness. A man is merely a man, no matter how skilled. That dagger can destroy his spren. Spread that sand, and it will turn faintly white when an invisible spren flies overhead. Use it to locate his honorspren, then strike at it, depriving him of power.” “I can’t kill him,” Moash repeated a third time, tucking the dagger away. “But I promise something better. We make this a covenant, Fused: I ruin Stormblessed, leave him unable to interfere, and you deliver me the queen. Accepted?” Navani felt herself grow cold. Raboniel didn’t even glance in her direction. “Accepted,” Raboniel said. “But do another thing for me. The Pursuer has been sent to destroy the final node, but I think he is delaying to encourage Stormblessed to show up and fight him for it. Break the node for me.” Moash nodded and accepted what seemed to be a small diagram explaining the location of the node. He turned on his heel with military precision and marched up the hallway. If he saw her, he made no comment, passing like a cold wind. “Monster,” Navani said, angerspren at her feet. “Traitor! You would attack your own friend?” He stopped short. Staring straight ahead, he spoke. “Where were you, lighteyes, when your son condemned innocents to death?” He turned, affixing Navani with those lifeless eyes. “Where were you, Queen, when your son sent Roshone to Kaladin’s hometown? A political outcast, a known murderer, exiled to a small village. Where he couldn’t do any damage, right? “Roshone killed Kaladin’s brother. You could have stopped it. If any of you cared. You were never my queen; you are nothing to me. You are nothing to anyone. So don’t speak to me of treason or friendship. You have no idea what this day will cost me.” He continued forward, bearing no visible weapon save the dagger tucked into his belt. A dagger designed to kill a spren. A dagger that Navani had, essentially, created. He reached the end of the hallway, burst alight with Stormlight—which somehow worked for him—and streaked into the air, rising
|
through the open stairwell toward the ground floor. Navani slumped in the doorway, objections withering in her throat. She knew he was wrong, but she couldn’t find her voice. Something about that man unnerved her to the point of panic. He wasn’t human. He was a Voidbringer. If that word had ever applied to any, it was Moash. “What do you need?” her guard asked. “Have you been fed?” “I…” Navani licked her lips. “I need a candle, please. For burning prayers.” Remarkably, she fetched it. Taking the candle, shivering, Navani cupped the flame and walked to her pallet. There, she knelt and began burning her glyphwards one at a time. If there was a God, if the Almighty was still out there somewhere, had he created Moash? Why? Why bring such a thing into the world? Please, she thought, begging as a ward shriveled, her prayers casting smoke into the air. Please. Tell me what to do. Show me something. Let me know you’re there. As the last prayer drifted toward the Tranquiline Halls, she sat back on her heels, numb, wanting to huddle down and forget about her problems. When she moved to do so, however, in the candlelight she caught sight of something glittering amid the wreckage of her desk. As if in a trance, Navani rose and walked over. The guard wasn’t looking. Navani brushed aside ash to find a metal dagger with a diamond affixed to the pommel. She stared at it, confused. It had exploded, hadn’t it? No, this is the second one. The one Raboniel used to kill her daughter. She tossed it aside, as if hating it, once the deed was done. A precious, priceless weapon, and the Fused had discarded it. How long had Raboniel been awake? Did she feel like Navani, exhausted, pushed to the limit? Forgetting important details? For there, glimmering violet-black in the gemstone, was a soft glow. Not completely used up in the previous killing. A small charge of anti-Voidlight. * * * Kaladin took the steps down one at a time. Unhurried as he walked toward the trap. A certain momentum pushed him forward. As if his next actions were Soulcast into stone, already unchangeable. A mountain seemed to fill in behind him, blocking his retreat. Forward. Only forward. One step after another. He emerged from the stairwell onto the ground floor. Two direform Regals had been guarding the path, but they backed off—hands on swords, humming frantically. Kaladin ignored them, turning toward the atrium. He set his spear to his shoulder and strode through this central corridor. No more hiding. He was too tired to hide. Too wrung-out for tactics and strategy. The Pursuer wanted him? Well, he would have Kaladin, presented as he had always been seen. Dressed in his uniform, striding to the fight, his head high. Humans and singers alike scattered before him. Kaladin saw many of the humans wearing the markings Rlain had described—shash glyphs drawn on their foreheads. Storm them, they believed in him. They wore the symbol of his shame, his
|
failure, and his imprisonment. And they made it something better. He couldn’t help feeling that this was it. The last time he’d wear the uniform, his final act as a member of Bridge Four. One way or another, he had to move on from the life he’d been clinging to and the simple squad of soldiers who had formed the heart of that life. All these people believed in a version of him who had already died. Highmarshal Kaladin Stormblessed. The valiant soldier, leader of the Windrunners, stalwart and unwavering. Like Kal the innocent youth, Squadleader Kaladin the soldier in Amaram’s army, and Kaladin the slave … Highmarshal Stormblessed had passed. Kaladin had become someone new, someone who could not measure up to the legend. But with all these people believing in him—falling in behind him, whispering with hope and anticipation—perhaps he could resurrect Stormblessed for one last battle. He didn’t worry about exposing himself. There was nowhere to run. Regals and singer soldiers gathered in bunches, tailing him and whispering harshly, but they would let a Fused deal with a Radiant. Other Fused would know, though. Kaladin had been claimed already. He was Pursued. As Kaladin drew near to the Breakaway—the hallway to his right would merge with the large open marketplace—he finally felt her. He stopped fast, looking that direction. The dozens of people following him hushed as he stared intently and raised his right hand in the direction of the market. Syl, he thought. I’m here. Find me. A line of light, barely visible, bounced around in the distance. It turned and spun toward him, picking up speed—its path growing straighter. She grew brighter, and awareness of her blossomed in his mind. They were not whole, either one, without the other. She recovered herself with a gasp, then landed on his hand, wearing her girlish dress. “Are you all right?” he whispered. “No,” she said. “No, not at all. That felt … felt like it did when I nearly died. Like it did when I drifted for centuries. I feel sad, Kaladin. And cold.” “I understand those feelings,” he replied. “But the enemy, Syl … they’re going to execute the Radiants. And they might have my parents.” She peered up at him. Then her shape fuzzed, and she was instantly in a uniform like his, colored Kholin blue. Kaladin nodded, then turned and continued, shadowed by the hopes and prayers of hundreds. Shadowed by his own reputation. A man who would never cry in the night, huddled against the wall, terrified. A man he was determined to pretend to be. One last time. He checked Navani’s flying gauntlet, which he’d attached to his belt—easy to unhook, if needed—at his right side so it pointed behind him. Kaladin and Dabbid had reset its conjoined weights the other night. It hadn’t worked so well for him in the previous fight, but now he understood its limitations. It was a device designed by engineers, not soldiers. He couldn’t wear it on his hand, where it would interfere with his ability to hold
|
a spear. But perhaps it could offer him an edge in another capacity. With Syl flying as a ribbon of light beside his head, he strode into the atrium—with that endless wall of glass rising as a window in front of him. An equally endless hollow shaft in the stone rose up toward the pinnacle of the tower, surrounded by balconies on most levels. Heavenly Ones hovered in the air, though he didn’t have time to search for Leshwi. Syl moved out in front of him, then paused, hovering, seeming curious. “What?” he asked. Highstorm coming, she said in his head. Of course there was. It was that kind of day. People in the atrium began to scatter as they saw him, accompanied by anticipationspren. As the place emptied, he picked out a hulking figure standing in the dead center of the chamber, blocking the way to the room on the other side—the infirmary. Kaladin brandished his spear in challenge. But the Pursuer cared nothing for honor. He was here for the kill, and he came streaking at Kaladin to claim it. Watch them struggle. Witness their writhing, their refusal to surrender. Humans cling to the rocks with the vigor of any Rosharan vine. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days “There he is,” Teft said, ducking and moving with the crowd of people in the atrium. With a cloak over his uniform, he didn’t draw attention. He’d found that was often the case. Kaladin turned heads, even if he was dressed in rags. He was that kind of man. But Teft? He looked forgettable. In this cloak he was simply another worker, walking with his daughter through the atrium. Hopefully Lift would keep her head down so the hood of her own cloak obscured her features—otherwise someone might wonder why his “daughter” looked an awful lot like a certain bothersome Radiant who was always making trouble in the tower. “What took him so long?” Lift whispered as the two of them sidled over along the wall of the atrium, acting frightened of the sudden rush of people who made way for Kaladin and the Pursuer. “Boy likes to grandstand,” Teft said. But storms, it was hard not to feel inspired at the sight of Kaladin framed in the entryway like that in a sharp blue uniform, his hair free, his scars bold and stark on his forehead. Eyes intense enough to pierce the darkest storm. You did good with that one, Teft, he thought—giving himself permission to feel a little pride. You ruined your own life something fierce, but you did good with that one. Phendorana whispered comfort in his ear. She’d shrunk, at his request, and rode on his shoulder. He nodded at the words. If his family hadn’t gotten involved with the Envisagers, he wouldn’t have known how to help Kaladin when he’d needed it. And then the Blackthorn probably would have died, and they wouldn’t have found this tower. So … maybe it was time to let go of what he’d done. Together, they
|
inched along the wall toward the infirmary. Storm him if having his own personal spren wasn’t the best thing that had happened to him, other than Bridge Four. She could be a little crusty at times, which made them a good match. She also refused to accept his excuses. Which made them an even better match. Kaladin started fighting, and Teft couldn’t spare him much more than a wish of goodwill. The lad would be fine. Teft simply had to do his part. They waited to see if the guards in the infirmary came out at the ruckus, and blessedly they did. Unfortunately, one remained at the door, gaping at the battle but apparently determined to remain at his post. Stormform Regal too, which was just Teft’s luck. Still, he and Lift were able to work the press of the crowd to their advantage, pretending they were confused civilians. Maybe that stormform would let them “hide” in the infirmary. Instead, the Regal at the door showed them an indifferent palm, gesturing for them to flee in another direction. He turned aside a number of other people who saw the infirmary as a convenient escape, so Teft and Lift didn’t draw undue attention. People in the atrium cried out as Kaladin and the Pursuer clashed. Heavenly Ones floated down to watch the battle, their long trains descending like curtains, adding to the surreal sight. In fact, everybody’s eyes were fixed on the contest between Kaladin and the Pursuer. So, Teft took the Regal guard by the arm. These Regals had that captive lightning running through them, so touching the singer gave Teft a shock. He cried out and shook his hand, backing away as the stormform turned toward him in annoyance. “Please, Brightlord,” Teft said. “What is happening?” As the Regal focused on him, Lift slipped around behind and cracked the door open. “Be on with you,” the Regal said. “Don’t bother—” Teft rushed the singer, tackling him around the waist and throwing him backward through the open door. The Regal’s powers sent another shock through Teft, but in the confusion, Teft was able to get him to the ground and put him in a deadman’s hold. Lift shut the door with a click. She waited, anxious, as Teft struggled to keep pressure on the creature’s throat. He pulled in all the Stormlight he had, but felt the stormform’s power growing—the creature’s skin crackling with red lightning. “Healing!” Teft said. Lift leapt over and pressed her hand against his leg as the stormform released a bolt of power straight through Teft into the floor. The crack it made was incredible. Teft felt a burning pain, like someone had decided to use his stomach as a convenient place to build their firepit. But he held on, and Lift healed him. He even managed to roll to the side and use Stormlight to stick the Regal to the ground. That let him keep the pressure on and resist the shocks that followed—less powerful than the first. Finally the Regal went limp, unconscious. Teft huffed and
|
stood, though he first had to unstick his clothing from the floor. Storming Stormlight. He looked down and found the front of his shirt had been burned clean through. He glanced to Phendorana, who had grown to full size. She folded her arms thoughtfully. “What?” he asked. “Your hair is standing up,” she said, then grinned. She looked like a little kid when she did that, and he couldn’t help returning the expression. “Move!” she said to him. “Seal the door!” “Right, right.” He stepped over and infused the doorframe with Stormlight. Someone would have heard that lightning bolt. “Lift,” he shouted as he worked, “get to it! I want these Radiants up and taking orders faster than an arrow falls.” He glanced to Phendorana, standing beside him and meeting his eyes. “We can do this. Get them up, grab Kal’s family, get out.” “Through the window?” she asked. Outside the east-facing window was a sheer drop of hundreds of feet. He felt moderately good about his ability to climb down it. How far would everyone have to get before their Radiant powers returned? He feared the Heavenly Ones would find out before then and come after them. Well, he’d see what the others said, once they were awake. Teft turned from the now-sealed door to inspect the room and Lift’s progress. Where was that surgeon and his— Lift screamed. She leaped back as one of the bodies on the floor nearby emerged from beneath the sheet. The figure—dressed all in black—swung a Shardblade at her. She nearly managed to get away, but the Blade caught her in the thighs, cutting with the grace of an eel through the air. Lift collapsed, her legs ruined by the Blade. The figure in the black uniform turned from Lift and—blazing with Stormlight—focused on Teft. Sunken cheeks, prominent nose, glowing eyes. Moash. * * * Kaladin didn’t run. He knew what the Pursuer would do. Indeed, the creature acted as he had each time before—dropping a husk and streaking toward Kaladin to grapple him. That was one husk spent. The Pursuer had two others before he would be trapped in his form and had to either flee, or face Kaladin and risk dying. Kaladin stepped directly into the Pursuer’s path and dropped his spear, willingly entering the grapple. Turning at the last moment, he caught the Pursuer’s hands as they reached for him. Thrumming with Stormlight, Kaladin held the Pursuer’s wrists. Storms, the creature was stronger than he was. But Kaladin wouldn’t run or hide. Not this time. This time he only had to give Teft and Lift enough space to work. And Kaladin had discovered something during their last fight. This creature was not a soldier. “Give in, little man,” the Pursuer said. “I am as unavoidable as the coming storm. I will chase you forever.” “Good,” Kaladin said. “Bravado!” the Pursuer said, laughing. He managed to hook Kaladin’s foot, then used his superior strength to shove Kaladin to the ground. Best Kaladin could do was hang on and pull him down as well.
|
The Pursuer kneed Kaladin in the gut, then twisted to get him in a hold. “So foolish!” Kaladin writhed, barely able to keep from being immobilized. Syl flitted around them. As the Pursuer tried for a lock, Kaladin twisted around and met the Pursuer’s eyes, then smiled. The Pursuer growled and repositioned to press Kaladin against the ground by his shoulders. “I’m not afraid of you,” Kaladin said. “But you’re going to be afraid of me.” “Madness,” the Pursuer said. “Your inevitable fate has caused madness in your frail mind.” Kaladin grunted, back to the cold stone, using both hands to push the Pursuer’s right hand away. He kept his eyes locked on to the Pursuer’s. “I killed you,” Kaladin said. “And I’ll kill you now. Then every time you return for me, I’ll kill you again.” “I’m immortal,” the Pursuer growled. But his rhythm had changed. Not so confident. “Doesn’t matter,” Kaladin said. “I’ve heard what people say about you. Your life isn’t the blood in your veins, but the legend you live. Each death kills that legend a little more. Each time I defeat you, it will rip you apart. Until you’re no longer known as the Pursuer. You’ll be known as the Defeated. The creature who, no matter how hard he tries, can’t ever beat ME.” Kaladin reached down and activated Navani’s device at his belt, then pressed the grip that dropped the weight. It was as if someone had suddenly tied a rope to his waist, and then pulled him out of the Pursuer’s grip, sliding him across the floor of the atrium. He deactivated the device, then rolled to his feet, looking across the short distance at his enemy. Syl fell in beside him, glaring at the Pursuer in a perfect mimic of his posture. Then, together, they smiled as Kaladin pulled out his scalpel. * * * Moash kicked Lift toward the wall, sending her limp and tumbling. She lay still and didn’t move after that. Moash floated forward, blade out, attention affixed solely on Teft. Teft cursed himself for a fool. He’d focused on taking care of the Regal at the door; he should have known to check for irregularities. Now that he looked, he could see Kal’s parents and brother bound and gagged, visible through a gap in the cloth of the draped-off section at the rear. The real trap wasn’t outside with the Pursuer. It was in here, with a much deadlier foe: a man who had been trained for war by Kaladin himself. “Hello, Teft,” Moash said softly, landing in front of the rows of unconscious people on the floor. “How are the men?” “Safe from you,” Teft said, pushing aside his cloak and unsheathing the long knife he had hidden underneath. Couldn’t move through a crowd unseen with a spear, unfortunately. “Not all of them, Teft,” Moash said. There was a shadow on his face, despite the room’s many lit spheres. Moash lunged forward and Teft danced back, stepping carefully over the body of the unconscious Regal. He had space here
|
in front of the door with no fallen Radiants to upset his footing. All Moash did at first was open a sack and throw something out across the floor nearby. Black sand? What on Roshar? Teft held out his weapon, Phendorana at his side, but the knife seemed tiny compared to Moash’s weapon: the assassin’s Honorblade. The one that had killed old Gavilar. It looked wicked in Moash’s hand, shorter than most Blades—but in a lithe, deliberate way. This wasn’t a weapon for slaying great monsters of stone. It was a weapon for killing men. Humans are a poem. A song. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days “Hey,” someone said to the Rhythm of Reprimand, “what are you doing?” Rlain turned, shifting the barrel of water from one shoulder to the other. Dabbid pulled in close to him, frightened at the challenge. The two of them were in a nondescript passage of Urithiru, close to the steps down to the basement. This was the last guard post, and Rlain thought they had made it past. “We’re delivering water,” Rlain said to Consolation, tapping his small water barrel. He wore makeup covering his tattoo, blending it into his skin pattern. “To the scholars.” “Why are you doing it?” the singer said. Not a Fused or Regal, merely an ordinary guard. She walked over and put a hand on Rlain’s shoulder. “Let the human do that kind of work, friend. You are meant for greater things.” He glanced at Dabbid—who looked at the ground—and attuned Irritation. This wasn’t the kind of resistance he’d anticipated. “It’s my job,” Rlain said to the guard. “Who assigned axehounds’ work to a singer?” she demanded. “Come with me. You strike an imposing figure in warform. I’ll teach you the sword. We’re recruiting for our squad.” “I … I would rather do what I’m supposed to,” he said to Consolation. He pulled free, and thankfully she let him go. He and Dabbid continued along the hallway. “Can you believe it?” she said from behind. “How can so many keep on thinking like slaves? It’s sad.” “Yeah,” one of the other guards said. “I wouldn’t expect it of that one most of all, considering.” Rlain attuned Anxiety. “That one?” the femalen said, her voice echoing in the hallway. “Yeah, he’s that listener, isn’t he? The one that was in prison until Raboniel’s Voice pulled him out?” Damnation. Rlain walked a little quicker, but it was no use, as he soon heard boots chasing him. The guard grabbed him by the elbow. “Wait now,” she said. “You’re the listener?” “I am,” Rlain said to Consolation. “Delivering water. You. A traitor?” “We’re not…” He attuned Determination and turned around. “We’re not traitors. Venli is Raboniel’s Voice.” “Yeah,” the femalen said. “Well, you’re not going down where the human queen is, not until I get confirmation that you’re allowed. Come with me.” Dabbid pulled in closer to Rlain, trembling. Rlain looked toward the singer guards. Four of them. No. He wasn’t going to fight them. And not only
|
because of the numbers. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s ask your superior, so I can get on with my duty.” They pulled him away, and Dabbid followed, whimpering softly as they were led—step by step—farther from their goal. Well, if the Sibling wanted him down there for some reason, they’d have to find a way to get him out of this. * * * The Pursuer lunged for Kaladin. Kaladin, however, was ready. He activated Navani’s device, which was still attached to his belt. That tugged Kaladin backward faster than a man could leap, and so he stayed out of the Pursuer’s grip. By this point, the singers had cleared most of the atrium of civilians. They’d lined the walls with soldiers—but not the flat side of the room with the window—though crowds continued to watch from the hallways and the balconies. Trusting in Kaladin. Heavenly Ones hovered above the circular chamber, as if to judge the contest. In effect it was an arena. Kaladin projected as much strength and confidence as he could. He almost started to feel it, the worn-out, weathered fatigue retreating. He needed the Pursuer to believe. To understand. That he had far more to lose from this contest than Kaladin did. And he seemed to. For as Kaladin reached the other side of the room and disengaged Navani’s device, the creature ejected his second body and shot toward Kaladin as a ribbon. He wanted to end this battle quickly. The window had darkened from the approaching stormwall, which announced the highstorm. It hit with a fury that Kaladin could barely hear, and spheres became the room’s only source of light. Kaladin seized the Fused out of the air as he formed, and they clashed again. That was the Pursuer’s third body. If he ejected this time, he’d have to go recharge, or risk forming a fourth body—and being killed. They went to ground again, rolling as they wrestled, Kaladin trying to maneuver his knife. The Pursuer could heal with Voidlight, but the more of that he lost, the more likely he’d have to retreat. This time the creature offered no taunts as he tried to get a grip on Kaladin’s head. Likely to smash it into the ground, as he knew Kaladin’s healing wasn’t working properly. That gave Kaladin a chance to stab upward, forcing the Pursuer to grab his arm instead. “You’re no soldier,” Kaladin said loudly, his voice echoing to all of those listening. “That’s what I realized about you, Defeated One. You’ve never faced death.” “Silence,” the Pursuer growled, twisting Kaladin’s wrist. Kaladin grunted, then rolled them both to the side, narrowly protecting his wrist from serious damage. He dropped the knife. Fortunately, he had found others. “I’ve faced it every day of my life!” Kaladin shouted, rolling on top of the Fused. “You wonder why I don’t fear you? I’ve lived with the knowledge that death is hounding me. You’re nothing new.” “Be. QUIET!” “But I’m something you have never known,” Kaladin shouted, slamming the Pursuer down by his shoulders. “Thousands of years of
|
life can’t prepare you for something you’ve never met before, Defeated One! It can’t prepare you for someone who does not fear you!” Kaladin pulled out his boot knife and raised it. The Pursuer, seeing that coming, didn’t do what he should have. He didn’t try to grapple or knee Kaladin’s stomach. He panicked and shot away as a ribbon of light, fleeing. He materialized a short distance away in front of the watching soldiers. His fourth body. His last one. The one he was vulnerable in. He turned to look back at Kaladin, now standing atop his husk. “I am death itself, Defeated One,” Kaladin said. “And I’ve finally caught up to you.” * * * Venli found a mob of people blocking the central corridor as she tried to reach the atrium. She attuned Anxiety and pushed through the press. Since she was a Regal, people did make way. Eventually she reached the front of the crowd, where a group of warforms stood in a line, blocking the way forward. She suspected she knew what was happening. Rlain and his friends had already begun their rescue plan. She was too late. “Make room,” Venli demanded to Derision. “What is happening?” One of the warforms turned. Venli didn’t know him personally, but he was one of the Pursuer’s soldiers. “Our master is fighting Stormblessed,” he said. “We’re to keep a perimeter, prevent people from interfering.” Venli craned her neck, tall enough to see that the room was being guarded by about a hundred of the Pursuer’s troops, though she also saw some of Raboniel’s personal guard—which she’d picked up from Leshwi. Venli attuned the Terrors. What now? Could she help? She found, as she searched, that she genuinely wanted to. Not because Timbre was pushing her, and not because this was merely the path she was on. But because of the songs of the stones. And the whispers of those who had come before her. “I’m the Voice of the Lady of Wishes,” Venli said. “You think that your blockade applies to me? Step aside.” Reluctantly, the soldiers made way for her. And once she had a clear view, she couldn’t help but pause. There was something about the way Stormblessed fought. Even grappling with the Pursuer, rolling across the ground, there was a certain determination to him. He freed himself from the grapple, then somehow leaped back twenty feet, though his powers shouldn’t have been working that well. The Pursuer became a ribbon and chased him, but Stormblessed didn’t run. He reached out and seized the Pursuer right as he appeared. Fascinating. She could see why Leshwi found the human so interesting. There was nothing Venli could do about this battle. She had to think about Rlain, and Lirin and his family. She searched the air and located Leshwi hovering nearby. Venli made her way over to Leshwi as Stormblessed stood tall atop the Pursuer’s husk. The lady floated down. She would not interfere in a duel such as this. “This looks bad for Stormblessed,” Venli whispered. “No,” Leshwi said
|
to Exultation. “The Pursuer has used all of his husks. He will need to flee and renew.” “Why doesn’t he?” Venli asked. “Look,” Leshwi said, and pointed at the silent atrium. A perimeter of soldiers with humans crowded behind them, peeking through. Fused in the air. All staring at the two combatants. An incredible soldier, who seemed immortal and impervious, completely in control. And a Fused, who somehow looked small by comparison. * * * Teft dodged through the infirmary. He didn’t dare engage Moash directly; instead he tried to stay out of reach. Buying time. For what though? Moash drifted closer to them, eyes glowing. “Stormblessed isn’t going to come in and help, is he?” Phendorana asked softly, floating beside Teft. “Kaladin can’t be everywhere at once,” Teft said. “He’s just one man, though he often forgets that.” He jumped backward over a body. Lift had stirred, and was quietly pulling herself across the ground toward one of the nearby Radiants, her legs dragging behind. Good girl, Teft thought. He needed to keep Moash’s attention. “Never known a man to turn traitor as hard as you did,” Teft called to Moash. “What was it that got you? What made you willing to kill your own?” “Peace,” Moash said, halting in the middle of the room. “It was peace, Teft.” “This is peace?” Teft said, gesturing. “Fighting your friends?” “We’re not fighting. You run like a coward.” “Every good sergeant is a coward! And proud of it! Someone needs to talk sense to the officers!” Moash hovered in place, a black stain in the air. Before he could look and see Lift, Phendorana appeared to him, standing a short distance away. Moash glanced toward her sharply. Good, good. Distraction. Moash, however, casually turned and slashed his Shardblade through the face of a Radiant beneath him. The unconscious woman’s eyes burned and Lift cried out in horror, heaving herself forward to reach the body—as if she could do anything. Moash glanced at Teft, then raised his Blade toward Lift. “Fine!” Teft said, striding forward. “Bastard! You want me? Fine! Fight me! I’ll show you who the better man is!” Moash landed beside the body and walked straight toward Teft. “We both know who the better warrior is, Teft.” “I didn’t say better warrior, you idiot,” Teft said, lunging in with his knife. The stab was a feint, but Moash knew it. He sidestepped at precisely the right time, and tripped Teft as he tried to turn and swing again. Teft went down with a grunt. He tried to roll, but Moash landed and kicked him in the side, hard. Something crunched in Teft’s chest. A wound that blossomed with pain and didn’t heal, despite his Stormlight. Moash loomed overhead and raised his Blade, then swung it down without further comment. Teft dropped his knife—useless against a Blade—and raised his hands. He felt something from Phendorana. A harmony between them. Teft was forgiven. Teft was forgiven and he was close. Moash’s Shardblade met something in the air—a phantom spear shaft, barely coalescing between Teft’s
|
hands—and stopped. It threw sparks, but it stopped. Teft gritted his teeth and held on as Moash finally showed an emotion. Surprise. He stumbled back, his eyes wide. Teft let go, and Phendorana appeared beside him on the ground, puffing from exertion. He felt sweat trickling down his brow. Manifesting her like that—even a little—had been like trying to push an axehound through a keyhole. He wasn’t certain he, or she, could do it a second time. Best to try something else. Teft held his side, grimacing as he forced himself into a kneeling position. “All right, lad. I’m done. You got me. I surrender. Let’s wait for Kaladin to show up, and you can continue this conversation with him.” “I’m not here for Kaladin, Teft,” Moash said softly. “And I’m not here for your surrender.” Teft steeled himself. Grapple him, he thought. Make that Blade a liability, too big to use. His best hope. Because Teft did have hope. That was what he’d recovered, these years in Bridge Four. The moss might take him again, but if it did … well, he would fight back again. The past could rot. Teft, Windrunner, had hope. He managed to get to his feet, prepared for Moash to lunge at him—but when Moash moved, it wasn’t toward Teft. It was toward Phendorana. What? Teft stood stunned as Moash pulled a strange dagger from his belt and slammed it down—right where Phendorana was kneeling. She looked up with surprise and took the knife straight in the forehead. Then she screamed. Teft leaped for her, howling, watching in horror as she shrank, writhing as Moash’s dagger pinned her to the floor. Her essence burned, flaring outward like an explosion. Something ripped inside Teft. Something deeper than his own heart. A part of his soul, his being, was torn away. He collapsed immediately, falling near the white spot in the sand that was all that remained of Phendorana. No. No … It hurt so much. Agony like a sudden terrible stillness. Nothingness. Emptiness. It … it can’t be.… Moash tucked the dagger away methodically. “I can’t feel sorrow anymore, Teft. For that I am grateful.” Moash turned Teft over with his foot. His broken ribs screamed, but felt like such an insignificant pain now. “But you know what?” Moash said, standing over him. “There was always a part of me that resented how you were so eager to follow him. Right from the start, his little axehound. Licking his feet. He loves you. I thought I’d have to use his father. But I am … satisfied to have found something better.” “You are a monster,” Teft whispered. Moash took Teft calmly by the front of his burned shirt and hoisted him up. “I am no monster. I am merely silence. The quiet that eventually takes all men.” “Tell yourself that lie, Moash,” Teft growled, gripping the hand that held him, his own hand clawlike from the horrible pain. “But know this. You can kill me, but you can’t have what I have. You can never have it.
|
Because I die knowing I’m loved.” Moash grunted and dropped him to the ground. Then he stabbed Teft directly through the neck with his Shardblade. Confident, and somehow still full of hope, Teft died. For ones so soft, they are somehow strong. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days The highstorm blowing outside the enormous window presented a view that Kaladin often saw, but others rarely knew. Flashing lightning, a swirling tempest, power raw and unchained. Kaladin stepped off the Pursuer’s decaying husk and walked forward. Toward the enemy. The Pursuer searched around, likely realizing how large his audience was. Hundreds watching. He lived by lore, by reputation. He always killed anyone who killed him. He won each conflict eventually. Now he saw that crumbling. Kaladin could hear it in the increasingly panicked rhythm the Pursuer hummed. Saw it in his eyes. “Run,” Kaladin told him. “Flee. I’ll chase you. I will never stop. I am eternal. I am the storm.” The Pursuer stumbled back, but then encountered his soldiers holding the perimeter, humming an encouraging rhythm. Behind them humans gawked, their foreheads painted. “Has it been long enough, do you think?” Syl whispered. “Are the others free?” “Hopefully,” Kaladin said. “But I don’t think they’ll be able to escape into that highstorm.” “Then they’ll have to come out here, and we’ll have to push for the crystal pillar room,” she said, looking toward the infirmary. “Why haven’t they appeared yet?” “Once we defeat the Pursuer—when he breaks and runs—we’ll find out,” Kaladin said, unhooking Navani’s device from his waist. “Something’s wrong,” she said softly. “Something dark…” Kaladin stepped to the very center of the atrium, marked by a swirling pattern of strata. He pointed his knife at the Pursuer. “Last body,” Kaladin called. “Come fight, and we’ll see who dies. We’ll see if your reputation survives the hour.” The Pursuer, to his credit, came charging in. As he arrived, grabbing Kaladin, Kaladin pressed Navani’s device against the Pursuer’s chest and Lashed the bar down, binding it in place. It launched backward, carrying the Pursuer with it. He slammed into the glass of the window, and his carapace cracked as he struck. He shook himself, recovering quickly—but didn’t heal. He’d used up his Voidlight. With effort, the Pursuer struggled to move the device, and managed to extricate himself from it—leaving it pressed to the window, which was smeared with his orange blood. More blood dripped from the cracked carapace at his chest. Kaladin stalked toward him, holding the knife. “Flee.” The Pursuer’s eyes widened and he stepped to the side, toward his soldiers. “Flee!” Kaladin said. The creature fell silent, no humming, no speaking. “RUN FROM ME!” Kaladin demanded. He did, dripping blood and shoving his way past the singer soldiers. He’d retreated from previous battles, but this time they both knew it meant something different. This creature was no longer the Pursuer. He knew it. The singers knew it. And the humans watching behind knew it. They began to chant, gloryspren bursting in the air. Stormblessed. Stormblessed.
|
Stormblessed. Trembling, Kaladin retrieved and deactivated Navani’s device, then returned to the center of the room. He could feel their energy propelling him. A counter to the darkness. He turned toward the infirmary. The door had been opened. When had that happened? He stepped toward it, but could see the Radiants in their lines on the floor, covered in sheets. Why weren’t they up and awake? Were they feigning? That could work, pretending they were still asleep. Something dropped from above. A body hit the ground in front of Kaladin with a callous smack of skull on stone. It rolled, and Kaladin saw burned-out eyes. A terribly familiar bearded face. A face that had smiled at him countless times, cursed at him an equal number, but had always been there when everything else went dark. Teft. Teft was dead. * * * Moash landed a short distance from where Kaladin knelt over Teft’s body. Several of the watching soldiers stepped toward the Windrunner, but Moash raised his hand and stopped them. “No,” he said softly as Heavenly Ones hovered down around him. “Leave him be. This is how we win.” Moash knew exactly what Kaladin was feeling. That crushing sense of despair, that knowledge that nothing would be the same. Nothing could ever be the same. Light had left the world, and could never be rekindled. Kaladin cradled Teft’s corpse, letting out a low, piteous whine. He began to tremble and shake—becoming as insensate as he had when King Elhokar had died. As he had after Moash had killed Roshone. And if Kaladin responded that way to the deaths of his enemies … Well, Teft dying would be worse. Far, far worse. Kaladin had been unraveling for years. “That,” Moash said to the Fused, “is how you break a storm. He’ll be useless from here on out. Make sure nobody touches him. I have something to do.” He walked into the infirmary room. At the rear was the model of the tower, intricate in its detail, cut into a cross section with one half on either side. He knelt and peered at a copy of the room with the crystal pillar. Beside it, produced in miniature, were a small crystal globe and gemstone. The fabrial glowed with a tiny light, barely visible. The final node of the tower’s defenses, placed where anyone who looked would see it, but think nothing of it. Raboniel had known though. How long? He suspected she’d figured it out days ago, and was stalling to continue her research here. That one was trouble. He summoned his Blade and used the tip to destroy the tiny fabrial. Then he walked over to the sectioned-off portion of the room. The child Edgedancer lay here, tied up and unconscious, next to Kaladin’s parents and brother. Odium was interested in the Edgedancer, and Moash had been forbidden to kill her. Hopefully he hadn’t struck her head too hard. He didn’t always control that as he should. For now, he grabbed Lirin by his bound hands and dragged him—screaming through his gag—out
|
of the infirmary. There Moash waited until the Pursuer came flying back as a shameful ribbon of light. The Pursuer formed a body, and Moash pushed Lirin into the creature’s hands. “This is Stormblessed’s father,” Moash whispered. “No! Don’t say it loudly. Don’t draw Kaladin’s attention. His father is insurance; Kaladin has huge issues with the man. If Kaladin somehow regains his senses, immediately kill his father in front of him.” “This is nonsense,” the Pursuer growled. “I could kill Stormblessed now.” “No,” Moash said, grabbing the Pursuer and pointing at his face. “You know I have our master’s blessing. You know I speak to Command. You will not touch Stormblessed. You can’t hurt him; you can’t kill him.” “He’s … just a man.…” “Don’t touch him,” Moash said. “If you interfere, it will awaken him to vengeance. We don’t want that yet. There are two paths open to him. One is to take the route I did, and give up his pain. The other is the route he should have taken long ago. The path where he raises the only hand that can kill Kaladin Stormblessed. His own.” The Pursuer didn’t like it, judging by the rhythm he hummed. But he accepted Kaladin’s bound and gagged father and seemed willing to stay put. The guards had quieted the rowdy humans, and the atrium was falling still. Kaladin knelt before the storm, clinging to a dead man, shaking. Moash hesitated, searching inside himself. And … he felt nothing. Just coldness. Good. He had reached his potential. “Don’t ruin this,” he told the gathered Fused. “I need to go kill a queen.” * * * Navani waited for her chance. She had tried talking to the Sibling, but had heard only whimpers. So she had returned to the front of her room to wait for her chance to arrive. It came when her door guard suddenly shouted, putting her hands to her head in disbelief. She ran down the hallway. When Navani peeked out, she saw what had caused the commotion: the field around the crystal pillar was gone. Someone had destroyed the final node. The Sibling was exposed. Navani almost ran over to attack with the anti-Voidlight dagger. She hesitated though, eyeing her traps in the hallway. A magnet. I need a magnet. She’d seen one earlier, near the wreckage of her desk. She scrambled over and picked it up out of the rubble. Outside, she heard Raboniel’s order echo with a clear voice. “Run,” she said to the guard. “Tell the Word of Deeds and the Night Known to attend me. We have work to do.” The guard dashed away. When Navani peeked out again, Raboniel was stepping into the chamber with the crystal pillar, alone. A chance. Navani slipped into the hallway and moved quietly toward Raboniel. After passing the crates with her carefully prepared traps, she touched the magnet to a corner of the last crate and heard a click. She only dared take the time to arm one: a painrial that filled anyone who crossed this point in
|
the hallway with immense agony. That done, she moved to the end of the corridor. The room with the crystal pillar seemed darker than she remembered it. The Sibling had been almost fully corrupted. Raboniel stood with her hand pressed against the pillar to finish the job. Navani forced herself forward, dagger held in a tight grip. “You should run, Navani,” Raboniel said to a calm rhythm, her voice echoing in the room. “There is a copy of our notebook on my desk in the hallway, along with your anti-Voidlight plate. Take them and make your escape.” Navani froze in place, holding the dagger’s hilt so tightly, she thought she might never be able to uncurl her fingers. She knows I’m here. She knows what she did in sending the guard away. Logic, Navani. What does it mean? “You’re letting me go on purpose?” she said. “Since the final node has been destroyed,” Raboniel said, “Vyre will soon return to claim his promised compensation. However, if you have escaped on your own … well, then I have not defaulted on my covenant with him.” “I can’t leave the Sibling to you.” “What do you think to do?” Raboniel asked. “Fight me?” She turned, so calm and composed. Her eyes flickered to the dagger, then she hummed softly to a confused rhythm. She’d forgotten about it. She wasn’t as in control as she pretended. “Is this how you wish to end our association?” Raboniel asked. “Struggling like brutes in the wilderness? Scholars such as we, reduced to the exploitation of common blades? Run, Navani. You cannot defeat a Fused in battle.” She was right on that count. “I can’t abandon the Sibling,” Navani said. “My honor won’t allow it.” “We’re all children of Odium in the end,” Raboniel said. “Children of our Passions.” “You just said we were scholars,” Navani said. “Others might be controlled by their passions. We are something more. Something better.” She took a deep breath, then turned the dagger in her hand, hilt out. “I’ll give you this, then you and I can go back to my room to wait together. If Vyre does defeat Stormblessed, I will submit to him. If not, you will agree to leave the Sibling.” “A foolish gamble,” Raboniel said. “No, a compromise. We can discuss as we wait, and if we come to a more perfect accommodation, all the better.” She proffered the dagger. “Very well,” Raboniel said. She took the dagger with a quick snap of her hand, showing that she didn’t completely trust Navani. As well she shouldn’t. Raboniel strode down the hallway, Navani following several paces behind. “Let’s get to this quickly, Navani,” Raboniel said. “I should think that the two of us—” Then Raboniel stepped directly into Navani’s fabrial trap. For ones so varied, they are somehow intense. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Kaladin clung to Teft’s limp form and felt it all crumbling. The flimsy facade of confidence he had built to let himself fight. The way he pretended he was fine.
|
Syl landed on his shoulder, arms wrapped around herself, and said nothing. What was there to say? It was over. It was all just … over. What was there to life if he couldn’t protect the people he loved? Long ago, he’d promised himself he’d try one last time. He’d try to save the men of Bridge Four. And he’d failed. Teft had been so vibrant, so alive. So sturdy and so constant. He’d finally defeated his own monsters, had really come into his own, claiming his Radiance. He had been a wonderful, loving, amazing man. He’d depended on Kaladin. Like Tien. Like a hundred others. But he couldn’t save them. He couldn’t protect them. Syl whimpered, shrinking in on herself. Kaladin wished he could shrink as well. Maybe if he’d lived as his father wanted, he could have avoided this. He said he fought to protect, but he didn’t end up protecting anything, did he? He just destroyed. Killed. Kaladin Stormblessed wasn’t dead. He’d never existed. Kaladin Stormblessed was a lie. He always had been. The numbness claimed him. That hollow darkness that was so much worse than pain. He couldn’t think. Didn’t want to think. Didn’t want anything. This time, Adolin wasn’t there to pull him out of it. To force him to keep walking. This time, Kaladin was given exactly what he deserved. Nothing. And nothingness. * * * Navani froze in place. Raboniel—suddenly struck with incredible pain from Navani’s trap—collapsed, dropping the dagger. Steeling herself, Navani went down on her hands and knees, then lunged forward to grab it. The pain was excruciating. But Navani had tested these devices upon herself, and she knew what they did. She lost control of her legs, but managed to crawl forward and plunge the dagger into Raboniel’s chest. She kept her weight on the weapon, pressing it down, smelling burned flesh. Raboniel screamed, writhing, clawing at Navani. The painrial did its job however, and prevented her from fighting back effectively. “I’m sorry,” Navani said through gritted teeth. “I’m … sorry. But next time … try … not … to be … so trusting.” The painrial soon ran out. Navani had set it up days ago, with a small Voidlight gemstone for power. It hadn’t been intended to work for very long. She was pleased by the range though. She’d specifically worked on that feature. Navani sat up, then wrapped her arms around herself, trying to fight off the phantom effects of the pain. Finally she looked toward Raboniel’s corpse. And found the Fused’s eyes quivering, not glassy and white like her daughter’s had been. Navani scrambled away. Raboniel moved her arms limply, then turned her head toward Navani. “How?” Navani demanded. “Why are you alive?” “Not … enough … Light…” Raboniel croaked. She gripped the knife in her chest and pulled it free, letting out a sigh. “It hurts. I’m … I’m … not…” She closed her eyes, though she continued to breathe. Navani inched forward, wary. “You must take … the notebook…” Raboniel said. “And you must … run. Vyre
|
… returns.” “You tell me to run, after I tried to kill you?” “Not … tried…” Raboniel said. “I … cannot hear rhythms.… My soul … dying…” She pried open her eyes and fixed them on Navani. “You … tricked me well, Navani. Clever, clever. Well … done.” “How can you say that?” Navani said, glancing toward the desk and the papers on it. “Live … as long as I … and you can appreciate … anything … that still surprises you.… Go, Navani. Run … The war must … end.” Navani felt sick, now that she’d gone through with it. An unexpected pain pricked her at the betrayal. Nevertheless, she moved to the desk and picked up the notebook. I need to get this out of the tower, she realized. It is perhaps even more important than the Sibling. A way to kill Fused permanently. A way to … To end the war. If both Radiant spren and Fused could die for good, it could stop, couldn’t it? “Stormfather,” she whispered. “That’s what it was all about.” Raboniel wanted to end the war, one way or another. The notebook Navani held was a copy, and Navani realized that the original notebook would be in Kholinar, delivered to the leaders of the singer military—likely along with the vacuum chamber and the metal plates. Navani walked over to Raboniel. “You wanted a way to end it,” she said. “You don’t care who wins.” “I care,” Raboniel whispered. “I want … the singers to win. But your side … winning … is better than … than…” “Than the war continuing forever,” Navani said. Raboniel nodded, her eyes closed. “Go. Run. Vyre will—” Navani looked up as a blur flashed in the hallway, reflecting light. A thump hit her chest, and she grunted at the impact, stunned—briefly—before pain began to wash through her body. Sharp and alarming. A knife, she thought, befuddled to see the hilt of a throwing knife sticking from the side of her torso, next to her right breast. When she took a breath, the pain sharpened with a sudden spike. She looked up, pressing her hand to the wound, feeling warm blood spill out. At the far end of the hallway, a figure in a black uniform walked slowly forward. A Shardblade appeared in his hand. The assassin’s Blade. Moash had returned. Highmarshal Kaladin was dead. * * * Venli watched the human, so consumed by his grief that he knelt there, motionless, for minutes on end. And they all watched. Silent Heavenly Ones. Solemn guards. Disbelieving humans. No one seemed to want to speak, or even breathe. That was how Venli should have felt upon losing her sister. Why didn’t she have the emotions of a normal person? She’d been sad, but she didn’t think she’d ever been so overcome by grief that she acted like Stormblessed. Timbre pulsed comfortingly inside her. Everyone was different. And Venli was on the right path. Except … there wasn’t really a point in returning to help now, was there? It was over. Beside
|
her, Leshwi descended until her feet touched the ground, then she bowed her head. Show her, Timbre pulsed. What you are. “What? Now?” Show her. Reveal what she was, in front of everyone? Venli shrank at the thought, attuning the Terrors. One by one the other Heavenly Ones touched down, as if in respect. For an enemy. “This is stupidity,” the Pursuer said, shoving Lirin into Leshwi’s hands. “I can’t believe we’re all just standing here.” Leshwi looked up from her vigil, humming to Spite. Then, amazingly, she pulled out a knife and cut Lirin’s hands free. “I have not forgotten how you tried to turn the Nine against me,” the Pursuer said, pointing at Leshwi. “You seek to destroy my legacy.” “Your legacy is dead, Defeated One,” Leshwi said. “It died when you ran from him.” “My legacy is untouched!” the Pursuer roared, causing Venli to stumble back, afraid. “And this is complete madness! I will prove myself and continue my tradition!” “No!” Leshwi said, passing the still-gagged human to one of the other Heavenly Ones. She grabbed the Pursuer, but he left a husk in her hand, exploding out as a ribbon of light to cross the atrium floor. “No…” Venli whispered. The Pursuer appeared above Stormblessed. The Fused yanked a sharpened carapace spur off his arm, then—holding it like a dagger—he grabbed the kneeling man by one shoulder. Kaladin Stormblessed looked up and let loose a howl that seemed to vibrate with a hundred discordant rhythms. Venli attuned the Lost in return. The Pursuer stabbed, but Stormblessed grabbed his arm and turned, becoming a blur of motion. He somehow twisted around so he was behind the Pursuer, then found a knife somewhere on his person—moving with such speed that Venli had trouble tracking him. Stormblessed slammed the knife at the Pursuer’s neck, who barely ejected from the husk in time. He re-formed and tried to grab Stormblessed again. But there was no contest now. Kaladin moved like the wind, fast and flowing as he rammed his dagger through the Pursuer’s arm, causing him to shout in pain. A knife toward the face followed, and the Pursuer ejected yet again. No one chanted or shouted this time, but when Stormblessed turned around, Venli saw his face—and she immediately attuned the Terrors. His eyes were glowing like a Radiant’s, his face a mask of pain and anguish, but the eyes … she swore the light had a yellowish-red cast to it. Like … like … The Pursuer appeared near the soldiers at the perimeter by the wall. “Go!” he shouted to his men. “Attack him! Kill him, and then kill the other Radiants! Your orders are chaos and death!” The Pursuer charged forward. The soldiers followed, then shied away. They wouldn’t face Stormblessed and those eyes of his, so the Pursuer was left with no choice but to engage. Venli didn’t know if he realized, but he was on his final body. Perhaps he knew he couldn’t run this time, not and salvage any kind of reputation. Stormblessed dashed to him,
|
and they met near the vast window, flashing with lightning. The Pursuer tried to grab him, and Kaladin welcomed it, folding into the deadly embrace—then expertly slamming them both up against the window. Kaladin pressed the Pursuer to the glass—the storm outside flashed, shaking the tower, vibrating it and splashing it with light. In that moment, Kaladin did something to the window. As he stepped back, he left the Pursuer stuck to the glass, immobilized and lacking the Voidlight to eject his soul. Kaladin didn’t attack. Instead he reached down and infused the ground, but with power that didn’t glow as strong as she thought it should. The Pursuer’s head … it was pulling forward against his neck, his eyes bulging. He groaned, and Venli realized that Stormblessed had infused the ground, then made it pull on the Pursuer’s head. But his body was stuck to the wall. Kaladin turned and strode toward the watching Heavenly Ones as the Pursuer’s head ripped from his body and slammed to the floor with a crunch. “Stormblessed,” Leshwi said, stepping out to meet him. “You have fought and won. Your loss is powerful, I know, as mortals are—” Kaladin shoved her aside. He was coming for Venli, she was sure of it. She braced herself, but he stalked past her, leaving her trembling to the Terrors. Instead Kaladin strode for the Heavenly One who was holding his father. Of course. That Heavenly One panicked as any would. She shot off into the air, carrying the man. Two other Heavenly Ones followed. Stormblessed looked up, then launched into the air using the strange fabrial that mimicked the Lashings. Venli slumped to the ground, feeling worn out, though she hadn’t done anything. At least it seemed to be over. But not for the soldiers from the Pursuer’s personal army, who gathered around his corpse. Dead a second time, to the same man. His reputation might be in shambles, but he was still Fused. He would return. The soldiers turned toward the infirmary, remembering his last orders. They couldn’t kill Stormblessed. But they could finish off the invalid Radiants. * * * Kaladin could barely see straight. He had only a vague memory of killing the Pursuer. He knew he’d done it, but remembering was hard. Thinking was hard. He soared upward, chasing the creatures who had taken his father. He heard Lirin’s shouts echoing from above, so he’d gotten his gag off. Each sound condemned Kaladin. He didn’t actually believe he could save his father. It was as if Lirin was already dead, and was screaming at Kaladin from Damnation. Kaladin wasn’t exactly certain why he followed, but he had to get up high. Perhaps … perhaps he could see better from up high.… Syl streaked ahead of him, entering the shafts that let lifts reach the final tiers of the tower. She landed on the topmost level of Urithiru. Kaladin arrived after activating a second weight halfway through the flight, then swung himself over the railing and deactivated the device in one move. He landed facing
|
a Heavenly One who tried to block his path. Kaladin … He left that Heavenly One broken and dying, then tore through the upper chambers. Where? The roof. They’d make for the roof to escape. Indeed, he found another Fused blocking the stairwell up, and Kaladin slammed Navani’s device into the Fused’s chest and locked it in place, sending him flying away, up through the stairwell and off into the sky. Kaladin … I’ve forgotten.… Syl’s voice. She was zipping around him, but he could barely hear her. Kaladin burst out onto the top of the tower. The storm spread out around them, almost to the pinnacle, a dark ocean of black clouds rumbling with discontent. The last of the Heavenly Ones was here, holding Kaladin’s father. The Fused backed away, shouting something Kaladin couldn’t understand. Kaladin … I’ve forgotten … the Words.… He advanced on the Heavenly One, and in a panic she threw his father. Out. Into the blackness. Kaladin saw Lirin’s face for a brief moment before he vanished. Into the pit. The swirling storm and tempest. Kaladin scrambled to the edge of the tower and looked down. Suddenly he knew why he’d come this high. He knew where he was going. He’d stood on this ledge before. Long ago in the rain. This time he jumped. For ones so lost, they are somehow determined. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Navani managed to get to her feet, but after a few steps—fleeing toward the pillar, away from Moash—she was light-headed and woozy. Each breath was agony, and she was losing so much blood. She stumbled and pressed up against the wall—smearing blood across a mural of a comet-shaped spren—to keep from falling. She glanced over her shoulder. Moash continued walking, an inevitable motion. Not rushed. His sword—with its elegant curve—held to the side so it left a small cut in the floor beside him. “Lighteyes,” Moash said. “Lying eyes. Rulers who fail to rule. Your son was a coward at the end, Queen. He begged me for his life, crying. Appropriate that he should die as he lived.” She saved her breath, not daring to respond despite her fury, and pressed on down the hallway, trailing blood. “I killed a friend today,” Moash said, his terrible voice growing softer. “I thought surely that would hurt. Remarkably, it didn’t. I have become my best self. Free. No more pain. I bring you silence, Navani. Payment for what you’ve done. How you’ve lived. The way you—” Navani hazarded a glance over her shoulder as he cut off suddenly. Moash had stopped above Raboniel’s body. The Fused had latched on to his foot with one hand. He cocked his head, seeming baffled. Raboniel launched herself at him, clawing up his body. Her legs didn’t work, but she gripped Moash with talonlike fingers, snarling, and stabbed him repeatedly with the dagger Navani had left. The knife had no anti-Voidlight remaining—but it was draining his Stormlight. Raboniel had reversed the blade. Moash flinched at the attack, distracted, trying
|
to maneuver his Shardblade to fight off the crazed Fused who grappled with him. Move! Navani thought to herself. Raboniel was trying to buy time. Even with renewed vigor, Navani didn’t get far before the pain became too much. She stumbled into the room with the crystal pillar, abandoning thoughts of trying to escape into the tunnels beneath Urithiru. Instead she forced herself forward to the pillar, then fell against it. “Sibling,” she whispered, tasting blood on her lips. “Sibling?” She expected to hear whimpering or weeping—the only response she’d received over the last few days. This time she heard a strange tone, both harmonious and discordant at once. The Rhythm of War. * * * Dalinar flew through the air, Lashed by Lyn the Windrunner, on his way to find the Herald Ishar. He felt something … rumbling. A distant storm. Everything was light around him up here, the sun shining, making it difficult to believe that somewhere it was dark and tempestuous. Somewhere, someone was lost in that blackness. The Stormfather appeared beside him, moving in the air alongside Dalinar—a rare occurrence. The Stormfather never had features. Merely a vague impression of a figure the same size as Dalinar, yet extending into infinity. Something was wrong. “What?” Dalinar said. The Son of Tanavast has entered the storm for the last time, the Stormfather said. I feel him. “Kaladin?” Dalinar said, eager. “He’s escaped?” No. This is something far worse. “Show me.” * * * Kaladin fell. The wind tossed him and whipped at him. He was just rags. Just … rags for a person. I’ve forgotten the Words, Kaladin, Syl said, weeping. I see only darkness. He felt something in his hand, her fingers somehow gripping his as they fell in the storm. He couldn’t save Teft. He couldn’t save his father. He couldn’t save himself. He’d pushed too hard, used a grindstone on his soul until it had become paper thin. He’d failed anyway. Those were the only Words that mattered. The only true Words. “I’m not strong enough,” he whispered to the angry winds, and closed his eyes, letting go of her hand. * * * Dalinar was the storm around Kaladin. And at the same time he wasn’t. The Stormfather didn’t give Dalinar as much control as he had before, likely fearing that Dalinar would want to push him again. He was right. Dalinar watched Kaladin tumble. Lost. No Stormlight. Eyes closed. It wasn’t the bearing of a man who was fighting. Nor was it the bearing of someone who rode the winds. It was the bearing of someone who had given up. What do we do? Dalinar asked the Stormfather. We witness. It is our duty. We must help. There is no help, Dalinar. He is too close to the tower’s interference to use his powers, and you cannot blow him free of this. Dalinar watched, pained, the rain his tears. There had to be something. The moment between, Dalinar said. When you infuse spheres. You can stop time. Slow it greatly, the Stormfather said, through
|
Investiture and Connection to the Spiritual. But just briefly. Do it, Dalinar said. Give him more time. * * * Venli hummed to Agony as the slaughter began. Not of the Radiants, not yet. Of the civilians. As soon as the Pursuer’s soldiers started toward the helpless Radiants, the watching crowd of humans went insane. Led by a few determined souls—including a gruff-looking man with one arm—the humans started fighting. A full-on rebellion. Of unarmed people against trained soldiers in warform. Venli turned away as the killing began. The humans didn’t give up though. They flooded the space between the warforms and the room with the Radiants, blocking the way with their own bodies. “Can we prevent this?” Venli asked Leshwi, who had settled beside her after being pushed aside by Stormblessed. “I will need the authority of Raboniel to countermand this particular order,” Leshwi said to Abashment. “The Pursuer has command of law in the tower. I have already sent another of the Heavenly Ones to ask Raboniel.” Venli winced at the screams. “But Raboniel said these Radiants were to be preserved!” “No longer,” Leshwi said. “Something happened in the night. Raboniel had needed the Radiants for tests she intended to perform, but she had one of them brought to her, and afterward she said she needed no further tests. The rest are now a liability, possibly a danger, should they wake.” She looked toward the dying humans, then shied away as some warforms ran past with bloody axes. “It is … unfortunate,” Leshwi said. “I do not sing to Joy in this type of conflict. But we have done it before, and will do it again, in the name of reclaiming our world.” “Can’t we be better?” Venli begged to Disappointment. “Isn’t there a way?” Leshwi looked at her, cocking her head. Venli had again used one of the wrong rhythms. Venli searched the room, past the angerspren and fearspren. Some of the singer troops weren’t joining in the killing. She picked out Rothan and Malal, Leshwi’s soldiers. They hesitated and did not join in. Leshwi picked better people than that. Show her, Timbre pulsed. Showhershowhershowher. Venli braced herself. Then she drew in Stormlight from the spheres in her pocket, and let herself begin glowing. Leshwi hummed immediately to Destruction and grabbed Venli by the face in a powerful grip. “What?” she said. “What have you done?” * * * Kaladin entered the place between moments. He’d met the Stormfather here on that first horrible night when he’d been strung up in the storm. The night when Syl had fought so hard to protect him. This time he drifted in the darkness. No wind tossed him, and the air became impossibly calm, impossibly quiet. As if he were floating alone in the ocean. WHY WON’T YOU SAY THE WORDS? the Stormfather asked. “I’ve forgotten them,” Kaladin whispered. YOU HAVE NOT. “Will they mean anything if I don’t feel them, Stormfather? Can I lie to swear an Ideal?” Silence. Pure, incriminating silence. “He wants me, as he wanted Moash,” Kaladin said.
|
“If he keeps pushing, he’ll have me. So I have to go.” THAT IS A LIE, the Stormfather said. IT IS HIS ULTIMATE LIE, SON OF HONOR. THE LIE THAT SAYS YOU HAVE NO CHOICE. THE LIE THAT THERE IS NO MORE JOURNEY WORTH TAKING. He was right. A tiny part of Kaladin—a part that could not lie to himself—knew it was true. “What if I’m too tired?” Kaladin whispered. “What if there’s nothing left to give? What if that is why I cannot say your Words, Stormfather? What if it’s just too much?” YOU WOULD CONSIGN MY DAUGHTER TO MISERY AGAIN? Kaladin winced, but it was true. Could he do that to Syl? He gritted his teeth as he began to struggle. Began to fight through the nothingness. Through the inability to think. He fought through the pain, the agony—still raw—of losing his friend. He screamed, trembled, then sank inward. “Too weak,” he whispered. There simply wasn’t anything left for him to give. * * * It’s not enough, Dalinar said. He couldn’t see in this endless darkness, yet he could feel someone inside it. Two someones. Kaladin and his spren. Storms. They hurt. We need to give them more time, Dalinar said. We cannot, the Stormfather said. Respect his frailty, and don’t force me on this, Dalinar! You could break things you do not understand, the consequences of which could be catastrophic. Have you no compassion? Dalinar demanded. Have you no heart? I am a storm, the Stormfather said. I chose the ways of a storm. Choose better, then! Dalinar searched in the darkness, the infinity. He was full of Stormlight in a place where that didn’t matter. In a place where all things Connected. A place beyond Shadesmar. A place beyond time. A place where … What is that? Dalinar asked. That warmth. I feel nothing. Dalinar drew the warmth close, and understood. This place is where you make the visions happen, isn’t it? Dalinar asked. Time sometimes moved oddly in those. Yes, the Stormfather said. But you must have Connection for a vision. You must have a reason for it. A meaning. It cannot be just anything. GOOD, Dalinar said, forging a bond. What are you doing? CONNECTING HIM, Dalinar said. UNITING HIM. The Stormfather rumbled. With what? For ones so confused, they are somehow brilliant. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Kaladin jolted, opening his eyes in confusion. He was in a small tent. What on Roshar? He blinked and sat up, finding himself beside a boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, in an antiquated uniform. Leather skirt and cap? Kaladin was dressed similarly. “What do you think, Dem?” the boy asked him. “Should we run?” Kaladin scanned the small tent, baffled. Then he heard sounds outside. A battlefield? Yes, men yelling and dying. He stood up and stepped out into the light, blinking against it. A … hillside, with some stumpweight trees on it. This wasn’t the Shattered Plains. I know this place, Kaladin thought. Amaram’s colors. Men in leather
|
armor. Storms, he was on a battlefield from his youth. The exhaustion had taken a toll on him. He was hallucinating. The surgeon in him was worried at that. A young squadleader walked up, haggard. Storms, he couldn’t be older than seventeen or eighteen. That seemed so young to Kaladin now, though he wasn’t that much older. The squadleader was arguing with a shorter soldier beside him. “We can’t hold,” the squadleader said. “It’s impossible. Storms, they’re gathering for another advance.” “The orders are clear,” the other man said—barely out of his teens himself. “Brightlord Sheler says we’re to hold here. No retreat.” “To Damnation with that man,” the squadleader said, wiping his sweaty hair, surrounded by jets of exhaustionspren. Kaladin immediately felt a kinship with the poor fool. Given impossible orders and not enough resources? Looking along the ragged battle line, Kaladin guessed the man was in over his head, with all the higher-ranked soldiers dead. There were barely enough men to form three squads, and half of those were wounded. “This is Amaram’s fault,” Kaladin said. “Playing with the lives of half-trained men in outdated equipment, all to make himself look good so he’ll get moved to the Shattered Plains.” The young squadleader glanced at Kaladin, frowning. “You shouldn’t talk like that, kid,” the man said, running his hand through his hair again. “It could get you strung up, if the highmarshal hears.” The man took a deep breath. “Form up the wounded men on that flank. Tell everyone to get ready to hold. And … you, messenger boy, grab your friend and get some spears. Gor, put them in front.” “In front?” the other man asked. “You certain, Varth?” “You work with what you have…” the man said, hiking back the way he had come. Work with what you have. Everything spun around Kaladin, and he suddenly remembered this exact battlefield. He knew where he was. He knew that squadleader’s face. How had he not seen it immediately? Kaladin had been here. Rushing through the lines, searching for … Searching for … He spun on his heel and found a young man—too young—approaching Varth. He had an open, inviting face and too much spring in his step as he approached the squadleader. “I’ll go with them, sir,” Tien said. “Fine. Go.” Tien picked up a spear. He gathered the other messenger boy from the tent and started toward the place where he’d been told to stand. “No, Tien,” Kaladin said. “I can’t watch this. Not again.” Tien came and took Kaladin’s hand, then walked him forward. “It’s all right,” he said. “I know you’re frightened. But here we can stand together, all of us. Three are stronger than one, right?” He held out his spear, and the other boy—who was crying—did the same. “Tien,” Kaladin said. “Why did you do it? You should have stayed safe.” Tien turned to him, then smiled. “They would have been alone. They needed someone to help them feel brave.” “They were slaughtered,” Kaladin said. “So were you.” “So it was good someone was
|
there, to help them not feel so alone as it happened.” “You were terrified. I saw your eyes.” “Of course I was.” Tien looked at him as the charge began, and the enemy advanced up the hillside. “Who wouldn’t be afraid? Doesn’t change that I needed to be here. For them.” Kaladin remembered getting stabbed on this battlefield … killing a man. Then being forced to watch Tien die. He cringed, anticipating that death, but all went dark. The forest, the tent, the figures all vanished. Except for Tien. Kaladin fell to his knees. Then Tien, poor little Tien, wrapped his arms around Kaladin and held him. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’m here. To help you feel brave.” “I’m not the child you see,” Kaladin whispered. “I know who you are, Kal.” Kaladin looked up at his brother. Who somehow, in that moment, was full grown. And Kaladin was a child, clinging to him. Holding to him as the tears started to fall, as he let himself weep at Teft’s death. “This is wrong,” Kaladin said. “I’m supposed to hold you. Protect you.” “And you did. As I helped you.” He pulled Kaladin tight. “Why do we fight, Kal? Why do we keep going?” “I don’t know,” Kaladin whispered. “I’ve forgotten.” “It’s so we can be with each other.” “They all die, Tien. Everyone dies.” “So they do, don’t they?” “That means it doesn’t matter,” Kaladin said. “None of it matters.” “See, that’s the wrong way of looking at it.” Tien held him tighter. “Since we all go to the same place in the end, the moments we spent with each other are the only things that do matter. The times we helped each other.” Kaladin trembled. “Look at it, Kal,” Tien said softly. “See the colors. If you think letting Teft die is a failure—but all the times you supported him are meaningless—then no wonder it always hurts. Instead, if you think of how lucky you both were to be able to help each other when you were together, well, it looks a lot nicer, doesn’t it?” “I’m not strong enough,” Kaladin whispered. “You’re strong enough for me.” “I’m not good enough.” “You’re good enough for me.” “I wasn’t there.” Tien smiled. “You are here for me, Kal. You’re here for all of us.” “And…” Kaladin said, tears on his cheeks, “if I fail again?” “You can’t. So long as you understand.” He pulled Kaladin tight. Kaladin rested his head against Tien’s chest, blotting his tears with the cloth of his shirt. “Teft believes in you. The enemy thinks he’s won. But I want to see his face when he realizes the truth. Don’t you? It’s going to be delightful.” Kaladin found himself smiling. “If he kills us,” Tien said, “he’s simply dropped us off at a place we were going anyway. We shouldn’t hasten it, and it is sad. But see, he can’t take our moments, our Connection, Kaladin. And those are things that really matter.” Kaladin closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy this moment. “Is it real?” he
|
finally asked. “Are you real? Or is this something made by the Stormfather, or Wit, or someone else?” Tien smiled, then pressed something into Kaladin’s hand. A small wooden horse. “Try to keep track of him this time, Kal. I worked hard on that.” Then Kaladin dropped suddenly, the wooden horse evaporating in his hand as he fell. He searched around in the endless blackness. “Syl?” he called. A pinprick of light, weaving around him. But that wasn’t her. “SYL!” Another pinprick. And another. But those weren’t her. That was. He reached into the darkness and seized her hand, pulling her to him. She grabbed him, physical in this place and his own size. She held to him, and shook as she spoke. “I’ve forgotten the Words. I’m supposed to help you, but I can’t. I…” “You are helping,” Kaladin said, “by being here.” He closed his eyes, feeling the storm as they broke through the moment between and entered the real world. “Besides,” he whispered, “I know the Words.” Say them, Tien whispered. “I have always known these Words.” Say it, lad! Do it! “I accept it, Stormfather! I accept that there will be those I cannot protect!” The storm rumbled, and he felt warmth surrounding him, Light infusing him. He heard Syl gasp, and a familiar voice, not the Stormfather’s. THESE WORDS ARE ACCEPTED. “We couldn’t save Teft, Syl,” Kaladin whispered. “We couldn’t save Tien. But we can save my father.” And when he opened his eyes, the sky exploded with a thousand pure lights. For ones so tarnished, they are somehow bright. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Leshwi fell to her knees before Venli, not flying, not hovering. On her knees. Venli knelt as well, as Leshwi still held to her face—but the grip softened. A cool, beautiful light flooded in through the window behind. Like a frozen lightning bolt, brighter than any sphere. Bright as the sun. “What have you done, Venli?” Leshwi said. “What have you done?” “I … I swore the First Ideal of the Radiants,” Venli said. “I’m sorry.” “Sorry…” Leshwi said. A joyspren burst around her, beautiful, like a blue storm. “Sorry? Venli, they’ve come back to us! They’ve forgiven us.” What? “Please,” Leshwi said to Longing, “ask your spren. Do they know of an honorspren named Riah? She was my friend once. Precious to me.” Leshwi … had friends? Among the spren? Storms. Leshwi had lived before the war, when men and singers had been allies. Honor had been the god of the Dawnsingers. Timbre pulsed. “She … doesn’t know Riah,” Venli said. “But she doesn’t know a lot of honorspren. She … doesn’t think any of the old ones survived the human betrayal.” Leshwi nodded, humming softly to … to one of the old rhythms. “My spren though,” Venli said. “She … has friends, who are willing to maybe try again. With us.” “My soul is too long owned by someone else for that,” Leshwi said. Venli glanced toward the fighting. The sudden light hadn’t halted
|
them. If anything, it had made the Pursuer’s soldiers more determined as they attacked. They seemed to enjoy the company of the angerspren and painspren. Some of the humans had wrestled away weapons, but most of them fought unarmed, trying desperately to keep the Radiants safe. “I don’t know what to do,” Venli whispered. “I keep wavering between two worlds. I’m too weak, mistress.” Leshwi rose into the air, then ripped her side sword from its sheath. “It’s all right, Voice. I know the answer.” She flew directly into the fight and began pulling away the soldiers, shouting for them to halt. When they didn’t, Leshwi started swinging. And in seconds her troops had joined her, as singer fought singer. * * * “Sibling,” Navani whispered, clinging to the pillar. “What is happening? Why do you make that rhythm?” Navani? The voice that responded was soft as a baby’s breath on her skin. Almost imperceptible. I hear this rhythm. I hear it in the darkness. Why? “Where is it coming from?” There. Navani was given an impression, a vision that overlaid her senses. A place in the tower … the atrium, dark from a storm blowing outside? Down here, deep within the basement, she hadn’t realized one was going on. Fighting. People were fighting, struggling, dying. Navani squinted at the vision. Her pain was fading—though a part of her felt that was a bad sign. But she could see … a Fused, flying a foot off the ground, fighting beside someone infused with Voidlight. A Regal? And those were humans with them, standing together. Side by side. “What are they doing?” Navani asked. Fighting other singers. I think. It’s so dark. Why do they fight each other? “What’s in that room they defend?” Navani whispered. That is where they put the fallen Radiants. “Emulsifier,” Navani whispered. What? “A joined purpose. Humans and singers. Honor and Odium. They’re fighting to protect the helpless, Sibling.” The vision faded, but before it did, Navani spotted Rlain—the singer who worked with Bridge Four. “He’s there,” Navani said, then found herself coughing. Each convulsion made the pain flare up again. “Sibling, he’s there!” Too far, they whispered. Too late … Outside in the hallway, Moash hacked at Raboniel’s left arm—making it fall limp. She clawed at him with her remaining arm, hissing, as the hand with the dagger dropped its weapon and dangled uselessly. “Take me,” Navani whispered to the Sibling. “Bond me.” No, the Sibling said, voice faint. “Why?” You aren’t worthy, Navani. * * * Rlain heard the shouting long before they reached the atrium. The guards holding him attuned Anxiety and hurried him and Dabbid faster, though Rlain remained optimistic. That noise had to be from Kaladin’s fight with the Pursuer. Rlain was, therefore, utterly shocked when they walked into the atrium to find a full-on civil war. Singers fought against singers, and a group of humans stood side by side with one of the forces. Rlain’s guards went running—perhaps to find some kind of authority figure to sort out this nonsense—leaving him and
|
Dabbid. But the fray ended quickly, and the side with the humans won. Few of the singers seemed to want to fight Fused, and so the troops fled, leaving the dead behind them. “What?” Dabbid asked softly, the two of them hanging back in one of the side corridors where some human civilians—brave enough to watch, but not skilled enough to join—clustered. Rlain made a quick assessment, then attuned the Rhythm of Hope. Five of the Heavenly Ones—and about twenty Regals under their command—had turned upon the soldiers of the Pursuer. The other Heavenly Ones seemed to have refused to join either side, and had retreated up higher into the atrium. That was Leshwi, hovering near the front of the side that had won—holding a sword coated in orange singer blood. She seemed to be in charge. A good number of people, both human and singer, were down and bleeding. It was a mess. “They need field surgeons,” Rlain said. “Come on.” He and Dabbid raced in and—as Kaladin had trained them—started a quick triage. People began helping, and in minutes Rlain had them all binding wounds for both singers and humans, regardless of which side they’d fought on. Lirin had supplies in the infirmary, fortunately—and when Dabbid returned with them, he brought Hesina, who seemed rattled by the fighting. It was a few minutes before Rlain got an explanation. Lirin had been taken? Kaladin had given chase? Rlain attuned the Lost. No wonder Hesina looked like she’d been through a storm. Still, she seemed eager to have something to do, and took over leading the triage. That let Rlain step away for a breather and wipe his hands. Some humans who had seen it all gave him scattered explanations. The Pursuer had ordered the slaughter of helpless Radiants, and both humans and singers had resisted his army. Before Rlain could go demand answers from Venli, several gruff human men approached him. He recognized them from the sessions Kaladin had been doing, helping them with trauma. They’d been forced to pick up weapons again, the poor cremlings. “Yes?” Rlain asked. They led him to a body placed reverently beside the wall, the eyes burned out. Teft. Rlain fell to his knees as Dabbid joined him, letting out a quiet whimper, anguishspren surrounding them. They knelt together, heads bowed. Rlain sang the Song of the Fallen, a song for a dead hero. It seemed the plan hadn’t gone off too well for them either. “Lift?” he asked. “She’s in the infirmary,” Dabbid whispered. “Unconscious. Legs dead from a Blade. Looks like someone hit her hard on the head. She … is bleeding. I tried to give her Stormlight. Nothing happened.” Rlain attuned Mourning. Lift could heal others, but—like with Kaladin and Teft—her internal healing wasn’t working. So much for waking the Radiants. He bowed his head for Teft, then left him there. Let the dead rest. It was their way, and he wished to be able to give the man a proper sky burial. Teft had been a good person. One of the
|
best. Behind him, other matters drew Rlain’s attention. The humans and singers were already squabbling. “You need to submit,” Leshwi was saying, hovering above them in her imperious Fused way. “I will explain to Raboniel that the soldiers were uncontrolled and didn’t obey my orders.” “And you think she’ll let us walk?” one of the human women shouted. “We need to get out of here right now.” “If I let you go,” Leshwi said, “it will seem that I am in rebellion. We can contain this if you submit.” “You’re not in rebellion?” one of the men demanded. “What was that then?” “We ain’t obeying one of you again,” another bellowed. “Ever!” Shouts from both sides rose as singers ordered the people not to argue with one of the Fused. Rlain turned from one group to the other, then attuned Determination and wiped the makeup from his tattoo. He strode out between the groups. Field medicine wasn’t the only thing Bridge Four had taught. “Listen up!” he shouted to Confidence. “All of you!” Remarkably, they fell silent. Rlain did his best Teft impersonation as he turned to the humans. “You all, you know me. I’m Bridge Four. I know you don’t like me, but are you willing to trust me?” The humans grumbled, but most of them nodded, prompted by Noril. Rlain turned toward the singers. “You all,” he barked to Confidence, “absolutely committed treason. You acted against Odium’s wishes, and he will seek retribution for that. You’re as good as dead—and you Fused, you’re in for an eternity of torture. Fortunately, you have two people here who can guide you—listeners from a people who escaped his control. So if you want to survive, you’re going to listen to me.” Leshwi folded her arms. But then muttered, “Fine.” The other Heavenly Ones seemed willing to follow her lead. Venli rushed over, and she was infused with the deep violet light of Voidlight. Far more so than an ordinary Regal. She glowed more, in fact, than a Fused. “What are you?” Rlain demanded. “A Radiant,” she said to Consolation. “Kind of. I can use Voidlight to power my abilities, so they work in the tower.” “Figures,” Rlain grumbled. “Kelek’s breath … I wait years, then you of all people grab a spren first.” Maybe that was too much Teft. “Anyway, it explains how you got Lift out. We need to get moving. Odium won’t stand for a rebellion among his own. So you singers are going to come with us. We’re going to grab the Radiants and we’re going to carry them out onto the plateau, where we’ll escape via the Oathgates to the Shattered Plains.” “That puts us in the humans’ power,” Leshwi said. “I’ll get you out of it,” Rlain said. “After we’re all safe. Understood? Gather up our wounded, grab those Radiants, and let’s get going. Before Raboniel knows there was a rebellion, I want all involved parties—human and singer—out of this tower. Go!” They started moving, trusting that he knew what he was saying. Which … he wasn’t certain
|
he did. Transporting a bunch of unconscious people would be slow, and there was a highstorm outside. “Rlain,” Venli said to Awe. “You gave orders to a Fused.” He shrugged. “It’s all about an air of authority.” “It’s more than that,” she said. “How?” “I had good teachers,” Rlain said, though he was a little surprised himself. He was a spy, used to staying back, letting others lead while he watched. Today, though, there hadn’t been anyone else. And having been rejected by both sides, he figured he was an outsider—and therefore as close to a neutral party as there could be in this conflict. Everyone worked together to move the unconscious Radiants and the wounded. Even Leshwi and the five other Heavenly Ones each carried a wounded soldier. Rlain spent the time checking the balconies up above. The dozens of Heavenly Ones who hadn’t joined the battle had now vanished. Carrying word to Raboniel, undoubtedly. Or marshaling their personal forces to stop this rebellion. Once everyone was together, Rlain waved for them to follow as he started the hike out. Venli hurried up beside him. “How are we going to work the Oathgate?” she whispered. “I know the mechanism,” Rlain said. “I assume we can use your Blade to figure it out.” Venli hurried at his side as they entered a corridor. “My Blade?” “You told me you cut Lift out of her cell with a Shardblade. I wondered why they let you have one instead of giving it to a Fused, but now I can piece it together. Yours is a living Radiant Blade—which can work the Oathgates. I guess your Voidlight lets you summon it?” Venli hummed to Anxiety. “I don’t have a Blade, Rlain.” “But—” “I was lying! I used my powers to get her out. Timbre says I’m a long way from earning my own Blade!” Damnation. “We’ll figure something out,” he said. “Right now, we need to keep moving.” One of my pleas is for artifabrians to stop shrouding fabrial techniques with so much mystery. Many decoy metals are used in cages, and wires are often plated to look like a different metal, with the express intent of confusing those who might try to learn the process through personal study. This might enrich the artifabrian, but it impoverishes us all. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 As they arrived at Urithiru, Kaladin wanted nothing more than to vanish. To go someplace where he wouldn’t have to listen to everyone laughing. There were a hundred of them together, mostly squires of the various Windrunners who had once been his team. Kaladin didn’t have many squires left—none, unless you counted Dabbid and Rlain. Rock didn’t have a spren either, but he … had moved on to something else. Kaladin wasn’t sure what it was, but he didn’t call himself a squire. Rlain would soon have a spren, and would finally be able to move on too. Dabbid had gone on the mission today to help Renarin deliver water
|
and supplies to the townspeople. He’d never recovered from his battle shock, however, and didn’t have Radiant powers. He wasn’t so much a squire as someone Kaladin and the others looked after. The rest had all ascended to at least the Second Ideal. That made them more than a squire, but not yet a full Radiant—having bonded a spren, but not yet having earned a Blade. They were all so jovial as they walked together across the Oathgate plateau, and Kaladin didn’t begrudge them their mirth. They were dear to him, and he wanted them to laugh. Yet at the moment, he couldn’t imagine anything more painful than the way they all tried to cheer him up. They sensed his mood, though he hadn’t spoken to them regarding his … relegation? His retirement? Storms. It made him sick to think about it. As they walked, Lopen told him a particularly bad joke. Skar asked him for a sparring session—which was his way of offering help. Normally Kaladin would have agreed. But today … sparring would remind him of what he’d lost. Sigzil, showing admirable restraint, told him that battle reports could wait until tomorrow. Storms. How bad did he look? Kaladin did his best to deflect them all, pasting on a smile so wide it felt like it cracked his skin. Rock kept his distance, carefully ignoring Kaladin. Rock generally did have a better sense of his true mood than most. And Rock could see Syl, who—fretful as she buzzed around Kaladin—eventually zipped off. She caught a current nearby, flying into the air. She found flight as reassuring as he did. I need to be careful not to let this break her, he thought. Keep up a strong front for her, for all of them. They shouldn’t have to be in pain because of how I feel. He could do this gracefully. He could fight this one last battle. They crossed the open field of stone before the tower city. Kaladin almost managed to keep walking without staring up at the tower. He nearly didn’t feel a shock of dissociation at its immensity. He spent only a split second in disbelief that something so grand could exist. Yes, these days the tower was practically mundane. “Hey,” Leyten said as they reached the tower entrance. “Rock! Got any stew for us maybe? For old times’ sake?” Kaladin turned. The word “stew” pierced the cloud. “Ah, coming up to the beautifully thin air makes you suddenly think straight!” Rock said. “You remember the glories of good cooking! But … this thing cannot be today. I have appointment.” “It’s not with the surgeons, is it?” Kara called. “Because I don’t think they can do anything about your breath, Rock!” “Ha!” Rock said, then bellowed a laugh, going so far as to wipe a tear from his eye. Kara grinned, but then Rock held out his hand. “No no, you think I am laughing at what you said? Airsick! I’m laughing because you thought that to be funny joke, Kara. Ha! Ha!” Kaladin smiled. A real
|
smile, for a moment. Then they started to break apart into small clusters, usually a Knight with their squad of squires. His friends all had their own teams now. Even Teft was pulled away by one of the groups, though his squires had been in Bridge Thirteen—and they had stayed behind to guard the ship. In fact, many of them had become Radiants themselves. Kaladin wasn’t certain how many squires Teft had left. Could Kaladin do as Dalinar wanted? Could he stand being highmarshal of the Windrunners without going into the field? Being a part of their lives, but not being able to help them, fight alongside them? No. A clean break would be better. A few groups invited him to go with them, but he found himself turning them down. He stood tall, like a commander should, and gave them the nod. The captain’s nod that said, “You run along, soldier. I have important things to be about, and cannot be bothered with frivolity.” Nobody pushed him, though he wished that one of them would. But these days, they had their own lives. Many had families; all had duties. Those who had served with him in the early days still wore their Bridge Four patches with pride, but Bridge Four was something they used to belong to. A legendary team already passed into myth. Kaladin kept his back straight, his chin high, as he left them and strode through the now-familiar corridors of the tower city. Lined with entrancing patterns of different shades of strata, the tower had sphere lanterns lining most major hallways—locked, of course, but changed regularly. The place was starting to feel truly lived in. He passed families, workers, and refugees. People of all walks, as varied as a goblet full of spheres. They saluted him, or stepped aside for him, or—in the case of many children—waved to him. The highmarshal. Kaladin Stormblessed. He kept on the proper face all the way to his rooms, and was proud of himself for it. Then he stepped inside and found an empty nothingness. His were the quarters of a highlord, supposedly luxurious and spacious. He had little furniture though, and that left it feeling hollow. Dark, the sole light coming from the balcony. Every honor he’d been given seemed to highlight how vacant his life really was. Titles couldn’t fill a room with life. Still, he turned and closed the door with a firm push. Only then did he break. He didn’t make it to the chair. He sank down with his back to the wall beside the door. He tried to unbutton his coat, but ended up bending forward with his knuckles pressing his forehead, digging into his skin as he hyperventilated, gasping in deep breaths of air while he trembled and shook. Exhaustionspren like jets of dust gleefully congregated around him. And agonyspren, like upside-down faces carved from stone, twisted and faded in and out. He couldn’t cry. Nothing came out. He wanted to cry, because at least that would be a release. Instead he huddled, knuckles pressing
|
against the scars in his forehead, wishing he could shrivel away. Like the eyes of a person struck by a Shardblade. In moments like this—alone and huddled on the floor of a dark room, tormented by agonyspren—Moash’s words found him. The truth of them became undeniable. Out in the garish sunlight, it was easy to pretend that everything was all right. In here, Kaladin could see clearly. You’re just going to keep hurting.… His entire life had been a futile effort to stop a storm by yelling at it. The storm didn’t care. They’re all going to die. There’s nothing you can do about it. You could never build anything that lasted, so why try? Everything decayed and fell apart. Nothing was permanent. Not even love. Only one way out … A knock came at his door. Kaladin ignored the sound until it became insistent. Storms. They were going to barge in, weren’t they? Suddenly panicked that anyone should find him like this, Kaladin stood up and straightened his coat. He took a deep breath, and the agonyspren faded. Adolin pushed his way in, a treasonous Syl on his shoulder. That was where she had gone? To fetch Adolin storming Kholin? The young man wore a uniform of Kholin blue, but not a regulation one. He’d taken to having embellishments added, regardless of what his father thought. While it was sturdy—a little stiff, starched to maintain neat lines—its sleeves were embroidered to match his boots. The cut left the coat longer than most—a bit like Kaladin’s own captain’s coat, but more trendy. Somehow Adolin wore the uniform, when the uniform had always worn Kaladin. To Kaladin, the uniform was a tool. To Adolin it was a part of an ensemble. How did he get his hair—blond, peppered black—so perfectly messy? It was both casual and deliberate at the same time. He was smiling, of course. Storming man. “You are here!” Adolin said. “Rock said he thought you were heading for your room.” “Because I wanted to be alone,” Kaladin said. “You spend too many evenings alone, bridgeboy,” Adolin said, glancing at the nearby exhaustionspren, then grabbing Kaladin by the arm—something few other people would have dared. “I like being by myself,” Kaladin said. “Great. Sounds awful. Today, you’re coming with me. No more excuses. I let you blow me away last week and the week before.” “Maybe,” Kaladin snapped, “I just don’t want to be around you, Adolin.” The highprince hesitated, then leaned forward, narrowing his eyes and putting his face up close to Kaladin’s. Syl still sat on Adolin’s shoulder, her arms folded—without even the decency to look ashamed when Kaladin glared at her. “Tell me honestly,” Adolin said. “With an oath, Kaladin. Tell me that you should be left alone tonight. Swear it to me.” Adolin held his gaze. Kaladin tried to form the words, and felt of the ten fools when he couldn’t get them out. He definitely shouldn’t be alone right now. “Storm you,” Kaladin said. “Ha,” Adolin said, tugging him by the arm. “Come on, Brightlord Master
|
Highmarshal Stormface. Change your coat to one that doesn’t smell like smoke, then come with me. You don’t have to smile. You don’t have to talk. But if you’re going to be miserable, you might as well do it with friends.” Kaladin extracted his arm from Adolin’s grip, but didn’t resist further. He grabbed new clothes—tossing aside the ones he’d been fighting in. He did, however, shoot Syl another glare as she flew over to him. “Adolin?” Kaladin said as he changed. “Your first thought was to get Adolin?” “I needed someone you couldn’t intimidate,” she replied. “That list at best includes three people. And the queen was likely to transform you into a crystal goblet or something.” Kaladin sighed and walked out to join Adolin, lest the highprince think he was dallying. Syl eyed Kaladin as she walked in the air alongside him, keeping up with him despite her dainty steps. “Thank you,” Kaladin said softly, turning his eyes forward. * * * Adolin made good on his promise. He didn’t force Kaladin to say much. Together they made their way to the Ten Rings, a section of the tower’s central market where the merchants had agreed to lay their shops out according to Navani’s plan. In exchange they got a deal on taxes and knew guard patrols would be frequent and courteous. Rows of wooden storefronts here made neat, orderly streets. The shops were of similar sizes and dimensions, with storage and housing on top. The place felt quaint, an island of order contrasting the more organic, chaotic feeling of the rest of the Breakaway market—where after a year, many people still used tents instead of permanent structures. Admittedly, it did feel strange to have rows of permanent structures built in the middle of a several-stories-high interior room. The oddest part to Kaladin was that the most upscale shops—catering to the richest of the lighteyed families—had refused Navani’s invitation exactly as the seedier shops had. Neither wanted to agree to her oversight. The rich shops were all outside the market, in a series of rooms along a hallway nearby. The upshot was that while the Ten Rings wasn’t terribly upscale, it was reputable—two concepts that weren’t necessarily the same thing. Adolin’s favorite winehouse was called Jez’s Duty. He’d forced Kaladin to join him there on more than one occasion, and so the interior was familiar. Themed after a stormshelter—though no such thing was needed here in the tower—it had fabrial clocks on the walls that listed when a storm was happening in Alethkar, and held a daily vigil for the kingdom. An ardent even visited and burned glyphwards. Barring that, it could be a raucous place—more of a tavern than a winehouse. Adolin had a reserved booth at the rear. It was a mark of pride that the highprince frequented this location rather than more upscale winehouses. That was the sort of thing Adolin did. Nobody bowed when he entered; instead they cheered and raised cups. Adolin Kholin wasn’t some distant brightlord or general who sat in his keep and
|
pronounced edicts, tyrannical or wise. He was the type of general who drank with his men and learned the names of every soldier. Dalinar disapproved. In most cases Kaladin would have as well. But … this was Adolin. He’d have gone mad if he’d been forced to remain aloof. It went against every traditional Alethi protocol of leadership, but Adolin made it work. So who was Kaladin to judge? As Adolin went to greet people, Kaladin made his way around the perimeter of the room, noting the larger-than-usual crowd. Was that Rock over there with his family, drinking mugs of Horneater mudbeer? He said he had an appointment tonight, Kaladin remembered. Indeed, some kind of celebration seemed to be going on. A few other Windrunners and Radiants he knew were in attendance, though not many. Mostly it seemed to be common folk. Perhaps a higher than normal percentage of soldiers. Syl took off to begin poking through the room, looking at each table. Though he’d once seen her fascination as childlike, he’d evolved on that idea. She was just curious, desirous to learn. If that was childlike, then everyone needed more of it. She was fascinated by human beings. In a room like this one, Kaladin would often find her standing on a crowded table—unseen by the occupants—head cocked as she tried to imitate the mannerisms or expressions of one person or another. Adolin’s booth was occupied by a young woman with long dark hair wearing trousers and a buttoned shirt, her long white coat hung on the peg nearby. She had her hat on, the wide-brimmed one with the peaked front. “Veil,” Kaladin said, sliding into the booth. “We going to have you all night, or will Shallan show up?” “Probably just me,” Veil said, tipping back her cup to reach the last of her drink. “Shallan had a busy day, and we’re on Shattered Plains time, not Urithiru time. She wants a rest.” It must be nice, Kaladin thought, to be able to retreat and become someone else when you get tired. It was sometimes difficult to treat Shallan’s personas as three distinct people, but it was what she seemed to prefer. Fortunately, she tended to change her hair color to give the rest of them cues. Black for Veil, and she’d started using blonde for Radiant. A young barmaid came by, refilling Veil’s cup with something deep red. “And you?” the serving girl asked Kaladin. “Orange,” he said softly. “Chilled, if you have it.” “Orange?” the girl said. “A man like you can stomach something stronger. It’s a party! We’ve got a nice yellow infused with peca, an Azish fruit. I’ll—” “Hey,” Veil said, putting her boots on the table with a thump. “The man said orange.” “I just thought—” “Bring him what he asked for. That’s all you need to think about.” Flustered, the girl scampered off. Kaladin nodded to Veil in thanks, though he wished people wouldn’t stick up for him quite so zealously. He could speak for himself. As long as Dalinar followed the strictest interpretation
|
of the Codes of War, so would Kaladin. And barring that … well, his friends knew. When Kaladin was in one of his moods, alcohol—for all that it seemed it would help him forget his pain—always made the darkness worse. He could use Stormlight to burn off the effects, but once he had a drink or two in him, he often … didn’t want to. Or felt he didn’t deserve to. Same difference. “So,” Veil said. “I hear your mission went well? An entire town stolen right out from underneath their storming noses? The Mink himself rescued? Heads will roll in Kholinar when Odium hears about this.” “I doubt he cares much about one town,” Kaladin said. “And they don’t know we got the Mink.” “Regardless,” Veil said, lifting her cup to him. “And you?” Kaladin asked. She leaned forward, taking her boots off the table. “You should have seen it. Ialai was basically a skeleton, withered away. We’d defeated her before we arrived. But it sure was satisfying to bring her down.” “I’m sure.” “Pity someone murdered her,” Veil said. “I’d have enjoyed watching her squirm before Dalinar.” “Murdered her?” Kaladin said. “What?” “Yeah, someone offed her. One of our people, unfortunately. They must have been bribed by someone who wanted to see her dead. That’s a secret, by the way. We’re telling everyone she killed herself.” Kaladin glanced around. “Nobody will hear in here,” Veil said. “Our booth is isolated.” “Still. Don’t discuss military secrets in public.” Veil rolled her eyes, but then she shook her head, and her hair blended to blonde and she sat up straighter. “Do get a full report from Dalinar later, Kaladin. There are oddities about the event that trouble me.” “I…” Kaladin said. “We’ll see. You share Veil’s opinion that Shallan is fine? She merely needs a rest?” “She is well enough,” Radiant said. “We’ve found a balance. A year now, without any new personas forming. Except…” Kaladin raised an eyebrow. “There are some, half-formed,” Radiant said, turning away. “They wait, to see if the Three really can work. Or if it could crumble, letting them out. They aren’t real. Not as real as I am. And yet. And yet…” She met Kaladin’s eyes. “Shallan wouldn’t wish me to share that much. But as her friend, you should know.” “I’m not sure if I can help,” Kaladin said. “I can barely keep a handle on my own problems these days.” “You being here helps,” Radiant said. Did it? When Kaladin was in moods like this, he felt that he would bring only darkness to those around him. Why would they want to be with him? He wouldn’t want to be with him. But he supposed this was the sort of thing Radiant had to say; it was what made her distinct from the others. She smiled as Adolin returned, then shook her head, hair bleeding to black. She leaned back, relaxed. How nice it must be to transform into Veil, with her laid-back attitude. As Adolin was settling down, the barmaid returned with Kaladin’s
|
drink. “If you decide you want to try that yellow…” she said to Kaladin. “Thanks, Mel,” Adolin said quickly. “But he doesn’t need anything to drink today.” The barmaid gave him a radiant smile—married man or not, they still treated him that way—and floated off, seeming encouraged by the fact that the highprince had spoken to her. Although he’d basically given her a reprimand. “How’s the groom?” Veil asked, getting out her dagger and balancing it on the end of her fingertip. “Befuddled,” Adolin said. “Groom?” Kaladin asked. “Wedding party?” Adolin said, waving toward the room of festive people. “For Jor?” “Who?” Kaladin asked. “Kaladin,” Adolin said, “we’ve been coming to this place for eight months.” “Don’t bother, Adolin,” Veil said. “Kaladin doesn’t notice people unless they’ve pulled a weapon on him.” “He notices,” Adolin said. “He cares. But Kaladin’s a soldier—and he thinks like one. Right, bridgeboy?” “I have no idea what you mean,” Kaladin grumbled, sipping his drink. “You’ve learned to worry about your squad,” Adolin said. “And to cut out extraneous information. I’ll bet Kaladin could tell you the age, eye color, and favorite food of everyone serving beneath him. But he’s not going to bother with remembering the names of the bar staff. Father’s the same way.” “Well,” Veil said, “this is real fun and everything, but shouldn’t we be moving on to a more important topic?” “Such as?” Adolin asked. “Such as who we’re going to fix Kaladin up with next.” Kaladin about spat out his drink. “He doesn’t need fixing up with anyone.” “That’s not what Syl says,” Veil replied. “Syl used to think human children came out through the nose in a particularly violent sneeze,” Kaladin said. “She is not an authority on this topic.” “Mmm,” their table said, vibrating with a soft buzzing sound. “How do they come out? I’ve always wondered.” Kaladin started, only now realizing that Pattern dimpled part of the wooden tabletop. Pattern didn’t go about invisibly as Syl did, but somehow infused the material of objects nearby. If you focused on him now, you’d see a section of the tabletop that seemed to be carved into a circular pattern—one that somehow moved and flowed, like ripples in a cistern. “I’ll explain babies later, Pattern,” Veil said. “It’s more complicated than you’re probably imagining. Wait … no. Ask Shallan to explain. She’ll love that.” “Mmm,” the table said. “She changes colors. Like a sunset. Or an infected wound. Mmm.” Adolin relaxed, resting his arm along the back of the bar seat—but not putting it around Veil. The two of them had a weird relationship when Shallan was wearing Radiant or Veil. At least they seemed to have mostly gotten over the part where they acted like lovesick fools all the time. “The ladies have a point, bridgeboy,” Adolin said to him. “You have been extra sulky since Lyn broke up with you.” “This isn’t about that.” “Still, a fling couldn’t hurt, right?” Veil said. She nodded her chin toward one of the passing barmaids, a tall young woman with unusually light
|
hair. “What about Hem over there? She’s tall.” “Great. Tall,” Kaladin said. “Because we both measure roughly the same in inches, we’re sure to get along. Think of all the tall-person topics of conversation we could engage in. Like … Hmm…” “Oh, don’t be sour,” Veil said, smacking him on the shoulder. “You didn’t even glance at her. She’s cute. Look at those legs. Back me up, Adolin.” “She’s attractive,” he said. “But that blouse is terrible on her. I need to tell Marni that the house uniforms here are dreadful. They should at least have two different shades to match different skin tones.” “What about Ka’s sister,” Veil said to Kaladin. “You’ve met her, right? She’s smart. You like smart girls.” “Is there really anyone who doesn’t like smart girls?” Kaladin said. “Me,” Veil said, raising her hand. “Give me dumb ones, please. They’re so easy to impress.” “Smart girls…” Adolin said, rubbing his chin. “It’s too bad Skar snatched up Ristina. They’d have been a good match.” “Adolin,” Veil said, “Ristina is like three feet tall.” “So?” Adolin said. “You heard Kaladin. He doesn’t care about height.” “Yeah, well, most women do. You’ve got to find someone who matches him. Too bad he screwed up his chance with Lyn.” “I didn’t…” Kaladin protested. “What about her,” Adolin said, pointing as someone new entered the tavern. A couple of lighteyed women in havahs, though they probably weren’t of high rank if they were visiting a winehouse frequented by darkeyes. Then again, Adolin was here. And things like nahn and rank had been … strangely less divisive this last year, under Jasnah’s rule. One of the two newcomers was a younger woman with a luscious figure, accentuated by the tight havah. She had dark skin and red lips, clearly brightened with lip paint. “Dakhnah,” Adolin said. “She’s the daughter of one of Father’s generals, Kal. She loves talking strategy—she’s acted as scribe in his war meetings since she was fourteen. I can introduce you.” “Please don’t,” Kaladin said. “Dakhnah…” Veil said. “You courted her, didn’t you?” “Yeah. How’d you know?” “Adolin dear, swing a Herdazian in a crowded room, and you’ll hit six women you courted.” She narrowed her eyes at the newcomer. “Those aren’t real, are they? She pads, right?” Adolin shook his head. “Seriously?” Veil said. “Stormfather. To get mine that big I’d have to eat six chulls. How do they feel?” “You’re making assumptions,” Adolin said. She glared at him, then poked him in the shoulder. “Come on.” He turned eyes toward the ceiling and pointedly took a drink, though he smiled as she poked him again. “This is not a topic for gentlemen to discuss,” he said with an airy tone. “I’m neither gentle nor a man,” Veil said. “I’m your wife.” “You’re not my wife.” “I share a body with your wife. Close enough.” “You two,” Kaladin said, “have the strangest relationship.” Adolin gave him a slow nod that seemed to say, You have no idea. Veil downed the rest of her drink, then upended the empty
|
cup. “Where’s that storming barmaid?” “You sure you haven’t had enough?” Adolin asked. “Am I sitting up straight?” “A vague approximation.” “There’s your answer,” she said—sliding out of the booth by moving over him in a maneuver that involved a lot of her touching a lot of him—then went picking through the crowd for the barmaid. “She’s in rare form today,” Kaladin noted. “Veil has been cooped up for a month, pretending to be that woman in the warcamps,” he replied. “And Radiant stressed greatly about their mission. The few times we managed to meet, Shallan was practically crawling up the walls with tension. This is her way of letting loose.” Well, if it worked for them … “Is Ialai Sadeas really dead?” “Unfortunately. Father already has armies moving to the warcamps. Initial reports say her men have offered articles of surrender; they must have known this was coming.…” He shrugged. “Still makes me feel like I failed.” “You had to do something. That group was getting too powerful, too dangerous, to leave alone.” “I know. But I hate the idea of fighting our own. We’re supposed to be moving on to better things. Greater things.” Says the man who killed Sadeas, Kaladin thought. That wasn’t common knowledge yet, so he didn’t speak it out loud in case someone was listening. Their conversation lapsed. Kaladin played with his cup, wishing for a refill, though he wasn’t about to go fighting through the crowd to find one. People were taking turns cheering for Jor—and as the groom himself passed by, Kaladin realized he did recognize the man. He was the house bouncer, an affable fellow. Syl was riding on his shoulder. Veil’s quest ran long. Kaladin thought he spotted her over at one corner, playing a game of breakneck for chips. He was surprised there was anyone left in the city who would still play against Veil. Eventually, Adolin scooted a little closer. He had his own drink, an intoxicating violet—but he’d barely made his way through half the cup. He no longer strictly followed the Codes, but he seemed to have found his own balance. “So,” Adolin said, “what’s going on? This is more than just what happened with Lyn.” “I thought you said I didn’t have to talk.” “You don’t.” Adolin took a sip, waiting. Kaladin stared at the table. Shallan often carved parts of it, so the wood here was etched with small but intricate art projects—many of them half finished. He ran his finger across one that depicted an axehound and a man who looked remarkably like Adolin. “Your father relieved me of active duty today,” Kaladin said. “He thinks I’m … I’m not fit to see battle any longer.” Adolin let out a long exhalation. “That storming man…” “He’s right, Adolin,” Kaladin said. “Remember how you had to pull me out of the palace last year.” “Everyone gets overwhelmed in a fight sometimes,” Adolin said. “I’ve gotten disoriented before, even in Shardplate.” “This is worse. And more frequent. I’m a surgeon, Adolin. I’ve trained to spot problems like
|
these, so I know he’s right. I’ve known for months.” “Very well,” Adolin said. He nodded curtly. “So it is. What are we going to do about it? How do you get better?” “You don’t. Dabbid, the guy in my crew? The one who doesn’t talk? Battle shock, like mine. He’s been like that since I recruited him.” Adolin fell silent. Kaladin could see him sort through potential responses. Adolin was many things, but “hard to read” would never be one of them. Fortunately, he didn’t make any of the expected comments. No simple affirmations, no encouragement for Kaladin to cheer up or soldier on. The two of them sat quietly in the loud room for a long pause. Then eventually, Adolin spoke. “My father can be wrong, you know.” Kaladin shrugged. “He’s human,” Adolin said. “Half the city thinks he’s some kind of Herald reborn, but he’s only a man. He’s been wrong before. Terribly wrong.” Dalinar killed Adolin’s mother, Kaladin thought. That news was out, spread wide. The city had all either read, listened to, or been told about Dalinar’s strange autobiography. Handwritten by the Blackthorn himself, it wasn’t quite finished, but drafts had been shared. In it Dalinar confessed to many things, including the accidental killing of his wife. “I’m not a surgeon,” Adolin said. “And I’m not half the general my father is. But I don’t think you need to be removed from combat, at least not permanently. You need something else.” “Which is?” “Wish I knew. There should be a way to help you. A way to make it so you can think straight.” “I wish it were that easy,” Kaladin said. “But why do you care? What does it matter?” “You’re my only bridgeboy,” Adolin said with a grin. “Where would I get another? They’ve all started flying away.” The grin faded. “Besides. If we can find a way to help you, then maybe … maybe we can find a way to help her.” His gazed drifted across the room, toward Veil. “She’s fine,” Kaladin said. “She’s found a balance. You’ve heard her explain how she thinks she’s fine now.” “Like how you tell everyone you’re fine?” Adolin met his eyes. “This isn’t right, how she is. It hurts her. Over this last year I’ve seen her struggling, and I’ve seen hints that she’s sliding—if more slowly now—toward worse depths. She needs help, the kind I don’t know if I can give her.” Their table hummed. “You are right,” Pattern said. “She hides it, but things are still wrong.” “What does your surgeon’s knowledge say, Kal?” Adolin said. “What do I do?” “I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “We are trained in dealing with physical ailments, not in what to do when someone is sick in the mind, other than send them to the ardents.” “Seems wrong.” “Yeah, it does.” Kaladin frowned. He wasn’t totally certain what the ardents did with mentally ill patients. “Should I talk to them?” Pattern asked. “Ardents, for help?” “Maybe,” Kaladin said. “Wit might know some way to help too. He seems
|
to know about all kinds of things like this.” “Surely you can give some advice, Kal,” Adolin said. “Let her know you care,” Kaladin said. “Listen to her. Be encouraging, but don’t try to force her to be happy. And don’t let her be alone, if you’re worried about her.…” He trailed off, then shot Adolin a glare. Adolin smirked. This hadn’t just been about Shallan. Damnation. Had he let Adolin outsmart him? Maybe he should get something stronger to drink. “I’m worried about you both,” Adolin said. “I’m going to find a way to help. Somehow.” “You’re a storming fool,” Kaladin said. “We need to get you a spren. Why hasn’t an order picked you up yet?” Adolin shrugged. “I’m not a good fit, I guess.” “It’s that sword of yours,” Kaladin said. “Shardbearers do better if they drop any old Shards. You need to get rid of yours.” “I’m not ‘getting rid’ of Maya.” “I know you’re attached to the sword,” Kaladin said. “But you’d have something better, if you became Radiant. Think about how it would feel to—” “I’m not getting rid of Maya,” Adolin said. “Leave it, bridgeboy.” The finality in his voice surprised Kaladin, but before he could push further, Jor showed up to introduce his new bride, Kryst, to Adolin. And, mark Kaladin as the fourth fool if Adolin didn’t immediately pull out a gift for the pair. Adolin hadn’t merely shown up at his favorite winehouse on the night of a wedding party, he’d come ready with a present. Veil eventually tired of her game and found her way back, more than a little tipsy. When Adolin joked about it, she made a wisecrack about being lucky she was Veil, “because Shallan really can’t hold her alcohol.” As the evening progressed, Syl returned to proclaim she wanted to take up gambling. Kaladin felt increasingly glad for what Adolin had done. Not because Kaladin felt better; he was still miserable. Yet the misery did lessen around others, and it required Kaladin to keep up a semblance. To pretend. It might be a front, but he’d found that sometimes the front worked even on himself. The balance lasted for a good two hours, until—as the wedding party started to wane—Rock stepped up. He must have spoken to Adolin and Veil earlier, as they slipped out of the booth as soon as they noticed him, leaving Rock and Kaladin to speak in private. The look on Rock’s face made Kaladin’s stomach churn. So, the time had arrived, had it? Of course it would happen today, of all days. “Lowlander,” Rock said. “My captain.” “Do we have to do this today, Rock?” Kaladin said. “I’m not at my best.” “Is what you said before,” Rock said. “And before that.” Kaladin braced himself, but nodded. “I have waited, as you asked, though these Shards from Amaram for my people gather dust in their box,” Rock said, his large hands pressed to the tabletop. “Was good suggestion. My family was tired from travel. Best to spend time, let them know my
|
friends. And Cord, she wanted to train. Ha! She says Horneater traditions and Alethi traditions to be foolish. First Shardbearer among my people was not nuatoma, but young woman.” “It could have been you, Rock,” Kaladin said. “Either with those Shards you won, or as a Radiant with your own spren. We need you. I need you.” “You have had me. Now, I need me. It is time to return, my ula’makai. My captain.” “You just said your traditions were foolish.” “To my daughter.” Rock pointed to his heart. “Not to me, Kaladin. I lifted the bow.” “You saved my life.” “I made that choice because you are worth that sacrifice.” He reached across the table and rested his hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “But it is no sacrifice unless I now go, as is right, to seek justice from my people. I would leave with your blessing. But I will leave either way.” “Alone?” “Ha! I would not have anyone to talk to! Song will go with me, and younger children. Cord and Gift, they wish to stay. Gift should not fight, but I fear he will. It is his choice. As this is my choice.” “Moash is out there, Rock. He might attack you. If you won’t fight … your family could be in danger.” This gave Rock pause, then he grinned. “Skar and Drehy both said they wanted to see my Peaks. Perhaps I will let them help fly my family, so we do not have to walk all across stupid lowlands. Then we will have protection, yes?” Kaladin nodded. It was the best he could do—send an escort. Rock seemed to wait for something … and Kaladin realized it might be an offer to go with them. To see the Horneater Peaks that Rock had so often bragged about. The large cook never could get his stories straight. Was the place a frigid wasteland or a lush and warm paradise? In any case … maybe Kaladin could go. Maybe he could fly off to adventure. Take Rock to his home, then stay—or simply run away, find a battle somewhere. Dalinar couldn’t stop him. No. Kaladin dismissed the thought immediately. Fleeing would be the action of a child. Plus, he couldn’t go with Rock. Not merely because of the temptation to flee, but because he doubted he could hold back if Rock gave himself up to justice. The Horneater had been deliberately quiet about what punishment his people might impose as a consequence for his actions, but Kaladin found their entire tradition of birth-order-based roles in life stupid. If Kaladin went, it would be to undermine his friend’s decision. “I give my blessing, Rock,” Kaladin said. “Both to you going, and to any who wish a short leave to accompany you. A Windrunner honor guard—you deserve that and more. And if you do encounter Moash…” “Ha,” Rock said, standing. “He should try to come for me. That will let me get close enough to put hands on his neck and squeeze.” “You don’t fight.” “That? Is not fighting. Is exterminating.
|
Even cook can kill rat he finds in his grain.” He grinned, and Kaladin knew him well enough to realize it was a joke. Rock held out his arms for an embrace. “Come. Give me farewell.” Feeling like he was in a trance, Kaladin stood. “Will you return? If you can, after?” Rock shook his head. “This thing I have done here with all of you, he is the end. When we meet again, I suspect it shall not be in this world. This life.” Kaladin embraced his friend. One final, crushing Horneater hug. When they pulled apart, Rock was crying, but smiling. “You gave me back my life,” he said. “Thank you for that, Kaladin, bridgeleader. Do not be sad that now I choose to live that life.” “You go to imprisonment or worse.” “I go to the gods,” Rock said. He held up his finger. “There is one who lives here. One afah’liki. He is powerful god, but tricky. You should not have lost his flute.” “I … don’t think Wit is a god, Rock.” He tapped Kaladin’s head. “Airsick as always.” He grinned, bowing in a sweeping, deferential way Kaladin had never seen from him before. Following that, Rock retreated to meet Song at the door, and left. Forever. Kaladin slumped into his seat. At least he wouldn’t be around to see Kaladin removed from his post. Rock could safely spend the rest of his days—short or long—pretending that his captain, his ula’makai, had remained strong all his days. Radiant. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days A black storm. Black wind. Black rain. Then, piercing the blackness like a spear, a lance of light. Kaladin Stormblessed. Reborn. Kaladin exploded through the darkness, surrounded by a thousand joyful windspren, swirling like a vortex. “Go!” he shouted. “Find him!” Though it felt like he’d been falling for hours, he had spent most of that time in the place between moments. If he was still falling through the sky, mere seconds had passed, and his father was falling somewhere below him. Still alive. Kaladin pointed downward, reaching out, preparing himself as hundreds of windspren met the storm and blew it back, creating an open path. A tunnel of light leading toward a single figure tumbling in the air, distant. Still alive. Kaladin’s Lashings piled atop one another as Syl spun around him, laughing. Storms, how he’d missed her laughter. With his hand outstretched, Kaladin watched as a windspren slammed into it and flashed, outlining his hand with a glowing transparent gauntlet. A dozen others slammed into him, joyful, exultant. Lines of light exploded around him as the spren transformed—being pulled into this realm and choosing to Connect to him. He watched that tiny tumbling figure as it drew closer and closer. The ground, so near. They’d fallen the length of the tower and hundreds of feet below it in the storms. The ground rose up to meet them. Almost. Almost. Kaladin stretched out his hand, and— * * * Not worthy. The words echoed against Navani’s soul,
|
and for the moment she forgot Moash. She forgot the tower. She was someplace else. Not good enough. Not a scholar. Not a creator. You have no fame, accomplishment, or capacity of your own. Everything that is distinctive about you came from someone else. “Lies,” she whispered. And they were. They truly were. She pressed her hand to the pillar. “Take me as your Bondsmith. I am worthy, Sibling. I say the Words. Life before death.” No. So soft. We are … too different.… You capture spren. “Who better to work together than two who believe differently?” she said. “Strength before weakness. We can compromise. Isn’t that the soul of building bonds? Of uniting?” Moash kicked Raboniel away and she hit the wall, limp as a doll. “We can find the answers!” Navani said, blood dribbling from her lips. “Together.” You … just want … to live. “Don’t you?” The Sibling’s voice grew too soft to hear. Moash looked down the hallway toward Navani. So she closed her eyes and tried to hum. She tried to find Stormlight’s tone, pure and vibrant. But she faltered. Navani couldn’t hear that tone, not right now. Not with everything falling apart, not with her life seeping away. She found herself humming a different tone instead. The one Raboniel had always given her, with its chaotic rhythm. Yes, this close to death, Navani could only hear that. His tone. Eager to claim her. The Sibling whimpered. And Navani inverted the tone. All it took was Intent. Odium gave her the song, but she twisted it back upon him. She hummed the song of anti-Voidlight, her hand pressed to the pillar. Navani! the Sibling said, voice growing stronger. The darkness retreats ever so slightly. What are you doing? “I … created this for you…” Navani said. “I tried to…” Navani? the Sibling said. Navani, it’s not enough. The song isn’t loud enough. It seems to be hurting that man though. He has frozen in place. Navani? Her voice faltered. Her bloody hand slipped down to her side, leaving marks on the pillar. I can hear my mother’s tone, the Sibling said. But not my tone. I think it’s because my father is dead. “Honor…” Navani whispered. “Honor is not … dead. He lives inside the hearts … of his children.…” Does he? Truly? It seemed a plea, not a challenge. Does he? Navani searched deep. Was what she’d been doing honorable? Creating fabrials? Imprisoning spren? Could she really say that? Odium’s tone rang in her ears, though she’d stopped humming its inverse. Then, a pure song. Rising up from within her. Orderly, powerful. Had she done harm without realizing it? Possibly. Had she made mistakes? Certainly. But she’d been trying to help. That was her journey. A journey to discover, learn, and make the world better. Honor’s song welled up inside her, and she sang it. The pillar began to vibrate as the Sibling sang Cultivation’s song. The pure sound of Lifelight. The sound began to shift, and Navani modulated her tone, inching it closer and closer
|
to … The two snapped into harmony. The boundless energy of Cultivation, always growing and changing, and the calm solidity of Honor—organized, structured. They vibrated together. Structure and nature. Knowledge and wonder. Mixing. The song of science itself. That is it, the Sibling whispered to the Rhythm of the Tower. My song. “Our emulsifier,” Navani whispered to the Rhythm of the Tower. The common ground, the Sibling said. Between humans and spren. That is … that is why I was created, so long ago.… A rough hand grabbed Navani and spun her around, then pressed her against the pillar. Moash raised his Blade. Navani, the Sibling said. I accept your Words. Power flooded Navani. Infused her, making her pain evaporate like water on a hotplate. Together, she and the Sibling created Light. The energy surged through her so fully, she felt it bursting from her eyes and mouth as she looked up at Moash and spoke. “Journey before destination, you bastard.” * * * Lirin hung in the air, his eyes squeezed closed, trembling. He remembered falling, and the awful tempest. Darkness. It had all vanished. Something had yanked on his arm—slowing him carefully enough to not rip his arm off, but jarringly enough that it ached. Stillness. In a storm. Was he dead? He opened his eyes and searched upward to find a column of radiant light stretching hundreds of feet in the air, holding back the storm. Windspren? Thousands upon thousands of them. Lirin dangled from the gauntleted fist of a Shardbearer in resplendent Shardplate. Armor that seemed alive as it glowed a vibrant blue at the seams, Bridge Four glyphs emblazoned across the chest. A flying Shardbearer. Storms. It was him. Kaladin proved it by rotating so that they were right-side up—then hoisting Lirin into a tight embrace. Remarkably, as Lirin touched the Plate, he couldn’t feel it. It became completely transparent—barely visible, in fact, as a faint outline around Kaladin. “I’m sorry, Father,” Kaladin said. “Sorry? For … for what?” “I thought your way might be correct,” Kaladin said. “And that I’d been wrong. But I don’t think it’s that simple. I think we’re both correct. For us.” “I think perhaps I can accept that,” Lirin said. Kaladin leaned back—still holding him as they dangled barely twenty feet above the rocks. Storms. Was that how close they’d come? “Cutting it a little tight, don’t you think, son?” “A surgeon must be timely and precise.” “This is timely?” Lirin said. “Well, you do hate it when people waste time,” Kaladin said, grinning. Then he paused, letting go of Lirin with one arm—which was somewhat disconcerting, though Lirin now seemed to be floating on his own. Kaladin touched Lirin’s forehead with fingers that felt normal, despite being faintly outlined by the gauntlet. “What is this?” Kaladin asked. Lirin remembered, with some embarrassment, what he’d finally let that one-armed fool Noril do to him. A painted shash glyph on Lirin’s forehead. “I figured,” Lirin said, “that if an entire tower was going to show faith in my son, I could maybe
|
try to do the same. I’m sorry, son. For my part.” He reached up and brushed aside Kaladin’s hair to see the brand there. But as he did, he found scabs flaking away, the brands falling off to the stones below like a shell outgrown, discarded. Clean, smooth skin was left behind. Kaladin reached to his forehead in shock. He prodded at the skin, as if amazed. Then he laughed, grabbing Lirin in a tighter embrace. “Careful, son,” Lirin said. “I’m not a Radiant. We mortals break.” “Radiants break too,” Kaladin whispered. “But then, fortunately, we fill the cracks with something stronger. Come on. We need to protect the people in that tower. You in your way. Me in mine.” And so I am not at all dissatisfied with recent events. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Dalinar returned from the Stormfather’s vision and found himself still flying with the Windrunners—face mask in place, wrapped in several layers of protective clothing. He felt clunky and slow after being the winds moments ago. But he reveled in what he’d heard and felt. What he’d said. These Words are accepted. Whatever was happening at Urithiru, Kaladin would face it standing up straight. God Beyond bless it to be enough, and that the Windrunner could reach Navani. For now, Dalinar had to focus on his current task. He urged his speed to increase, but of course that did nothing. He had no control over this lesser flight; in it, Dalinar was little more than an arrow propelled through the air by someone else’s power—buffeted by the jealous winds, which did not want him invading their sky. A part of him acknowledged the puerile nature of these complaints. He was flying. Covering a hundred miles in less than half an hour. His current travel was a wonder, an incredible achievement. But for a brief time he’d known something better. At least this particular flight was nearly finished. It was a relatively quick jump from the battlefields of Emul down to the border of Tukar, where Ishar’s camp had been spotted. The main bulk of the god-priest’s armies had repositioned during the coalition’s campaign, fortifying positions in case the singers or Dalinar’s army tried to advance into Tukar. So as Dalinar’s team reached the coast, they found several depopulated camps, marked by large bonfire scars on the stone. The region had been denuded—trees chopped for lumber, hills stripped of anything edible. An army could forage and hunt to stay alive here in the West, where plants grew more readily. In the Unclaimed Hills, that had never been possible. Sigzil slowed their group of five Windrunners, Dalinar, and Szeth into a hovering position. Beneath them, Ishar’s large pavilion remained, and some hundred soldiers stood in a ring in front. These wore similar clothing: hogshide battle leathers with hardened cuirasses painted a dark blue, closer to black than the Kholin shade. Not a true uniform, but in a theme at least. Considering their lack of Soulcasters and the prevalence of herdsmen in the area,
|
the equipment made sense. They were armed mostly with spears, though some had steel swords. “They’re ready for us all right,” the Azish Windrunner said, steadying Dalinar in the air so he didn’t drift away. “Brightlord, I don’t like this.” “We’re all Radiant,” Dalinar said, “with plenty of gemstones and a Bondsmith to renew our spheres. We’re as prepared as anyone could be for whatever will happen below.” The companylord glanced toward Szeth, who had been ostensibly flown by Sigzil, but had actually used his own Stormlight. Dalinar had let Sigzil in on the secret, naturally—he wouldn’t leave an officer ignorant of his team’s capabilities. “Let me at least send someone else down first,” Sigzil said. “To talk, find out what they want.” Dalinar took a deep breath, then nodded. He was impatient, but one did not build good officers by ignoring their legitimate suggestions. “That would be wise.” Sigzil conferred with his Windrunners, then swooped toward the ground. Apparently “someone else” had meant him. Sigzil landed and was met by Ishar himself, who emerged from the pavilion. Dalinar could identify the Herald immediately. There was a bond between them. A Connection. Sigzil was not attacked by the soldiers in the large ring. Talking to Shalash these last few days, Dalinar thought he had a good picture of the old Herald. He had always imagined Ishi as a wise, careful man, thoughtful. Really, Dalinar’s image of him had always been similar to that of Nohadon, the author of The Way of Kings. Shalash had disabused him of these notions. She presented Ishar as a confident, eager man. Energetic, more a battlefield commander than a wise old scholar. He was the man who had discovered how to travel between worlds, leading humans to Roshar in the first place. One word that Shalash had never used was “crafty.” Ishar was a bold thinker, a man who pulled others after him on seemingly crazed ideas that worked. But he was not a subtle man. Or at least he hadn’t been. Shalash warned that all of them had changed over the millennia, their … personal quirks growing more and more pronounced. Dalinar was not surprised that Sigzil was able to speak to the man, then fly back up safely. Ishar did not seem the type to plan an ambush. “Sir,” Sigzil said, floating up beside Dalinar. “I … don’t think he’s altogether sane, despite what Shalash says.” “That was expected,” Dalinar said. “What did he say?” “He claims to be the Almighty,” Sigzil said. “God, born again, after being shattered. He says he’s waiting for Odium’s champion to come and fight him for the end of the world. I think he means you, sir.” Chilling words. “But he’s willing to talk?” “Yes, sir,” Sigzil said. “Though I must warn you I don’t like this entire situation.” “Understood. Take us down.” Sigzil gave the orders, and they made their way to the ground and landed in the center of the ring of soldiers. A few Windrunners summoned Shardblades; the others, not yet of the Third Ideal, carried
|
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.